“Not at all. Lowest rung. He has the brain of a bird. But there are others involved, very powerful Saudis. They are about to find themselves inconvenienced.”
Mansur grinned. He clapped his hands. “They can’t get at their money?” He said to the others. “The reports are correct.” This caused the cleric taking notes to smile broadly as well. Mansur tossed a salute toward Colonel Jalil who was apparently the source of this intelligence.
Mansur’s grin faded. He said to Sadik, “You say this Saudi’s a nonentity and not very bright.” He cocked his head toward the father of the sisters. “All these daughters seem to have much in common.”
The girls’ father reddened at these words, but said nothing.
“Here’s another good guess,” said Mansur to Sadik, “The Saudi girl’s been at her father’s computer.”
Sadik nodded. “More than once. She’s done considerable damage. He only learned its full extent a few days ago.”
Mansur seemed impressed. “These young girls have such skills?”
“They were considerable already. The rest, they were taught.”
“Taught by whom? The Nasreens?”
Sadik nodded again.
“So they’re taught how to blackmail.”
Sadik shook his head. “No demands are made except to leave them in peace. That’s not blackmail as far as I’m concerned.”
“Aha. But you see, they’re not leaving us in peace. They are spreading this prophecy. You can’t log on anywhere in this part of the world without seeing the words, ‘She is coming.’ They’re not only saying that Aisha’s reborn; they’re saying that they’ve seen her; they’re with her. They have caused great mischief. As you’ve seen, they’ve caused pain. The Nasreens would seem to have a new agenda.”
“It’s not the Nasreens. They would not have allowed this. They help only women who wish to be helped, but even then they are very selective. They help those whom they deem to have a promising future, but whose future is being denied them. They are not out to change the whole world.”
“Then who is? Three young girls? They cooked this up among themselves?”
“Not likely,” said Sadik. “But not impossible.”
“Not likely without help. Or adult supervision. Or should I use the word instigation?”
“I will say it again. It is not the Nasreens.”
“Then who?” asked Mansur. “Let me think. Who might it be? Could it be an adult named Elizabeth Stride?”
Sadik was startled. He tried not to show it. The basement chamber of the prison. A room used not just for torture, but for interrogations. He should have known that there would have been a listening device.
He said, “That was… only a shot in the dark. The girl gave no sign that she recognized the name. If I’d had time, I’d have tried several others.”
Mansur had already reached into his folder. He held up several pages. He said, “I have here a transcription of your words. You didn’t simply ask if the girl knew the name. You asked whether this Stride was in fact the angel Qaila. One assumes that you had reason to ask.”
“Elizabeth Stride has been a friend to the Nasreens. She’s especially been a friend to a young girl named Aisha. But it truly was not much more than a hunch. Tens of thousands of young Sunni girls have that name.”
“And many have been picked up for questioning, did you know that?”
Sadik did. That, too, had been splashed on the internet. Young girls all aged between twelve and twenty in at least a half dozen countries so far. Especially any seen riding a camel who happen to be wearing too much white. “So I’ve heard.”
“And many more Aishas have been hidden by their parents, lest someone should decide to start cutting their throats. Mass targeted murder is not without precedent. Herod tried it to kill Jesus. The pharaoh tried it to kill Moses. They survived, but a great many innocents perished. They didn’t have their own angel to protect them.”
He raised a hand before Sadik could speak. He said, “Elizabeth Stride. An assassin, is she not? An American who kills for the Israelis?”
“She was,” said Sadik. “Not any longer.”
“She did her work fully veiled. It was the perfect disguise. Moved about like a ghost, unsuspected, unnoticed. They called her the Black Angel, did they not?”
“Some did.”
“So now we have two angels. Or perhaps two in one. But first… how did a woman who killed Muslims for Israel become such a friend of Muslim women?”
Sadik rocked a hand. “When you say she killed Muslims…”
“I know. She was selective. Let’s not split hairs. Are you able to answer my question?”
“I am,” said Sadik. “Stride had been arrested and imprisoned by the Saudis. By the time they released her, she was very nearly dead. A Muslim woman took her in and restored her to health. That women was a doctor named Nasreen Zayed. She’s the woman from whom the Nasreens took their name. The original Nasreen was murdered soon afterward. She was burned alive, not for saving Stride’s life, but for daring to teach family planning in her village. Stride avenged her and she didn’t stop there.”
“Recruited and trained by the Mossad, was she not?”
“They taught her how to channel her… displeasure, as you put it.”
“And her weapon of choice was a knife, was it not? A long one? Curved? You could almost say a sword?”
Sadik saw where this was going. “Just a knife.”
The mullah asked, “And her hair. What color was her hair?”
“Underneath her hijab? Surely black or dark brown.”
“To pass as an Arab. We understand that. What was her natural coloring?”
Sadik hedged. “She’s a woman. Who knows?”
“I’ve seen her file,” said Mansur. “No clear photographs of her. And conflicting descriptions, but some speak of her eyes, an unusual color, and also the color of her hair. Some say that it’s the color of flame.”
“What flame? Yellow flame?” Sadik took a weary breath. “I’ve only heard it described as being blond. Dark blond, light blond, reddish blond, I can’t tell you. There are millions of women who have these same colors. Quite a few of them live right here in Tehran and they get such colors out of a bottle.”
The cleric smiled. He said, “More and more every day. There is also a new hair style that is suddenly in vogue. It’s shaped rather like a helmet with the added detail of hair flipping out on both sides at the shoulders. Care to guess what they call these little flips of the hair?”
“Angel wings,” said Sadik. “Yes, I’ve heard.”
“Most keep it covered when they are in public. But alone with other women, off comes the headscarf. Nothing need be said. The others know what it means. How does Stride wear her hair these days. Do you know?”
“I do not.”
“Short, I would think. Low maintenance. Functional. The shape of a helmet comes to mind.”
Sadik closed his eyes. He groaned aloud. “I’ll tell you this,” he said, “and with total conviction. Everything I know about Elizabeth Stride persuades me that she would have no part in this either. All she wants is to live a quiet life.”
“Having put aside all thoughts of revenge? Or might she have come up with an even grander vision of how to get even with Muslim men without the need to be so selective?”
“Out of the question,” said Sadik.
“And yet you suspect that she’s involved at some level.”
“Suspect is too strong. A possibility. No more.”
“Very well. A possibility. What leads you to wonder?”
Sadik hesitated. He said, “Someone close to her might – I say might – be involved.”
“And that someone just happens to bear the name, Aisha. A girl of what? Fifteen or sixteen?”
“Thereabouts.”
“A girl born in Cairo, but now living in America.” Mansur touched his temple. “That rings a bell somehow.”
Cute, thought Sadik. “She will be of t
he East, but turn your eyes to the West because that is where her banner will unfurl.” Sadik responded, “I can tell you this much. If the Aisha you speak of is a party to this – and that is still a very big if – Elizabeth Stride would put a stop to it herself. If it should be happening, but Stride doesn’t know it, she would end it within minutes of me talking to her.”
“You know her so well?”
“I’ve never laid eyes.”
“And yet you’re telling us that you know what’s in her heart,” said Mansur.
“I have other sources,” Sadik answered.
“Would one of these sources be a man named Martin Kessler?”
Once again Sadik was startled and again he should have known. The cleric had very good sources of his own. Sadik answered, “Kessler is one.”
“This Kessler was once Stasi, East German Intelligence. No plodder, however. Wild and wooly. An adventurer.” Mansur ran a finger down a sheet in his folder. “’A loose cannon,’ this one calls him. Another finds him amusing. The phrase here is ‘entertainingly reckless.’”
All true, more or less. Mostly more, thought Sadik. But he replied, “An adventurer. Not the rest of it.”
“If you say so,” said Mansur. His finger moved and stopped. “It says here the East Germans published comic books about him. Propaganda for the masses. Detailing his exploits. One can still find old copies on E-Bay.”
Also true, thought Sadik, and to Kessler’s chagrin. Those comics were a constant embarrassment to him. Sadik, himself, had teased Kessler about them.
“So what is he?” asked Mansur. “Is he some sort of clown?”
Sadik wanted to answer, “He’s anything but. He’s a man to take lightly at your peril.” But he didn’t. He just shrugged. Let them learn that for themselves.
“Have you been in touch lately?”
“I have not. I’ve lost track of him.”
“But you say he’s been a source as to Elizabeth Stride.”
“He and Stride have been together, on and off, for ten years. They first met when she was, I think, twenty four, but already as notorious as he was. They had their ups and downs. Sometimes he’d cry on my shoulder. Well, not actually cry. That is a figure of speech.”
The cleric flicked a hand. “I’d assumed so.”
“In any case, that is how I know about Stride. We spoke of her at length many times.”
“An adventurer,” said Mansur, “often does things for the fun of it. Might this prophecy business come under that heading?”
“As a practical joke? You think that’s all this is?”
“You know the man, Rajib. I’m only asking.”
“Impossible,” said Sadik. “He wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Are he and Stride now together?”
“As I’ve said, I’ve lost track.”
“But I think you could find them if you put your mind to it. You have an interesting circle of friends.” Mansur held Sadik’s eyes as he said this. They both knew that the reference was to certain Israelis. They both knew that it was best not said aloud.
Mansur drummed his fingers. “You need money. How much?”
“Two million for now. And you can make it a loan. I’ll pay it back as soon as my funding is restored. In return, I promise to do all I can to prevent further harm from being done.”
The second mullah asked the first. “Why should we give him money? He’s Hamas and Hamas is a Wahhabi front. The Wahhabis see all other Muslims as apostates. They preach that we all must recant or be killed.”
Sadik asked Mansur, “Is he baiting me again?”
“Just a little. Yet, he makes a valid point.”
“The Palestinians, my people, preach no such thing. They want what we all want. They want honor and respect. They want to build a society that will give them a future. They want peace; they want families; they want decent jobs. And they want to stop burying their children.”
“Well spoken,” said Mansur. “We endorse all those objectives. But I didn’t hear you mention Hamas’ primary goal. I refer to the destruction of Israel.”
“That remains a goal to some.”
“Not to you?” asked Mansur. “It is specified in your charter.”
He might have said, “I don’t live in a fantasy world.” But he answered, “Let us see to our own statehood first.”
“You also failed to mention the greatest goal of all, to establish an Islamic society.”
“It’s already Islamic. Not like yours, but Islamic. Beyond that, our goal is progress under competent leadership.”
Sadik winced within himself. He should not have said that. But Mansur only smiled. He did not seem offended. He said, “That is indeed to be desired.”
Mansur asked, “And yourself. Are you firm in your faith?”
“I consider that I am. I try to be a good Muslim. But I also try not to let it get in the way of…” He stopped. He’d almost done it again.
“I know,” came the mullah’s surprising reply. “There’s too much hard-headedness. Even here on this Council. We’re accused of resisting liberalization. What we think we’re doing is building a base. Islam is evolving. Not its truth, but its politics. Move too slowly, you’re conservative. Move too quickly, you’re a radical. There are many outside forces that would like to see us fail so that they – as they have so many times in our history – can come in and suck us dry to their profit.”
Sadik said nothing. No response had been invited.
Mansur continued, “So I come to this question. Is this Aisha affair just a hoax, a passing fad, or is it an organized conspiracy? If the latter, who’s behind it? Not the hairdressing industry. And what is the motive? Destabilization? If so, that result is well underway. You’ve said it yourself. Rebellious wives and daughters. A not so passive resistance to all male authority, which includes, not incidentally, male conjugal rights. It’s bad enough to have the problem of a Muslim Joan of Arc. We don’t need a Lysistrata on top of it.”
The second mullah asked, “A Lysis-who?”
“It’s an ancient Greek play about the women of Athens. They got tired of war, so they said to their husbands, ‘You can have war or sex, but not both.’ The movement quickly spread to Sparta and beyond.”
The second mullah blinked. His expression became distant. Sadik suspected that his own wife had made excuses lately. But Sadik preferred to stay on the subject at hand. He said, “And there’s the drying up of funds.”
“Funds don’t really dry up. They just move around. You’ll see the funding restored, but perhaps from new sources, and no doubt with new conditions attached.”
Sadik squinted. “I’m not sure I understand you.”
“Benefit of the doubt. Let’s say it’s a hoax. If so, the hoax is having an effect far beyond what its authors envisioned. Other plotters and schemers have been sure to take notice. They’d be looking for ways to use this to their advantage.”
“Any plotters and schemers in particular?” asked Sadik.
“Americans, apparently. That seems to be where this started. It actually sounds more like the British to me. Very Byzantine, the British. Americans, by their nature, are more heavy-handed. Either way, the motive would come down to oil. The Americans need it, not to fuel their SUVs, but to fuel their thirsty tanks and jet aircraft. Any power that needs it will try to control it. Any power that has it cannot let that happen. It’s why we’re taking steps to…”
Mansur stopped himself. He had almost said too much. Sadik knew, however, what those steps had to be. Iran’s ambitions went beyond its own oil wealth. It hoped to lead the creation of a Shiite oil crescent that extended through Iraq to the Saudi Eastern Province. The trick was to do so without being invaded and occupied by the western powers. Sadik knew Iran’s intention. Mansur knew that he knew it. Even so, it was better left unsaid.
Mansur clapped his hands to break the brief silence. “It’s a pity, incidentally, that you don’t have a drop of it. You would not be asking us for a loan of two mi
llion. You’d spill more than that every day.”
Sadik shrugged.
“But I digress,” said the Mansur. “Let’s get back to Lysistrata. Our women, as you know, have the vote, as do yours. But yours get to nominate candidates of their choosing. Ours do not. Do you understand why?”
Sadik did, but thought it best to let this come from Mansur.
“If they did, they’d vote secular. Wouldn’t you in their place? They’d give Islam a nod, an honored nod, to be sure, but no cleric could hope to get many votes unless he was both liberal and cuddly. More to the point, they’d elect other women. Any candidate named Aisha would breeze into office and appoint other women to positions of authority. The men? Emasculated. Marginalized. Reduced to carrying bags for their wives while they shop at Victoria’s Secret.”
“I… think you exaggerate,” said Sadik.
“Not if this happens too quickly,” said Mansur. “All people need time to adapt to change. You saw what happened when the Shah was deposed. You saw what happened when the Taliban took power. Overnight, a massive crackdown. Millions of women draped in hijab when they weren’t confined to their homes. All their gains erased, even such as they were. Would you like to see that happen again?”
“I would not.”
The senior mullah glanced at his watch. He turned to the others. “We need a few minutes to talk among ourselves.” He said to Sadik, “Would you please wait outside?” He tossed a hand toward the fat man. “You, as well.”
The first to speak was one of the Council’s two lawyers. He said, “This Sadik has murdered one of our women. Why aren’t we throwing him in prison?”
“Now she’s one of our women? We were killing her.”
“Well, he also maimed the jailer. He left him an invalid.”
“In my view, an improvement,” said Mansur. “Let’s move on.”
“We should at least detain him and question him further. He’s not telling us all that he knows.”
Mansur curled his lip. “How astute of you.”
The lawyer blanched. He said, “I am astute enough to ask questions that you haven’t. How is that this doctor, a leader of Hamas, not only knows so much about the Nasreens, but even seems to be defending their methods? How is that he’s also such a friend to this German who’s a friend to a killer of Muslims?”
The Aisha Prophecy Page 24