by Stan Mason
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he apologised politely. ‘There are so many things to do these days one gets bogged down in trivia.’
I stood up as though it was necessary to do so in the presence of a potential messianic deliverer but he motioned me to sit down with a wave of his hand.
‘You are Mustapha Ozal I presume,’ I ventured, with an element of surprise creeping into my voice. I had expected him to be swathed in Arab robes with a turban, clutching a copy of the Quran in his hand and uttering phrases from it. But the man before me was smart, dapper, well-dressed and very Westernised, and he spoke as though he was a member of the aristocracy in Britain. I had seen pictures of the Mahdi of the Sudan who fought General Gordon, depicting a wild savage individual with evil eyes that pierced fiercely through the mortality of every one who challenged him. My subject was a far cry from that image!
‘Yes,’ he replied haughtily. ‘I am Mustapha Ozal and you are Mushtaq Hussein from England. I applaud you for publishing a new magazine to provide information on Islam and for the Muslim people of Britain. The brotherhood has grown quickly over the past fifty years while the work of Ayatollah Kumeini in establishing Iran as a totally secular state was a stroke of political genius. We need men like him in this world; we need men like you! It’s communication that counts. In Turkey, the spread of Islam has accelerated at the speed of light. The population balance between the city and villagers has been reversed. Sixty per cent of the people have become city dwellers with only forty-three per cent in 1980. Township immigration increased the numbers to the fold.’ He paused for a moment to think. ‘Forgive me for champing on about matters of which you are probably already aware. Please ask any questions you feel appropriate. And perhaps you’ll tell me about your magazine.’
‘Well,’ I began falteringly, the magazine will be glossy, in four colours, and consist of about forty pages. It will be issued monthly, not only to our brothers but to anyone else who wishes to read it. Hopefully it will attract many people to Islam over the next decade and thereafter.
‘Good... good!’ he commended enthusiastically. At that moment, the door opened and the other man entered with a tray bearing two cups of coffee which he set down on the small table.
‘So that’s the basic concept of the magazine,’ I continued blindly. ‘There will mostly be articles on Islam plus general information of interest to everyone. It’s necessary to be realistic in a modern world where people have so many diversions.’
‘Quite so,’ he uttered solemnly, lifting one of the cups which he handed to me.
I decided to venture on to the main subject so that I could prepare some kind of report for the debriefing session with Schmuel Musaphia. ‘If you’ll allow me to cut to the chase,’ I went on somewhat hesitantly, ‘the Mahdi is a divinely guided one. How do you see yourself in that role?’
‘It’s not so much how I see myself as how others see me. There have been many self-styled Mahdis over the centuries. Some are not even recorded in history because they were so ineffective. In order to understand the arrival of a Mahdi, one needs to examine the role in five different ways. Firstly, it’s absolutely essential that Allah has endowed such a person with virtues of outstanding charisma... an aura which can be felt by his followers and the capability of mesmerising his subjects to a point where they offer total commitment. Added to this is the essence of leadership which is often enhanced by the gift of speech or a silver tongue as well as the ability to command. None of these attributes can be acquired by learning or training. One has to be born with them. Without the authority which stems from these endowments of
Allah a man cannot be a Mahdi. Secondly, the divinely guided one is likely to be a Shi’ite because of the militancy of the Shias compared with the jurisprudent Sunnis. This may not necessarily be the case because if Allah deems that the Mahdi should rise from the ranks of the Sunnis then it’s the will of Allah, not of man. As you know, only one Muslin in seven is a Shi’ite, Thirdly, the Mahdi who once appeared carrying a black banner into battle would hardly survive in these times. He needs to be a well-educated and trained to a high degree in both politics and modern warfare. All the charisma and leadership in the world would be useless to a wild uneducated warrior. Gone are the days when a man with a gift for speech could rouse an army into action, like Shakespeare’s Henry the Fifth at Agincourt. The outcome of a force charging blindly into battle with fanaticism and zeal is disaster. Such activities have to be left to the romanticism of the past. The modern Mahdi needs to read at a highly-reputable college or university and be skilled in politics. He must understand every aspect of war and weaponry because if he intends to use strength and might there will be retaliation from worldwide sources. The fact is that technology is so advanced a war could be ended in hours if operated at its ultimate. Before you came, you probably wondered how much mysticism there would be in a Mahdi. Forget it, brother. There is no mysticism in this modern age. It is necessary to learn and absorb vast quantities of information at teaching institutions. The fourth issue relates to timing. History has been remarkable at fitting people into the right slot at the right time... or failing to do so. Sir Winston Churchill was much ignored in the 1930s when he warned about an imminent war with Germany. However, the timing of the Second World War was perfect for him pushing him directly into the limelight. History records that during the time of war he was an exceptional leader. Had the conflict started thirty years earlier or thirty years later, he would have been relatively unknown in the annals of history. Therefore it’s timing that brings the Mahdi to life rather than his sudden appearance on the horizon holding a black banner. It may be that I shall be too old when the time arrives and someone else will have to take my place.’
‘If that happens, do you think there will be another Mahdi?’ I advanced, recalling that Schmuel Musaphia had told me there were fourteen Mahdis being prepared and trained.
‘There will always be a Mahdi,’ he told me confidently. ‘There will always be men of such quality with the divine right. The problem is whether the timing is right for a Jihad in their lifetime.’
‘And what of the fifth issue?’ I replaced the coffee cup on the table and began to take down some notes on a small pad.
‘The fifth one. That’s the one which really counts. Anyone with charisma and leadership qualities can become educated, be political inspired, and train for war whether they are Shia or Sunni. The timing of the Jihad cannot be forecast... it is a matter of fate. However the last element related to the Mahdi is the most important one. According to the Quran, Allah created two parallel species of creatures... man and jinn. One made of clay... the other made of fire. The Quran says little about the jinn although it’s implied they are endowed with reason and responsibility but they are more prone to evil than man. What I’m saying is that the Mahdi cannot be a man... he has to be a jinn! It’s necessary to be evil if you’re a militant... to want to destroy the masses, sack cities, seize power and control continents.’
‘Is that truly what makes a Mahdi?’ I returned quietly.
‘No... not at all. The Mahdi has to be a jinn but he also has to hear the voice of Allah giving him instructions as to what he must do for the people of Islam.’
‘And you hear his voice!’
‘Of course. The Mahdi is the divinely guided one. He has to be guided divinely. That’s both logical and reasonable even if it tends to sound mystical. History is legion with similar occurrences. Joan of Arc... Bernadette of Lourdes and many others. They all heard the voice of Allah. What more would your readers want to know?’
He sat as still as a statue and I took a long hard look at him. The man was arrogant but controlled which I presumed would be two of the qualities required of a Mahdi. He was cool and concise and he had authority in his voice which made one obedient without wishing to be so. The most frightening part of the interview, however, was about to begin. He cast his eyes in my direction i
n a fixed stare and I could swear they turned yellow... as yellow as the fire of a jinn... while his body stiffened and he became mechanical in his delivery.
‘When the time comes,’ he declared in a voice somewhat deeper and louder than before with an authoritative tone that was much sharper, ‘and Allah tells me I have to lead the people in a Jihad, there will be a holy sound throughout the land echoing death and destruction of such magnitude that every infidel will be destroyed by the mighty arm of Islam. It will be my task to purify the world so that religion will flow like the freshness of a spring stream... like the smell of petals from a rose.’ Suddenly the volume of his voice increased in tempo and strength to a frightening level. ‘Islam will be strong! Islam will be great! Islam will conquer the world!’
It was another ten minutes before I managed to escape from the house. I was absolutely terrified! When I returned to the car, Turgut scanned my face with concern.
‘You look very pale, Mr. Scott. What happened in there?’
I took a long deep breath sighing with relief as he drove back to the Sheraton hotel. ‘I think I heard the voice of Allah,’ I told him cryptically.
‘The voice of whom?’
‘The voice of Allah.’ I could still see those yellow eyes searing through me as Ozal’s words echoed repeatedly in my ears. ‘Islam will be strong! Islam will be great! Islam will conquer the world!
Maybe Penny, Primar, Commander Yasood, Menel and Schmuel Musaphia had a point. Perhaps there was a need for an organisation such as the 21st Century Crusaders to safeguad the world!
Chapter Eleven
Turgut drove me back across the Galata Bridge to the hotel in silence. He must have thought I had lost my mind. I believed he still nursed a slight grievance against me for the allegation I made that he had arranged for the assailant in my hotel room. When I entered my room, I took a small bottle of whisky from the cocktail cabinet and lay back on the bed. My experiences with the 21st Century Crusaders were successful in creating one dramatic crisis after another and it was likely there were many more to come. As I held the glass in both hands, I could see them shaking slightly. Visiting the Mahdi was an event I would not forget in a hurry. It was going to take some time for me to calm my nerves. On reflection, my condition probably related to delayed shock stemming from the surprise attack by the assailant earlier. What- ever happened, I had to steer clear of the police. If they discovered I had two passports in my possession in different names my position would be untenable. I had no reasonable explanation to offer them. I entertained the idea that someone may have planned it that way to ensure that I was arrested, tried and sentenced as a spy or a terrorist. But why should anyone want to do that? It seemed that all and sundry wanted me to obtain the plans of the laser gun. I had to admit that adopting the role of Mushtaq Hussein made me feel extremely uneasy. I was Jason Scott dammit! Not someone who adopted different roles like an actor in a theatre. The deceit accompanied by the fear of being caught up in an international incident weighed heavily filling me with concern every moment I remained in Turkey. Yet such troubles were dwarfed by the fear instilled in me when the startling change took place in the Mahdi. He had turned from a man into a wild ranting maniac in a matter of seconds. How could I explain something so strange to Schmuel Musaphia at the debriefing sesssion? Perhaps such intensity emerged from charisma and leadership. If so, I could understand how people were so much in awe of Adolf Hitler during his brief reign. Would it be prudent to say that the Mahdi received his instructions directly from Allah? If anyone had declared such thoughts from my neck of the woods he would have ended up in a straight-jacket in a padded cell. And then the penny dropped. Schmuel Musaphia had sent me to see the Mahdi to help me change my mind in his favour. He knew that the man was fanatical and that whatever he said would have a profound effect on me.
The telephone rang to shatter my thoughts. It was Terence Welby, the Captain of the British bridge team. ‘I haven’t met you yet, Jason,’ he remarked diplomatically. ‘Are you all right to play this evening?’
‘I’m fine,’ I told him. ‘Yes... I’m ready to play.’
‘We start at seven-thirty in the large conference hall. You’re all geared up and ready to go, I hope. The team’s looking forward to beating the hell out of the opposition. And we can do it!’
‘Sure,’ I responded woodenly. ‘All geared up. Ready to go!’
‘Great... Tony Woodman will partner you. You’ve played with him before so there should be no problems.’
‘Tell me,’ I advanced seriously. ‘How did Istanbul happen to be chosen for this venue? I mean no one’s allowed to play cards here unless they’re foreign.’
He chuckled at the other end of the line. ‘Oh... that was a real cock-up. The Swedish are in charge of arrangements this year. One of them in administration understood that it was going to be fixed on a turnkey operation. They meant on the computer but he misunderstood and thought they said it was going to be in Turkey. So that’s why we’re here. As I said, it was a complete cock-up! By the time he recognised his mistake, it was too late to book anywhere else. All the literature had been printed, the hotel was booked, and the countries taking part were all notified. As you know, we’re playing Iceland tonight. I’ll expect to see you at ten past seven for a short briefing.’
‘By the way,’ I cut in. ‘Did you select the team yourself?’
‘Always, old chap. With a little help from my friends. See you at ten past seven.’
The line went dead and I returned the receiver to its cradle thoughtfully. Terence Welby selected the team... with a little help from his friends. Was he trying to tell me something without actually saying it? It didn’t really matter. For one reason or another I was in the team. I lay back on the bed and fell asleep awaking later feeling very troubled. One thing was certain... I wasn’t fit to play bridge at high level in my frame of mind and I felt sorry for Tony Woodman who would have to put up with some poor bidding decisions during the evening let alone the play. I ordered dinner from the hotel restaurant to be delivered to my room, preferring to eat alone. As someone had tried to assassinate me earlier and failed, they might not be able to resist the temptation to try again. I needed to limit my exposure outside the hotel room as much as possible even though I would be in public view in the conference hall for the whole evening. Sliding off the bed drowsily, I stripped and stepped into a cool shower. By the time I had freshened up, there was a knock on the door and a waiter wheeled in a trolley with my dinner. But I wasn’t hungry. For a while I toyed with the meal and then replaced it under the silver hood designed to keep it warm. In due course, I picked up the telephone receiver and dialled Reception requesting them to find Turgut for me. He rang me back shortly, like the good guide he was, asking what I wanted.
‘I need a gun, Turgut!’ I told him curtly. ‘A revolver. Not just an air pistol. I want something that can kill if necessary. A weapon that can kill.’
There was a long pause at the other end of the line before he spoke. ‘Mr. Scott... you’re going to get yourself in a heap of trouble. I think you should think about it carefully before you ask me to do something like that.’
‘You’re instructions were to look after me at all times, Turgut!’ I reminded him. ‘I need a gun for protection. I’m asking you to get one for me. I’ll pay the going rate.’
‘Do you realise what would have happened had you shot the man in your hotel room today? The police would have hauled you in for questioning and you would have missed the tournament this evening.’
His comments poured off me like water off a duck’s back. ‘I want you to get a gun that can be split into two or three parts Something that won’t show up as a gun on the airport scanner. I want to be able to hide the pieces in different parts of my suitcase. Do you get the drift?’
He coughed and paused for a few moments. ‘I reckon I could get you a nine millimetre semi-automatic Beretta for
two hundred United States dollars. I’ll have it for you in an hour but first you’ve got to promise me something. My job is to look after you at all times. Don’t leave the hotel when I’ve gone.’
‘Look, Turgut,’ I countered. ‘I’ve got to be at the tournament in less than an hour. There’s no way I’m leaving this hotel. Just come straight back here when you’ve got it. Remember, it has to split into two or three parts.’
He was true to his word. In just over half an hour he was knocking on my door. When I opened it, he was beaming all over his face. He walked past me into the room triumphantly. ‘Here it is,’ he said proudly as though he had achieved the impossible. ‘Two hundred United States dollars, as I said. It’s in three parts.’ He laid the separate pieces on the bed and then began to assemble them. ‘The clip goes in here. That part into there. And you need to use this bolt to secure all parts of the gun. It’s very simple.’
‘What about ammunition?’ I asked, taking my wallet from my jacket pocket to pay him.
‘Two boxes!’ He produced them like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
‘I haven’t got US dollars but I’ll give you the equivalent in Turkish lira if that’s all right. Here... this’ll cover the cost of the gun and leave you something for yourself. I’m very grateful to you.’
‘Well you’d better be very careful. You now have two passports and a gun. Those are risks I wouldn’t take in Turkey. Is there anything else?’
‘I could do with a bottle of smelling salts to keep me awake at the bridge table.’
He realised that I was being rhetoric and moved to the door. ‘I’ll be waiting for you when you go to the conference hall,’ he assured me. ‘I would have made a good supply officer if I was in the army..yes?’
He left the room and I lay motionless on the bed for a while. How the hell did Turgut know that I had two passports? It was all getting too much! My mind and body felt drained and I was acting more on instinct than purpose. Forcing myself to get off the bed, I dressed and took the elevator downstairs to face Terence Welby outside the conference hall for the briefing.