The Aisha Prophecy (13 page)

Those women. Those two women. He could see them in their car. It was a white convertible, top down. The sluttish one was backing it out of its space. He started to run, to try to catch them, to stop them, but he knew it was useless, twenty seconds too late. By the time he could get to where the Ford Escape was parked, they would be more than a mile ahead of him.

At least he knew their car. Another Ford. A Ford Mustang. Its Virginia license plate had five letters, no numbers. The license plate read “IMAIO” He puzzled for a moment. Is that a word? Did it have meaning?

Ah, yes. What it meant was “I am a 10.” He had heard of such things. They’re called vanity plates. More than mere vanity, this was a boast. It claimed the highest ranking of physical attractiveness. Why would this slut have such a thing on her car and yet take offense at her breasts being watched? She was not only wanton, but a hypocrite.

But never mind that now. He’d left a witness alive. True, a good hunter never leaves a trail, but sometimes a good hunter has his hands full. Tonight or early tomorrow at the latest, those two would learn of the dead policeman and they would surely come forward. They would describe the man who they’d left with the policeman within minutes of the time of his death. Unless he could find those two before that, there would be a big manhunt for him in particular instead of one for an unknown assailant. The slut would describe this “niece” he said he sought. She would tell the police that he’d asked for a description of the man and the woman who were teaching tennis to three or four girls with dark hair. Might the police make a public appeal for anyone who might know of such people? If so, Stride would hear of it. They might run again. Maybe. Maybe not. But this wasn’t good. The best thing was to silence those two women.

Where to look for that Ford Mustang? Perhaps outside bars. Those two look like the type that goes to bars. They will probably first shower and put on other clothing before going out for more flaunting of themselves. God willing, he will spot the white Mustang at one of the bars in this town.

He realized that the more sensible course would be to get away before the manhunt begins. Call in a full report. Let others take over. Negotiate first for his portion of the bounty if they should take Elizabeth Stride and the Saudi princess named Rasha. It still would not be fair. He would always feel cheated. Look at all that he’d learned, all that he had accomplished. Right this minute he might be within a few streets of them.

All of them.

Including these last two.

THIRTEEN 

Roger Clew was at home in his Georgetown apartment watching a night baseball game. Yankees versus Red Sox. Red Sox leading in the eighth. Last game of a three-game series at Fenway. He had taken a pill to help him sleep without tossing, washed down with the second of two vodka tonics. The pill hadn’t yet taken effect.

Top of the ninth. Yankees batting. Two out. Then, as always seemed to happen at climactic moments, one of his cell phones started buzzing. It was a phone whose number wasn’t generally known. He glanced at the read-out. It was Howard Leland. Clew was mildly surprised. He knew the no-phone rule. Leland had told him that, barring an emergency, he’d be out of reach through this Wednesday.

He used his remote to mute the TV. He picked up the phone. “Good evening, sir.”

“Hello, Roger. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Of course, sir. Is there a problem?”

“Roger, that attempted grab of Angola’s oil. Beyond a few indictments that are pending at Justice, is that done with as far as you’re concerned?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is it done with as far as Martin Kessler is concerned?”

“Uh… sir, are you calling from Bohemian Grove?”

“No, I took a little ride with my security detail. This conversation is private if that’s your concern. I’m well outside the gate as we speak.”

“Sir, I take it that this subject has come up at the camp. Who’s asking? Charles Haskell? Is this why he’s playing host? To get you to keep Justice off his back?”

“His primary concern seems to be Martin Kessler.” A pause. “Please answer my question.”

“Okay, yes,” said Clew. “I think I can assure you. Kessler never had any interest in Haskell. I don’t think he even cared who got the oil.”

“Yes. It was the diamonds. I remember.”

“The Israelis had a deal. Haskell’s group tried to queer it. They got hammered for it. End of story.”

“Is it the end as far as the Mossad is concerned?”

“Their only interest was helping their country secure the Angolan diamond concession. The Angolans, for a change, didn’t end up getting screwed. As far as they’re concerned, that case is closed.”

“You discussed this, have you, with their senior people?”

“With Yitzhak Netanya. He’s as senior as they get. He and I talk all the time.”

“Then what about as far as Harry Whistler is concerned?”

A sigh. “Sir, this might be hard for Haskell’s ego to take, but Harry couldn’t give a flying fuck about him and that goes double for Kessler. They’ve moved on. So should Haskell. So should you, by the way. I don’t think you’re in very good company.”

Leland’s voice became cool. “Please don’t lecture me, Roger.”

Clew grunted. “You’re right. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

“It’s called keeping one’s ear to the ground,” said Leland. “I’d be in better company at a church picnic, but I doubt that I’d learn very much that is useful beyond how to frost a cake properly.”

“Point taken. My apologies, sir.”

“Ear to the ground, just as yours always is through all those back-channel contacts of yours and your many off-the-books operations. You don’t hear me offering gratuitous judgments about their morality, do you?”

“Sir…”

“Don’t get me wrong, Roger. They do get results. But there’s really no getting away from the fact that most are essentially criminal.”

“Criminal?” asked Clew.

“As in lawless,” said Leland. “They’re no Eagle Scouts, Roger. People like Kessler and Whistler and their ilk live by their own set of rules.”

“Sir, they have one rule. They take care of each other. That’s what all of us should do, but we usually don’t. And I’ll remind that our government, our nation of laws, has been known to bend a few on occasion.”

“Not our government,” said Leland. “Rogue elements usually.”

“Sir…”

“I know. I know. There are always rogue elements. I guess all of us work outside the law when we must.”

“No, sir, you don’t because I do it for you. And I get people to do it for me. But mine don’t take orders. What we do is swap favors. And if I ever asked them to do something shabby, they’d not only tell me to shove it and decline, they’d block it from happening at all.”

“What of Kessler’s current project? No shabbiness there?”

“Um… what project is that, sir?”

“The one involving the Mideast, which usually means oil. He’s been gathering people who are native to that region and who are, of course, fluent in Arabic.”

Clew had sipped from his drink. He spit half of it back. Grinning, he said, “Sorry. Went down the wrong way.”

“Did I say something funny?”

“This is coming from Haskell? And you’re buying into it? Sir, that is so far off the mark.”

“You’re saying it does not involve oil?”

“It involves being back with Elizabeth Stride. It involves taking care of some young Muslim girls after their Nasreen guardians got killed.”

“Runaways?” asked Leland. He sounded surprised. “Do you happen to know any of their names?”

“I’ve met Aisha. She’s been here four or five years. She’s practically a daughter to Kessler and Stride. The others are recent. I don’t know who they are. Why are you asking, Mr. Leland?”

“Oh, just curious. I’m sure it’s… not important.”

“Sir, I need a few minutes. Let me call you right back.”

“Go ahead. Ask him. I’ll wait.”

Ask him. Oh, right. Leland thinks he’s calling Kessler. Well, he’s not. He wants to see if Boston blows it.

Clew broke the connection. He wiped the spray of vodka tonic from his shirt, picked up his remote and turned the sound back on. The Yankees had scored while he was talking to Leland. They’d tied the game, then flied out to right field. The Red Sox were now batting, bottom of the ninth, one out with a runner on second. Other than wanting to see if they’d score, Clew needed a few quiet moments to decide how much Leland was entitled to know. Especially when his reason for wanting to know was to ease the mind of his new buddy, Haskell. What’s Kessler up to? Not a damned thing. On the other hand, here were the Boston Red Sox one base hit away from a sweep of the Yankees and into solo first place. One must keep one’s priorities straight.

Yes!! A bloop single dropped into short left. The ball’s bobbled, late throw, the runner scores standing up. Crowd at Fenway goes nuts. There is justice in the world. This is worth another vodka and tonic.

As Clew mixed it, he returned to the subject at hand. Kessler gathering speakers of Arabic. Why? What’s he up to? Must involve Mideast oil. Take it one step further and it must involve some sort of plot against Trans-Global Oil. Leland must have had a reason for asking the names of the four Muslim girls Stride took in. Clew was sorry that he even named Aisha. It’s those two vodka tonics. Loosened lips. Never good. Aisha’s had enough trouble for a lifetime already. Mother and father murdered in Egypt when she was… how old? Not yet twelve. Some uncle was behind it, Clew seemed to recall. Oh, yeah. He needed the family money for some weapons deal he’d put together. He could get it under Egyptian law, especially if he knew the right judge. But their only heir. Aisha, would have to go too. The Nasreens blew that for him. Got her over here. The uncle didn’t live very long after that. Clew never heard how, but it wouldn’t surprise him if Stride, herself, had paid him a visit. No reason to think so. It just wouldn’t surprise him.

He’d met Aisha once. Terrific kid. A beautiful kid. She’s how old now? Sixteen? Yeah, just about. It seemed to him she’s got a birthday coming up.

Oops, thought Clew. He was starting to feel the pill that he took. Better call Leland back while his brain was still working. And he thought he’d better tape the conversation, this time. He picked up the cell phone, jacked it into his recorder and tapped the read-out that showed Leland’s number.

Leland answered on the first ring. He asked, “Well? What did he have to say?”

Clew had almost forgotten. “Kessler sends his regards. He thinks of you fondly. Stride yelled hello from the kitchen.”

An impatient sigh. “About those girls, Roger.”

“Your so-called linguists? Yes, of course they speak Arabic. They grew up over there. There’s nothing more to it than that.”

“Which girls? Did he tell you? Other than Aisha?”

“No, he didn’t. You told me this wasn’t important.”

“From what countries?” asked Leland, ignoring the reminder. “Do you know their nationalities at least?”

Clew didn’t. Oh, wait. He remembered. “Two of them are sisters. They got out of Iran. Harry mentioned them in passing a few weeks ago.”

“Harry Whistler?”

“Uh-huh. He was over for a visit. With them. Not with me. But he came back through D.C. and we went out to dinner.” Clew was tempted to bust Leland’s balls by saying that Yitzhak Netanya had joined them. Yitzhak hadn’t, of course. One criminal was enough. This phone call didn’t need more complications.

“Iranians, you say. They speak Farsi, not Arabic.”

“Sir…”

“Sorry. Quite right. Farsi’s written in Arabic. They’d probably know classic Arabic as well.”

“And some Kurdish, some Turkish, to say nothing of English. You hear all five and more in Tehran.”

“Tehran? That’s where the sisters are from?”

“I believe so,” said Clew. “That was my understanding.”

“Might the fourth girl be a Saudi? More than that, a Saudi princess?”

“Sir… what is this? What’s going on?”

Haskell again. He’s here with that girl’s father. She disappeared from Riyadh within this same time frame. For reasons that I’d rather not go into just yet, it’s put something of a crimp in Haskell’s plans.”

“Which are?”

“He wasn’t about to lay them all out for me. I only have bits and pieces. But if this princess is with Kessler, a long shot, I grant you, I think he’d do almost anything to get her.”

A crimp in Haskell’s plans? Wouldn’t that be too bad. Clew said, “Howard, I don’t know, but I very much doubt it. If Harry thought to mention the two from Iran, he sure as hell would have mentioned a princess.”

“Unless he chose to keep it from you?”

“Howard, why would he? He knows all I’d have to do is hop into my car and…” Shit, thought Clew. Damn that pill.

Leland paused for a beat. “They’re so near?”

“Not so very,” he lied. “A few hours.”

“Call again and ask. Just for my satisfaction. And as for Harry Whistler, he’s in oil, is he not?”

“Harry’s in almost everything, Howard.”

“Oil included.”

He’s brokered drilling rights, tankers and drilling equipment and, I think, pumping stations for pipelines. But none of his business is with Arab states. By now, he’s even out of Angola. Almost all of its with the former Soviet republics developing the Caspian oilfields.”

Leland said, “Hmmm. He won’t work the Mideast?”

“Howard, it isn’t a won’t; it’s a can’t. Or doesn’t need to. He’s got all he can handle in the Caspian.”

“So it follows that he’s not in competition with Trans-Global.”

Clew groaned. “You mean with Haskell. No, he is not. Trans-Global doesn’t work the Caspian either. They’ve tried but they’ve been shut out.”

“By Harry?”

“Not at all. Don’t tell me he thinks so.”

“He hasn’t said that. At least not to me. I’m just trying to get a grip on the dynamics here.”

“Sir, Haskell’s paranoid. That’s the dynamic. He’s also mistrusted. That’s why he’s shut out. Harry Whistler is neither. That’s why he’s in. Does this sum it up for you, sir?”

Another long silence on Leland’s end. Clew could almost hear counting to ten in an effort to keep his temper in check. Clew said, “Sir, I apologize. It’s late and I’m tired.”

“Hold on just a minute,” said Leland.

Clew heard the sound of a powerful car. It approached, speeding by, its tires spraying gravel. He heard a few sharp slaps that almost sounded like gunshots. He heard a voice, not Leland’s, shout “Hey, watch it. Slow down.” It was probably one of Leland’s two bodyguards. He heard Leland say, “They didn’t waste any time,” in a tone that seemed almost amused.

Clew asked. “What was that? What just happened out there?”

“It’s that Saudi prince and one of Haskell’s associates. Trouble at home. They’re rushing back to Riyadh. Kicked up a few stones as they passed. Where was I?”

“Going nowhere with your line of questioning, sir.”

All this talk was beginning to swim in Clew’s head. He was glad that he recorded it. He stifled a yawn. He said, “Sir, I’ve taken a sleeping pill.”

“I’ll let you go. Just one more thing. I need to find that Saudi princess and soon. Find out for me where the Nasreens have sent her. If she isn’t with Kessler, he need not be involved. But once you learn where she’s gone, I’ll need you to…”

“Back up, sir,” said Clew. “Involved in what?”

“I told you. This business with Haskell,”

Clew grimaced. He said, “Sir, I need to end this discussion. It’s starting to go around in circles.”