The Aisha Prophecy

by Maxim, John R.

  This Aisha, thought Netanya. Maybe sixteen by now. Kessler says she’s just beautiful inside and out. Not a trace of self-pity over her losses because she knows, without a doubt, that her parents are with God, as are the two Nasreens who had sheltered her. How can she be so sure? Her mother told her, that’s how.

  Her mother comes to young Aisha in her dreams and they chat like any other mother and daughter. Her mother tells her what it’s like there, who is up there and who isn’t. Aisha, of course, asked her about Kessler when Kessler was thought to be dead. Her mother, apparently, did some checking around and reported back to Aisha that, “Nope, he’s not here. And he isn’t in the other place either.” So Aisha never doubted that he was alive and would turn up sooner or later. Aisha, one assumes, told Elizabeth the good news. But she’d also told Elizabeth that there’s tennis in heaven, that her parents still play all the time. So Elizabeth, understandably, did not cling to that hope. But one wonders whether Stride became a believer when Kessler materialized.

  He replied to Sadik, “Yes, of course she’s still with them. She’s a daughter to them. Are you asking because someone is hunting her again?”

  Netanya wasn’t serious. It was more of a coaxing. It was meant to elicit a reply something like, “It’s nothing like that. It’s only this.”

  But Netanya, it seemed, wasn’t far off the mark. Sadik answered, “You know this? Tell me what you’ve heard.”

  Netanya rocked in his chair. This was serious after all. He could not, of course, read Sadik’s tone of voice in the text that appeared on his screen. Even so, the words seemed almost desperate. But Netanya had heard nothing. Nothing at all. He wrote, “You came to me. You go first.”

  Five minutes went by. Then ten. Then fifteen. Sadik must be composing a very long answer. Either that or he’s chosen not to answer at all. Netanya decided to give him a nudge. He wrote, “Since when don’t you trust your old friend?”

  The reply: “Damn you, Yitzhak. Don’t play games with me.”

  Netanya sighed. “Okay, the truth. I know of no threat. Not to Aisha, not to Stride, not to Kessler. But I am your friend and I will help you if I can. You’ve got to give me something to work with.”

  Another five minutes passed. Sadik was deciding.

  Sadik wrote, “This, too, is truthful. I don’t know for sure either. If you’re such a friend, you’ll get this question to Kessler. Ask him if the Darvi girls are still with him. Also a young Saudi named Rasha. If the answer is yes, I need to speak to him quickly. If those girls have computers, pull all plugs. If I am correct in what I think is happening, yes, Aisha could well be in danger.”

  Netanya wrote back, “Come on, give. More details. The Saudi, I assume, is the daughter from Riyadh. The Darvi girls? Who are they? Also runaways? Most importantly, what danger? From whom? Angry families? You can’t expect me to jump in and help when you’re keeping me out of the loop. I don’t want to end up looking stupid.”

  “I’ll tell you what I can, when I can,” Sadik answered. “Send the damned message right now.”

  Netanya looked at his watch. Only ten in the morning. In Virginia it would still be the middle of the night. Okay, thought Netanya, he’d send Kessler an email. He’d keep it low key. He should copy Harry Whistler, but he wouldn’t just yet. This could easily turn out as not such a big deal. Nor will he mention Sadik at this point. Kessler might decide to skip the middleman.

  Belle Haven used several email addresses. Each had a different purpose. He selected the address that Kessler used for routine correspondence, nothing sensitive. He would send this unencrypted lest it seem not so routine. He typed in a greeting, added some small talk, and then got into the subject at hand.

  He wrote: “A mutual friend – no names for now – has contacted me to express a concern. He thinks the Darvi girls and the Saudi named Rasha are involved in something – he won’t say what – except that you should keep them away from computers. He says whatever it is could mean trouble for Aisha. Can you shed any light? Let me know what to tell him.”

  He hit “Send.”

  He copied the text and sent it to Sadik. He added, to Sadik, “Don’t hold your breath waiting. It’s still dark out where he is. I’ll tell you what he says when he says it.”

  Sadik answered simply, “I’ll be here.”

  TWENTY FOUR

  It was the mogul who heard the first shout from Leland’s room. He was on his way down to the breakfast room where he was to join Haskell and the banker. He turned on the stairs to see Leland’s door fly open. He saw Leland burst through it, barefoot, in his robe. He saw the green robe fly open as well. He saw that the robe was missing its sash. Howard Leland was naked beneath it.

  “My shower,” gasped Leland as he covered himself. One hand clutched his robe as the other jabbed the air. He was jabbing it toward the door he’d just come through. His mouth formed those words again, but no sound came out. His chest heaved. He brought a hand to his throat.

  “Howard? What’s the trouble?” asked the mogul.

  “My shower,” said Leland, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  The mogul saw that Leland’s face had been drained of all color, his sunny canoe trip notwithstanding. Seeing that, he assumed that this was no plumbing problem. He asked, “Are you in need of assistance?”

  Leland swallowed. “It’s your Saudi. He’s dead.”

  The mogul squinted. “In your room?”

  “In my shower.”

  The mogul stood frozen, but his mind was racing. He was thinking, “My God. Haskell’s actually done it. But in Howard Leland’s bathroom of all places?”

  He heard another door opening, somewhere down the hall. He said to Leland, very quietly, “Let’s step back into your room.” He came up off the stairs and took Leland by the arm while touching a finger to his lips.

  Once inside, he closed the door. He said to Leland, “Please show me.”

  Leland shook his head. “I’ve seen all I need to. We must call the police.”

  “Not just yet. First let’s see what we have.”

  He went into Leland’s bathroom. Leland stayed back. The mogul could smell it before he could see it. Stale alcohol, stale urine, stale everything else. The prince’s bowels had released in his death throes.

  He reached to touch one of the prince’s hands in order to see whether it was cold. It was. It felt like the film on a pudding. He tugged at the prince’s sleeve with two fingers. The arm barely budged. The body seemed in full rigor. If so, he’d been dead for ten or twelve hours. Therefore he’d been here since early last evening, well before Leland returned. Leland must have been in his cups indeed, not to have noticed this stench.

  The mogul stared at the prince for another thirty seconds. Why the Saudi garments? Had he dressed for the occasion? Ah, yes, he realized. The banker had mentioned it. The prince had stopped at his home in Riyadh to pick up some less conspicuous clothing. He must have flown back dressed this way.

  But speaking of clothing, he called, “Howard? Get dressed please. You want to get out of that robe.”

  “Dressed. Oh, my God. The reporters.”

  “There will be no reporters. There will be no police. This is the Bohemian Grove. Please get dressed.”

  He had almost missed seeing the folded note that was tucked in behind the prince’s beard, held in place by the sash that had strangled him. Leaning in, he saw the lettering on the outside. Very shakily written, it was Howard Leland’s name. What’s this, he wondered? A suicide note? Very likely, yes, but why address it to Leland? Why, for that matter, was this done in Leland’s bathroom? Charles? What the devil were you thinking?

  He looked for a tool with which to work the note loose. He settled on Howard Leland’s toothbrush. He forced its handle down between sash and stiffened skin until he had some air in between. Just then, there came a knock on the door. He heard Howard Leland gasp at the sound. The mogul called, “Not a problem. That would be Haskell. No doubt wondering why I’m not down for breakfas
t.”

  He gave the toothbrush a couple of twists. The note was almost free, but not quite. Another knock. Can’t be Haskell. He’d have walked in by now. The mogul left the toothbrush where it was and went out to see who it was. He opened the door a few inches.

  It wasn’t Haskell. Close enough. It was the banker. The banker said to the mogul, “Oh, here you are. Charles asked me to see what was keeping you.”

  The mogul looked for some sign in his manner that the banker had any idea of what had happened. He saw none. He said, very quietly, so that Leland couldn’t hear, “I think Charles has probably doped out why I’m late. Now I want you to get a good grip on yourself. Without reacting, without saying a word, go take a peek in the bathroom.”

  The banker hesitated. He said, “This can’t be good.”

  “But not unexpected,” said the mogul. “Go look.”

  Howard Leland was pulling on the second of his socks. He froze in that position as the banker came in. He said to the banker, “I don’t understand this.” The banker walked passed him without giving a response, his eyes being fixed on the moguls. Leland said to the mogul, “There’s a note around his neck.”

  The mogul said, “I know. We will get to that.”

  Leland asked, “But why would my name be on it? I didn’t know the man. I’d only met him that once.”

  “Yes, but you’re who you are and his life was in shambles. He’d planned to beg you for asylum.”

  “Through a suicide note? One wouldn’t think so,” said Leland. “I want to know what’s going on here.”

  The banker called to the mogul. “A moment with you, please.”

  The mogul gave Leland’s shoulder a squeeze. “Bear with me,” he said. “We’ll find out.”

  He went into the bathroom where he saw that the banker had finished extracting the note. With trembling hands, he was reading it.

  “Let me see what he wrote,” said the mogul.

  The mogul saw that note had been written on a sheet that had been torn from a spiral notebook. He’d seen a spiral notebook of similar size sitting on Leland’s writing desk. The note was written in longhand and in English, more or less. It was hard to read, cramped letters, words scrawled, and some of the words were misspelled. Other words had been begun and then abruptly crossed out. The prince’s pen had ripped the page in some places. It read:

  “I curse you, Howard Leland. You have betrayed me. You and your lackey, Roger Clew. You and Harry Whistler, a great enemy of God who pulls so many strings from Geneva in Switzerland. You and his puppet, the German, Martin Kessler, who mocks Islam from Harry Whistler’s house in Belle Haven, Virginia where he hides behind walls that will not be high enough. You and those lesbian whores, the Nasreens. Together you have corrupted my daughter and turned many wives and daughters from God. Together you have stolen ten billions of dollars of charity funds with which I was entrusted. You have tried to distract those who should have these monies by spreading your false prophecy among Muslim women and causing them to ridicule our manhood. She is not coming. This is your lie. Her handmaidens are more of your sluts. In this lie you are in league with Rajib Sadik who is a false Muslim and a spy for the Zionists who has infiltrated Hamas, Charles Haskell tried to stop you. All honor to him as he honors Islam. He is a friend to all Muslims who follow the true path. God is never deceived. God knows his good heart. My honor demands that I do this.”

  The note was signed, this time in Arabic, with the prince’s full name. Prince bin this and ibn al-that. Seven names all told, the last being Saud. They filled a line and a half.

  The mogul stared at the words. “Is this his handwriting?”

  The banker nodded. “It is. And that’s definitely his signature. But the text was obviously being dictated. How else could Charles Haskell be the good guy?”

  “His honor demands that he do this, it says. Do what? End his life? Or write the note?”

  The banker made a face. “Well, the latter, I’m sure. He didn’t know that he was writing a suicide note. He thought he was composing an indictment.”

  They heard movement in the bedroom. Sounds of Howard Leland dressing. Leland asked them, his voice weak, “What’s all the whispering in there?”

  The mogul leaned backward and glanced into the bedroom. He saw that Leland had finished tying his shoes, but seemed loathe to approach any nearer. The mogul said to the banker, “Give me two minutes.” He slipped the note into his pocket.

  He stepped into the bedroom and gestured to Leland. He was motioning him toward the door to the room. He said, “Howard, let me tell you what must have happened. The prince was blind drunk. He still reeks of Jack Daniels. He crawled up the stairs and blundered into your room thinking that it was his own. The rooms have no locks. They are similarly furnished. It’s an easy mistake to have made.”

  Leland’s face showed a glimmer of relief.

  The mogul said, “Here is what I want you to do. Go down the hall, go into my room and wait there while I deal with this. You cannot have your name connected with this. You need to distance yourself from this tragedy.”

  “Distance myself? It’s my bathroom.”

  “Be that as it may, none of this is your fault. We should never have exposed you to this drunken fool. Go now. Leave this to me.”

  Leland hesitated. He glanced around his bedroom. “My briefcase.”

  “By all means, take it with you. And your notebook.”

  The mogul opened the door; he eased Leland through it. He steered him down the hallway, away from the stairs. He said to Leland, “Fifteen minutes. No longer.”

  He closed the door. The banker stepped from the bathroom. The banker asked cautiously, “Distance him how? If you think I’m going to help you haul the body out of here…”

  “Never mind the body. That’s the least of our concerns. I needed some time to think this out before Haskell decides to come up here.”

  “Haskell,” said the banker. “He seemed edgy at breakfast. Kept glancing toward the stairs. He must have thought that the prince would be found before this. Haskell must have killed him last evening.”

  “While Leland was carousing. Yes, he must have.”

  “He’d have got the prince to open his door and… why not there, though? Why bring him in here?”

  “For the shock effect, clearly, on Leland,” said the mogul. “He wanted Leland, not some maid, to discover the body. He must have had his ear to his own door all night in order to be Johnny-on-the-spot.”

  “Well, it’s shocking the hell out of me,” said the banker. “How dare he do this without consulting with us?”

  “Oh, stop it,” said the mogul. “You knew this was coming.”

  “And you said we’d have nothing to do with it.”

  “I did, but here we are. The hand has been dealt. We’ll have to make the best of it, won’t we?”

  “But how?” asked the banker.

  “I’m working on that. Let’s me see that note again.” He read it once more. He could not help but smile. “No surprise, I suppose, that he doesn’t mention Stride. I wonder if he thinks she’ll fall into his arms once Harry Whistler’s ‘puppet’ is out of the way. Meanwhile Charles is now a hero to the whole Muslim world, the Saudi part in particular. Not the three of us, mind you; only Charles. And here’s Howard Leland, evil genius that he is, who’s been running the show all this time.”

  “In league with Whistler and Clew. To say nothing of Sadik. Sadik’s now an Israeli mole?”

  “A pre-emptive strike, I would assume,” said the mogul.

  “Get him killed before he becomes bothersome?”

  “Worth a shot, I suppose.” The mogul rubbed his chin. He said, “Whistler and Clew. Were those names ever mentioned in the presence of the prince?”

  The banker thought for a moment. “No, they were not. I don’t think that Kessler’s was either.”

  “No matter. But that’s Charles. He likes to touch all the bases. So Kessler is ensconced in Belle Haven, Virginia. Charl
es must not have had a street map on hand. He’d have attached it with a bull’s eye drawn on the house.”

  “Let’s ponder that some other time,” said the banker. “We need to deal with the problem at hand.”

  “Indeed. Let me think for a moment.”

  The mogul, in his mind, could see the scene that had unfolded. Haskell telling the prince, “Leland says no asylum. Don’t take that lying down. Let’s go in and leave the bastard a note.”

  There’s the prince at Leland’s writing desk, using Leland’s own notebook. Haskell standing behind him, telling him what to write. Haskell stopping him whenever the prince added words that to his besotted mind had seemed relevant. That would explain all the scratch-outs. Perhaps Haskell already had the sash in his hands, but a choke hold would have done just as well. Strangle him, drag him, string him up from the shower head. The prince’s headdress, his ghutra, could not have stayed in place. Haskell probably saw that it had fallen to the floor and unthinkingly slapped it back on his head. That seems careless. His mind must have been elsewhere.

  But where was elsewhere? What could Haskell have been thinking? Granted, he felt sure that Leland had lied to him, that Leland and/or Clew must want that disk for themselves. But why this? A fit of pique? No, that wouldn’t have been it. If Leland won’t help him one way, he’d help him in another. Charles would use this note and the threat to make it public as trade goods to get at that disk. Through whom, though? Through Clew? No, why bother with a middle man? He’d get them… how?… directly through Stride? No, more likely through Kessler.

  He’d get word to Kessler at this house in Belle Haven. He’d say, “Here are your options. The Prince’s daughter, Rasha, copied some files. Those files belong to me. I want them back. Give them to me and all will be well. Refuse and here’s what will happen:

  Howard Leland will be ruined. Front page news the world over. Guaranteed, by the way. I have a friend in the business. The scandal will also bring down Roger Clew. You’ll have lost a most valuable ally. Your name, that of Stride and your sundry Muslim-ettes will be central to all of these stories. You’ll be deluged by the media, but that is the least of it. Angry Saudis, desperate Saudis will descend on Belle Haven. Some will do so through the senators and congressmen they own. They in turn will enlist the FBI, the CIA. Others will argue for more direct action. They’ll send their own brutish security people to kidnap as hostages anyone you hold dear. But as bad as this could get, they are not your biggest problem because all they want is their money.