The Aisha Prophecy (16 page)

Wait, thought Clew.

We’re getting too far off the track here. It’s nice to see that the Aisha prophecy is starting to wake people up. Getting millions of Muslims to take a hard look at the more extreme forms of Islam. It’s not just the violence. It’s the willful ignorance. The denial of one’s right to think for one’s self. Keeping Islam from being the force for enlightenment that it once was and could be again.

But sadly, nothing much is likely to come of it. It’ll probably blow over in another month or two when Aisha fails to turn up. A more immediate question is what ought to be done about Haskell’s obsession with Kessler. Maybe nothing, thought Clew. That might also blow over. Leland’s there. He’s with Haskell. Let him keep a lid on it. He’s got through Wednesday to calm Haskell down and keep Kessler and Stride the hell out of this.

Except… except… for that Saudi princess and whatever she’s got on that disk Haskell wants. Political dynamite is what Leland called it. It could devastate the Saudi regime. Clew couldn’t imagine what it might be, but if it even begins to have that sort of potential, they sure as hell can’t let Haskell get it. And except… except… maybe Kessler and Stride are deeply into this after all. Maybe they have the princess. Maybe they have the disk. Maybe Stride already got it from the Nasreens. Maybe the Nasreens never had it. If anyone has a motive to “devastate” a few Saudis, you’d have to put Stride pretty high on the list.

Clew was tempted to buzz down to Belle Haven. Drop in unannounced. See who’s there. Say to Kessler and Stride, “I’m asking straight out. Are you out of the game, as you’ve told me you are, or do you have plans for that disk?” They’d know that he knows. That would be a start. On the other hand, though, if they don’t know a thing, him asking might pull them back into the game whether they like it or not. So slow down. First things first. Do they have that Saudi princess? Harry Whistler would know. He spent several days with them. Ask Harry straight out. Do they have this missing princess? If his response is either, “Why are you asking?” or “I think you might want to stay out of this, Roger,” then he’ll know that Harry is in this as well and might have his own plans for the disk. And maybe Netanya. Maybe Rajib Sadik.

Oh, Roger… shut up.

Are you listening to yourself?

You’re sitting here developing a conspiracy theory and it’s dumb, really dumb in so many ways. If Harry was part of this… if he even had a clue… he would not have parked Kessler and Stride in Belle Haven. He’d have jetted them all off to his base in Geneva or more likely to his ski lodge in the French Alps that’s more like a fortress than a lodge.

So he’s not part of anything. He’s just been a friend.

But he’d know whether Stride had that princess.

SIXTEEN 

Mulazim had risen early on Monday, eager to see what was in the newspapers. He had not slept well and woke up feeling poorly. The cause was those three beers that he drank last night.

A good Muslim doesn’t drink, but he’d had little choice. It didn’t seem a good idea to be a Muslim just now. Better to be Greek as is shown on his passport. He knew from his time of study in Piraeus that a Greek will drink anything put in front of him.

This man, Gilhooley, had bought him the first one. After that, another. Then came a third. The last one came unrequested by Gilhooley. Sam the bartender brought it. He said, “On the house.”

Gilhooley had overheard his exchange with Sam about Harry Whistler and his taste for crustaceans. Gilhooley also knew of this man. Gilhooley asked him, “How do you know Harry?”

The question seemed asked in a friendly manner. Mulazim, thinking quickly, said, “He comes to Piraeus. My business is shipping. He uses our ships. We have dined together on many occasions both in Piraeus and in Geneva because sometimes our business took me there.”

Gilhooley, “So you’re Greek. And in shipping. Like Onassis.”

“Not so big as Onassis,” he answered.

“Did Harry have a favorite restaurant in Piraeus?”

This seemed an odd question. Was it a test? There is one called Vassilenas, very popular, many courses. Mulazim had eaten there himself. He said, “His first choice was Vassilenas most times. But I could name others that he liked just as well. There are many seafood restaurants in Piraeus.” Mulazim had eaten in several.

Gilhooley nodded. “Vassilenas. A good one. They know how to cook a fish. By the way, I don’t think I caught your name.”

Mulazim was not eager to say too much, but again, he wasn’t left with a choice. “My name is Polykarpos. I am Zenobias Polykarpos.” It was the name that appeared on his passport. An instructor had told him that Greek names are good because those who are not Greek don’t remember them so good.

This was true of Gilhooley who said, “That’s a mouthful.” He asked, “What do your friends call you? Let me guess. They call you Zeke?”

Zeke, thought Mulazim. Also non-Muslim. He said, “A good guess. They call me Zeke.” The bartender heard this. He said, “Zeke the Greek.” He said this as he drew two more beers from the tap which he placed before them on the bar. Gilhooley must have gestured for more beer.

Gilhooley said, “So I bet you know Elizabeth Stride.”

This was too much. He didn’t know how to answer. Was this second beer intended to loosen his tongue? Gilhooley saw what he thought must be ignorance of her. He said, “She’s staying in Harry’s house. Her and some others. Haven’t you been up there?”

He wanted to ask where? Where is there? Which house? But he couldn’t, so he said, “I called and I was told he is in Europe.”

“By a woman?”

“A woman, yes, but I did not ask her name.” Mulazim took a long sip of his beer in order to have a moment to think.

The bar phone rang again. It was a reprieve. Sam picked it up and held a finger aloft as if saying he was getting some news. He listened for a minute or two. He said, “Thanks, Karen. You’ll get him.” He hung up.

He addressed all who were still at the bar. He said, “They found the witness. She saw that the cops tried to call her on her cell. Seems she was in the shower, didn’t hear it. They’re bringing her down to the station now where they’ve got a sketch artist waiting for her. They already have a description. Guy’s a foreigner. He’s Hungarian, she says. They want to get that sketch to the papers tonight. They have to get it in before eleven.”

A man at the bar asked, “So this guy killed Eddie?”

“They’re not sure. They just know he was talking to Eddie when this girl and her friend finished playing and left. The girl did say that this guy seemed creepy.”

So much, thought Mulazim, for his search for the slut. This could be bad. Very bad. And a drawing in the papers? What next?

“Hungarians,” said Gilhooley. “Gloomy by nature. Highest suicide rate in all of Europe.”

Mulazim wondered, who is this Gilhooley? How is it that a man who is dressed as a laborer seems to know something of restaurants in Piraeus and also of Hungarian temperament? It is not surprising that he knows Harry Whistler if Harry Whistler comes to this place. The same can be said of Elizabeth Stride who might well have accompanied this Whistler.

He said, “Maybe Hungarians. Not so with Greeks. We know how to have good times and enjoy.” With this he let out an involuntary belch. He had swallowed his beer much too quickly. It was also having other effects. Among these was a growing discomfort from his bladder. This was on top of the discomfort he felt that was caused by this man, Gilhooley. There was too much about him that seemed not quite right. Also his eyes. His eyes never stopped moving. This, thought Mulazim, was the look of a hunter. For right now, though, he had need of the rest room.

He excused himself, and walked toward the back. He found the one marked for men and went in for relief. He took his time. He washed his hands and wet his face. He took water from the tap and rinsed his mouth with it, hoping to reduce the effects of the beer. It did little to help. He dried himself.

When he came back out, Gilhooley was gone. He could see Gilhooley through the front window, just now climbing into an old pick-up truck. He watched as Gilhooley pulled away from the curb. Mulazim was far from displeased to see him go. Even so, why this sudden departure? This whole business was very unnerving.

He wanted to leave. He needed to think. Perhaps he should get into his own car and go. Keep driving until he is out of Virginia. Call his sheik. Report. Let others take over. He was heading toward the door, that course of action in mind, when the bartender stopped him. He said, “Zeke, you have a tab.”

Of course. His veal chop. He’s almost forgotten. He reached into his pocket to pull out some cash. That was when the bartender produced his third beer with the words, “This one’s on the house.”

Mulazim thanked him. He sipped it. He did more than sip. This one tasted better than the two that went before. That’s probably what is so pernicious about alcohol. It did seem, however, to be easing his anxiety. A voice inside him said, “No, it is dulling your edge. Go back to your motel. Sleep it off. Wake refreshed. Don’t make snap decisions after drinking.”

God speaking. Must be. He obeyed.

He took his change and left a good tip of five dollars. He wished Sam a good evening and went out to his car. He clicked on the key that unlocked it from a distance. The front and rear lights all flash when he does this. He saw, this time, that one tail light was broken. It wasn’t broken when he locked it. He felt sure of that. Who could have done this? Gilhooley perhaps? He’d been parked just beyond Gilhooley’s pick-up.

Sometimes this is done, he remembered from his training, to make a car easier to follow at night or to make it stand out even during the day from other cars that are too similar. But if so, why didn’t Gilhooley just wait?

Never mind. Just go. He drove back to his motel. He reminded himself that the clerk at his motel was part of his alibi, as were those at the restaurant. So calm down. All will be well if you don’t panic. Along the way, a police car drove past him slowly. The policeman driving was looking him over. Mulazim gave him a wave with his fingers. The policeman waved back. He moved on.

You see? Nobody suspects you.

The next morning early, the newspaper came. There was the drawing, right on the front page. But it would be little help to the police.

It was a face within the hood of his sweatshirt from the Wal-Mart, eyes hidden behind tinted glasses with sides. They covered fully a third of his face. Eyes could be seen through them, but they were not his eyes. His eyes were not so close together. Otherwise, as far as his face was concerned, there was not a single recognizable feature except perhaps for the shape of his hairline.

This, he suspected, was often the case when suspects are sketched from a description. Those describing the suspect are probably inclined to describe him in unflattering terms. This one showed his mouth with what looked like a leer. Well, perhaps this was the case while the slut was flouncing, but that was not his normal expression. Was it? No, it wasn’t. But just in case it was, he would conceal that as well. He would try to wear a smile from now on. That, and he’d keep his red baseball cap on, its visor pulled down on his forehead.

The caption spoke of this man as a possible witness, the last person seen with the dead policeman. The authorities wished to interview him as to who else he’d seen in that vicinity.

Witness? Not a suspect? This must be a ruse. Clearly intended to put him off guard and not feel the need to flee Belle Haven. The only other thing the description got right was that this possible witness spoke with an accent and was heard to say he was Hungarian. There was no mention of his claim that he was looking for his niece and had shown a snapshot of her dressed as a nun. The police often choose to withhold such details. They like to know more than they’re saying.

He did speak with an accent; that couldn’t be helped, but his accent was a mix of Northern Saudi, some Egyptian and quite a bit of Greek from his time in Piraeus. Such accents are sometimes called Mediterranean for want of a better narrowing down. He didn’t think he’d ever heard a Hungarian accent, but it didn’t seem likely to be similar.

He went out to his car and fished out the radio that he’d hidden underneath his spare tire. Also there was the dead policeman’s pistol along with his handcuffs and taser. Not easily accessible, but not easily detectable in any but a diligent search should he be stopped.

He switched the radio on, changed his mind, switched it off. The police knew that he had taken it. They would assume that he’d be listening. They would be making false broadcasts in order to mislead him, to try to put him off guard. False broadcasts preceded by some prearranged code word. Two, however, could play at that game. Maybe he would drive a hundred miles away, wipe it clean and drop it into a mailbox, leaving a false trail of his own. For now, though, he would stay, perhaps try again to sleep, perhaps take a fizz pill to settle his stomach. After that he would go where information is reliable. He would go back to Mangiamo for lunch.

The restaurant was far more busy for lunch than it was on the preceding night. The same bartender was working again, but he saw no one else who looked familiar. It was a mix of men and women dressed for business. Three waitresses this time. Several tables in use. There was no sign of Gilhooley.

Only two empty bar stools. He took the one nearest. In other places, the bar was two-deep. Men stood in the aisle talking sports, from the sound of it, with those who were seated on stools. All of them had beers in their hands. Further back, near the tables, he saw another cluster that looked like a meeting of the staff. One was a waitress, another wore chef’s apron. The third was a woman with a pen in one hand and what looked like a notepad in the other. They were going over some sort of checklist.

Mulazim told Sam he’d like some sweetened iced tea and… let’s see… what is light?

“Try the Eggplant Parmagiane.”

This didn’t sound so light, but he knew not to argue. The bartender put in his order. The front door opened and a man stepped through it. He stood by the front window peering at faces, craning his neck to see better. At least twice his eyes had paused to linger on Mulazim. This began to cause tightening of his stomach. This man signaled to Sam as Sam came back down the bar. He leaned over, whispered something. Now it was Sam who turned to look at him.

But Sam smiled as he turned back to this man. Sam said to him, “Zeke the Greek? He’s a friend of Harry Whistler’s. He’s okay. Anyway, he was right here last night.”

The man seemed more than satisfied. It seems he, too, knew Harry Whistler. He said to Sam, “Well, keep your eyes open.”

“Always,” Sam answered. The man left.

Sam stopped by his stool. “That was Dave Ragland. Sergeant Dave Ragland. He’s the guy who called last night with the news about Eddie.

“Ah, yes. I remember that you spoke his name. He expects to find the killer having lunch at Mangiamo?”

“Could be anyone, anywhere. Cops always look for strangers.”

Sam looked up toward the rear of the bar. He said to a woman who was approaching, “You all set? You got everything you need?”

She replied, “We’re looking good. I just gave them the menu. I’m bringing the cake and the decorations. See you Wednesday afternoon if not before.”

“Any time, Elizabeth. Have a good day.”

Mulazim’s stomach completely turned over. He spun to see the woman now just walking out the door. Tall, short blond hair, almost red when sunlight hit it. Without looking at Sam he managed, “Who… who…?”

“Yeah, I know,” said Sam. “She’s a real head-turner.”

Mulazim struggled to control his breathing. “This woman is… what? A supplier for this restaurant?”

He smiled. “Oh, no. She’s more or less regular. Just now she’s setting up for a party Wednesday night. Birthday party. She reserved the back room.”

Mulazim barely heard this above his own heartbeat. This could only be Elizabeth Stride.

“By the way,” Sam told him, now with a smile, “She thinks Harry Whistler will be back for it.”