by J. G. Sandom
Hassan smiled sadly. “There are extremists in every religion, Agent Decker. Look at those Christians who preach hatred against their fellow men, who use the Bible to justify acts of wanton cruelty. To them, to the boys who beat up Malik on that subway train, my son was simply a ‘towel head.’ What can you say to such people?”
Decker thought back to Ed McNally, the white supremacist from Iowa. All that he had wrought had been done in the name of Jesus Christ.
Hassan turned and spread his hands across the papers on the desk. “These drawings and illustrations,” he said. “You haven’t told me very much, but I’m not blind or stupid. I read the paper. I know what happened in Beersheba. In fact, I made a copy of the explosion, recorded it off the news.” He pointed at a DVR and TV in the corner. “This calligraphy and design predicted it, didn’t it? I don’t know where you got it, or why. Frankly, I don’t want to know. But it occurs to me,” he continued, “if the second wallpaper predicted what was going to happen in Beersheba, the third and fourth wallpapers may be harbingers of things to come. Another Nine Eleven, or worse. Some cataclysm. If I can help in any way to stop that, it’s my duty as a Muslim to try.”
Decker did not respond. Instead, he crossed the reading room and began to document their findings with a thick black felt tip marker on the whiteboard on the wall.
• Masjid, the Individual Prayer; Daily Mosques and prayer rugs:
• Text: Ten-month pregnant she-camels; and When hell is stoked up (Al-Takwir, Sura 81)
• Number: 540,000
• Originally Displayed: Tel Aviv (?)
• Harbinger of: Baqrah’s hijacking of the train
• Date/Time, forthcoming event: 9:00 AM; Friday, Jan. 28
• Jami’ masjid, the Congregational Prayer; Congregational Mosques on Fridays:
• Text: How many a deserted well (Al-Hajj, Sura 22.45), and then, perpendicular to the transversal axis, Hell is the rendezvous . . . it has seven gates (Hijr, 15.35)
• Number: 205,200
• Originally Displayed: Train hijacking of HEU
• Harbinger of: Incident in Beersheba
• Date/Time, forthcoming event: 6:00 AM; Tuesday, Feb. 1
• Musalla or idgah, the Community Prayer; Community Mosques during the major festivals of ‘Id al-Fitr – The Feast of the Breaking of the Fast – and the ‘Id al-Adha – The Feast of the Sacrifice of Abraham
• Text: Death will overtake you (?)
• Number: 54,000
• Originally Displayed: Incident in Beersheba
• Harbinger of: (?)
• Date/Time, forthcoming event: Midnight; Wednesday, Feb. 2
• A collection of Arabesque designs, with an island of copy at the center; the worldwide Hajj (?)
• Text: On the ocean like mountains (?)
• Number: 0
• Originally Displayed: (?)
• Harbinger of: (???)
• Date/Time, forthcoming event: 3:00 PM; Thursday, Feb. 3
“I don’t know for certain where it started,” Decker said. “Although, I’d bet it was Tel Aviv. The timing coincides. We know the first wallpaper predicted the hijacking in Kazakhstan, and the second the bombing in Beersheba.” He pointed at the board. “We can also deduce from the first and second wallpapers that the numbers represent time – in seconds. Unfortunately, since we don’t fully understand the third and fourth quotes, we can’t know what disasters they portend. But we do know when they’ll happen: the third event at midnight, tomorrow night, confirmed by Gallagher’s postcard invitation; and the fourth, and last event, at three PM on Thursday, day after tomorrow.”
“You’re saying the numbers are some kind of countdown?”
“That’s right. We’re running out of time,” said Decker. “If we don’t decipher the last two images soon, we won’t have a prayer of stopping them.”
He walked around the desk and pressed a button on the DVR. The explosion from Beersheba came to life. Hassan stepped in beside him and they began to examine the video together, over and over again. They studied the drawing Decker had found in Moussa’s locker, the musalla or idgah, the prayer of the Community mosque. And they puzzled over the fourth wallpaper with its tortured arabesque and cryptic phrase: On the ocean like mountains, and the ominous number 0.
Professor Hassan retrieved several books on Arabic calligraphy and Islamic architecture that Decker and he consulted. One, in particular, caught Decker’s eye. It was by a Dr. Jamal ben Saad of the Arab University in Beirut, an authority on Islamic architecture and design. Given the architectural context of the first two prayers, Decker tried to understand the third and fourth accordingly. But interpreting the images was tough going. Decker was convinced the third wallpaper would reveal some additional connection, no matter how oblique, to New York City. But all they could interpret were the same few words: Death will overtake you.
The calligraphy was written in a block-like kufi script, the lettering surrounded by a labyrinth of arabesque designs, twisted organic stems, splitting off and re-uniting. The entire illustration was ringed with sun wheels, female swastikas.
“The design forces the eye counterclockwise,” Decker mused.
“That’s pretty common,” Hassan said. “Counterclockwise circumambulation is standard practice at Muslim shrines, especially at the Ka’aba, where pilgrims walk around and kiss the Black Stone seven times. And they circumambulate against the sun, so as to achieve the maximum exposure possible to Baraka, the invisible psychic fluid that emanates from every sacred object.”
Decker’s phone vibrated in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he muttered, and flipped it open. “Decker,” he said.
It was Emily Swenson. He heard her voice and the tension he’d been feeling all day evaporated in a second.
“I tracked down Dr. White. He’s on the island of La Palma, in the Canaries,” she said.
Decker wasn’t surprised. “Wasn’t he working on a book about the Cumbre Vieja on La Palma? That’s what you said before.”
“Last year,” she said. “Before Doris got sick. Before she got terminal cancer. Then he came back.” She sighed and he pictured her inside her office, fidgeting at her desk, her mouth, her lips right next to the receiver. “Don’t you see?” she said. “Why would he leave like that? Why would he just take off? James is devoted to Doris.”
“Well, perhaps he had to finish his research. Or–”
“His wife is dying, Agent Decker. He’s not like you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Look, it doesn’t matter. It’s all moot anyway. I went to see her, John. Do you hear me? I went to the hospice and she’s gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean? She passed away?”
“No, no,” said Swenson. “God, I hope not. She’s been kidnapped!”
Decker hesitated for a moment. He looked over at Hassan. Then he said, “Where are you now?”
“I’m in Manhattan, at Penn Station.”
“OK,” he said. “I’ll meet you at your hotel.”
“I don’t have a hotel. I tried to call from Woods Hole, but they all seem to be booked up.”
Decker closed his eyes. “Take a cab and meet me on Eighth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. Northwest corner. You can crash at my place tonight,” he said. “I’ll be there in less than twenty minutes.” Then he hung up. He turned toward the Professor. “I’m sorry but I have to run.”
Hassan nodded. “I’d better walk you out,” he said.
They made their way upstairs, back through the kitchen, past the masjid and out onto Ninety-seventh. As soon as they hit Second Avenue, a cab swung by and Decker raised his hand. It pulled over immediately.
“I’ll talk with you tomorrow,” Decker said. “Call me if you come up with anything.”
* * *
Hassan waved and turned away. He started across Ninety-sixth Street as Decker’s cab whooshed by and disappeared. He stopped and looked up at the sky. Despite the ambient light, he could see stars. The
y seemed so far away, almost imaginary. Then they were gone, hidden by clouds. It looked like it was going to snow. He crossed the street and opened the door to a Land Rover Discovery parked in the shadows.
“Well?” said the driver. His face was hidden in the dark.
The Professor turned the collar of his coat up. “Let’s just get the hell out of here,” he said, and slipped inside.
The driver laughed. He shifted the car into gear and they sidled into traffic. They shivered down the street, illuminated by the streetlights as they raced cross-town. At one point, the driver attempted to switch lanes and a taxi cut him off.
“I hate this fucking town,” Warhaftig said. He pressed the accelerator, and they were gone.
Chapter 30
Tuesday, February 1 – 9:14 PM
New York City
Decker unlocked the front door of his apartment and flicked on the light. Emily Swenson peered inside. Beyond the narrow corridor, immediately to the right, the hallway opened up onto a living room. There was a small cherry wood dining table in one corner beside a kind of kitchenette. Swenson closed the door behind her and Decker helped her off with her coat. There was another door at the end of the front hall that Swenson surmised must lead into the bedroom. The bathroom was to her right. “Cozy,” she said.
Decker hung her coat up in the closet. A large metal bar angled up from the floor in the hallway, reinforcing the front door. “Police lock,” Decker said as he spied her staring at it.
“Is that to keep people out, or in?” she said with a smile.
Decker looked surprised. He hesitated, then slipped his coat off and hung it in the closet next to hers. “Want a drink?” he asked as he moved off toward the kitchenette.
There was a large bookcase built into one wall of the apartment packed with books. Beside it, Swenson noticed a large silver steamer trunk with a CD player parked on top. At the far end of the room, between two windows facing the street, stood a small wooden desk; probably maple, she thought. It was inlaid with mother of pearl. And along the near wall ran a large green sofa, well worn and somewhat threadbare. The kitchenette was spotless. Either Decker was very clean, or he seldom ate at home.
“Or would you like some coffee?” Decker dropped the book he’d been carrying onto the dining table, and turned toward the kitchenette.
The fridge looked like an antique too, thought Swenson. “A drink would be great, thanks.”
“I have some cabernet. Is that okay?”
Swenson flopped down onto the sofa and immediately began to sink into the soft foam pillows. “I’m of Norwegian stock, Agent Decker. Nothing stronger?” For the first time, she noticed that the walls were bare. There was no artwork of any kind. Not even photographs.
Decker rifled through the kitchen cabinets. “I think I have some scotch here somewhere,” he said. “At least I used to.”
“Scotch would be great. How long you been here?”
“Just a few weeks.” Decker pulled a brand new bottle of Dalwinnie single malt out of the cabinet, and began to remove the metal foil around the cork.
“I see you like the minimalist look. Very fashionable.”
He poured out a couple of drinks into what looked like juice glasses. “I prefer to think of it as neo-landfill,” he replied. “With a hint of post-modern nihilism.”
Swenson laughed. He handed her a scotch. She took a sip and felt it burn her throat. “I guess you like it neat,” she added, as her eyes grew misty. “Delicious.”
Decker sat down on the sofa beside her. He took a sip and smiled. Then he took another sip. “This was a good idea,” he said. “I mean the scotch.”
Swenson looked for somewhere to put her glass down and realized that there was no coffee table. She balanced the glass in her lap. No end tables either. No TV and no PC, unless they were in the bedroom.
She took another drink, braced herself, and said, “Like I told you earlier. Doris was abducted. This morning.” She put her glass down on the floor. “By three Arabic-looking men. And then a nurse said James called just two nights ago, from the Canary Islands. So I phoned the Parador Hotel in Santa Cruz. That’s where he normally stays. They said he’s taken a room there, but they haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since he checked in. No one knows where he is. He went hiking day before yesterday, and never came back.”
Decker sighed. “There’s nothing you can do here, Emily,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t know why you came.”
Swenson stood up. “What? I thought I should tell you,” she said. “About Doris, I mean. And James. Excuse me, but I thought kidnapping was a federal offense,” she added sarcastically.
“You could have just telephoned. You’re probably just over-reacting. Why don’t you go back to Woods Hole? Let me look into this. I’ll call you if anything turns up.”
“What are you talking about? What’s wrong with you, Decker? I’m not making this shit up. Hey! Remember me? I’m Emily Swenson – the woman who saved your life.”
He smiled, climbed to his feet. Then he shrugged and said, “I’m really rather busy right now, Emily. I’m not trying to be callous, but Dr. White’s disappearance isn’t high on my list of priorities. I don’t know what happened to your friend Doris. Perhaps Dr. White wanted her moved to another facility. Happens all the time. And just because some ‘Arabic-looking’ men were involved doesn’t mean it’s a conspiracy. There are lots of perfectly normal, law-abiding Arab-Americans in this country.”
Swenson peered down at the floor. Then she glanced up, wide-eyed, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like . . . like they all look, you know . . . alike. Oh, God. You know what I mean.” She picked up Decker’s book from the dining table, displaying it before her. “Look at this guy,” she added, pointing at the dust jacket. “Tell me he doesn’t look just like that picture of El Aqrab in all the papers. They could be brothers.”
Decker took the book from her hand. He studied the photograph. “A much younger brother, perhaps,” he said. “And fatter too. Yeah, they look alike. That’s the problem. Everyone looks alike through foreign eyes. The other. The generic enemy. The Islamic horde.” He dropped the book back on the table. “Okay. I promise,” he continued. “I’ll look into it. On one condition, though.”
“What’s that?”
“That you go back to Woods Hole and let me handle it. And that you relax and drink your scotch. Okay?”
Swenson moved back toward the sofa. She plopped down on the cushions and said, “Those are two conditions.” Then she reached down, picked up her glass, and took another slug of her drink.
“It’s just not a good time now, Emily, that’s all. I’m on a case.”
“I thought I was your case. Don’t tell me you didn’t recognize that guy who shot you? Whatever,” she said. “I guess that’s why you don’t have a coffee table.”
“What?” He sat back down beside her.
“This place could use a woman’s touch.”
“I’m hardly ever here.” Decker studied Swenson carefully, taking in each curve, each line of her face.
“What are you staring at?” she said.
“You’re the most . . . Nothing.” A heavy silence settled on the room. “How did you get to Woods Hole anyway?” Decker added, finally.
Swenson watched him struggle, trying to fill the space. “Born in Chance, South Dakota,” she said. “Gateway to the Badlands. It’s famous, you know. Doc Holiday lived there for a spell.” She took another sip of scotch and the living room blushed with heat.
“Actually, my dad’s a scientist too – a geologist. The ocean always seemed like such an incredible place when I was growing up. Opposites attract, I guess. We lived in a part of the country about as different from the sea as you can get. But it was an inland sea once, millions of years ago, and my dad used to bring home fossils from his digs. I guess you could say I ended up like him. Oceanography is geology in its liquid state.” She laughed. “That was a joke, Decker. A sciency, nurdy kind of joke – but
still a joke.”
Decker smiled. “How about your mom?”
“She died of cancer when I was twelve.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Decker turned away. For a moment, neither of them spoke.