The Aisha Prophecy (14 page)

“Roger, I need to know. By tomorrow if possible. I’m sure that Elizabeth Stride can find out through her close ties with the Nasreens. Then, I’m going to ask you to set up a meeting…”

“Sir… sir, the answer is no. There’s no way I’m going to touch this.”

“You’re refusing?”

Sir, here’s a better idea. I don’t know what’s cooking between you and Haskell. I’m sure that you mean well. I’m sure Haskell doesn’t. Can you still see the tail lights of that Saudi prince’s car? Follow them. Get out of there tonight.”

“He’s planning something, Roger. Believe me, it’s big. And this little Saudi princess is his key to moving forward. We need to find her before he does.”

“This girl, I take it, didn’t run off empty-handed. She dipped into her father’s private papers?”

“Something like that. She copied some sensitive material onto disks.”

“Like what?”

“Roger, for the moment, I’d rather not say. But it’s more than sensitive. It’s political dynamite. It could devastate the Saudi regime.”

Clew nodded. “Uh-huh. And you want to see it. Mr. Leland, that’s not going to happen.”

“Roger, need I remind you…”

“Remind me of what? That I work for you? I do and I don’t. I think we both understand that. Either way, I think you’re missing the point. The Nasreens would never give up that… whatever. It would be useless as insurance if they did.”

“They can keep it. Roger. I just want to review it.”

“That of just this one girl?”

“Just the Saudi.”

You said Haskell would do almost anything to get it. Might that include snatching the princess?”

“First he’ll try to recover the material at its source. That’s why those two are flying back to Riyadh. Failing that, he hopes to get it through Stride. You do know where she is, do you not?”

“You know that I do. But don’t ask.”

“Well, I’ve got the feeling that Haskell might know. He at least knows they’re not in Vermont. If he does, he’ll set up some sort of surveillance. He may even have done so already. Unless Stride’s girls are being kept out of sight, he might be tempted to take the first one he can get at and use her to bargain with Stride. By the way, I heard him ask for a photo of the Saudi. He might have one within the next day or two.”

“Okay,” said Clew wearily. “Tell Haskell we talked. Tell him that as soon as I got off the phone, I called Kessler and told him to blow town tonight. Tell Haskell that even if he knows where they are, they won’t still be there in the morning. Tell him that Kessler will stash his four girls and then he and Stride will come looking for him. Then get on a plane and come home.”

“Roger, I’d like to find her for my reasons, not his. As I’ve said, she’s the key…

“To some grand scheme of Haskell’s. Yes, I heard you,” said Clew. “There are always grand schemes where oil is concerned. Can you think of one that ever went as planned?”

Roger, yes or no. Will you try to locate her?”

I wouldn’t mind, thought Clew, seeing what she has myself. He might make a phone call. Not tonight, though. Tomorrow. “Let me give it some thought. I’ll do what I can. But right now I must get to bed.”

“Very well. Get your rest. Just one other thing. Are you aware of that new Muslim prophecy that seems to be all over the internet?”

“The female messiah?” “A Joan of Arc type. It seems to be causing quite a stir in their world. Muslim women are embracing it, especially the young. They’re passing it on to other young women and some have been arrested for doing so.”

“Sir, that prophecy’s not new. It’s centuries years old.”

“But revived by whom?”

“I’d have no idea.”

“Can it be traced to its more recent source?”

“Not a chance,” said Clew. “It’s way beyond tracing. By now it’s passed through a few million computers to say nothing of faxes and word of mouth and it’s probably in half the world’s languages.”

Leland asked, “We trace viruses, don’t we?”

“This is no virus. A virus is a code. It’s an entity in itself. It has only one version at a time in most cases. This is more like a rumor whose versions keep changing. Who’s to say which one kicked this off?”

“I’d have thought with our technology…”

“Only in the movies.”

Leland was silent for a long moment. Clew could hear him drumming his fingers, probably on the hood of his Lincoln. “This wife of Mohammed, his warrior wife… are you aware that her name was Aisha?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” said Clew. “It’s a common Muslim name.”

“Food for thought, though. Is it not?”

“Not to me.”

“As for who revived it, Muslim feminists seem most likely. One would be inclined to suspect the Nasreens. However, another odd thought has just struck me. It only re-emerged less than three months ago. That’s when Kessler came back from the dead.”

“Mr. Leland. On my life. No connection.”

“Very well. I accept that. But there’s one more coincidence. It began soon after those Hilton Head killings. It refers to an angel accompanying Aisha. A flame-haired angel bearing a sword. Who does that sound like to you?”

“Angel. Black Angel. So it must be Stride? I think you must be as groggy as I am.”

“I’m getting there,” said Leland. “But you see how it looks. And if that Saudi princess should happen to be with them…”

“Uh-huh,” said Clew drippingly. “Makes it clear as a bell. Stride and Kessler found out that this princess’s father had some kind of a deal with Charles Haskell. Kessler saw a chance to not only screw Haskell, but to what? You just said it. Dump the Saudi royal family. Harry Whistler is in it with him. So, while we’re at it, is Yitzhak Netanya. Suddenly they’re in control of half the world’s oil. Hey, you can’t say that Kessler thinks small.”

“Roger…”

“No, wait. It gets better. Think even bigger. Not just Arabs. He decides to destabilize the whole Muslim world by passing off one of these runaway girls as some resurrected feminist warrior. How convenient that he’s even got an Aisha on hand who seems to be just the right age.”

“I can do without the sarcasm, Roger.”

“My apologies, but yes, I do see how it looks. At least to a schizo like Haskell.”

“All the same…”

“Sir, listen to me. So far this isn’t serious. It will be if Haskell does something dumb in response to a threat that doesn’t exist. You’re in a position to keep that from happening by persuading him that Kessler has zero involvement. You’re there. Use your time there. Find out what you can. If it’s criminal, and it will be, call justice, let them handle it, but for God’s sake, keep the rest of us out of it.”

“Now you’re asking me to stay?”

“Ear to the ground, sir. I guess it can’t hurt.”

“I think I’ll have him believe that I’ve spoken with Stride.”

“Directly?”

“Very well. Through you. You routed the call. I’ll say that she’s agreed to contact the Nasreens and recover whatever the princess took. She said it might take a few days.”

Clew squinted. He asked. “She’s agreed to this… why?”

“In return for his assurance that he’ll leave Stride in peace if Stride and Kessler will leave him in peace. And that no harm would come to the princess.”

“Uh-huh. And you think that Haskell will buy this.”

“It should at least keep him dangling for a few days. In the meantime, you’ll contact Stride yourself and get her to get you a look at that disk. If you can and its contents are what Haskell says they are, we’ll have beaten him at his own game.”

“Good plan,” said Clew who was twisting his lip. Sir, I’m out on my feet.”

“You can reach me through my security detail. You’ll let me know soonest?”

“Goodnight, sir.”

Clew kicked off his shoes. He unbuttoned his shirt. He was more than just tired. He was tired of this shit. See this? This is how. This is how it always starts. Wrong conclusions drawn from unrelated events. Lives end up getting wrecked. People end up getting killed.

Arabic speakers being gathered by Kessler. Wrong. No such thing. They’re only young girls who Stride’s taking care of until the Nasreens can find them good homes. Except for Aisha, of course. She’s a keeper. Could Stride and Kessler have the princess? They might. If they don’t, sure, they could find out who does. Either way, though, the princess would no longer have that disk. The Nasreens would and there are none in Belle Haven. Where are they? All over. They have a half dozen chapters in this country alone. Where is that disk? It’s locked away somewhere. It would be held for a year or two, three at the most. When the princess is deemed to be safe, they’d destroy it. It would probably never be opened.

Oh, and now there’s that prophecy. Gee, look at the timing. It only started making the rounds at about the same time Stride took those girls. Mohammed’s take-no-shit wife is coming back and she’s pissed. All you Muslim men out there, guess what; the party’s over. No more burkas and abayas. We want Donna Karan. We want to drive our own cars and go out on dates and get laid without being stoned to death for it. And by the way, get up off your asses. From now on you’re going to give us some help around the house. You can start by picking up after yourselves. Take the garbage out. Dry the dishes.

And here’s the clincher. Are you ready for this? What’s the name of Mohammed’s young warrior wife? Aisha, right? Give that man a cigar. And what’s the name of the girl who Stride is protecting? It’s Aisha. What more proof do you need?

And who else is behind this? Must be Harry Whistler. And/or Yitzhak Netanya. To say the least, Yitzhak’s no fan of the Saudis. But neither are most other Arab states. Anyway, what’s their game? What are they up to? Not a damn thing, you say? Then how do you explain this weird timing?

Round and round she goes. Where she stops, God only knows. It’s the dumbest thing Clew had ever heard.

He finished undressing and climbed into bed. As heavy as his eyelids had become, he now wasn’t sure that he’d be able to sleep. Too many thoughts, names and faces were colliding in his head. Should he alert Kessler or would that be crying wolf? Maybe this will all quiet down by itself if Leland is convinced that it’s all smoke and mirrors and is able to mollify Haskell. But is Leland convinced? He seemed to be, yes. Clew had trouble remembering all that had been said. He’d replay the recording in the morning.

Time enough to think about it then.

FOURTEEN 

Mulazim was ready to begin his search for those women in the little white convertible. How would he find them? He would rely on God’s guidance. God would want them just as badly as he did. He would want them found and punished for immodesty.

The first thing he’d done was return to his motel, slipping in without being seen. Having changed into his clothing from the Wal-Mart, Mulazim studied himself in the mirror of the bathroom. A new man. He looked typically American. He tucked the Glock pistol that he took from the policeman into his belt at the small of his back. He checked in the mirror to see if it bulged. It did not because such jackets are designed to fit loosely in order to make a good golf swing. He switched the policeman’s little radio off and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. He’d had it on while he was changing, listening to calls between several policemen and their dispatcher. They had not found the missing policeman.

Thus equipped, he would now hunt the Mustang’s driver especially, the slut who had caused all this trouble. He was sure that she could no longer identify him except, of course, by the sound of his voice. Even so, she’d seen his photo of Rasha and she’d heard his explanation for watching so much tennis. She’d seen his response to what she had said about the man and the woman who played with her there. She knew far too much. She must be silenced.

He had parked his car directly outside his door. He stepped out to it carrying the bag meant for laundry which he squeezed down behind his front seat. Next, he reentered his room and went out again through the door that led to the corridor. He walked down to the lobby’s front desk. There was a woman on duty. He asked her to recommend a good tavern or bar. Someplace lively, he said. Not a restaurant for families. Someplace young that is suitable for unmarried people where he might find laughter and fellowship. The woman at the desk knew of several such places. She said she would be happy to show them on a map.

She produced not a street map, more a map of cartoons. It showed oversized drawings of restaurants and bars and a few other places such as book stores. She said, “They’re all on a stretch of about a quarter mile where Glebe Road crosses Old Dominion.” His eye caught a drawing of a place called Mangiamo. He touched a finger to the name.

“Italian?” he asked her. “Small restaurant?”

She nodded. “Mangiamo. That’s Italian for ‘Let’s eat.’ Fairly small, but very popular. It does have a bar, but the crowd isn’t really what you’d call young.”

Still worth looking into, but first things come first. He said, “I would like to meet people my age. The span is middle twenties to not much over thirty.”

“Gotcha. That would be these.” She circled three. She said, “It’s Sunday, so I don’t know how active they’ll be, but all three of them fit that description.”

Mulazim thanked her and said, “Oh, I must make a complaint. I was taking a long nap and left a call to be awaked. There was no call. I might have missed my evening out.”

She said, “Sorry about that, sir. I’ll look into it.”

Mulazim dismissed it. “Forget that I spoke. I must have needed a three-hour nap.”

“Well, sir, have a good evening all the same.”

It might be useful, thought Mulazim, one never knows, to have this desk clerk convinced that he’d been in his room at the time that policeman was last heard from. As for these bars, he knew where they were. He’d seen them all during his driving.

Back in his car, he turned on the police radio. He was pleased to learn that they still hadn’t found him. But the voices did not seem very concerned. One joked that he had probably picked up some… hottie?… it being past the end of his shift. Foul play didn’t seem to be even considered. Instead, one got the feeling that this was a safe town where not much very bad ever happened. Even so, shouldn’t they think to look in the rest rooms? Suppose he got sick and wished to stay near a toilet. This seemed very careless of them.

Mulazim drove north on Old Dominion Road to where it intersects the Grebe Road of the map. Along the way, he saw a house that was under renovation. In front, a large container for construction debris. It was there that he disposed of his laundry. He continued on to the first of these bars. He turned into its lot and drove slowly through it.

There were not so many cars. Perhaps a dozen or so. None was the Ford Mustang that he sought. He did the same when he reached the next bar. He could see through the window many big televisions, all of them on and showing baseball. A few young people were standing outside smoking cigarettes. He drove in. It was an old building with alleys and byways. Cars were parked in a chaotic fashion, easy to get blocked in by others. Very inefficient if they ever got busy. But again, not so many. And no Mustang.

He proceeded to the third bar that was circled. A sign promised live music and two-dollar long necks. He didn’t know what a long neck was, but regardless, the offer seemed not enough to lure more than a handful of customers.

Inefficient? Chaotic? Well, so was this search. He knew perfectly well that success was unlikely unless God were to answer his prayers. Those two girls might have gone to any number of places. Another restaurant, to a movie, or they might have stayed home. But this was better than driving to all possible such places. It was also early. It was only nine o’clock. It had only just gotten fully dark out. Those two girls, if they were coming to either of these, would have taken much more time than he took to get ready. They would have painted themselves while deciding what to wear. It would probably be another hour at least before they got to any of these places.

In the meantime, he hadn’t eaten.

He proceeded to the restaurant that was called Mangiamo. No parking lot at this one. Only parking on the street. Not a young clientele, the motel clerk had said. But just to make sure, he drove once around the block. He saw cars of all types, but, as expected, no Mustang. He parked a little ways up the street and went in to pass some time having dinner.

A good Muslim, of course, does not go to bars. But here there are no restaurants that do not have bars unless one wants to live on hamburgers and fries. One good thing about bars is that a man by himself is not likely to attract undue notice.

The bar itself was to his left as he entered. Five men and one woman were sitting along it. Sunday night. It was another sparse crowd. To the right were small tables that were known as cocktail tables. Such tables were higher than the kind meant for meals and some could hold only two persons. For meals there was a dining room in the back that was entered through an archway decorated with vines. It was otherwise hidden behind a wall that showed a big mural of what he assumed was some old village in Italy. There was no one in the back taking meals.

Mulazim was forced to take a seat at the bar. Otherwise, he would have stood out. Even so, he chose a spot that was close to the entrance where the bar took a curve toward the wall. His seat was also a good place of vantage for watching the TV at the opposite end even though it was only showing baseball.

This clientele seemed a mixture of various stations, some in nice clothing, some not so nice. The woman, not young, middle forties perhaps, sat doing a crossword puzzle. The man next to her seemed to be helping. That man, same age, had the look of a worker, all dressed in denim that was faded and frayed and in his ear he wore a big hearing aid. He was also the only one who glanced up when Mulazim came through the door. Other than, of course, the bartender. Mulazim asked if he might see a menu.

The bartender was a very large man who had, thought Mulazim, a certain fearsomeness to him, yet his greeting was entirely amiable. Mulazim ordered a veal chop that came with spaghetti and a salad with tomatoes and olives. Meanwhile, he asked for a Pepsi.

The big man asked, “How do you want your chop?”

“Oh, how cooked? I prefer it well done.”

“We don’t do well done here. This is Mangiamo. Even cooking it medium louses up a good chop. You want at least medium rare.”

This seemed more a command than friendly advice. Very well, though. “It will be as you suggest.”

Where he comes from, meat is always well cooked if you don’t want to get the shits and the vomits, but perhaps here the meat is not so old. The one waitress on duty brought his plate from the kitchen. When it came, he cut into it. It was pink. Almost bleeding. Even so, the taste was delicious.

The big man watched him chew. He said, “Well?”

“You are right,” said Mulazim. “So much better.”

“First time here? New in town?”

“Yes. First time. I came to visit a friend. But sadly, I appear to have missed him.”Mulazim didn’t know what made him say that. Sometimes an inner voice whispered to him. Not God, because the voice is sometimes stupid.

The bartender asked, “Who’s your friend? Does he come in here?”

“It was him who spoke of the food in this restaurant, but not of this excellent veal chop.”

“No kidding. What’s his name? I probably know him.”

“His name is Mr. Harrison Whistler.”

“Harry?” The bartender boomed out the name. The woman at the puzzle looked up and smiled. The man who was helping her reacted as well, but his look seemed more one of surprise. “Sure, I know Harry. High-stepping Harry. He says he flies over every chance he gets to get his fix of our Lobster Tortellini.”

“Lobster Tortellini. Ah, yes,” said Mulazim. Crustaceans. Unclean. Disgusting.

“Yeah, Harry was in just a few weeks ago. He came in with a whole… Just a second.”

The bar phone had rung. Such terrible timing. A whole what? A whole group? All young dark-haired girls? In the company of Elizabeth Stride? Be patient, Mulazim. Be calm.

The big man answered the phone. He said, “Mangiamo. This is Sam.” He listened with a deepening frown to whatever was being said to him. He said, “Yeah, she’s here. Hold on, Dave.” He raised a hand toward the rear of the bar. He was waving at the woman who’d been doing the puzzle, motioning her to come forward. She came, a wearied look on her face. She said, “Damn it, Sam. I’m off duty.”

He told her, “Eddie Fitch. They just found him. He’s dead. Someone left him propped up on a Marcey Park toilet. Sergeant Ragland’s been trying to reach you.”

She took the phone from him. “Dave? It’s Karen.” She said nothing more for a full thirty seconds. She stood nodding gravely as she listened. She said to the bartender, “Clean kill with a knife.” She touched a finger to the base of her skull. “Took his gun. His radio, too.” She listened further, eyes narrowed, more nodding. She told the bartender, “They might have a witness. It’s a woman who made the 911 call that brought Eddie down there in the first place. They have her name and her cell. They’re trying to locate her.” She told the caller, “I’ll be right in.”

Mulazim didn’t need to pretend that he wasn’t listening closely. The others at the bar were hearing as much. They were murmuring with each other. “Eddie Fitch. Someone killed him. Eddie Fitch? You mean the cop? Yeah, he comes in here a lot with his wife. Oh, God, I wonder if she knows yet. Damn. He’s like a year from putting in his papers. They were planning to buy an RV, tour the country.”

Mulazim had no trouble showing equal concern, but for very different reasons than these others. They have the name of this girl and the number of her cell phone? Of course they would. How could he not have known? All such calls to the police are recorded. If they have a name, they have an address. They’re trying to locate her? That must mean she’s not home or has turned off her phone. And that means that he might still be able to find her before she can tell what he knows.

The woman handed the phone back to Sam. She said, “State cops, too. They’ll be setting up roadblocks. It’s going to be a long night.” She turned to leave. Sam said, “Let me know.” She nodded. They held each other’s eyes for a moment. She nodded again and went out.

This exchange that was largely unspoken seemed odd. A bartender telling the police to report? But Mulazim did not dwell on it. Perhaps it meant nothing. Mulazim saw this Karen get into her car. She placed a red flashing light on its roof and lost no time speeding off. He could also hear distant sirens. The bartender told him, now unnecessarily, “Karen’s a cop. Friend of Eddie’s.”

Mulazim wanted to leave, but he wanted to stay. He wanted to hear what else was said. He wanted to resume his discussion with Sam about those who came here with this High-stepping Harry. He wanted to ask which house, what address, but he couldn’t. A friend of Harry Whistler would already know. All this was very frustrating.

Very frustrating and also unnerving. But one thing was certain. God had guided him here. How could that be doubted? All he’d wanted was to pass some time having dinner before starting his search for that white car in earnest. But look at all that’s been laid at his feet. Such things do not happen by chance. Maybe God even caused the slut of the Mustang to go out again leaving her cell phone behind. Very possible, thought Mulazim. God wouldn’t want the police finding her before he can find her himself.

What to do now, though? Resume his search? Not with all these sirens. Not with roadblocks springing up. Certainly not with a knife on his arms and a dead policeman’s pistol in his belt. Did he dare to go back to his motel room? Even if he got there without misadventure, he’d be sitting there in ignorance of all that is happening. In his part of the world, when a suspect is sought, dozens, even hundreds, would be rounded up. Could that happen in Belle Haven? A late knock on his door? A questioning of all new faces?