The Aisha Prophecy

by Maxim, John R.

  “Semtex.”

  What? Gilhooley’s stash of it? It wouldn’t be enough to bring that house down even if he could get in there and plant it. Besides, that would be criminal. Such a beautiful house. It’s not the house’s fault that Whistler owns it.

  There were photos of the cars that they’d been seen driving. One was a green Subaru SUV. Probably Stride’s. If so, disappointing. He’d rather see her at the wheel of something more fiery. But then, she’d have needed an SUV to haul her three girls and all their gear.

  “Charles…”

  Never mind. Gilhooley’s notes would say. Another was a black Mercedes sedan. S-class. Not quite the top of the line. Whistler’s, most likely. Keeps it there for his use. He must have told them to feel free. A third was another SUV, a Ford Escape. Silver. That one didn’t look quite right for some reason. Down market? That’s not it. Same bracket as the Subaru. He saw it now. A lot of road grime on that one. That’s probably what made it stand out.

  He picked up Gilhooley’s handwritten notes. Ah, there it is. The Ford Escape isn’t theirs. It belongs to some character Gilhooley had noticed driving up and down the streets of Belle Haven in what seemed an aimless fashion. This was when? Oh, yesterday. Sunday. That’s the first Gilhooley noticed of him. But the driver, he writes, paid no particular attention to Whistler’s house or the other two cars or any of the occupants thereof. This is just Gilhooley demonstrating his vigilance. The driver was probably checking out real estate. Or maybe a burglar, looking for easy pickings. Cars left unlocked. That sort of thing.

  Gilhooley had added some photos of a restaurant called Mangiamo. One taken from outside, several more of the interior. Bar area in front, dining room in the rear. An assortment of patrons, one bartender on duty, none of them circled or highlighted. Haskell took that to mean that none were of interest. The bartender looked more like a bouncer.

  Haskell had put these aside, not knowing their significance, but here it is in the notes. The restaurant, it seems, is their favorite in Bella Haven. He says he’s learned that it’s also a favorite of Whistler’s whenever Whistler blows into town. Which explains it. Whistler must have recommended it. They like it so much that they’ve reserved the back room for a party they’re throwing this Wednesday night for Stride’s Aisha who’s turning sixteen.

  “Charles…”

  I know. Something’s bothering me, too. Can’t quite put a finger… Oh, wait. Let me see. He went back to the photos. He’d been paying so much attention to Stride that he didn’t see what was right there in front of him. Leland had said there were only three girls. There were four dark-haired girls in these photos.

  Here’s the older one playing with pretty one. Here’s the one with the kitten who plays wearing warm-ups. Here’s the girl who was shown looking on. She and the older one look something alike, or at least much more so than the other two. The chub and the older one must be the sisters. The pretty one would have to be Aisha. Why? Because, as noted, she’s a beautiful young lady. There’s simply no way that she got those looks from a camel-faced sloven like the prince. That leaves the one with the kitten. The mogul had described the prince’s daughter as “cute.” What else had he said? He said, “A tiny little thing.” If that’s her, the prince’s genes must have skipped a generation. Either that, or she got them from her mother.

  Does this prove that Stride has the princess after all? Not conclusively, perhaps, but it seems the way to bet. The least it means is that Leland had lied. Either that, or Stride had lied to Leland.

  Here’s an even better answer. He never spoke to Stride. He spoke to Clew. They discussed the princess. They discussed that disk. If Clew didn’t know about either before that, his interest has certainly been piqued.

  Shit.

  Shit, double shit and for shame, Howard Leland.

  You’ve not only lied, but you’ve broken your word. And with all that good breeding. Tut-tut. Isn’t done.

  One does not break one’s word to Charles Haskell.

  EIGHTEEN

  On Monday, Clew had called Harry Whistler. He reached him at his home in Geneva. He told Harry to look for an email he’d sent. He’d attached the recording of his long talk with Leland after Leland’s first day at Bohemian Grove. He asked Harry to call back when he’d heard it.

  Harry did. They exchanged a few pleasantries. Harry asked about his Red Sox. Clew asked about the family.

  Clew had met Harry’s wife, the former Kate Geller, and his son, Adam, by his first wife, long deceased. Also Adam’s young lady, the remarkable Claudia, who happened to be the daughter of Kate Geller. Son Adam had gone his own way for a time. Felt a need, Clew supposed, to make his own mark. He’d done so in spades, meeting Claudia and Kate along the way. How they all got together… you could write a book about it. Hell, you could write one on Claudia alone. But what counts is they’re together. Working together. He has family that he knows he can trust with his life. As does Kessler. Clew envied them both.

  Harry said, “As for Haskell, you’re right on the money. Neither I nor Kessler care squat about him. My hope would be to keep it that way. As for Aisha and Elizabeth being Aisha and Qaila, I don’t know when I’ve heard anything dumber. I agree, however, that Howard has a point. I can see how it might look to some.”

  “Harry… the princess. Does Stride have her?”

  “Yes, Roger, she does. But trust me on this. Neither Stride nor Kessler know a thing about that disk. If they did, guaranteed, they would have told me.”

  “Especially when they’re living in your house,” said Clew.

  “That’s the least of the reasons,” Harry told him.

  “Well, they need to be alerted to what’s going on here. Howard thinks that Haskell might know where they are. This could easily get very ugly.”

  “You say you don’t know what might be on that disk?”

  “You heard the tape. I don’t. Howard does. You heard him say that it could devastate the Saudi regime. Howard’s never been one to exaggerate.”

  Harry was silent for a long moment. “You’re right. They must be told. And it’s a damned shame. These three months may have been the best months of their lives. They’re a family. I know how that feels.”

  “I… know that you know,” Clew replied.

  “Wait for me,” said Harry. “We’ll tell them together. I’ll need tomorrow to sort out a few things from here, and then I’ll fly to D.C. Wednesday morning. When I know the flight plan, I’ll give you a call. You’ll meet me at Reagan. Bring a limo.”

  “Are you bringing… any family?

  “If you’re thinking Claudia, certainly not. You know her. She’s otherworldly already. She doesn’t need to hear about a Muslim Joan of Arc.”

  “Yes, I know her,” said Clew. Talks to animals. They talk back.

  “I’ll just bring the twins. We might not need them for this. But barring trouble, they’d enjoy another visit with the girls.”

  “In time for Aisha’s birthday. I think it’s this week.”

  “It is. It’s on Wednesday at a restaurant called Mangiamo.” Harry added, “By the way, do you remember Sam Foote?”

  “The guy they called Bigfoot? Solved a few problems for us?”

  In Italy, yes. Well, he now owns Mangiamo. He got a nice bonus when he gave up the life. That’s part of what he did with his bonus. As for the party, I’d told Elizabeth that I’d try to make it if I could. I’ll call her now and tell her we’ll be there. You as well.”

  “Will the Beasley twins be armed?”

  “Of course they will, Roger. That’s why you’ll be on the tarmac when my Gulfstream touches down. You’ll see that we’re not held up, won’t you?”

  “I’ll wait for your call. Goodnight, Harry.”

  NINETEEN

  The banker had returned to Bohemian Grove. He’d been gone for less than thirty-six hours. He’d come back unannounced. He’d brought the Saudi prince with him. The prince knew that if he had stayed in Riyadh, he’d have electrodes attache
d to his genitals by now. The trip had been a disaster.

  After their hasty departure from Riyadh, his plane had stopped in Lisbon to refuel. Until then, the prince had been near-catatonic. Once there, he seemed to have recovered sufficiently to ask if he might get some air. He deplaned, walked off, then broke into a run. No direction in mind. He just wanted to hide. It took airport security four hours to find him. It took another two hours to convince the authorities that this wild-eyed Saudi was no terrorist.

  In the end, thought the banker, it was just as well. They would have got back in the middle of the night were it not for that confusion in Lisbon. This way they arrived at a more civilized hour, touching down in Sacramento at seven, Tuesday morning. By nine, they’d reached the gates of the Grove.

  The banker had led the prince to his quarters. “Stay here,” he told the prince. “Do not leave this room. Don’t open your door for anyone but us. We need time to decide how to deal with this.”

  The prince nodded vaguely. He’d gone straight to his wet bar. With trembling hands, he poured a Jack Daniels from one of the bottles that Haskell had provided. He took a sip, then a swallow and then drained the glass. He reached to fill it again.

  The banker asked, “Did you hear me? Say that you understood me.”

  The prince answered, “I must speak to Mr. Leland.”

  “Howard Leland? What for? Surely not about this.”

  “I cannot go home. How can I go home? Mr. Leland must help me to stay in this country. Where is he? Is he in his room?”

  “Um… no. He has a full schedule of meetings. But, you’re right. You need protection. Except let us handle it. We’ll attend to it quickly and quietly.”

  The prince took another swallow. He choked on it. He heaved.

  The banker picked up his room phone, he called the front desk. He said, “The prince is feeling poorly. He is not to be disturbed. Please hold any calls that might come in.” Especially from Leland, thought the banker.

  The receptionist answered, “As you wish, sir.”

  He lowered his voice. “Where is Mr. Leland now, do you know?”

  “Gone canoeing, sir. On the Russian River. It’s one of today’s scheduled activities.”

  “Can he be reached?”

  “Yes, sir, If need be. But unless it’s an emergency…”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Not before early evening. A picnic is included.”

  The banker covered the mouthpiece. He said to the prince, “As I thought, he’s tied up. Can’t be reached.”

  He said to the receptionist, “Please locate Charles Haskell. Tell him I’ve returned. I’ll be waiting for him on the fishing dock.” The dock was the only place he could think of where they wouldn’t risk being overheard.

  “Sir, he’s off playing tennis. There’s a tournament.”

  “Send for him, please. Do it now.”

  After breaking the connection, he removed the jack from the rear of the room-to-room phone. Using his thumb nail, he snapped off its plastic clip so that it could not be reinserted. He picked up a desk chair. He said to the prince, “Prop this under the doorknob after I’ve gone. Don’t open it for anyone other than us. Lie down; get some rest and leave this in my hands. Don’t worry. We’re going to take care of you.”

  Haskell arrived. The mogul was with him; they’d been partners at doubles. They were both in sweat-dampened tennis attire and both had their racquets in their hands. The mogul saw the look on the banker’s face. He said, “I gather that the news isn’t good.”

  The banker opened the laptop that he had brought with him. He said, “The prince and I stopped first at his villa before going downtown to the office. He needed to change into Saudi attire. He was trying not to be noticed.”

  Haskell nodded. “What have you got?”

  “I scanned this in while the prince was dressing.” He moved the mouse of the laptop and clicked on a file. A snapshot appeared. Some large family gathering. The prince, his cousin, their wives and their offspring. He touched a finger to the face of a somber young girl who looked as thought she’d rather be elsewhere.

  He said, “Here’s the daughter. This is all the prince had. I couldn’t find one in which her head isn’t covered. This cousin who’s been hunting her had taken all the others. It seems he gave them to the Saudi religious police. Have you ever heard of the Hasheem?”

  “What about them?”

  “Special unit of the Mutawain. Think Spanish Inquisition. Headed by that cleric who was left at the altar. He has men hunting the girl, but not for that reason. I suspect that he might know what she took. That said, Hasheem’s hunters are notoriously inept. A much bigger concern is Hamas.”

  “Hamas?” asked Haskell. “What do they have to do with this?”

  “Until yesterday, nothing. Until the prince shot off his mouth. I let him out of my sight for just a few minutes. How was I to know who’d be waiting outside when…”

  “Hold it. Hamas? The terrorist group?”

  “They… see themselves differently. I’ll get to that shortly.”

  “No, now,” said Haskell. “How is Hamas involved?”

  “We got to the office. Saudi Overseas Charities. Doctor Rajib Sadik, who’s very senior in Hamas, had flown in to find out why his funding had been stopped. He’d been counting on a transfer of two million dollars out of one of the legitimate charities. He’d tried to access the fund from his office in Hebron. All he got were three words that came up on his screen.”

  Haskell remembered what his hacker had told him. “Three words? What were those three words?”

  “They were, ‘She is… ’ Wait. Let me do this in sequence.”

  “Just tell me,” said Haskell. “What were the words?”

  “Please,” said the banker. “Let’s first understand their context. Let’s start where we got to that computer.”

  The mogul said to Haskell, “Let him tell it his way.”

  “Then get to it,” said Haskell. “Do you know where these words came from?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Charles. Let him talk.”

  The banker explained that he’d persuaded the prince to let his technician try to open the files whose passwords the daughter had changed. The prince told the other staffers that the two men he’d brought with him were merely computer repairmen. He said that he’d mistakenly punched the wrong key and had lost a list of telephone numbers. They knew his lack of skill; they had no doubt that he had done so. The prince locked the door of the office they were in. He stood over the shoulders of the technician, ready to stop him, if he should succeed, before any of the files could be read.

  The technician turned it on. He played with it for while. Suddenly a message box appeared on the screen. Not up in one corner. It filled the whole screen. The banker touched the mouse of his laptop again. He turned it for Haskell and the mogul to see. The message read:

  HELLO.

  LET US SAVE YOU LONG EFFORTS.

  THE ONLY PASSWORD YOU WILL NEED IS ‘SHE IS COMING’

  “She is coming,” said Haskell. “Were those the three words?”

  “That Sadik got? Yes. But bear with me.”

  “And sent in English?” asked the mogul. “Why not Arabic?”

  “Stilted English, but yes. Why not Arabic? I don’t know. Perhaps they used English to disguise who they are. In Arabic, one can narrow down the dialect.”

  “Whatever,” said Haskell, snapping his fingers. “It says they’re a password. Did you try it?”

  “Not right away. We were fearful of a trap. My technician set to work looking for another way. A new message popped on. Here’s the next one.”

  The banker tapped a key. The second message appeared. It read:

  SUCH A COWARD. STOP WASTING TIME.

  WE PROMISE THAT IT WILL NOT BLOW UP IN YOUR FACE.

  WE PROMISE NO MORE HARM TO YOUR FILES.

  “And this was coming in remotely?” asked Haskell. “Real time?”

  “Precisely
. They knew that we had logged on. They’d rigged it to alert them the moment we did. My technician was very impressed.”

  “From the sound of it, they could hardly wait,” said the mogul. “They were having their fun. They were taunting you.”

  “Not me,” said the banker. “They’d know nothing of me. They meant this for anyone who tried to get in. They would have been expecting a Saudi.”

  Haskell slapped his racquet against his thigh. “You keep saying ‘they.’ Who the hell are they? We’re not talking just this kid, this little princess, am I right?”

  “That was my question. I asked them, ‘Who are you?’” The banker tapped another key. “Here’s your answer.”

  WE ARE THE HANDMAIDENS OF SHE WHO IS COMING.

  GO AHEAD. TYPE IT IN. WE’RE FEELING BOREDOM.

  The banker said, “I asked the prince, does this sound like his daughter? He said it does not. He said her English is excellent. Her mother used to teach it. Nor would she ever speak in such an insolent tone. To make sure, I typed in a response of my own. I wrote, ‘Rasha, you know me. I’ve been to your home. Your mother is worried. Are you safe? Are you well?’” Another tap. “Here’s the answer that came:”

  LAST CHANCE FOR YOU TO TYPE IN THE PASSWORD

  WE DO NOT HAVE ALL MORNING.

  WE ARE MISSING GOOD BREAKFAST.

  ON THE MENU IS RIPE OLIVE PANCAKES AND EGGS.

  EGGS ARE SCRAMBLED. DO YOU LIKE SCRAMBLED?

  Haskell stared. He asked, “What’s all that about?”

  The banker said, “I don’t know who mixes olives with pancakes, but I do know you won’t enjoy scrambled.” He added, “By the way, I suspect that her mother assisted her in making her plans to run off. Her mother, I’ve learned, detested the cleric to whom her husband had promised their daughter. With that in mind, I think it unlikely that her daughter would have ignored her concern, even though it was I who expressed it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s not Rasha.”

  “You just said that,” said Haskell. His patience had been stretched. He said, “Cut to the chase. Did you get into the system or not?”