The Aisha Prophecy (8 page)

EIGHT 

The media mogul had asked if he might join Haskell and Leland on their walk. “The prince,” he said to Haskell, “is about to be undraped. That vision will haunt me if I sit here alone.”

As if for emphasis, he shielded his eyes with his hand as they walked past the prince and the banker. There was a dock nearby from which members could fish. A few canoes and a kayak were tied up to it. At the top of its ramp stood a rack of light fly rods.

Haskell led Leland onto the dock. He asked him, “Ever do any fishing?”

“Some. Deep sea. I’ve hooked a few Marlin.”

Haskell sneered. “That’s not fishing. That’s baiting and waiting. Fly fishing is an art. It takes patience and practice”

“And learning to reel them in slowly,” said Leland. “Is this where I learn how you hope to use me?”

“Use you? Not at all. But I will ask a favor. It concerns the activities of someone you know who has done me great harm in the past.”

“Um… who?”

“Kessler. Martin Kessler. He’s back in this country. I need to know what he’s up to.”

“Charles… Kessler’s dead. He’s been dead for more than two years.”

“Well, we know better, don’t we. He’s been in Angola. While there, he thwarted an attempt by my… consortium… to get our fair share of their offshore oil.”

“You don’t say.”

“Reserves at least equal to those of Kuwait. And diamonds. Top quality. Alluvial diamonds. You don’t even have to dig. They’re on the surface.”

“And fought over in a brutal fifteen-year civil war,” Leland added. “Which is finally over. They’ve learned to share among themselves. Thanks in no small part to Martin Kessler.”

“And thanks to Kessler… in no small part is it?… our people were expelled from Angola. Some were shipped home in coffins. Some only their heads. I think you know this full well.”

Howard Leland shrugged. “You give him too much credit. It seems to me the Israelis had a hand in your misfortune. The Israelis have their own interests in the region, advanced by Yitzhak Netanya’s Mossad.”

“Quite so. In the diamonds. Less so in the oil. Martin Kessler was Netanya’s top dog in Angola. Well, not really. Kessler ran his own show. And guess who got to broker the offshore drilling rights. Kessler’s old friend, Harry Whistler.”

“My, my,” said Leland. “Kessler did get around. You ought to be relieved that he’s dead.”

Haskell curled his lip. “Don’t play games with me, Howard. He’s been back in this country for at least three months. I’m told he’s reunited with Elizabeth Stride. I have made you aware of my interest in the Saudis. Stride, who has also worked for the Israelis, has killed almost as many Saudis as the clap. I need to know what they’re planning.”

“You think they’re planning to thwart you again? Charles, the word paranoia comes to mind.”

Leland, out of the corner of his eye, saw the media mogul make a gesture with his hand. He’d moved his fingers in an up and down motion. He was urging Charles Haskell to go slowly.

Haskell saw the gesture. He chose to ignore it. “They are gathering speakers of Arabic.”

“Speakers of Arabic?”

“I’m reliably informed.”

“To… get you expelled from the Mideast as well? And then what? Take over? Rule the world?”

Haskell reddened. “This is no joking matter. This country’s interests and mine are inseparably related. Are you willing to help me or not?”

“Help you find him and kill him? Is that what you’re asking? Over some old grudge and some crackpot suspicion that he sees you as unfinished business?”

Leland saw in Haskell’s eyes that that’s exactly what he’s thinking. He thought he’d best try to defuse this.

He said, “Very well, Charles. I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. Yes, Kessler and Stride are together again, but by all accounts they’d like nothing more than to settle down and try to live in peace.”

“Well, it’s not as if they’ve bought a Bed & Breakfast in Vermont. They’ve…” Haskell caught himself. He quickly switched gears. He asked, “Why the speakers of Arabic?”

“That part makes no sense. Stride herself is fluent in Arabic. If you’re asking are they plotting some grand scheme against the Saudis, I think I can assure you that they’d have no interest. Kessler avoids that part of the world and Stride has had quite enough of it.”

“Well, Kessler’s plotting something. What else could it be?”

“Not your death. You’d already be dead.”

“What about Roger Clew, your Director of Intelligence?”

“What about him, Charles?”

“Has he been in touch with Kessler?”

“Charles… I’d have no way of knowing.”

“You wouldn’t? Clew reports to you, does he not?”

“He does. When I need to know something.”

“Need? Or choose?”

“Well, that would depend. But now that we’re clear on what I do and don’t know, what else can I do for you, Charles?”

Haskell felt his jaw tightening. He made an effort to control it. He said, “We can do a great deal for each other. Especially if you became a member of this club. I assume that you appreciate the many benefits thereof.”

Leland raised an eyebrow. “Are you offering to propose me?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“I’m speechless. No, I’m not. I do have a question. I probably know at least three hundred members. Explain to me why I need you.”

“To apply? You don’t. To be accepted? You do.”

“You’re… saying, I take it, that you could have me blackballed. What a warm, cozy feeling that gives me.”

The media mogul spoke. “If I might butt in…”

Leland said to him, “Thank you, but I think I’ve got the picture.” He said, “Charles, I don’t often use indelicate language, but I think you should finish our walk by yourself. Find a nice quiet spot and go fuck yourself.”

Haskell’s head had turned before Leland finished speaking. He said, distractedly, “Wait. Hold that thought.”

His attention had been drawn to the edge of the lake. He’d heard the voice of the banker. “Put that away, damn it.” Haskell saw that both men had stripped down to their briefs, but that the prince had kept that stupid towel on his head. The banker had already waded in to his waist. The prince had held back, in only to his knees, and he had one hand under the towel. Haskell realized that the prince must be using his cell phone. He was probably returning that earlier call after being forbidden to do so.

Whatever the subject, it was clearly upsetting. The prince’s voice and his manner were anguished. The prince waved the banker off and turned back toward dry land with the banker now sloshing in pursuit. The prince’s voice rose in pitch; he was shouting in Arabic. Several heads at other fires were turning.

Haskell strode from the jetty toward the two men. He hissed to the banker, “Shut him up. Grab that phone.” The banker reached the prince and snatched the towel away. The prince lost his footing and fell backward. The banker pried the phone from his hand and turned to wade into deeper water. The prince splashed after him, but he was too late. The banker gave the cell phone a Frisbee-like toss and it plunked some fifty feet out. The prince, distraught, began wailing, but in English. He seemed to be trying to persuade the banker why he must have that now sunken phone. With one hand, he was stabbing at the eastern horizon, in the approximate direction of his homeland. With the other, he was tearing at his hair.

The banker got him to lower his voice, but the prince was no less distraught. The banker left him in the water and waded ashore where he bent to snatch up his clothing. Haskell called to him, “Well? What was that all about?”

The banker replied, while stepping into his trousers, “Family problems. Bad news from home.”

Haskell motioned the banker back up toward their fire. Howard Leland and the mogul joined him there.

“It’s his daughter,” said the banker, still dressing. “I knew that she’d run off. That was more than three months ago. Last he’d heard she’d got to France, safely out of the country. He’s had people looking for her ever since.”

Haskell asked, “That’s it? His cousin called him here for that? Run off how? You mean as in eloped?”

“On the contrary. She’d run off to avoid a forced marriage.”

Haskell nodded. Then to Leland, “To that cleric I mentioned.”

“The cousin,” said the banker, “is in charge of the search. He had enlisted the cleric and his heretic hunters. Are you familiar with the Hasheem? Well, apparently, the daughter’s now been traced to this country and she’s learned, don’t ask me how, that they’re hot on her trail. She’d already warned them against coming after her. She’d backed up the warning with some kind of threat. The prince has just learned that she’s made good on the threat. As you’ve seen, it got quite a reaction.”

“He didn’t say what is?”

“Only that he wishes he’d killed her at birth.”

“Young runaway Muslims,” said the media mogul. “There seems to be more and more of that lately. It’s on all the Islamic news wires. And not just daughters either. Wives as well. There’s some sort of prophecy making the rounds that’s emboldened them to kick up their heels.”

“A prophecy about what?”

“About Mohammed’s favorite wife. His warrior wife. It says that she will be, or has been, reborn. It says she’s coming back with a fiery sword to right the wrongs that have been done to Muslim women.”

“Actually,” said the mogul, “it’s not her with the sword. A female angel’s coming with her to protect her.”

Haskell tossed a hand. Fairy tales didn’t interest him. He could have done without the distraction. “This girl,” he asked, “how could she have gotten out? Saudi women can’t even leave their homes unescorted. How could this one have made it to France, let alone get into this country?”

Howard Leland answered, “They’ve been getting smuggled out. And it isn’t just lately; it’s been going on for years. There’s a sort of underground railroad that does it.”

The media mogul asked, “Is that the Nasreen Society?”

Leland nodded. “You know of it?”

“I’m in the news business.”

Leland said to Haskell, “The Nasreens are a Muslim feminist group. Not just advocates; they’re more like a spy ring. They provide safe houses, new identity papers to women who seek their assistance. Based in France, at first, but now they’re all over. They’ve resettled, I don’t know, perhaps a thousand young women. Most simply want the freedom to make their own lives, but quite a few have opted to join the Nasreens. I think we’re going to see a lot more of it.”

“All Saudis?” asked Haskell.

“By no means,” said the mogul, “although they top the list. Iran’s a close second. Pakistan’s next. Quite a few of them come from prosperous families. They must pay up the nose to get out.”

Leland shook his head. He said, “They needn’t be rich. The Nasreens pick and choose; they look for talent and ambition. Girls from wealthier families simply tend to be more restless. They’re better educated; some have traveled abroad and they’ve seen firsthand the opportunities elsewhere that have been denied them at home.”

“Not this one,” said the banker. “She’s never been anywhere. Except through whatever books she might have managed to get hold of. She’d be beaten if her father caught her reading them.”

“You’ve met her?” asked Leland.

“As a rule, one doesn’t meet Saudi women, but yes, I’ve seen her at his home. She and her mother would scurry from the room, covering their faces as I entered. From the way I’ve seen him treat them; I’d have thought they were servants. I’ve seen him slap them both. Some minor housekeeping matter. He’d shame his wife in my presence for not giving him a son and his daughter for not being that son.”

Haskell shrugged. “Then one would think he’d be glad to be rid of her. It’s not as if they place much value on girls.”

“True, but this one,” said the banker, “has considerable value. She’s a minor princess, but a princess all the same. Any Saudi who isn’t a prince would pay dearly for the chance to marry into royal blood even if she’s as ugly as sin.”

“Is she?” asked Haskell.

“I’ve only glimpsed her face, but no, not at all. One might even call her… cute… if she ever smiled. Tiny little thing. Expressive eyes even when she kept them lowered. And she’s only fifteen. Her name is Rasha, by the way. That’s Arabic for gazelle. An apt name for a runaway, don’t you think?”

Haskell didn’t answer. He didn’t care what her name was. “It wasn’t the prince who backed out of the marriage. He’ll still keep his job, will he not?”

“Let’s just say he’d damned well better find her.”

The Saudi prince, while dressing, was still whimpering and whining. Haskell asked the banker, “What is he saying now?”

The banker cupped his hand to his ear. “Still cursing her mostly. He says that she’s ruined him.”

“Ruined what? His family honor by taking a powder?”

“That, too,” said the banker, “but I think more than that. He was calling her a thief because she took some things with her. She would certainly have taken any jewelry she owned plus whatever cash she’d been able to save up. But if that were all she took, he wouldn’t be this upset. I’m only catching a word here and there, but it sounds as if she’s been at his computer.”