“This whip is heavy,” he said to the visitor. “If you’re a doctor, you should know that it could crush the liver and also maybe rupture the spleen. This could cause much bleeding that is hidden. This is why,” he said, pointing, “I am careful where I strike. Upper back, her legs, the soles of her feet. These won’t kill her so quickly, but they are no less painful. Believe me, if they know, they will talk.”
Sadik could hear the voices of the others down the hall. They were weeping and praying for the one to be lashed. Some were calling her name, saying, “Farah, be brave.” Others were cursing and insulting her torturer, telling him that he is shit on a shoe. Such insults caused this runt of a sergeant to smile. He knew he’d change their tune soon enough.
Sadik stepped closer to the girl on the bench. Except for a slight rise and fall of her chest, she hadn’t stirred since he entered the chamber. The wire whip, he saw, had done far more damage than this imbecile jailor had supposed. True enough he’d focused on her upper back, but it had shattered several ribs and crushed her scapula. The flesh around those wounds was necrotic. So was the flesh of her buttocks and thighs. He wondered whether her mind was still capable of even understanding his words.
Sadik asked the Mullah, “That’s the question. Does she know?”
The mullah was dismissive. “She knows gossip. She knows lies. But when lies become heresy, hell awaits all who…”
Sadik raised a hand. “Let’s try a simple yes or no. This young woman believes that the wife of the Prophet is reborn and will come from the West, does she not?”
The mullah’s hands went to his ears. “This is heresy.”
“Well… yes. We all know that. Aisha’s not coming back, but…”
The mullah turned away, his hands still at his ears. He said, “You must not speak that name.”
Sadik closed his eyes. This mullah was a blockhead. It seemed useless to point out that million’s of Iran’s women were already speaking that name to each other.
He said to the old Mullah, “I must speak it one more time.” He gestured toward the young woman named Farah. “I’m told she’s been in contact with two girls, two sisters, who have fled your country and have claimed to be with Aisha. Two sisters named Darvi, correct?”
“Both like this one. Lost to God,” said the mullah.
“This young woman was their friend from early childhood, was she not? The older sister was her classmate all through school.”
“A friend does not lead you to go against God.”
“Whatever,” said Sadik. “The two sisters ran off some three months ago, correct? They’ve been keeping in touch by means of the internet. Have they told this one where they are now?”
“They are dead in our eyes,” said the mullah.
“Very well. They are dead. But where are they dead?”
“Where means nothing when one is lost to God.”
Sadik groaned. In his mind, he threw up his hands. He said, “It is my wish to question her privately. I will ask you both to please wait outside.”
The sergeant protested. “I must keep to my schedule.”
Sadik said to him, “Go. Leave the whip.”
The sergeant misunderstood his intention. “What, you want to use it? That is not how we do things.”
The old mullah said again, “He is here from the Council. If he wants to use the whip, it is permitted.”
The sergeant was pouting. He said, “At least let me demonstrate. I should show you the best way to do it.”
“I know the best way,” said the doctor.
He held out his hand and received the whip from the man who took such pleasure is using it. He lashed the air with it as if judging its effect. “Behind schedule for more whippings? Executions? Which is it?”
The sergeant said, “I have two hangings. First my lunch.”
Sadik spoke the words, “First his lunch,” to the mullah. He spoke them again, this time to himself. His face darkened; his mouth twisted; a growl rose from his throat. As it emerged, he swung the cable at the cheek of the sergeant. It opened his face, ear to chin. The sergeant’s scream was as much in surprise as in pain. He staggered backward; he cringed, both arms raised to his head. Sadik swung the heavy cable twice more. This time he struck at the elbows of the sergeant. He heard the dull pop of those bones being crushed. The sergeant, now shrieking, tried to run for the door. He tripped over tangled feet and he fell. Sadik stood over him. He struck again at both knees. The old Mullah, once again, had brought his hands to his ears and his eyes had gone wide in disbelief. Sadik approached him. He backed toward the door. Sadik seized one of his arms by the wrist and pulled it away from his ear.
“You damned fool,” he spat. “Do you think this will stop it? Whipping women to death? This is why so many hope that the prophecy is true. Some believe it; most don’t, but many hope.” He kicked at the legs of the blubbering sergeant. “Get out of here and drag this thing with you.”
Even as Sadik threw the bolt on the door, he knew that he’d gone much too far. Important or not, Hamas or not, he was still just a guest in this country. The old mullah would surely be summoning guards as soon as he recovered his wits.
He approached the table and the half naked woman. His first instinct was to feel for a pulse at her throat. There was no need, however. Her eyes, though fluttering, were opened wide. Her expression told him that she had seen and heard everything. She was trembling, but he saw that it was not out of fear. He removed his suit jacket. Very gently, he used it to warm her.
He took a moment to gather himself. He made an effort to soften his features. That done, he lowered himself to his knees and he brought his face close to hers. He waited, before speaking, so that she could see the sadness and the pity in his eyes.
“If I swear before God that I mean her no harm, will you tell me where I can find her?”
The young woman lowered her eyes. She didn’t answer.
“I don’t mean your classmate. I mean the one who is coming. I’m referring to Aisha herself.”
Her eyes took on a shine. “She is coming.”
“I know that,” said Sadik. “I know there’s an Aisha. I know all about her. And I believe that your friends, the Darvi sisters, are now with her. The Darvi sisters were taken to France and from there they were taken to America. They were taken to South Carolina. Did you know that?”
The young woman looked away. He felt sure that she did.
“Another girl, a Saudi, was taken there as well. Same time, same way, first to France and then America. She did arrive safely, did she not? Her name is Rasha.”
One eye flickered. She seemed to know that name as well.
“Only tell me this much. They’ve stayed together?”
The girl hesitated. She gave a slight nod. Sadik let out a breath. He said, “Thank you.”
His lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “They were taken to a safe house run by the Nasreens.”
She blinked. He thought he saw a look of surprise that he knew about the Nasreens. He said, “Of course, I know them. My own wife is one of them. My daughter keeps a photograph of their founder on her wall. Myself, I applaud what they do for young women who want only to use the gifts that God gave them. Look into my eyes and believe that.”
She did. Her own eyes softened. They hinted at trust. But then her jaw tightened. She closed them.
He said, “But something happened. There was trouble at that safe house. For whatever reason, it was disbanded and its residents and staff were relocated, scattered. Had it been discovered? Had it been attacked?”
Her eyes fluttered. He saw a slight shake of her head. She lips moved as if she were about to reply. She did not, but her manner suggested a denial. Her eyes seemed to say, “No, it wasn’t like that.”
“No attempt on their lives? The Darvi sisters? Or Aisha? Not that sweet little Saudi girl either?”
Once again, another slight shake of her head. He said, “My daughter will be happy to hear that. She’s you
r age, by the way. She, too, is in college. She and I have spoken of this prophecy as well.”
The young woman finally spoke, her voice a choked whisper. She asked him, “Does she believe?”
He considered lying, if only to comfort her. Instead, he answered, “I think she would like to. You, though. What made you believe?”
She wet her lips. “My friend told me. My friend does not lie.”
“Even friends can be mistaken. They can want to believe. We all believe many things because we wish to.”
That shine reappeared. “But she came to me.”
“Who did?”
“Aisha. She came.”
Sadik shook his head. He said, “I don’t understand. She came to you how? Through the internet?”
“Here. Dressed all in white. She was so beautiful.”
“Yes, but… what is here? Do you mean in this prison?”
Farah nodded. “She came. She touched her hand to my face. After that, the pain was less. And I believed.”
Delirium, thought Sadik. Delirium and shock. Thank God for delirium and shock. He said, “I’ll tell my daughter. This will please her.”
He saw that softening again. Not yet trust, but a beginning. He said, “I say again, I intend them no harm. But you must know that there are others who want them all dead. Especially Aisha. She’s the one they’ll want most whether she’s the true Aisha of the prophecy or not. My interest is in keeping her alive.”
A small shake of the head. “She cannot die.”
“But many others can and will. Many others will suffer. Look what’s already happening to you.”
She winced at the thought of it. Her eyes went toward the door. She said, “You are a man. You are with them.”
“I’m with whom? Those two dolts? You saw what I thought of them. I came on my own and my motives are just. If I lie, may I never see paradise.”
She started to speak. She paused to bite her lower lip. She said, “If I betray my friend, I won’t either.”
He heaved a sigh. He reached a hand to touch her cheek. He said, “Oh, you will. I have no doubt of that. You’ve been loyal and true and firm in your faith. Your name will be honored. I will see to it.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She said nothing.
He asked, “When she came to you, did you see her face?”
She said, “I saw her glow. I felt its warmth.”
“Did she speak?”
“Not in words. But I heard without words. She said to me, ‘Take heart. I am coming.’”
“When, though?” he asked her. “Is it to be soon?”
“Soon. She is almost of age.”
“So she knows that she is Aisha? That she’s Aisha reborn? Or has that not yet been revealed to her?”
Her expression showed confusion. “She must know.”
“Because she came. I understand that. But the prophecy says that she must first come of age. You said that she is almost of age.”
The young women tried to concentrate. She seemed not to be sure. She said, “I think soon. Very soon.”
“Until then, is she safe? Is she well protected?”
A nod. “The angel Qaila protects her.”
He smiled. “Yes, I know. I am familiar with the prophecy. The flame-haired angel, Qaila, who has guided her, protected her. But this angel has more than one name, does she not?”
She blinked her eyes uncertainly. The equivalent of a shrug. Disappointing. She did not seem to know.
He could now hear loud voices approaching the door. They were berating the guards who had left him alone with her. The guards were protesting. They were blaming the sergeant. The sergeant was bawling, “Look what he did to me. He broke both my knees. Shoot him. I order you to shoot him.”
The old mullah’s voice: “He’s from the Council. No shooting.”
“Smash him,” yelled the sergeant. “Cut off both his hands.”
“No cutting,” said the mullah. “Arrest him.”
Sounds of trying the door. Someone’s boot kicking at it. Sadik knew that he had little time left with her.
He spoke a name. He said, “Elizabeth Stride.”
He watched for some sign that she recognized the name. He couldn’t be sure. He tried again.
“I think the angel called Qaila is Elizabeth Stride. If that’s so, you’re quite right. She’s in very good hands. I haven’t met her myself, but I know much about her. She is also known as the Black Angel.”
He had hoped, he supposed, that saying this would elicit, if not recognition, some additional trust. If not their new location, an email address. The ones found on her computer were untraceable. And now the pounding on the door grew more desperate.
He asked her, “Please. Won’t you tell me where they’ve gone? I need to find them before others do.”
Her lips formed a word. She couldn’t bring herself to speak it. A tear fell. “You ask me too much.”
The pounding took on a sharp crunching sound. A battering ram. A sledge hammer, perhaps. With each blow, clouds of dust flew out from the hinges. Soon the door would give way and they would arrest him. Would they hurt him? No. Only rough him up, maybe. Nothing worse, he felt sure, without leave from Mansur. But they’ll likely take it out on this girl and what little life that she has left in her.
He said, “You heard them say that I am a doctor. I do not have my medical bag because they would not let me bring it. I would have given you all the morphine that I have. Do you understand what that would mean?”
“I’ll… be with God.”
“And no more pain. Your body’s poisoned and it’s maimed, but not your beautiful soul.”
She understood. She almost smiled. “You would release it?”
A snapping sound amidst the pounding. The upper hinge had given way. He said, “I have no morphine, but I have one other thing. Let me show you. Try not to be frightened.”
From his pocket he produced a stainless steel pocketknife. It was made for a surgeon. It held several small instruments. He opened a blade that resembled a scalpel. He said, “I can’t save you, but I can free you. I will only do so if you wish it.”
He waited until her eyes focused on the blade. They showed that she did wish it and that she was ready. He said, “It’s very sharp. You’ll feel only a tug. Like a necklace that breaks and slides off.”
She swallowed. She asked, “The others. Can you help them?” Her head tilted toward the sounds of women praying.
He understood that she meant the other women in the pens. He knew that she didn’t mean ending their lives. He said, “I swear that I’ll do all I can. And that goes for your friends in America.”
“Why?”
“Ask God when you see him. He knows my heart.”
She took another breath. She nodded toward the knife. Once again, she almost managed a smile. He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head. Then, with the smallest flick of his fingers, he opened her carotid artery.
She barely flinched. Just a short intake of breath. She could see the pulsing arterial stream. It soaked the hands and shirtsleeves of the man from Hamas. He had made no move to avoid it.
She asked, “What is your name? I could not hear your name.”
“Like the angel, Qaila, I have more than one. But God knows me as Rajib Sadik.”
She whispered, “I’ll remember. I will ask God about you. I will ask him to bless you if you’re telling the truth. I will ask him…”
Her expression went blank before she could finish. Her brain, starved of blood, had stopped functioning. Gently, he reached to close both her eyes. Once again, he leaned forward and kissed her.
TWENTY ONE
On Tuesday evening, half a world to the west, Howard Leland had returned from his canoe trip. He was sore and he was sun-burned; he’d stretched seldom-used muscles. But he’d also been in more pleasant company.
He’d been with men who’d relished being out on open water, doing what most hadn’t done since they were young. They were wealth
y, accomplished, but one wouldn’t have known it. Nor were they especially deferential to him. To them, he wasn’t a cabinet officer. On that day, he was simply Howard to them, one of thirty in all, three in each of the canoes. They’d encouraged each other when they fought against currents. They’d sung songs; they’d told jokes; they reminisced of their school days. It was all very wholesome indeed.
It had been a far cry from yesterday, Monday. That day began with Haskell showing up at his door before he had fully collected his thoughts, Haskell pumping him about Elizabeth Stride. After that came his breakfast with Haskell’s associate.
The mogul had questions of his own about Stride. They were personal questions. Unexpectedly so. The mogul had asked what it is about her that might explain the powerful effect she seems to have.
“On whom?” Leland asked him.
“On… men in general.”
Powerful effect? What effect was that? His only knowledge of her was through Roger. The mogul seemed to wonder, although he never quite said it, whether she was some sort of enchantress. Stride? An enchantress? Does he think this woman got close to her enemies by batting her eyelashes at them? From what he’d heard, she was far more direct. He had told the mogul the same lie that he’d told to Haskell, to wit, that he spoken to her late Sunday evening and that she’d agreed to do what she could in recovering that disk from the Nasreens. He said he doubted that she would use witchcraft to do it. She would probably just make a few phone calls.
The mogul reddened slightly. Hemming and hawing. “Sorry. Just wondered. No reason for asking. Not important. Let’s discuss something else.”
The next item on the mogul’s breakfast agenda was some neo-Darwinian drivel about the concept of natural selection as it applied to themselves. The mogul was intent on getting him to bear in mind the sort of people with whom he belonged by virtue of his family lineage. It was more of that arrogant we-run-the-world business, but couched, thought the mogul, in more acceptable terms. Something like the divine right of kings.
“It’s a genetic imperative, this position we hold. We didn’t get to choose. We were chosen.”
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