The Aisha Prophecy (29 page)

After he’d finished winching him up to hang him from the base of Leland’s shower pipe – which was no mean feat either – all flaccid dead weight – he’d set about taking lots of pictures. His two slippery friends had seen that room before they had it all tidied up. Well, gentlemen, guess what. Now you can see it again. He must have photographed every square inch.

There are a dozen or more of the bathroom alone with special attention to the prince. From various angles. And in various poses. You saw the pose that I finally settled on. I liked the one with his purpling face looking out at you and his ghutra slapped back on his head. Next, Leland’s bedroom. His unmade bed. His monogrammed briefcase and most of its contents. State department memos and various documents. Secret stuff? He didn’t know. He didn’t take time to read them. The same with his notebook that sat along side of it. Then the clothing in his closet and in his dresser drawers and, of course, Leland’s slightly bent trophy. Did you know that Leland is bothered by hemorrhoids? Yes, the contents of his toilet kit as well.

He’d also snapped Leland’s entry in the guest book downstairs. It showed his name and his title and the date of his arrival. The guest book was an afterthought. And not really needed. Barely worth the risk of being spotted with a camera. But events have proven it to be serendipitous. What’ll you bet that that page has since been doctored? What’ll you bet that the staff has been told to say that Leland never stayed in this cabin?

Was he even at the Grove? Oh, they wouldn’t have gone that far. Too many people saw him and he’s in the club’s computer. So is the prince, for that matter. It will be enough for it to show that they both checked out on Wednesday and of course their rooms were then vacuumed and scrubbed.

Good man, that maintenance chief.

As for the disk, he knew that he’d never get it. The mogul and the banker won’t either. Clew will probably get it. He’ll share some of it with Leland. He’ll keep some to himself because he’s trickier than Leland. He’d know valuable trade goods when he sees them. He’ll help wring substantial quid pro quos from the Saudis in return for… well, if not for restoring all of those funds, at least not making public the names of the skimmers. More than one thousand thieves. A lot of them royals. They’re all traitors, you know. They intend to go AWOL. And they’re family, for God’s sake. How embarrassing.

Clew will probably call a meeting of that network of his. Harry Whistler and Yitzhak Netanya in particular. Kessler, too; they can’t very well shut him out. Which means Stride as well. She is sure to have her say. Not Leland, however. They’ll deal with him later.

They’ll all sit down and they’ll draw up a wish list. Washington, first. What do we want from Washington? Howard Leland keeps his job no matter who’s president. Ditto Roger Clew, but he’s already immune. Clew knows where too many bodies are buried. Or he’s thought to know. Same effect. Harry Whistler would smile if he heard it said that the Bohemians think they run the world. He probably wouldn’t remark on the boast. But he might say to himself, as Clew surely would, that we’ll show those codgers who does.

Labyrinthine.

That’s the word Leland used.

He said, “You have a labyrinthine mind, Charles.”

You want to see Labyrinthine? Okay, here it is. What’s the next best thing to having that disk in terms of getting the Saudis to owe me? Need a hint? It’s in the note. The prince’s suicide note. It’s in showing the Saudis that Whistler and friends are the source behind everything that ails them. By the way, we’ve also photographed both versions of the note. We’ll decide which one we’re going to post on Saudi web sites along with some of those other photographs. That decision will depend on how generous he’s feeling toward Elizabeth Stride at the time.

The note says that it’s Whistler who funds the Nasreens. Bet you never suspected that, did you? Through them, he’s been stealing your marriageable daughters in order to emasculate their prospective grooms by leaving them at the altar. And to blackmail their fathers. He learns all the family secrets. He threatens to splash them all over the internet unless they agree to do his bidding. He’s turned them into spies, double agents in your midst. And not just yours, either. The entire Middle East. Hell, the whole Muslim world.

And what’s worse? The prophecy. He’s behind that as well. He hopes to turn all your women against you in order to profit from the chaos that ensues. How? I’m not sure yet. You figure it out. You’ve no shortage of paranoid conspiracy theorists. Oh, but I know one way. Almost forget. He intends to flood the world with cheap Caspian oil, forcing you to cut your prices to the bone.

Keep in mind though that I, Charles Haskell, am your ally. I’m showing you the enemy. I’m telling you where to strike. You know that I am a true friend of Islam because there it is, in the prince’s own hand, and I have sworn to avenge him. Oh, and yes, I am prepared to convert, so let’s show a little gratitude, shall we? To me and to Trans-Global Oil.

But let’s first make them pay. Make every one of them pay. Including my two erstwhile friends who’ve betrayed me. Not yet, though. We still need them. They can wait.

I know you have that bounty on Elizabeth Stride, but don’t touch her. I’ll fix her myself in my own good time. That one’s personal. She’s had her chance.

“Um… Charles…”

Okay, not really, thought Haskell, but she could have, in time. I would very much like to have known her.

“So now you’re going to have her killed? That would seem to dim the prospect. Why not simply eliminate the competition instead?”

Her defiler? Oh, I will. He’ll be first.

“She’ll survive him? By how long?”

Long enough to feel the pain.

“But she’ll be in need of comfort, will she not?”

What are you saying?

“Well, of course, I don’t know how you’d manage it, Charles, but a void in her life is a door left wide open. You just said it. You’re the one who she could have been with, given time and with no one else filling that void.”

Forget it. Too late for that now.

“Why is it too late?”

The fanatics will soon swarm all over Belle Haven. She’ll probably go down with the ship unless…

“Unless what?

Unless I can save her before that. Let me think. When is this party that Gilhooley mentioned?

“What’s today? Wednesday? It’s this evening.”

Well, that’s it, then, thought Haskell. He’ll show them a party. A real surprise party. One for the books. He punched a button on his cell phone. He scanned its stored numbers. It was time to have a chat with the Irishman.

He’d tell Gilhooley, good news, you get to use your expertise.

An enormous blast. Turn them all into cutlets. All the smoke and the fire. People screaming and running. Perhaps we’ll find a way to lure Stride toward the front. She emerges unscathed. Well, perhaps a popped eardrum. And in shock as she realizes that all those in the back…

Oh, she’ll get over it. Give her time.

And get this on tape. He’ll want to watch it. Slow motion. He’ll want to watch it over and over again. He’ll tell Gilhooley, bring a video camera.

Rats.

Not good enough.

He wanted to be there.

“Um… Charles… be where? You can’t mean in Belle Haven.”

I want to see their faces as they arrive and as any survivors come staggering out.”

“Charles, they’ll see yours.”

See my what?

“Your face.”

No, they won’t. I’ll be on the other side of the street. I’ll be watching from behind Gilhooley’s truck.

“Still too big a risk. Everybody seems to have a camcorder these days. And the media are certain to rush to the scene. If you should be spotted, how would you explain…”

Good point. Okay. I’ll wear a disguise.

“As what? Another handyman?”

All I’d need is a dark business suit and a briefcase. And a Wall Street Journal tucked under my arm. I’d look like any other Belle Haven executive coming home from a day at the office.”

“Dumb.”

Why is that dumb?

“You’d look just like you.”

All you do is find fault. Make a useful suggestion.

“Here’s a sensible suggestion. Stay here at the Grove. You just finished saying you’re unreachable here. Wait for the video. Give a copy to the Saudis.”

Along with that suicide note. Good idea.

“So you’ll stay?”

Uh-uh. Got to see it.

“I don’t.”

Oh, where’s your sense of adventure?

TWENTY SEVEN 

Kessler, early that morning, had been wearing his new bathrobe when he opened the message from Netanya. The bathrobe was a first. He’d never owned one before. Elizabeth bought it for him and insisted that he use it. Brown with a hood. It made him look like a monk. This robe went almost down to his ankles.

Before that, he would normally walk around in short pants after making morning love to Elizabeth. Sometimes twice. So the prospect of an encore argued against any rush to get more encumbered by clothing. The impetus wasn’t lust, or at least not entirely. The impetus was these blue pills he was taking. They had restored a function that he thought had been lost when a dose of radiation almost killed him.

The “sometimes twice” was making up for lost time. He had also regained much of the weight that he’d lost and his face was no longer so gaunt. His curly brown hair had long since grown back in and his teeth, therefore his smile, were brighter than ever because many of them were replacements. His face had picked up a couple of new scars in Angola, but he’d had them reduced by a Tel Aviv surgeon so that they hardly showed. He’d kept the v-shaped scar that bisected his right eyebrow. That one was much older. He liked that women liked it. So did Elizabeth, although she’d never say so. But lying face to face, she would touch it sometimes. Her touch had always been more tender than her words. His stamina, overall, was back near its peak, thanks to good food and frequent visits to the gym. Even so, the blue pills were a miracle.

There were, however, four girls in the house. Aisha’s bedroom and Rasha’s were just down the hall. The Darvi sisters bedrooms were directly above. All four were usually up at dawn to say their prayers. Accordingly, one must be discreet. One must try to keep the climactic groans to a minimum. One must not walk around dressed in such a way that one’s readiness is sometimes all too apparent. Shahla, the eldest, seemed especially abashed by any such physical display by a man. He had no trouble understanding the reason. He tried to be extra careful in her presence.

On reading the message from Yitzhak Netanya, he had felt no particular sense of alarm. He’d recognized Netanya’s email address; it was the one Netanya used from his home. Wednesday, thought Kessler. He still takes Wednesdays off. And he doesn’t send anything very sensitive on Wednesdays, certainly not unencrypted.

So Netanya knows about the four Muslim girls. That in itself didn’t come as a shock. His Mossad had contacts among the Nasreens. They’d helped each other on this or that matter. This “mutual friend’ is most likely a Nasreen. She had told some agent, for whatever reason, that the girls were living with them for a while. Until three could be placed. No great rush.

But why would this “friend” have reason to think that the girls might make trouble for Aisha? Netanya says don’t let them use their computers. They’re “involved in something.” Well, in what? The destruction of Israel? Insider trading? Have they mentioned Aisha’s name when they’ve emailed their friends? Such emails can’t be traced, not to Harry’s machines, but even if they could be, so what? Aisha’s presence in Belle Haven was not meant to be a secret. She’d be starting school here in September.

Today, however, her name isn’t Aisha. On this day she is known as Birthday Girl. First a special breakfast prepared by young Rasha, then an hour of tennis to work up a sweat, then they’ll all cool off with a dip in the pool. After that, time to shop. Just Aisha and Elizabeth. Aisha will be getting a real grown-up outfit which she’ll wear at the party tonight. He himself had learned the words to the song, Sixteen Candles, from a CD he found in Harry’s library. He will sing it as a special surprise. He can’t sing, but who cares. It’s the sentiment that counts. There won’t be a dry eye in the house.

Except on Harry Whistler. He’ll be laughing himself silly. Roger Clew would more likely hide his face in his hands. No matter. It’s nice that Harry called to say they’re coming. Elizabeth had been hoping that they could.

The only fly in the ointment this morning was this email. “Problems for Aisha,” Kessler muttered to himself. A bit more loudly he said, “This is typical Netanya.” The man is a show-off. Always was and still his. He’s a man who likes to tease you with snippets. Well, two can play that game.

Kessler started to compose his response, but he realized that his coffee mug was empty. He got up from his desk in the first floor study and walked back to the kitchen to replenish it. Aisha was busy setting the table while Rasha was preparing to make pancakes. Rasha was still in her ankle-length nightgown, but she wore it for comfort more than modesty. She was shuffling about in her fluffy pink slippers. The kitten he’d got her had crawled under the nightgown and was busy attacking the slippers. The two Darvi girls weren’t down yet.

Elizabeth sat in the breakfast nook, absorbed by the Washington Post crossword. She and Aisha had already dressed for their tennis. Kessler stood for a moment admiring Elizabeth as he did at least five times a day. She was stifling a yawn, but her whole body moved. Every part of it seemed to coil very slowly and, just as slowly, relax. She was more like a cat than the kitten.

She felt his eyes on her and she knew what he was thinking. She gave him a soft little smile. He sighed. “You are such a magnificent creature. But I suppose I might as well dress.”

His use of such language caused Rasha to blush, but not because she was embarrassed. Expressions of affection from a man were still new to her. Not so from a woman, however.

“Sweetie,” said Elizabeth, speaking to Rasha, “I’ll fix the batter. You go and get Shahla and Niki.”

He knew her reason for volunteering. Rasha and pancakes were a worrisome combination. One never knew what she’d mix in. Too late, though. The batter was already green. He saw an opened can of chopped spinach. Now Elizabeth saw it. A sigh of surrender.

She asked Kessler as Rasha rinsed off her hands, “Did I hear you mention Netanya?”

That’s Elizabeth, thought Kessler. Ears like a bat. Even from two rooms away. “It’s nothing,” he told her. “He’s just keeping in touch.”

“He’s the one who’ll get touched the next time I see him.”

A bat, thought Kessler, with an elephant’s memory. “I’m sure that’s why he’s been reluctant to drop in unless I’ve locked up all the cutlery.”

Little Rasha raised an eyebrow upon hearing this exchange. She knew that Yitzhak Netanya was Mossad. She knew that Netanya was his friend, if not Elizabeth’s. Friendship with a Jew had been an alien concept for the first fifteen years of her life. It was not an active prejudice and it wasn’t her fault. It was more of a reflex. A conditioned reflex. She’d never heard a single good word about Jews until Elizabeth began opening her eyes. And, of course, the Nasreens.

Elizabeth had told her, “Clear that crap from your mind. I’ve worked with them, I’ve known them, I respect them on the whole. Except Yitzhak Netanya, who’s a shit.”

Kessler tried to defend him. “He’s been a good friend.”

“Wrong,” said Elizabeth. “He’s Israel’s friend and that always comes first. Who knows that better than you do?”

“Of course it comes first. That’s his country; that’s his job. All loyalties are local. Look at ours.”

“We’re not shits.”

This was not a dispute that would be easily resolved. He’d once asked her, “How can you not admire a man who wears loud Hawaiian shirts, some with Elvis? This was not a testament to his sartorial tastes, but rather a salute to his boldness. An assassin could spot him from a mile away. He’d have a clear shot because nobody else would walk within ten feet of Yitzhak Netanya while he was wearing such a shirt.

This wasn’t really true. Netanya rarely wore them. Except to the beach and, even then, not an Elvis. He’d just thought that it might soften her image of Netanya. It didn’t. She’d said, “Then he’s an idiot.”

One result, however, of having that discussion was improving Rasha’s grasp of scatological English. “We’re not shits” became something of a personal mantra. For her, it seemed to define who we are. He’d heard her use it once to scold Niki Darvi who had said or done something ungenerous. “We don’t do that,” she told her. “We’re not shits.”

Rasha had been up the stairs and back down. She asked him, “Mr. Kessler? How many pancakes?”

He looked again at the batter. “You are… very creative.”

“It’s spinach. You can add almost anything.”

“Maple syrup, most commonly,” said Kessler, “and butter. Spinach pancakes are a new one on me.”

Elizabeth caught his eye. She gave a small helpless shrug. It was she who had introduced Rasha to pancakes. Also to peanut butter and jelly. For Rasha, this was a new world to be explored. And yes, she’d made peanut butter pancakes.

“I’ve eaten, thank you.” He lied. He had not. He told Elizabeth, “I’ll give Yitzhak your regards.”

Kessler didn’t linger to await her response. He returned to the study and sat down at his desk top. He clicked on Netanya’s home email address. He thought, where were we? Ah, yes. We’re doing snippets. He wrote, “Tell this mutual friend not to worry. All is in place. The day is at hand.” Kessler hit send and sat back.

The answer came. “What day? The day of her coming? Are you telling me you know about this?”

See that? Always cryptic. The man can’t help himself. Kessler wrote, “Spinach pancakes. And then sixteen candles. The world will be a better place for it.” He thought of adding “We’re not shits,” but he didn’t.

“Some of it might. But you might not live to see it. Martin, is your scrambler connected?”

Kessler answered, “Give me one minute.”

He connected a box that Harry had shown him to the modem port of his computer. It’s LED lit up. It showed a series of codes speeding by in rapid sequence. He didn’t know what they meant. Harry said he wouldn’t have to. The box would choose the right code.

He wrote, “Done, I think.” He hit send.

A reply popped on. For an instant it was gibberish. In a blink, it turned into English.

Netanya wrote, “What day is at hand? Is Aisha turning sixteen? Are you saying that she’s reached full womanhood?”

I certainly wouldn’t go that far, thought Kessler. “Sixteen candles, Yitzhak, make a lovely light. The world could use such a light, don’t you think?”

He replied, “I don’t believe this. You’re letting this happen? Is Elizabeth still with you? Does she know what you’re doing?

Kessler wrote, “Okay, Yitzhak. Enough is enough. Tell me, plain language, what you’re talking about or I’ll start with spinach pancakes again.” But before he could hit send, a new message popped on. Netanya wrote, “Stay available. I need twenty minutes. Don’t move. Stay at your machine.”

Kessler took a sip from his mug. He clicked on his solitaire game.

It wasn’t twenty minutes; it was nearer only ten when Netanya’s next email popped on. It said, “I just got off the phone with Sadik. He wants to come and see you. I have agreed. Right now he’s on a flight to Geneva where he’s going to hitch a ride with Harry Whistler. I have cleared this with Clew so that he’s not detained when he lands in D.C.”

Kessler stared. He wrote, “You mean Rajib Sadik? Is Rajib this mutual friend?”

“I think a better friend than you know,” wrote Netanya. “He is trying to save Aisha’s life.”

“Yitzhak… what the hell are you talking about?”

“Is Elizabeth near? First go get her.”

He heard Rasha asking, “Apple or Orange juice?” Three young voices answered “Apple” in unison. Elizabeth said, “Me, too. Thank you, Rasha.” Kessler got to his feet and walked into the kitchen. He said to Elizabeth, “Come in here, please. There’s something I need you to see.”

Elizabeth saw his eyes. She saw no trace of good humor. She asked, “What is it?”

“Just come in.”

She said to the girls, “Don’t wait for me. Eat.” She followed. He closed the door behind her.

For the first five minutes, they sat watching the screen. Kessler would ask another question now and then, but mostly they read the words of Netanya. After that, through Netanya, they read those of Sadik. Elizabeth wasn’t much quicker than he had been to grasp what Netanya was telling them.

Elizabeth said, “Sadik. Don’t I know that name? There’s a Rajib Sadik with Hamas.”

“Same man.”

“Well, he’s not coming here. Not Hamas.”

“It’s okay,” Kessler told her. “You must trust me on this. I’ve known him longer than I have known you.”

“Does he know that I’m here? That I walk down the street here, unarmed, by myself? Martin, there’s still a bounty on me.”

Kessler thought, unarmed maybe, but not by yourself. Harry Whistler had made certain quiet arrangements. Someone’s almost always watching for who else might be watching. But to tell her that would have destroyed the illusion that her life here was normal once again.

He said, “It won’t be a problem. You’ll understand when you see him. Now hush. Just read, then we’ll talk.”

They read the text and the provenance of the old Berber prophecy. They read that in the opinion of Sadik and Netanya, the source of its recent revival was Belle Haven. More specifically, the source was the three Muslim runaways, the two Darvi sisters and the princess. And possibly a fourth. Perhaps Aisha.

They read about the messages from the “handmaidens” who’ve been spreading “She is coming” all over the world. How they’d managed to penetrate Saudi Overseas Charities and had frozen more than ten billion dollars.