The Aisha Prophecy (2 page)

TWO 

A good hunter follows trails. He leaves none of his own. That is how the Greek had already found three Saudi women who were runaways. He found two in Spain. He found the other in Italy. Two had been returned to pay for their crimes. Handed over to their families, they did not long survive.

The one in Italy lost heart when she happened upon the body of the woman who had been sheltering her. She locked herself in a bathroom and opened her veins. He took pictures. He gave them to her brothers.

In recognition of his work, or so he had assumed, he was given this important new assignment. This one took him all the way to America.

How important? A princess. Born of Royal Saudi blood. Still a mere child, only fifteen and a virgin, but that wouldn’t save her. Nor would her rank. She did much that cannot be forgiven.

And yet he’d been instructed that he mustn’t harm her. She was only to be found and kept under surveillance until others came to take her and question her. He had brooded upon this. It was almost insulting. He was the Greek. He was not some sniffing dog. He could take her by himself. He could make her talk. By the time he was through, she would be begging to talk. About what, though? No one would tell him.

His true name was Mulazim. It was Arabic for “tenacious.” A most appropriate name for a hunter. They called him “The Greek” because, unlike most Saudis, he looked like the statues of Greeks in museums. Perhaps not so well muscled, perhaps not so handsome, but he was light-skinned and beardless and he had a straight nose. His eyes were brown, but of a lighter shade than most and his hair was more curly as well. This is not so uncommon in places like Cairo where many still have some Greek blood in their veins from the days when the Greeks ruled all of Egypt. It was rare, however, in the land of the Saudis because there, Arab blood had stayed pure. The Greeks must have seen nothing worth conquering.

When he was a boy, other boys would make fun of him. They would tell him that he is no Saudi. They would say crueler things. That he must be a bastard. That he must have been sired by some European who came here to pump out the oil. Worse, by some American. Worse than that, by some Texan. Because of this he had a great many fights as a boy. Many rocks were thrown at him and by him.

But no more. No more rocks, no more teasing. Now they feared him. When he grew to adulthood with no skills to find a job, he applied for a post where no skills were required. With the Mutawain, the Saudi Religious Police. No one teases a member of the Mutawain. However, even the Mutawain had rejected him at first. It was mostly because of his appearance. He could grow a beard of sorts, but it was so thin. In the Mutawain, they like substantial beards. But then a certain old sheik took notice of him and decided that his looks could be useful. He was assigned to a unit called the Hasheem. In Arabic the name means “Crusher of Evil.” The Hasheem hunts apostates and heretics.

How were his looks useful? He could go anywhere. He could board any airplane without raising eyebrows. There would be no facial hair. He would be dressed in western clothing. His passport would say that he is Greek. He already knew some Greek, but not enough to fool anyone. To learn more, he was sent to a mosque in Piraeus where he also worked on his English. He got training in computers, in the art of the hunt and in various interrogation techniques.

Less useful were the once-a-week slide presentations showing enemies of Islam the world over. Most were Muslims themselves, but not the right kind of Muslims. There were Shiites and Sufis and Hanafi Muslims and even a few Saudi Muslims. What they weren’t, were Wahhabi, the only true Muslims, and had voiced a denial of its primacy. Not useful because it could take ten whole lifetimes to make even a dent in such numbers.

Many, however, were not Muslim at all. There were Christians and Jews, mostly men, but some women, on whom fatwas had been issued condemning them. On some there were big cash rewards. The idea was two-fold. First, know the enemy. The second was that he should keep his eyes open. You never know when you might spot one.

Six months in Piraeus. Much memorization. After that, more travel on minor assignments until he was judged to be ready.

He went on to prove himself. Three times already. Within only one year he was known by those who mattered as the hunter who always found his prey. He was Mulazim, the Greek. He bore the name proudly. One day he would have sons who would move up in the world because their father was Mulazim, the Greek.

This newest assignment, the one that took him to America, would earn him more praise than all the others combined. A Saudi prince had lost his daughter. She was his only child. He must not have been very attentive. But she hadn’t just run off. She had been spirited away. This young girl had been smuggled out of Riyadh by the women of the Nasreen Society. Who are they? Muslim feminists. That is what they call themselves. A bunch of lesbian whores is more like it. Worse, they are destroyers of families. They encourage young women to flee their homelands to pursue their own selfish ambitions. Young women who want to drive cars or some such. By fleeing, they humiliate their fathers and brothers. Every one of them ought to be stoned with small rocks. Big rocks to the head are too merciful.

The girl in question had been gone for more than three months before her father came to his senses. He said he was trying to keep the thing quiet, so he didn’t even report her disappearance to the Saudi Security Police. Instead, he’d asked the help of Rajib Sadik.

Who is Rajib Sadik? He is not even Saudi. Depending who you talk to, he is not even Arab. What he is though, is a big shot with Palestine’s Hamas. He’s on the council of their political wing but he mostly heads up their social services. He is also said to be a little too friendly with the man who heads up the Israeli Mossad. Even now. Even after the Israelis flattened Gaza. How can this be? He must be playing both sides. This Sadik is said to have all kinds of such connections including, some say, with the Nasreens. This must make him too useful to be killed.

Sadik told the prince, “We are not a milk carton.” Mulazim was not so sure what that meant; only that it was a refusal. Sadik also, it seemed, didn’t think much of the prince. He’d remarked that the prince would be driving a taxi were it not for the accident of his birth. But this should not have been a factor where honor was at stake. This Sadik can’t be a very good Muslim.

The prince then put a cousin in charge of the search, but the cousin was as floundering as he was. The cousin had tried to track her down through the Internet and would log all possible sightings. This is keeping it quiet? This is a hunt? Some of these sightings, by anonymous tipsters, were, almost certainly, laying false trails. They were probably placed by the Nasreens.

Why, one might ask, did the father of this girl not come to the Hasheem in the first place? It was because he was embarrassed. He was mortally embarrassed. It turns out that his daughter, this fifteen year-old princess, had been promised in marriage to – this is the best part – promised in marriage to a certain old sheik who was now the head man of the Hasheem.

Yes, that same sheik. The one who saw the potential of the young Mulazim and took him under his wing. True, he is old. He could be her grandfather. True, his face is not much to look at. A big part of one cheek was lost to cancer. Even so, no excuse. The daughter should have felt honored. She also should have obeyed.

Mulazim was glad to get this assignment because otherwise he might have been sent on a hunt for someone who doesn’t exist. The Hasheem had been asked to track down some prophecy that was causing unrest throughout the region. It says the Prophet’s wife, Aisha, has been reborn. She’s come back to raise up the women of Islam and to knock the men off their high horses. Who says so? The Internet. It’s all over the Internet. She is to make her appearance very soon, any day now, an avenging flame-haired angel at her side. For this, Hasheem hunters have been sent to Iran, charged with finding and silencing the source. This was thought to have begun in Iran.

A ridiculous waste, in Mulazim’s opinion. All it was, was gossip. Internet gossip. Blaspheming schoolgirls having their fun. There was no more substance to it than that.

His sheik knew where the daughter had probably gone first. Most likely north to Jordan where the borders are porous and from there to France, to the city of Toulon, where the Nasreens have long kept a safe house.

He’d asked the sheik, “We’ve known this? And we haven’t destroyed it?”

“It is deep within a warren of old buildings,” came the answer. “There is only one way in. Very hard to get close. Besides, those buildings are all joined together. Many ways to escape over rooftops and through cellars. Even if we could destroy it, they’d just move to another. They have dozens in Europe and elsewhere.”

“Kept under surveillance?”

“Those we’re sure about, yes. We try to photograph who comes and who goes, but the Nasreens keep their eyes and ears open as well. Some of the spies that we’ve posted have been beaten. Their cameras have been smashed. Sometimes their heads.”

The sheik held up a hand. He said, “I know your next question. You want to know if they managed to photograph the girl.” He drew an envelope from his desk drawer. “Nothing useful from Toulon, but we have one from her father.” He drew it out and showed it to Mulazim. “This is Princess Rasha,” he said.

The photo showed her face clearly, but not much else because she was dressed in full hijab. It was a face that might be called pretty were it not for a sullenness about it.

“We think we know,” said the sheik, “where she has probably gone next. She had spoken to some of her friends in school of her dream to live in America one day. Also the girl speaks American English. Her mother once taught English, having learned it in that accent. She is probably in South Carolina.”

Mulazim raised an eyebrow. “You could narrow it down so?”

“In this envelope,” said the sheik, “there are maps that you will need. They show a place called Hilton Head Island. Rich Americans move there to play golf until they die. On that island, there is also a big tennis school where young people are enrolled from all over the world. The Nasreens have long kept a facility there.”

“Also known to us? Also never attacked?”

“Mulazim… it’s an island. Just as difficult as Toulon. Again, only one way on or off.”

These Nasreens seem to know what they’re doing, thought Mulazim. Many students coming there from many countries to learn tennis? Easy to hide a few young Muslim girls. “This girl will be there?” he asked.

“She at least will have been there. Of that, we feel certain. This facility serves as a relocation center. Nasreen clients stay there, sometimes for months, before being placed in their new circumstances. Almost always they are placed with Muslim families.”

“Not good Muslim families. Not if they do this.”

The old sheik waved a hand. He said, “Don’t jump ahead. This girl might still be at this interim location or she might have moved on. For you, though, it is the best place to start. But should you manage to trace her, you are not to approach her. You are only to report where she is and stay near. Others will be sent to retrieve her.”

Mulazim’s face had shown his surprise. This girl had disgraced both her father and the sheik. Could the sheik still want her to warm him in his bed? Surely he knows that she can’t give him sons. The pills he takes for his cancer took his manhood.

The old sheik knew his thoughts. “Don’t be stupid, Mulazim. This girl has far more value than you can imagine. She has taken something with her that we must recover. It can do far more harm than you can possibly grasp. You don’t need to know any more than that. Find her. We will take it from there.”

“This girl is so important, but you send only me?”

He had asked this question expecting a compliment. Why you? You are the best. But the sheik didn’t say that. He said, “This needs someone who will not stand out. Others have not been able to get close. But they are ready to move in should you succeed.”

So, thought Mulazim, he was not the first choice. Nor are the others all out chasing that prophecy. But the sheik is only just using him now? As an afterthought? He is so far down the list? Never mind, thought Mulazim. He would rise above the insult. What’s important is that these others had failed. That would make his success in this hunt all the sweeter. No one’s ever bested Mulazim, the Greek.

Here, once again, the old sheik knew his thoughts. He said, “Mulazim… yes, you are tenacious indeed and, yes, you have had a few modest successes. But you’ve killed when there was no need to have killed. We don’t need hunters becoming the hunted.”

“I have only killed enemies of God.”

“Mulazim… shut up and listen to me. You think God guides your hand and that may be so. But don’t count on it, Mulazim. You must still use your head. Don’t let it get too full of your own high opinion. Pride stands in the way of good judgment.”

The old sheik was wise, but not so good at motivation. Shut up and listen? Try using your head? Even so, Mulazim thanked him for his advice. He promised obedience. He promised humility.

But Mulazim would show him.

A few modest successes?

There will be nothing modest about this one.

And so, two days later, he was in South Carolina. A tedious flight, five stops in four countries. The last stop was the city of Savannah in Georgia. No trouble with Customs at any of these airports. His papers stood up well to every scrutiny. He’d brought four cell phones with which to report. Use each only once and then discard it. No weapons, of course, but five thousand in cash. Enough to buy anything he needs.