The Blasphemer (19 page)

‘Okay. Now, concerning Abraham Khan, we can’t deny that his book tour is increasing tensions to boiling point. He’s been placed under round-the-clock protection, of course, but a lot of people are feeling very frustrated about the direction things are taking. Some are even afraid that by protecting Mr Khan and allowing him to do something so provocative, it actually opens the country up to retaliatory attacks...’

‘Anger is spilling over. No doubt about it.’

‘But over a fictional satire of Prophet Muhammad?’

‘Well, Islam is holistic faith, a total way of life. There’s no distinction between the secular and the religious. It’s quite unlike what Westerners are used to in terms of the separation between church and state.’

‘So something sacred to Muslims in private life would also be sacred in public life. Is that right?

‘Absolutely. You see, the laws governing Muslim life comes directly from the Koran. The Koran is, as we all know, Islam’s holy book. What makes it central is the idea that God delivered it directly to Muhammad, who then delivered it to believers. Word for word, it’s a precise and accurate transcription of what God actually said—the final and greatest revelation for mankind.’

‘But Christians would say the same about the Bible...’

‘I don’t mean to offend anyone when I say this, but in terms of context, the Bible is nowhere near as sacred as the Koran. For example, you can translate the Bible from Greek to English to Chinese and still call it the Bible. No one would dispute that or get hot under the collar about it. But with the Koran, you can’t translate it from its original Arabic format and still call it the Koran. Its message is incredibly specific and incredibly sacred. It has never been altered since it was first published. This why the Koran is always, always studied in its original text.’

‘Fair enough. So, seeing as Muhammad is the final prophet charged with delivering this final text of God to mankind, that makes him... what? As sacred as the Koran?’

‘Some Muslims do feel this way. That you can’t separate the messenger from the message. Any kind of satire is blasphemy. That’s why depictions of Muhammad always give rise to extreme reactions. To make light of Muhammad is to make light of the Koran, and to make light of the Koran is to make light of God.’

‘And then, of course, you have Muslims who think differently. Muslims like Abraham Khan, who think that satire can actually help Islam rather than harm it.’

‘That’s right. Mr Khan has brought a great deal of attention to a concept that’s found in the Koran, but is little-known today. Which is the concept of ijtihad—using your personal conscience to define how you want to live as a Muslim, as opposed to slavishly following what the establishment tells you to do. Mr Khan is suggesting that the Prophet, if he were alive today, would be open to introducing modern changes to the sharia. For example, allowing gay Muslims to participate openly in society without harassment.’

‘That’s truly incendiary.’

‘Absolutely. Even in light of the Arab Spring, liberals like him are in the minority. Most Muslims aren’t yet ready to embrace what he’s proposing. And fundamentalists do want to silence him.’

‘Is Mr Khan right to go ahead with his book tour, do you think?

‘Well, that’s a tough one to answer. Real tough.’

‘Give it your best shot, Dr LeRoux.’

‘Well, Hayley, people have different ideas about what’s right and what’s wrong. That’s on a morality level, and morality is something that is notoriously hard to pin down. It’s like a ferret darting all over the place. So I’m hesitant to go into polemics. But let’s consider things on a legal level. New Zealand doesn’t have a formal, written constitution, as we all know. But the country does have a bill of rights, and key among its precepts is the protection of individual freedoms.’

‘Freedom of speech, freedom of assembly...’

‘Yep. It’s the bedrock of our society—no one ought to die just for expressing an opinion. So the question is not whether Abraham Khan is going to invite further agitation and distress. He will. We have to accept all that as a given. The real question is whether we have the strength to accommodate such trouble. Freedom has its price, and it can be ugly.’

CHAPTER 54

Tommy Cowan climbed into his pickup truck. Swung the door shut. Clicked on his seat belt. Started the engine. He fidgeted with his baseball cap and rubbed his beard, hesitating for a moment, going through a mental checklist. Had he missed anything?

He turned and eyed the payload behind him. He had covered it with a waterproof tarp and tied it down tight. Not too heavy. Not too big. Nothing beyond legal limits. And he had already checked the pickup’s registration and warrant of fitness, along with the lights, suspension and tyre pressure. Anything that might cause the cops to take an unhealthy interest and flag him down. Hell, it was trouble he didn’t want and didn’t need. Not at this stage. He wanted to get from point A to point B with minimal fuss and deliver the payload as smoothly as he could.

Payload.

Oh yeah, Tommy liked the word. Liked how it sounded when he muttered it over and over. Made him feel like a spec-ops soldier on a critical mission. Top secret. Classified. Need to know only.

He righted himself in his seat.

All good,
he reassured himself.
All good.

So he pulled away from the house he rented just outside the city limits and hit the road. He willed himself to keep his speed down for the sake of safety. Didn’t want to bump and rock the fertiliser-and-diesel mix too much. Sure, he had always been a sucker for gunning the accelerator, pushing cars as far as they would go. But not today. Today he would be an honest, upright citizen. Or, better yet, a disciplined, straight-laced soldier.

Yes, sir.

Tommy chuckled nervously.

He didn’t consider himself a smart guy. Nope, he was no Einstein. He had dropped out midway through high school and had never looked back, living from paycheque to paycheque, odd job to odd job, doing whatever he could with his big, callused hands. It wasn’t the easiest life, but hey, at least it offered him variety. Gave him the chance to hop from town to town, city to city, soaking in experience after experience. Alternating between the urban sprawl and the wild outdoors—pastures, mountains, forests, glaciers.

So, nope, Tommy didn’t consider himself a smart guy. He preferred to settle for simple, laidback pleasures. Going to and fro without a care in the world. Being everywhere; belonging nowhere.

Still, Tommy did consider himself a good observer. He liked to watch and he liked to learn things about people. Informal education, he reckoned. Way better than reading a book or watching a documentary. Which made him astute enough to know that his country was well and truly going to the dogs. Oh yeah. Goddamn immigrants were soiling everything. Overrunning the good, honest folk, and taking a piss any chance they could get.

These days, you could barely see a white face in most parts of Auckland. All you could see were Chinks and Japs and gooks and wogs and boongs and curry-munchers and diaperheads and… shit, it was enough to make his blood run cold. They were landing up north and then working their way down south. Like a tsunami of locusts, gobbling and gobbling as they went, and if nobody did anything about the invasion, pretty soon, there wouldn’t be much of a country left to defend.

The government? Hell, Tommy had lost all faith in the government. Right-wingers, left-wingers, centrists, libertarians—they were all the same. Spineless bastards aiding and abetting the stampede of immigrants. It was political correctness gone mad.

Sell-outs. They’re all sell-outs.

Tommy clenched his teeth so hard that his head ached and he saw red.

The worst of the immigrants flooding in, though, had to be the Muslims. Yeah, filthy, savage barbarians, all of them. Setting up their mosques and
madrasas
. Infiltrating neighbourhood after neighbourhood. Secretly preaching terrorism. Plotting to destroy all that was bright and beautiful about this country. And last night’s horrifying act had just proven that point once and for all.

Oh yeah, he had watched that video clip over and over, and it had made his stomach tighten and churn. Like… this wasn’t New Zealand anymore. Like… everything was imploding before his very eyes. It broke his heart. Well, shit. Enough was enough. Patriots had to rise up, strike back and even the score before it was too late. Damn Muslims needed to be sent a message. The louder, the better.

CHAPTER 55

 Tommy reached his destination. A
madrasa
. A Muslim school. He couldn’t stop himself from shaking as he stared at it. It looked so modern and shiny and expensive.

Tommy snorted. Good, honest citizens were being hit hard by the economy, and the government still saw it fit to blow obscene amounts of cash on this atrocity. Where was the justice in that? Where was the common sense?

That’s our money, damn it. Our money.

Seething, Tommy circled around the school and found the back gate chained. He got down from his truck with a pair of bolt cutters and sliced through the lock. Easy-peasy. He unchained the gate and pushed it open. Then he got back on to his truck and drove on through.

The school was quiet and empty. No one around on a Sunday. Which was just as well. Sure, Tommy wanted to make a statement, but he had no intention of committing mass murder.

Not yet, anyway.

Tommy drifted to a stop in front of the school’s prayer hall. He parked, switched off his engine and got down. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the place, mouth puckering.

It was the perfect target.

Symbolic as hell.

Tommy adjusted his cap and walked to the back of his truck. Pulled the tarp off. Exposed the two steel drums beneath, tightly strapped together. The payload.

Here we go.

Tommy drew a pair of pliers from his pocket. Reached for the fuse detonator on one of the drums. It was an old-fashioned time pencil—filled with cupic chloride. All he had to do was crush the vial, break it, and the countdown would begin.

He would have exactly fifteen minutes to get clear.

Plenty of time to make his way to a nearby hill. Watch the boom. Then slink over to the train station. Catch the next ride. Make his way down south to Kyle Bolan’s whites-only compound. Wait for the uprising to begin.

Oh yeah.

Tommy grinned as he gripped the detonator with his pliers. Flexed his fingers and squeezed hard. The vial shattered, and in that instant, there was a sharp hiss. Like a match being struck.

A scorched smell pinched Tommy’s nose, and his eyes watered.

His smile fell away.

No. No. No.

Gagging, Tommy stumbled back, falling flat on his butt, gravel crunching, cutting into his palms. Whimpering, he scrambled to his feet, lurching, only managing three steps before the fireball erupted and consumed him in a searing flash.

CHAPTER 56

Magellan watched the Somalis as they unpacked the crates in the armoury. Removed the pistols and rifles from their greasy wrapping. Checked and loaded the weapons.

Magellan tapped his keyboard and worked his mouse. Panned and zoomed the cameras. Studied the faces of the Somalis one by one.

He had given them a full breakfast and a moderate dose of
khat
. Enough to fuel their aggression, yes, but not enough to dull their senses. They were as ready as they were ever going to be.

Magellan’s gaze settled on Yusuf. He was disassembling a pistol. Brushing and oiling its individual parts.

Remarkable.

He had recruited Yusuf only yesterday, and his youth was stark in comparison with the older boys. But what he lacked in experience, he more than made up for in brightness and enthusiasm.

Magellan shook his head, feeling a pinprick of regret.

Once the Somalis were dispatched, they would be on their own. Locked into a suicide mission. Without recourse. Without return. Which was a shame.

Whatever will be will be.

Magellan leaned back against his chair. Uncapped a bottle of mineral water. Took a sip.

He looked away from the monitors and studied the television set in the corner. On-screen, firefighters were hosing down an inferno, and a column of black smoke spiked the sky. Apparently, an Anglo Front member had blown himself up while trying to take out a Muslim school in Mangere.

Idiot.

Still, the bombing was a testament to the effectiveness of last night’s snuff video. And Magellan relished the fact that things were progressing faster and better than he could have hoped.

He touched his chin and smiled.

The only thing left to do now is strike at Abraham Khan.

CHAPTER 57

They were all gathered in the safe house’s lounge.

Abraham sat with shoulders slumped and his face drawn tight. Slowly, very slowly, he shook his head. ‘I have talked with my publicist. And… we have decided to cancel all my events.’

Belinda touched her husband’s cheek. Her voice was a whisper, ‘It’s for the best, Abe.’

‘I know, dear. I know.’

Maya inhaled and looked around at Noah, Gabrielle, Dashiell and Arthur. Took in their sober faces. Felt the strain of the moment. Wished—
truly wished
—that things hadn’t reached this point.

Yes, she was glad that Abraham Khan was finally facing up to the threat. Finally accepting that the country was paying too high a price.

The blood.

The tears.

The anguish.

Enough was enough.