Allah's Fire

by Chuck Holton

  “Go away! Leave me alone.” She tried to shrug the heavy handed stranger away, but he just squeezed her even more tightly.

  “Wer ist dieses? Jemand, das Sie gestern bie einen tavern abend aufhoben? Gut ist sie meine jetzt!” He roared with laughter.

  Was the man drunk? “John!” She turned to him, desperate. “Do something!”

  John just sat, looking as if someone had told him he was going to give birth to twins next week.

  Liz had heard the phrase “feet of clay” all her life, but this was the first time she’d experienced the pain of someone crumbling before her eyes. The man she remembered was charming, kind, protective, interesting to talk to. He listened like he cared about everything she said. It was only for a few summer days, but he was so attentive it felt like he was courting her. And they laughed together. A lot. The fact that he was a Christian was the icing on the cake.

  She’d come home expecting to continue their budding friendship via e-mail and have quick visits when their respective jobs allowed it. Their connection had been so immediate and so deep that she daydreamed about all the foolish things girls yearn for—a first kiss, a ring, a beautiful wedding, a picket fence, two kids, and a cat and a dog.

  What she got was one stilted phone message canceling their dinner date, then silence.

  It was only in retrospect that she understood he just wanted someone to pass the time with. He’d never said anything that could be misconstrued as romantic. He’d never touched her, not even to hold her hand. He’d never hinted at a future.

  Yet somehow in spite of that, or maybe because of it, he had remained in her mind as the ideal man by whom she measured every other man. More fool she.

  John frowned and looked at Liz’s captor, then finally spoke, except it was a curt command and in German! “Weg. Jetzt.”

  “Yavol!” The big blond stranger began pulling her away from the table toward the street. She squirmed and twisted, trying to break free.

  “Stop that!” the man suddenly whispered in her ear. “Just keep walking!”

  Liz stared. A German who spoke English with a Southern drawl?

  All my training is useless.

  John had lost track of how many millions of dollars the government had spent preparing him for every eventuality in the field. Well, they neglected to do the “what to say when an old flame walks into the middle of a covert op” drill. For the first time in his life, he was truly speechless. He and Zothgar stared after Liz. Gaped was probably more like it.

  And then she was gone, hurrying along the Corniche toward the Hard Rock Cafe. Sweeney sauntered after her, waving his arms and calling, “Come back, beautiful!” in German.

  Brown Eyes. She had stopped him in his tracks once before, the first time they’d met at the climbing club in Virginia Beach. Those three wonderful days swirled through his head in an instant, followed immediately by the sting of “if only.”

  Stifling a sigh, he snapped back to the present and turned his full attention to placating a frowning Zothgar. Thoughts of Liz would have to wait.

  The little Arab exhaled smoke and looked around as if he thought someone else might appear to interrupt them at any minute. “This is bad. Very bad.”

  John agreed but said nothing.

  Zothgar produced a Lebanese bank note from his coat pocket. Dropping the money on the table, he stood and crushed out his cigarette. Apparently the meeting was over. Suddenly the little man was in a hurry to be somewhere else.

  Not that John blamed him, but he didn’t think the security breach was severe enough to abort the mission. It was just a girl mistaking him for someone she knew. Happened all the time.

  John stood, aware that too many eyes were still watching him after what had just transpired. He put a hand on the Zothgar’s arm as the operative turned to go.

  “Whoa, hang on a minute. You haven’t told me why we need to move.”

  Zothgar looked around nervously and hissed, “Because, my friend, your hotel does not have a private marina.”

  Then he turned and was gone, disappearing into the crowds that walked the Corniche.

  Somewhere in Lebanon

  Karima held out a hand, a little blue pill sitting in her palm.

  Julie reached out aching fingers and took it. It seemed each time Karima came, she brought a tablet or capsule that was a different color. It was as if someone went into a pharmacy and said, “Give me everything you’ve got for pain.” Then he had taken the entire collection, poured them into a big bottle, and shaken them until they were like a colorful collection of medicinal M&Ms.

  Not that she was complaining. About now she’d take anything they gave her.

  She just wished they’d give her a steroid. That stuff was such a miraculous pain and inflammation reliever. She knew Karima had passed on her request for some. She could only surmise that refusing to honor her request was one more way they sought to control her. Give her enough to keep her relatively healthy but not enough to make her feel well.

  But at least they were now giving her something, though she had no idea why. After all, they planned to kill her in two more days.

  She swallowed today’s offering with the bottled water and lay back, smiling at Karima. It was probably the Stockholm syndrome, but Julie found herself growing fonder of Karima every day. In normal circumstances she and Karima would enjoy being friends. Not that she’d even have met Karima in normal circumstances. Still, something about this young woman was very endearing. Julie felt great pity for her as someone who had no control over her own life and great appreciation for her because she had pushed for the medicine.

  “It hurts me to see you hurting so,” Karima had said days ago. “I told them that they must get something for you or you will die.”

  “Thank you.” Julie decided that trying to explain that RA wouldn’t kill her was more than she was up to. So each time Karima came, she brought a pill that Julie swallowed gratefully.

  “What time is it?” Julie asked now.

  In this windowless room day and night got confused. There weren’t even any clues from her meals, given the fact that they were all hummos and flat bread. Then too she slept as much as she could to counter the exhaustion the RA engendered.

  “It’s midday.”

  “Is the sun shining?”

  “It is a wonderful spring day. I saw a flower this morning growing in a pile of trash. It was beautiful.”

  “I miss the sun.” To Julie’s surprise, tears filled her eyes. “Our house in Beirut has an inner courtyard. Lots of sun and lots of plants and flowers. Fragrance, especially the orange blossoms. Color.” She looked at the dirty gray cinderblock walls. “There’s no color in here.”

  Karima ran her hand over the black skirt she wore. “No color here either.”

  “Don’t you ever want to leave and, oh, I don’t know, get an education or a job or see the world or something?”

  “I am a widow,” she said with resignation. “I have gone back to my father’s house.” She smiled sadly. “He doesn’t want me there, but I can’t leave. Where would I go and with whom?”

  “I would help you.” Yes, she could help Karima like Charles and Annabelle had helped Nabila. “You could come to Beirut with me.” Assuming she ever got to Beirut again.

  Karima looked bewildered. “But this is my home.”

  Julie nodded. Family, no matter how dysfunctional, was still family. “If you stay here, what will your future be, Karima?”

  “A widow is allowed four months and ten days to mourn. Then she may be married to another.”

  “Your father would marry you off without considering your feelings?”

  “I am expensive. He thought he was rid of me.” She swallowed and said in a small voice, “I have been in mourning for more than three months, and I know he has already picked my new husband.”

  “Oh, Karima!” In four months she was supposed to be over Rashid? Become another’s wife? Julie wanted to cry for her.

  Karima studied her ha
nds, clasped so tightly in her lap that the knuckles paled. “I am only a woman.”

  Julie forced herself into a sitting position, fighting the nausea that turned her stomach. She placed her hand over Karima’s. “You are very special to God.”

  “To your God maybe, but not to mine.”

  “Then maybe Allah isn’t the all-wise god people say he is.”

  Karima stared at Julie, clearly appalled. “Shh! Do not let anyone hear you say that! To those in authority here, such words are blasphemy. People have died for saying such things.”

  “Then he’s not compassionate or kind either.”

  Karima put a hand to Julie’s lips. “Please. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Except my beheading.”

  Karima jerked, then turned away.

  As Julie went back to eating her flat bread, Karima sat at the end of the cot without speaking. When Julie finished, the girl grabbed the tray and left. Julie sighed. She should have kept that beheading comment to herself, but when such a terrible prospect hunkered on the horizon waiting to leap upon her, some reference to it was bound to slip out.

  She sighed again and forced herself to her feet. She hobbled back and forth across her little prison. She tried to keep the extent of her increasing mobility, courtesy of Karima’s medicine, a secret from her captors. If rescue did come, she wanted to be as mobile as she could, and she was afraid that if Karima knew what she was doing, she’d tell and the medication would cease.

  But did it matter if she was mobile? Who was going to rescue her? She spent a lot of time asking the Lord that question. Certainly He couldn’t mean for her to lose her life so horribly, could He? If she allowed it, visions of the Iraqi extremists, swords raised, their terrified captives at their feet pleading, filled her mind.

  She preferred the nightmares of the burning hotel bathroom. The memories of being trapped in that room became clearer every day, and she allowed herself to relive them because each time added clarity.

  She’d been knocked unconscious by the blast and wakened to find herself in a black room, flat on her back on the floor, her head pressed in a vise of pain. She must have struck it when she fell.

  As she lay there, disoriented, uncertain how long she’d been out, a whoosh sounded, murmuring, whispering like the susurration of the sea, and a swollen finger of flame appeared in the blackness overhead. Quickly the finger became a writhing dragon, spitting fire and smoke as it slithered through the night to consume all that lay in its path. The room became alive with a fierce, rosy incandescence.

  A vicious heat prickled Julie’s skin as oxygen rushed in the shattered windows to fuel the conflagration. Frightened, quivering with pain, she crawled to the nearest window, ignoring the glass and debris that cut her palms and knees, and hauled herself to her feet.

  Hurry! Hurry!

  The glass might be broken from the window, but the wire mesh grating was firmly attached. She looked through it into an alley that ran along the side of the hotel. Safety lay there.

  She grabbed the coarse mesh and pushed. Her wrists and hands were weak from her arthritis, and she was terrified she wouldn’t be strong enough to dislodge the mesh.

  Julie gave a great shove and almost fell out as the grating gave way.

  With a shush of sound and a wall of heat, the curtains at the far window turned into a sheet of flames. The dragon was poised to pounce on her.

  With a burst of fear-fed energy, she sat on the windowsill and spun until her legs were outside. She twisted, throwing herself forward as she did. Her fingers grabbed desperately at the windowsill as she fell, and her feet dug into the side of the building. She hung there for a moment, took a deep breath, and let go just as the curtains at her window exploded in flames.

  The drop seemed to last forever, and the landing jarred her from the soles of her feet up her spine to her already spinning head. That was when she realized she had on only one shoe, a stiletto heel. Thrown off balance, she fell. She lay on the dirty concrete, woozy and shaken, her head a seething volcano ready to explode and splatter what little mind she had left all over the alley.

  She rolled onto her back and watched the tatters of curtain flame above her. A flare broke free and floated softly, gracefully down. Hypnotized, Julie watched it until it almost landed on her.

  With a start she rolled onto her stomach in the middle of the alley. All she wanted to do was lay her head on her crossed arms and sleep. Her skin prickled like she had a very bad sunburn. She was absolutely devoid of energy. Totally drained.

  She began sobbing weakly. She would never have a chance to speak to Khalil again. Ever. If he wasn’t already dead, she might soon be. Their marriage, begun in such hope, would end in animosity.

  “Julie!”

  She raised her head. “Liz?”

  A transparent Liz stood at the entrance to the alley. Julie could see a fire truck through her. “Get up, Julie!”

  While she knew the apparition was due to her head injury, she drew strength from her older sister, the one who always cared for her. “Liz, help me.”

  “You have to help yourself,” Liz called as she blew away. “I know you can do it.”

  Julie forced herself to her feet. She took one step, two, three. Her vision blurred, and her head felt like hundreds of tiny men were inside, all pounding on her skull with their tiny ball-peen hammers.

  “Look, Liz,” she whispered as she limped toward the street. “I’m doing it.”

  After an eternity she made it. She leaned against the corner of the building next to the hotel and tried to grasp what she was seeing. The hotel’s entry portico and entire four-story façade were aflame. The tower that held the guest rooms and which sat behind all the public areas, looked fine to her, except for some missing windows. At least it was still standing. But the public rooms—lobby, restaurants, banquet rooms, meeting rooms, shops—were all burning.

  Julie sank onto a large rock that was part of the landscaping. She watched the firefighters spraying the blaze with their small-flow European hose nozzles. Hopeless. Hopeless. She noted the police and some soldiers holding back the crowd gathered to watch. She felt the searing heat and looked vaguely at the ash that fell like snow.

  Khalil! She pressed her hands to her chest and sobbed, her whole body racked with desperate grief, an agony filled with guilt and regret and terrible sorrow. Khalil!

  A man with blood running from a wide gash on his cheek walked by, dazed, a limp child in his arms. Another man rushed up to him.

  “I’m a doctor. Let me help you.”

  When would anyone come to her aid? Then a man lay a hand on her arm. Aware that she was fading, she turned her head toward him. “Please…” was all she had the strength to say.

  The man lifted her in his arms and carried her away from the noise and chaos, away from the fire.

  And brought her here to be held hostage, maybe murdered. Was there ever a clearer example of out of the frying pan and into the fire? Only she had climbed out of the fire and into the frying pan.

  God, You helped me escape once. Now please give me Your peace and maybe help me escape again!

  I will never leave you or forsake you.

  In the time she had been in this windowless room, as uncomfortable as she had become physically, just that comfortable she had become in her conversations with God. There was nothing else to fill the hours, and except for Karima’s visits, no one else with whom to speak.

  God, she had asked when her mind was first free enough from the drugs to think, why do things like the fire happen? Why do You let people like the terrorists kill people like Khalil and Brandy and all the others?

  No answers boomed from on high, but Julie didn’t expect them to. Why should God give her the answers when He hadn’t explained Himself to great men and women of faith through the ages?

  Julie knew she was a poor Christian. In fact, she understood that there were those who would probably question her salvation because of her wishy-washy commitment
to the One she said she believed in. If her faith meant anything to her, it should show, they’d say.

  Well, they were right. Faith should show. Liz’s did. And look at what the Muslim extremists did in the name of Allah, killing themselves and others. Talk about visible if misguided faith. Even those Muslims whose faith was quieter and more balanced knelt five times a day facing Mecca and praying. Many days she didn’t pray even once to the one true God.

  But then, the Muslims had to pray like that—they were trying to earn paradise. Julie had been given her promise of heaven for free! And at times in that windowless cell, she wondered how soon she’d see that promise fulfilled.

  In college, she had felt a real desire to know God more, though she hadn’t been willing to face her parents’ disapproval as Liz had. Of course she never was one for rocking the boat. Still, she had meant her profession of faith, and with Liz to encourage her, she had grown in the Lord.

  Then had come Cambridge and Khalil. Never would she have recanted for Khalil, but he had never asked. His religion was more cultural than felt, and he assumed hers was too. To her shame, she never corrected him.

  Was that my biggest sin, Lord? I was like Peter at the trial of Jesus, claiming I never knew You. Well maybe not quite like Peter because I never said I hadn’t met You. Still, while I never spoke out against You as he did, I certainly never spoke for You. I don’t want such spiritual cowardice to mark me ever again.

  I will never leave you or forsake you.

  Karima came back into the room. “How do you feel this evening? Is the medicine helping?”

  Julie nodded. “I don’t ache as much, and my ankles and hips don’t feel as hot.”

  She smiled wanly, a brave woman nobly enduring.

  “Good.”

  The door to the room flew open. Both she and Karima jumped at its unexpected and violent slam against the wall.

  A man wearing a black and white kaffiyeh strode into the room. Karima jumped to her feet and pressed against the wall, her face white.

  “Go,” the man said to Karima, pointing to the door.