He’d placed a call to Colonel Aram Jalil inviting him over to shoot a few baskets in the schoolyard down the street from his office. Jalil was with Savama, the secret police, but a fair man, a thoughtful man, not a zealot like some. The colonel knew that when Mansur said, “Let’s go shoot some hoops,” it really meant “Let’s talk in private.” Both knew that it was almost impossible to eavesdrop past the sound of a ball being dribbled.
Mansur got there first, wearing sneakers and sweats with the ball that he kept in his office. Four young men were using the opposite court. They nodded their respect, but kept their distance. Jalil arrived wearing street clothes, a gym bag in hand. Mansur dribbled as the colonel laced up his sneakers. He asked him, “This prophecy. How serious?”
“The coming of Aisha?” Jalil let out a breath. “It’s grown far beyond what I’d thought possible,” he answered. “I would say it’s very serious indeed.”
“And they’re actually starting to believe that she is coming?”
“Not starting,” said Jalil. “Tens of thousands already. And not coming; they think that’s she’s already come. They believe that the prophecy has been fulfilled. Some, through anonymous postings on the web, have claimed that they have seen her, spoken to her, described her and now have flocked to her banner.”
The mullah grunted. “One-upmanship. That’s how stories grow. There’s always someone who’s ready to embellish them.”
“All the same, some believe them,” said Jalil.
“Some always do, but what of the rest? Are they actually convinced that she’s reborn as their champion? Or do they only wish it to be so?”
“If you ask how many wish it,” said the colonel from Savama, “the number must be tens of millions. I judge this from the hits on all those internet sites and the comments that many of them post. Not just here. It is everywhere. Name almost any country. And it isn’t only Muslim women either.”
Mansur arched an eyebrow. “Oh? And who else?” He arched the ball toward the basket. It missed.
Jalil took the rebound and dribbled in turn. “Well, of course, all the feminists. The usual activists. But the bulk of them seem to be ordinary women. They give their names and their ages. They are mostly young women. And many of them write, ‘I am not a Muslim, but… ’ They say if it’s not true, it ought to be true. They have seen what’s happening here on TV. They are cheering our women on.”
The mullah had seen the TV coverage himself. Programs beamed down by satellite, impossible to jam. Groups of women, sometimes scores of them, holding candlelight vigils. They gather at the Jaam-e Jam Food Court where the word of her coming first appeared. They gather hoping that she’ll turn up there in the flesh. They stand, their lips moving in silent prayer. Others stand chanting her name.
Many, especially the youngest among them, brazenly baring their heads. Doing so to show off an unusual hairdo that’s lately become all the rage. Hair cut short at the nape and shaped like a helmet. Shaped like, well… a female warrior’s helmet, the hair flanging out at its base. Some of them being beaten for refusing to disperse. Some of them being dragged off.
Dragged off by whom? Sometimes by male relatives. By fathers and brothers who are against what they’re doing or are at least fearful of their safety. Beaten by whom? The Basij Militia. The same ones who show up at every student demonstration and start, as they put it, “giving moral advice,” by smashing heads and knees left and right. Always easy to pick out with their green and yellow headbands. And otherwise referred to on those satellite broadcasts as “Iran’s version of the Hitler Youth.”
Not entirely fair, thought Mansur, but close enough. He’d been trying for a year to get that bunch disbanded. It was high on his list of priorities.
But here again something different is happening as well. Here and there we see some of them facing off against each other. Some seem, if not in sympathy, at least more reluctant to club defenseless women and their daughters. A few have even prevented some of Colonel Jalil’s men from taking down names and addresses.
Jalil faked past Mansur and drove to the basket. His layup went in off the backboard. He passed the ball to Mansur.
Mansur said to the colonel, “You have a wife and a daughter. What do they say about this?”
“To me? Not much. They are mindful of my office. But they certainly speak to each other. Only yesterday, I heard them at my daughter’s computer. My daughter was surfing the prophecy sites. New ones appear every day. I heard her marvel at how big this was growing.”
“With pleasure?”
“With… concern.”
“Please speak freely,” said the mullah.
The colonel wet his lips. “She’s enjoying it, yes. It’s my wife who is concerned. I heard my daughter say, ‘This is really getting good.’ My wife replied, ‘No, this is already trouble. It’s going to get some girls your age killed.’”
The mullah frowned. He shot from several feet beyond the key. The ball went through the net cleanly. Then came polite applause from the opposite court. Mansur acknowledged it with a grin and a wave. He asked Jalil, “Has that happened?”
The colonel sighed. While dribbling, he answered, “We don’t know, but I would think so. Some might have been killed by their husbands or their fathers. Honor killings happen. They are seldom reported. As you’ve seen, however, there are many who’ve been beaten. Dozens arrested in this city alone. Hundreds more have gone into hiding or they’ve fled across the border into Kurdish Iraq. Other women, sympathizers, are helping them to flee.”
“What other women? The Nasreen Society?”
“That bunch? Not this time. Surely not on this scale. The Nasreens couldn’t handle such numbers.”
Perhaps not, thought the mullah. But they, too, must be enjoying it. They’ve been helping Muslim women flee to the west for at least ten years, maybe longer.
The colonel had fed the ball back to Mansur. He said, “Let’s see you hit two in a row.” Mansur tried. It hit the rim, bounced twice and dropped in.
“Luck,” the colonel muttered. “That’s why no applause.” He added, “But no, this doesn’t seem organized. It’s just women at random protecting each other. I say ‘just women,’ but I should include men. Many fathers have sent their daughters away in order to keep them out of trouble.”
“And what of them?” asked Mansur. “I mean, men in general. What has been their reaction to the prophecy?”
“Some scoff. Most are patient. They think, as you thought, that this will soon run its course without lasting harm being done. But some call it heresy and, as my wife fears, they are demanding the deaths of all who spread it.”
The senior mullah smiled wearily. “Including some on the Council. They are always demanding somebody’s death. Mostly, it falls on deaf ears.”
The colonel hit with a fade-away jumper. He answered, “True. But only mostly.”
Mansur asked, “And you? What do you believe?”
“Our faith does not teach that the dead can return. On the day of judgment, yes, but not before.”
“Nice dodge,” said the mullah. “Now please speak your mind.”
The colonel paused for a moment, choosing his words, all the time dribbling the ball. “Once, in America, I dined at the home of a friend who left Iran when the Shah was deposed. He’d settled in Los Angeles, got married, had children. Nice woman, good Muslim, old Persian family. On the wall of her kitchen, I saw a little sign. It read, ‘If Mama Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nobody Happy.’ There, it was a joke. Here, it isn’t. Not now.”
Mansur gestured for the ball. He said, “Go on.”
“Any society is made up of families. I think this prophecy could well turn ours upside down if we don’t find its source and discredit it.”
“But we know its source. It’s twelfth century Berber. And the Berbers were Sunni; that’s what make this so strange. Why should Shiites believe an obscure Sunni prophecy about a female messiah?”
“Because they have one and we don’t?”
“I’m serious, Aram.”
“Well, then, Shiite or Sunni, she would still be sent by God.”
Mansur took another long shot and missed. He said, “If so, yes. That would blur the distinction. Still, it’s so old. Forgotten even by the Sunnis.”
“Until someone rekindled it,” said the colonel. “Who and why?”
Mansur repeated his assistant’s opinion. Someone with a computer. Time on his or her hands. An avalanche starts with a snowflake. But the colonel was doubtful. He stood shaking his head.
Mansur asked, “You think it’s more? Part of some larger scheme?”
“If it is, I think it’s brilliant. Utterly brilliant. No troops. No invasions. Just sit back and wait. Help our women to decide that they ‘ain’t happy’ either. Give them a leader to rally behind. If that leader is a ghost who can’t be found, so much the better. I’m surprised no one’s thought of this before.”
“And who are these conspirators?” asked the mullah. “The Americans?”
The colonel rocked one hand. “There are those who suspect so. The prophecy says that she will come from the west. All that’s west of Morocco is America.”
“But you’re not so sure?”
“Too subtle for them. This is not shock and awe. This would be someone very clever, very patient.”
“Some other government?” asked Mansur.
“Or some company,” Jalil answered. “Don’t rule out Big Oil. All those companies are governments unto themselves.”
“Their objective being…?”
“Money, of course. In the end, it’s always profit. Money and the power that comes with it. But they can be patient the way vultures are patient. First, lay the groundwork. Create unrest. Create distraction. Someone always takes advantage of distraction.”
Mansur nodded. He said thoughtfully, “Confusion to thine enemies.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Jewish bible. It’s just full of good advice.”
“So now you think it’s Jews?”
Mansur winced. He said, “That’s the last place I’d look. Why? Because once we start blaming Jews, our minds tend to slam shut. Let’s keep them open.”
“Fine, but you’re right about confusion,” said Jalil. “We’re so busy keeping an eye on these women that we don’t have time for much else. Bear in mind that our leaders all have wives and daughters. What authority will they have if they start being smirked at? You know what it’s like? A fifth column.”
The mullah demurred. “Let’s not go overboard. That phrase refers to an enemy within. I really don’t think we’re quite there yet.”
“Your own wife. Is she so docile? Mine isn’t. Not of late. Women nag. They cajole. It has always been so. On the whole, however, they accept male authority. But this is new. You’ve seen their defiance. These smirks, if not stopped, become open contempt and contempt leads to open rebellion. Already, on the internet, some are promising vengeance against men who have treated them badly.”
“Not waiting for Aisha?”
“They feel sure she won’t mind.”
“Have any acted?” asked the mullah.
“A few that we know of. And a few is all it takes. As it is, many men who’ve mistreated their women are learning to sleep with one eye open.”
“Such men should,” said Mansur. “They should reap what they sow. But I hear you. It’s a much wider problem.”
“One that you’re now charged with stopping,” said the colonel.
“Stopping? But how? By breaking more heads? That makes them hope that she’s coming even more.”
“We could try shutting down all those Internet cafes. That is where many first learned of the prophecy. That is where they discuss it and spread it.”
The mullah raised the ball on one finger and spun it. “It’s not just the cafes. Like it or not, the whole world is wired. One can’t shut down orbiting satellites. In any case, the damage has already been done if so many hope that the prophecy is true. The question now is how best to contain it.”
He let the ball drop. He caught it on his instep. He launched toward the backboard. Once again, it dropped through the hoop. More applause from the opposite court.
“You’re beginning to annoy me,” said Jalil
Mansur laughed. He said, “Sorry. Pure chance. First time ever.”
He retrieved the ball and stood dribbling it thoughtfully. He said, “The best way to contain it is to prove that it’s a fraud. This female messiah or mahdi… whatever… didn’t come when the Berber said she would come and she isn’t coming now either. So let’s… What’s wrong? Your hand is rocking again.”
“Nor did Jesus,” said the colonel, “but the Christians still expect him. And it’s been two thousand years, not nine hundred.”
A valid point, thought Mansur, but not quite the same thing. Jesus wasn’t known to have a feminist agenda. On the other hand, his mother seems to keep turning up. Her face appears in stains coming through cement walls and on grilled cheese sandwiches sold on E-Bay. And if his mother, why not Mary Magdalene? If, as some claim, she was married to Jesus, maybe she’ll show up flashing her ring. At the very least, she might have something to say about being called a harlot all these years.
Jesus’ mother, Mary Magdalene and now Islam’s Aisha. Interesting that they’re all women.
Jalil gestured toward his gym bag. “I brought two beers. Still cold. One for you, one for me.”
This phrasing told Mansur that his was non-alcoholic. It said Jalil’s might be as well, but don’t ask. Mansur said, “You go ahead. I’d best wait.”
As colonel Jalil popped his can, Mansur said, “Very well, Aram. Let’s go with your premise. Let’s assume a larger scheme, a conspiracy. Let’s say some western entity resurrected this prophecy and saw it as a way to destabilize our region at no cost to itself should it fail. If so, let’s track them down, flush them out in the open.”
“And make the women with their candles feel foolish,” said the colonel.
“Do the Christians feel foolish? Let’s tread carefully on that one. Unless we want to sleep with one eye open as well. Ridicule is never forgiven.”
“Ah, yes. And if Mama ain’t happy…”
“Get to work. Find the source. It had to start somewhere. Contact all the Islamic intelligence services. They’ll be just as keen to track this as we are.”
“Some even more so,” said Colonel Jalil. “The Saudi Hasheem is already on the case. They blame us, by the way, for letting this spread to them. Some even think it was deliberate.”
Mansur sniffed. “The Hasheem? The crushers of evil? One could not call that bunch an intelligence service. Misfits. Fanatics. Otherwise unemployable.”
“No less dangerous however. They hate everyone.”
“Have any shown up here?”
“At least two. We have them,” said Colonel Jalil. “We’re not treating them gently. If there are more, we’ll soon know. Do I have a free hand in this matter?”
Mansur shook his head. “Only with the Hasheem. Beyond them, again, let’s try not to go crazy. All I want is some detective work for now. While you’re at it, I’ll do a little digging of my own. I think I’ll call my old friend, Sadik.”
“Sadik? Which Sadik? You mean Rajib Sadik?”
“Of Hamas. I take it you know of him.”
“Yes, of course,” said the colonel, “but why should he help? Hamas has been no friend of ours.”
“Not ours,” said the mullah, “but maybe still mine. This prophecy business must have touched him as well. I’d bet that Sadik, who seems to know almost everyone, has already begun looking into it. He’d have started with the Nasreens.”
“He knows them?”
“As I’ve said…”
“He knows everyone. I heard you. May I ask… how is it that you know Sadik?”
“I knew him before I became what I am and before he became what he is.”
“You mean before he became so big in Hamas?”
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br /> “I knew him before he was even Sadik.” The mullah paused. “You say we’ve put dozens in prison?”
“Mostly those from that Internet café at the Food Court. We think some of them know a lot more than they’re saying about how this whole business started. We think they know who sent those first prophecy messages.”
“You mean originally? Or someone who simply passed them on.”
“The latter, mostly likely,” said Colonel Jalil. “Not the ultimate source. But perhaps, just perhaps, a link to that source. A name. A location. One more piece of the puzzle.”
“They’re not talking?” asked the mullah.
“They will,” said the colonel.
“But why haven’t they already? They would only have to say, ‘You can’t blame us for this. We can’t help what shows up on our screens. We didn’t believe it; we were just talking about it. No one thought that it would get us in trouble.’”
“They can’t tell us,” said the colonel, “that they don’t believe it when they’ve been telling others that it’s true. Anyway, it’s already much too late in the game. I’ve just finished saying how far this has spread. But what other lead do we have?”
The mullah pondered for a moment. “These are all young women?”
“College age. Some younger.”
“Sadik has a soft spot for women in trouble. Perhaps I can entice him to fly in for a visit. Let him question a few of them. See what he can learn.”
“If you say so,” said the colonel, “but why should they talk to him?”
“People do. People trust him. Including the Nasreens. And they, as you’d imagine, would be crazy to trust any other Muslim male that I can think of.”
“So?” The colonel shrugged. “What’s so special about Sadik?”
“A great many things.”
“I meant to the Nasreens.”
“I suppose because Sadik’s wife is one of them.”
FIVE
On a Saturday evening, fully half a world away, Charles Haskell rose to add a log to the fire that crackled on the shore of a shimmering lake. The shimmer came from the light of a hundred such fires that burned along its quarter-mile length. A circle of men sat at each of those fires. Up to a dozen at some. Only three or four at others.
The Aisha Prophecy Page 5