He’d replied, “You don’t suppose we were just lucky, do you? Being born into families of means?”
“Not born into. Bred into,” insisted the mogul. “Luck has little to do with genetics.”
Leland’s eyes became hooded. “There are some who’d disagree. Tell that to all those who’ve been struck down in their prime due to one lurking gene or another.”
The mogul shook his head. “Not us. They’re bred out of us. The best and the brightest of us are the strongest. Luck has no bearing. What it is, is preparation.”
“For what, though?” asked Leland. “To rule? Or to serve. My parents brought me up to serve.”
“One serves by leading. We are needed to lead.”
The mogul’s views were presented as being self-evident. He hadn’t seemed to notice, while growing into manhood, that many of his social peers were dimwits.
He’d said to the mogul, “This is all most enlightening, but we’ll have to discuss it some other time. I’m afraid I have another engagement.”
It was then that he sought an engagement to have. The posted activities list was the place. The canoe trip was on it, but that wasn’t until Tuesday. For Monday, there were a series of lectures. The one about oil seemed worth attending, but Haskell would probably be at that one. He’d opted for a skeet-shooting contest instead. He came away from that event with a second place trophy even though he hadn’t shot skeet since Princeton.
He ran into Haskell later that day. The two exchanged greetings, but little more than that. Haskell asked him, “By the way, when you spoke to Stride…” but Haskell never finished the sentence. He’d just said, “Never mind,” with an odd little smile. He added, “All in good time,” as he looked at his watch. He was probably more anxious to hear from the banker whom he had dispatched to Riyadh.
Even so, that smile. There seemed a smugness to it. Perhaps the banker had called with good news.
Leland had kept his distance for the rest of that day. He sought out other company for dinner. By chance, he fell in with a group of men who were planning to join that canoe trip. He’d signed up as well. It seemed just the thing. It would kill another day until the banker returned with his report on that sabotaged computer. It would kill another day until Clew could ask Stride where the Saudi girl’s disk might be found.
Ear to the ground, but be patient.
The canoe trip turned out to be more than a diversion. It had been a delight start to finish. Nor did it end when the flotilla returned. Leland and his fellow paddlers and songsters stayed together through cocktails and dinner. More jokes, more laughter, not an ego in sight. These, he decided, were the real Bohemians. Men like Haskell and the mogul and the stuffy British banker must have gotten in through a side door.
Leland’s head was swimming when he got back to his cabin and climbed the steps to his room. His canoe mates had bought a round of nightcaps for the house. They’d ordered Black Russians. Not a sensible drink. Then the house bought another. His canoe mates bought a third. He’d managed to walk the hundred yards to his cabin in, more or less, a straight line.
He peeled off his shirt and stepped out of his shorts, holding on to his bed post as he did so. He could smell the shirt; it had gotten a bit gamey, but a shower could wait until morning. Those Black Russians, however, could not. He stepped into his bathroom and expelled what remained of them. Can urine smell of alcohol? His certainly seemed to. He hadn’t noticed the smell before then. He reached for his mouthwash, took a swig from the bottle, swished it and spat it into the toilet. He washed his hands in the basin, ran a cloth across his face, then turned and happily eased into his bed. He lay on his stomach. The room spun less that way. He was mercifully asleep in two minutes.
It was just as well that he’d foregone a shower. It would have made a bad end to his day. If he’d pulled back the curtain to reach for the tap, he’d have learned the true source of that alcohol smell. He’d have seen the Saudi prince staring back at him.
He’d have seen sightless eyes bulging out from a face that looked like a melon ripe to burst. He’d have seen a tongue protruding from a slackened mouth whose lips, like his ears, had turned purple. He’d have seen the green sash of his own terry robe wrapped twice around his throat and tucked into itself. The other end would be attached to a shower head arm that had been partially torn from the wall by his weight. The body would not have been hanging, exactly. It was more of a sag, its feet splayed across the tub. It was not so much a hanging as a strangling.
He would have seen that the prince was now dressed as a Saudi, not the slacks and windbreaker that he’d worn on the beach. He had on a typical Saudi thobe, a white ankle-length garment that now looked like a shroud. A Saudi head dress, a ghutra, had somehow stayed on his head. It would not have seemed that it could have.
Leland might have noticed the sheet of note paper that was folded and pressed beneath the prince’s bearded chin, held in place by a wrap of the sash. He might have seen his own name on the paper’s outer fold, written in shaky block letters. He’d have wanted to read it before summoning help, but to do so he’d have needed to lift the whole body in order to loosen the sash.
If he’d read it he might have considered destroying it. Tear it up. Burn it. Flush the ashes down the toilet. Say he moved him to try to resuscitate him. A note? What note? A suicide note? No, he hadn’t seen any note.
He might have considered it. But he would not have done it. He would not have so dishonored himself.
But Howard Leland didn’t have to deal with these questions because he had gone straight to bed without showering.
There would be time enough in the morning.
TWENTY TWO
Sadik had been arrested, not jailed, but under guard. His passport had been taken; no calls were permitted. He was not to leave his hotel room. The next morning, a Tuesday, silent men came to get him. He was brought before the Guardian Council.
Of the twelve-man Council, only five had been available. The rest, he was told, were still up in Tabriz. He stood before a raised dais at which were seated three turbaned mullahs and two lawyers. The lawyers wore the black robes of judges. Mansur sat at the center, his chair higher than the others. Sadik was relieved that Mansur had returned. But only somewhat relieved. He knew that he was in trouble.
But Mansur was a scholar, an intelligent man, possessed of a more open mind than most. Sadik had known him since they were students together. They had traveled and played sports and, yes, partied together. Still a friend, though? He would soon see.
Two weeks before this, Mansur had called to ask a favor. Find, if you can, the source of this prophecy. Why you? Because you seem to have such wonderful connections. Find, in particular, two Iranian sisters who might, we suspect, be close to that source. Come to Tehran, question those who’ve been arrested. Why you? People trust you. Women especially. We know that some of those arrested have heard from the sisters. Get them talking and we’ll let them go home. You’ll be their hero.
Sadik had looked into where the sisters might be. Or rather, he had asked his wife to do so. She’d satisfied herself, no doubt through the Nasreens, that they were well and better off than they would have been if they hadn’t fled to the west. She’d added, “Better off than you know.”
This last was a tease. Women tease. It’s in their nature. He, however, had not risen to the bait. She said, “Suit yourself. I shouldn’t even be telling you.” He shrugged in response. His wife is often egged on by a shrug. She said, “If you must know, they’re no longer staying with the Nasreens. They’re staying with Elizabeth Stride.”
This came as a bombshell, but even so, at the time he was too busy to think more about it. He had declined Mansur’s offer to come to Tehran. He had resisted Mansur’s flattery, all that “women trust you” business. Now he wished to God that he’d come when first asked. That poor girl, Farah, would never have been lashed and he wouldn’t be in this position. Instead, he’d told Mansur, as he’d told Rasha’s father, that h
e had better things to do with his time than tracking down runaway girls or old prophecies.
But here he is. Before the dock. What happens now?
Two other men were seated against the far wall. He recognized one of them, the one wearing a uniform. Colonel Aram Jalil of the Savama. The colonel met his eyes and, discreetly, raised one finger. He waggled it in a gesture that Sadik took to mean, “Naughty, naughty. Now it’s time to pay the piper.”
The second man seated against the same wall leaned and whispered something to Jalil. The colonel made a face as if he’d smelled something bad. His only other response was to rise, pick up his chair, and put more distance between himself and the other. It was a gesture of utter contempt.
The second man was dressed in a dark business suit. As was Sadik, but this one’s clothing fit poorly. A roll of fat hung over his belt and more flesh spilled over his collar. Balding, about fifty, perspiring, one leg twitching. He, as much as Sadik, had the look of a man who would much prefer to be elsewhere.
Sadik, once more, met Colonel Jalil’s eyes. He asked Jalil, without words, “Is this who I think it is?” Jalil answered with sneer, not at Sadik, at the other. His lips mimed, “You guessed it,” in Farsi.
Sadik had guessed it because he’d already researched him before he’d arrived in Tehran. A minor merchant until the Shah was deposed, then a flunky to the mullahs who took power. He managed to get rich by denouncing his competitors and being given their seized property as his reward. Now he’d risen to the station of deputy minister, but was lately an embarrassment to the Council.
Sadik asked Mansur, “This is Darvi, correct? He’s the man whose two daughters fled Iran?”
Abbas Mansur waved his question aside. He said, “Never mind him for now.”
“Was it he who informed on the girl you were torturing? A girl who’s been a friend of his daughters since childhood? A girl who must have played in his house?”
The man tried to shrink, to make himself smaller. One of the lawyers replied, “We will get to him later. You are here to account for your behavior.”
Sadik ignored the lawyer who’d spoken. Instead, he addressed the senior mullah, Mansur. He said, “My behavior? That prison’s a disgrace. I saw what I saw and I did what I did. I eased her pain in the only way I could.”
Mansur gestured toward the cuffs of his shirt. “I’m glad to see that you’ve at least changed your clothing before coming before us this morning. I was afraid you’d show up drenched in blood for the effect. No need. Your displeasure has been noted.”
Sadik wanted to say, “At least my stains wash off.” But that would have been unwise. He kept silent.
“While doing what you did, you also learned what you learned. Be good enough to share it with us.”
“Which part?” asked Sadik. “Where the girls are? Out of reach. The two daughters are now in America.”
“Only the dead are out of reach,” said Mansur. “But let’s talk about this prophecy first. What have you learned as to its source?”
“Not much. I’m still trying to put some pieces together.”
The mullah said, “Very well. Then share the pieces that you have.”
Sadik spread his hands. “All I have is a hunch. I think that I might know who might be involved. As to why they would do this, I have no idea, but I intend to find out.”
The second mullah spoke. “To mock Islam is why. To cause trouble for us. And to try to turn our women from God.”
Mansur touched his arm as if to say, “Don’t jump the gun.” He opened a folder that he had before him. He drew out a thick set of papers, clipped together. He raised a staying hand. He took a minute or so to look through them.
Mansur, like Sadik, had lived and studied in the West. He’d earned a degree in International Relations at the University of Geneva. It was in Geneva where Sadik first met him. They’d spent many an evening in lively conversation, more about sports than the state of the world, but religion often entered their discussions. Later, after the Shah was deposed, Mansur served as an envoy, first to Syria, then France, before plunging back into his Islamic Studies at Iran’s holy city of Qom. From then on, he lived for Islam, convinced of its truth, but unlike some he did not walk through life wearing blinders. There were mullahs on the Council who had never read a book other than the Koran and the Sharia codes. Nor had most ever traveled abroad except to visit Mecca for their hajj.
With a nod to the others, Mansur said to Sadik, “I have in my hand, some thirty copies of this prophecy. All different translations from all different web sites. After these, I stopped counting. It’s everywhere.”
Sadik waited.
“Not to mention,” said Mansur, “its other appearances. In women’s public toilets taped to the mirrors. In the form of flyers on the windshields of cars. Folded and tucked into prayer books at mosques in the sections designated for women. Slipped into newspapers in several of our cities. Not just those of the dissidents. Our own.”
Sadik nodded. “Her handmaidens have been busy.”
“Handmaidens?” asked Mansur.
“Their word, not mine. I was not aware that she had so many.”
“And not just here,” said the mullah. “Not with all these translations. I have English and, of course, I have Farsi. I have Arabic, both classical and in six different dialects. I have Turkic and Russian and Urdu… you name it. Wherever Muslims in any concentration can be found, I have the prophecy here in their language.”
Sadik already knew how far it had spread. He knew how far and how quickly.
“Some of these,” said Mansur, “have taken a few liberties. Punched it up quite a bit. I’ll get to those in a minute. But most are quite faithful to the original, or at least to the first one we’ve seen.” He said, “So that we’re all on the same page, so to speak, let me read one aloud. Any preference?”
Sadik gestured toward the others. “Read what’s easiest for them.”
“Farsi, then,” said Mansur. He put on a pair of spectacles. He said, “However apocryphal, however obscure, these are said to be the Berber prophet’s words.” He paused to raise a hand before the others could object. He said, patiently, “Yes, we know. Mohammed is the final prophet. But that hasn’t stopped a long line of others from proclaiming that God speaks through them.”
The second mullah bit his lip and, like the old one in the prison, made a show of covering his ears. The third mullah hadn’t spoken. He was busy taking notes. Mansur cleared his throat and read aloud.
“The Lady of the Camel will come, born again, to show men that they have fallen into error. She comes to raise up the women of Islam. She comes to teach and she comes to bring justice. It is not revealed when, but she will come. She will be of the East, but turn your eyes to the West because that is where her banner will unfurl. She will have grown up among you, dressed in white, pure of heart, until the day when she reaches full womanhood. The flame-haired angel, Qaila, sent to guide her and protect her, will, on that day, reveal to her that she is the Lady of the Camel reborn. She will know that it is true and she will come. She will speak to all nations with words writ on wind. Her words will ride the lightning. They will be as shooting stars. And the angel, Qaila, will be with her, sword in hand. Woe to those who would deny the truth of her words. Woe to those who would silence her. Woe to those who would slay her. The angel, Qaila, will send them to hell.”
He said, “Who’d have guessed that Islam’s longed-for messiah would turn out to be a woman with a feminist agenda?” He raised a finger. “But stay with me. She’s not stopping there.”
He sorted through his papers. He said, “Here’s one from an illegal website in Syria. Same text, but this one adds the following:
‘And woe to all who do evil in God’s name and the hypocrite imams who incite them to evil. They say to those they dupe, who they know to be fools, ‘What you do is no sin, for all that happens is God’s will. You, therefore, are only doing His will. For you, there is no blame, only praise.’ But it is
Satan, not God, who puts these words in their mouths. And Satan smiles. He knows that soon he will have them.’”
Mansur said, “One more. This along the same lines. This one turned up in Finland of all places, not known to be a hotbed of Islam.”
‘“Woe to the fools who expect to see paradise when they die having murdered the innocent. There will be no lush gardens watered by running streams as promised to the righteous in the holy Koran. There will be no soft cushions on which to recline. There will be no garments of fine silk and rich brocade. There will be no dark-eyed houris to give them endless pleasure. For them, there is only the fire.’”
Mansur said to the others, “You get the idea. Her agenda is expanding considerably and it seems to be crossing all borders. Are these only other women putting words in Tumart’s mouth? Are they even women? Are they even Muslims? Good questions. And no way to tell.”
Mansur paused. He put these others aside. “For now, though, let’s stay with the original version. The floor’s open. Are there any comments?”
“An obvious forgery,” said one of the lawyers.
“I meant useful comments,” said Mansur.
The mullah taking notes said, “Some scholars doubt he wrote it.”
“Or they’ve chosen to doubt it. I’m asking what you think.”
The mullah answered, “Hard to know. The original still exists at a mosque in Rabat. We’re told the style is consistent with his other extant works. But Tumart, like Mohammed, didn’t write; he dictated. As with Mohammed on many occasions, it was Tumart’s wife who wrote them down.”
“So his wife made it up? That seems an easy way out.”
“For those who choose to take it. I agree. Others point out that it was written at a time when Tumart was known to be dying. The fever that killed him might have caused him to hallucinate.”
“Or dream?” asked Mansur.
The mullah smiled. He said, “Let’s be careful with that one.”
The Aisha Prophecy Page 22