The Aisha Prophecy

by Maxim, John R.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “They’re not all like my father. They’re not all like Niki’s father. Most are very decent. Most love their families dearly. And most of them believe, or want to believe, that there is one God who cares about them. Do we understand everything? No, Elizabeth, we don’t. We just live our faith the best we know how.”

  Elizabeth said to her, “There’s one thing I’ve wondered. I assume that your mother’s marriage was arranged.”

  “At fourteen. A year younger than I am.”

  “To a prince. Her family must have gotten a deal.”

  “There is always a contract in such cases.”

  “Fourteen, though,” said Elizabeth. “Only a schoolgirl. How did she manage to get educated? How did she become so fluent in English that she later went on to teach it?”

  “Because she too had a family. It was all in the contract. Her family believed in education for women. Her family saw to my education was well. My father had no choice but to permit it.”

  Elizabeth heard the chime of the front gate being opened. She bent down and could see a stretch limousine coming in. She saw that its left rear window was down. She could see Harry’s face. No mistaking that hat. He was holding a set of keys in one hand. He must have used one to open the gate.

  Rasha saw him, too. “And there’s one of the twins.”

  One of them. Whichever. He’d popped out the right front while the car was still moving. Carrying a small satchel. Weapons, most likely. Carrying something else. It looked like a wrapped gift. He disappeared toward the garage.

  Elizabeth said, “Rasha, I’ll go down and greet them. We’ll meet in Niki’s room. We shouldn’t be long. I want you and the others to stay out of sight until I get the lay of the land here.”

  “They’re coming to the party?

  “I’m sure they will, yes. I’d like that to be the first they see of Aisha.”

  THIRTY FIVE

  Haskell’s corporate jet had landed at Reagan. It taxied to a slot that, to his amusement, stood wingtip to wingtip with Whistler’s Gulfstream. Two maintenance men were just washing it down. The late afternoon sun caused it to gleam brightly, especially those red and gold initials. He resisted an impulse to key it.

  “Very childish.”

  Oh, shut up. I wasn’t serious. I’d have needed a ladder.

  He’d told his air crew to stand ready for a prompt departure when he returned in three hours. He’d told them that he was meeting with some business associates who were waiting at the main terminal. Nor had he arranged for a car and driver. A taxi could be taken anonymously. He took a short jitney ride to the terminal. He put on a pair of half-frame reading glasses, tousled his hair, and climbed into a cab. He spoke to the driver with a guttural honk that he intended to sound vaguely European.

  He’d forgotten to account for D.C. evening traffic. The ride to Belle Haven took nearly an hour. He’d hoped to do a pass of Whistler’s Tudor on the way, but had to forego it due to the time. As it was, the driver took another ten minutes to locate the complex of which Mangiamo was a part. Haskell, of course, hadn’t mentioned that name. His destination, as far as the driver was concerned, was the across-the-street real estate office that Gilhooley had told him about. He still got there shortly before six.

  He dismissed the driver and proceeded to the bus stop where he sat on the bench of its shelter. He took his Wall Street Journal out of his briefcase and slid his reading glasses a bit lower on his nose. There, while pretending to be reading the charts, he took in the rest of his surroundings.

  Looking over his glasses, the restaurant, Mangiamo, looked smaller than it did in the photos he’d seen. Narrower, anyway. But considerably deeper. It was a wood frame structure, probably quite old, and probably not built as a restaurant at first. A shop, more likely, whose owner lived upstairs. The roof was peaked, but it had a dormer window. There seemed sufficient room for living quarters.

  There were similar buildings on the left and the right. One housed an art gallery, the other a liquor store. Both were still open for business. None of them had any parking of their own, only narrow service alleys between them. Several traffic cones had been placed in the street directly in front of Mangiamo.

  “For the guest of honor, no doubt.”

  No doubt. Space had been reserved for three cars.

  The restaurant did have that relaxed homey look that was typical of neighborhood bars. Its clientele would be mostly locals. It was painted a quiet red with green trim. Italian colors. The same shades as their flag. The sign above the entrance was flanked by a collection of various antique copper pans. From his angle he could see nearly all of the bar through the large picture windows on both sides of the door. Toward the rear, he was able to see the first letters of what had to be a Happy Birthday banner. It hung over a mural of one of those villages that dot Italy’s Amalfi Coast.

  And now he could also see Gilhooley.

  Gilhooley appeared, squeezing out between customers. He was headed toward the front entrance. Once outside, he lit a smoke and tossed the match to one side, never glancing in Haskell’s direction. With studied insouciance he idled for a bit before ambling to the opposite side of the street. He paused at the bakery near the real estate office. He started to enter, but backed up a step. He stood holding the door for a woman, then exiting, carrying a large white box in both hands. Haskell watched her cross the street to the service alley where she disappeared into the restaurant’s side door. Must be the door to the kitchen, thought Haskell. Probably the birthday girl’s cake.

  Gilhooley had gone into the bakery, emerging minutes later, a white bag in one hand, with which he strolled over to the bus stop. Gilhooley was munching a Danish.

  “Great disguise,” said Gilhooley, not looking at him. “You mussed your hair and put on glasses. That’s it?”

  “It’s not as if I had time to buy a fright wig,” said Haskell. “Beside, you saw the crowd in that bar. Fully half of them are dressed just as I am.” He asked, “Is it always that busy?”

  “Nope. Just tonight. And not just for the party. Harry Whistler seems to have a lot of friends around here. Word got out that he’s back in town.”

  Then we’ll make it a night to remember, thought Haskell. He asked, “Have you planted the explosives?”

  “I have. Why are you talking funny?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I’d been practicing an accent.”

  Gilhooley turned his head. He looked up at the sky. Haskell knew that he was probably rolling his eyes. Haskell didn’t bother explaining. He asked Gilhooley, “Well? Where did you plant them?”

  Gilhooley said without gesturing, “See the service alley? See that metal trash bin? That’s where it is, between the bin and the wall.”

  “Not inside? I specified among those back tables.”

  “While they’re back there decorating? Hard to do. You also said you’d leave it to my vaunted expertise. That metal bin helps to direct the charge. It’ll blow that whole wall. It’s a bearing wall. The top floor and the roof should come down.”

  Hmm. A great scene. The Saudis will love it. “A fireball rising?”

  “Two hundred feet maybe.”

  “You’ll have earned my lasting approval.”

  Gilhooley placed his white bakery bag on the bench. The bag made a solid-sounding clunk. Gilhooley said, “I got you a cheese Danish. I put my video camera in the bag with it. There’s also a cell phone. I’ve pre-programmed a number. All you do is hit send and it blows.”

  “Umm… what blows, exactly? How much of it blows?”

  “At least the kitchen and that back dining area.”

  “But not the bar,” said Haskell. “Correct?”

  “Not that much, I don’t think. At least not the front half. It will get some concussion and a whole lot of smoke. The concussion should blow out those front windows.”

  “Yes, but you’ll be safe if you duck behind the bar where it curves to the left on this end.”

  “I
’ll be safe,” said Gilhooley, “because I won’t be in there.”

  Haskell ignored him. He peeked into the bag. He said, “I assume this is not your only cell phone.”

  “That’s just the trigger. Use and discard.”

  “So you still have your own?”

  “The one you called me on, sure.” He touched a hand to his belt.

  “I’ve told you that I’ve chosen to spare Ms. Stride. When they’re all gathered… What’s for dinner, by the way? Are they slaughtering a lamb? Served with hummus? Stuffed grape leaves?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “My report to the Saudis. They’re fond of details. Falafel patties? Kabobs?”

  “Not about the damned menu. I mean about me. You seriously expect me to be in there?”

  “Here’s what happens,” said Haskell. “You’ll watch them all enter. I’ll be taping them from here. It will probably take them at least a few minutes to work their way through that bar crowd. Friends of Whistler’s, you say. There will be some glad-handing. When they’re all in the back and the party starts in earnest, you’ll call me and say that it’s show time.”

  “But…

  “No, Desmond, just listen. Here’s what happens next. I’ll call you back, you’ll put the phone to your ear. You’ll say her name aloud. Elizabeth Stride? You’ll pretend that the caller is looking for her. Says it’s very important. Can’t wait. Life or death. You’ll ask the bartender to send someone back for her. When she comes back out and is almost upon you, you’ll give me a signal, a wave of the hand, and I will detonate your little package. You will seize Stride and drag her to the floor, sheltered in the lee of the bar.”

  Gilhooley, dumfounded, managed to say, “Mr. Haskell… no fucking way.”

  “Desmond… I need you to keep her from harm.”

  “So that later she can ask me who made the call? And why would that call have been made to me? I’m just some handyman, remember?”

  “There won’t be any later. We’ll depart in the confusion. We’ll go just as soon as the fire engines get here. I want footage of their hoses being turned on the flames.”

  Gilhooley reached into his pocket. He pulled out his cigarettes and with them his matchbook. He placed the red and green matchbook on Haskell’s bench. “This matchbook is Mangiamo’s. Two phone numbers on it. One for the office and one for the bar. The bar phone’s all the way up at the front. I don’t call. You call. A guy named Sam will pick up. He tends bar, but he’s the owner. Tell him there’s some bad news for one of the girls. He’ll get Stride up there, guaranteed.”

  Hmm, thought Haskell. Yes, that could work, too. What news, though? The prince? Hate to ruin Rasha’s evening. He’d say he wished we could talk about something more pleasant, but…”

  “Charles…”

  I’ve never heard Stride’s voice. I’ve only imagined it. I’d like to hear it at last.

  “Charles, all you’ll hear is ‘Who’s calling? What’s happened?’ It’s not as if you’ll get into a chat.”

  Yes, but I can record what there is of it. I’ll be videotaping while I’m talking to her. If she does ask what’s happened, I’ll say ‘This is what’s happened,” and wham, I set off the explosion.

  He saw that Gilhooley was looking askance. “Mr. Haskell? You okay? You just went someplace else.”

  “Give me a few seconds, Desmond.”

  She’s never heard his voice either, thought Haskell. But it might seem familiar when they finally meet. So he’ll disguise it. A new one. Something Arabic-sounding. A parting shout of Alahu Akbar just before the roof flattens Kessler and restores her to the singles scene again.

  He said to Gilhooley, “We’ll do it your way. But I still need you there to tell me when they’ve seated.”

  “You’ll make the call?”

  “I’ll handle it, Desmond.”

  “When I see her come up, I’m gone, Mr. Haskell. Someone else can keep her from getting all smudged.”

  “You’re not much of a gentleman, are you.”

  THIRTY SIX

  Kessler had gone to the master bedroom to quickly throw on some clothing. He returned to the foyer inside the front door. There was Clew with his briefcase, Harry doffing his hat, and Elizabeth making nice with Sadik.

  Now she was all warmth. All sweetness and light. She was saying, “A thank you is so long overdue. Both to you and to your lovely wife Maryam.”

  Sadik blinked once or twice as if he’d scarcely remembered. He returned the courtesy in what seemed a rote manner. He said, “It’s good to see you looking so well,” all the while staring at her face. His eyes then shifted. He was scanning the interior. He asked, “Where is Aisha? Is she here?”

  Kessler thought he knew what the stare was about. So did Elizabeth. Her smile disappeared. She said to Sadik, “She is in her room dressing. When you see her, you’ll only be seeing our Aisha. Don’t look at her as if she’s a specimen.”

  “Of course,” said Sadik. “I understand perfectly.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I would very much like to speak with her. May I?”

  “On this subject? No. Not a word, not today. And never just the two of you alone. For this visit, you are Doctor Emil Freundlisch again. You’re not Sadik, you’re not Hamas, you’re not even Muslim. You’re just an old friend who once patched me up. You’re here as an old friend of Harry and Martin. You happen to be here on her birthday.”

  “This party. I may come?”

  “Just remember what I said.”

  So much for sweetness and light, thought Kessler. He told them. “Upstairs. Let’s get started.”

  They’d begun with the recordings. Clew handed out copies of the suicide note as the second tape was being played. The note came as a surprise both to Kessler and Stride. Elizabeth asked, as the second tape ended, “Is that true? Rasha’s father is dead?”

  “You heard Leland,” Clew answered. “Haskell killed him.”

  “I got that part, Roger.” Not much there, she realized, between Rasha and her father. Even so, it might not go down easily. “But the note points the finger at you three and Leland.”

  “Kessler, too. Not you, though. Feel neglected?”

  “She’ll get over it,” said Harry. “Let’s move on.”

  Next came the dossiers. Haskell, Bentley and Leeds. After those, they gathered around the computer as Kessler brought up the Saudi files.

  “This is the scrambled version, but you see all those names. You see it’s ten billion and counting.”

  Sadik said, “I see mine. I have twenty-six million?”

  “No. That’s the scramble. You have two million and change. You want it? I can transfer it myself.”

  Harry said to Sadik, “That can wait.”

  Clew said, “I’ll want a copy of the unscrambled disk.”

  “You won’t get one,” Kessler told him. “All copies stay with us. Later, however, I’ll give you a quick look. Just enough so that you can say that you’ve seen it to anyone who doubts that we have it.”

  “Who else has one?” asked Clew. “The Nasreens?”

  “Safely held.”

  That wasn’t true and Elizabeth knew it. The Nasreens had their copy, but not the new passwords. Nor were the original and its copy safely held. But they would be shortly. After this meeting ends. Until then, having all of it in this one room amounts to a ticking bomb in their midst.

  Roger Clew’s cell phone vibrated. He saw the call was from his office. He said, “Time out. I’d better take this.”

  He put the phone to his ear. “Tatiana? What’s up?”

  He listened, first nodding, then with his eyes widening. He said, “Both magazines? On their covers? When?” He listened further. He sighed. He muttered a curse. He said, “Thank you, Tatiana. Stay on it.”

  He said to the others, “Time and Newsweek magazines. They’re both planning to run cover stories on the prophecy. Both issue dates are a week from next Monday.” He said to Harry and to Sadik, “One
guess what they’re using for the cover.”

  He said to Kessler and Stride, “I was just getting to this.” He reached into his briefcase for the Bahrain Tribune. He said to Elizabeth what he’d said to the others. “Anyone here look familiar?”

  She knew in a flash why Sadik had stared at her and why he was so eager to see Aisha. She said to Clew what Harry had said. She asked him, “How could this be?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t know. We were equally shocked. Tatiana says the banner on the Newsweek edition is going to read, ‘Is She Coming?’ She’s working on getting advance copies of the text. It’s all about the world-wide effect.”

  Elizabeth ran a finger to the bottom of the page. She looked up at Kessler. “This says it’s based on descriptions by those who have seen her.”

  He said nothing. His expression was enough. The answer had come to them both in that instant. Niki had provided the descriptions.

  “Excuse me,” said Elizabeth. “I have some business downstairs.”

  Kessler asked, “What’s the point? To rub her nose further? Yes, she got carried away with details. She didn’t know that a drawing would be made of them.”

  Sadik asked, “Do I take it that her handmaidens described her?”

  “Not handmaidens,” said Kessler. “One girl.”

  Another cell phone chimed. It was Elizabeth’s.

  She answered distractedly. “Who? Oh, Sam. We’re running a bit late. I’ll have to call you.” She listened further. “Uh-huh. Harry’s here. Oh, really? I’ll tell him.” Again she listened. He had more to say. She made a slow circling motion with her free hand as if wishing that he would get on with it. “Sam, I have to go. Oh. The count? Hold on.” She asked Harry, “Both twins?” Harry held up one finger. She understood. Only one at a time. She said, “Sam? Figure ten all together.”

  She broke the connection. “Sam Foote,” she said to Harry. “Your retired leg-breaker.”

  “You insult him. That’s the least of what he was.”

  “Sorry.” We’re not shits. “He’s been great.”

  She punched in the number of Shahla’s cell. She said, “Shahla? Elizabeth. Are you done with Aisha? Good. Now go tell your sister to get dressed.” She listened for a beat. She said, “Yes, she’s included. We can’t leave her here.” Another beat. “No, Shahla, I’m no longer angry. Rasha stuck up for her. Rasha… explained her. Tell Niki she’s got twenty minutes.”