Kessler wasn’t certain that this was an attack. It could have been a kitchen explosion. A gas leak. He released Aisha, told her to stay put, and made his way over to the kitchen, staying low. He saw the wall. Blown in, not blown out. This was no kitchen explosion. He found the two cooks, one of them beyond helping. A part of his skull torn away. The other, a young woman, didn’t look much better, but she was trying to rise. She was naked, waist up, except for her bra. The rest had been blown or burned off. The steady spray from the sprinklers was at least cooling her, but it made her harder to grip. He lifted her and, half-carrying, half-dragging her, he bought her closer to the shelter of the archway.
Harry was gone. The twin was gone. Clew had left as well, but no further than mid-bar where he was helping some of the dazed and confused. There were more than a dozen still inside. Kessler heard Sam’s voice telling Clew to get out. “Get some air. Clear your lungs. Clear your head.” Apparently, Clew was of limited use, but at least he had good intentions.
Sadik, however, had been careful to stay low and he had chosen to stay back with Aisha. The wet smoke, now turning black, was settling on them both. He saw that Aisha and Sadik were kneeling beside the fallen waiter. Kessler saw his foot moving. Perhaps he was only stunned. Kessler called Sadik, he called him by name, telling him that the cook needs him more. Kessler realized his mistake on seeing Aisha’s confusion. But this was no time for explanations. Sadik came over. Aisha stayed with the waiter. She was holding his hand, speaking softly to him, rocking back and forth as she did so.
Sadik assessed the condition of the young cook. Her breathing was labored, she was coughing up blood, but she seemed to be almost fully conscious. He said he must go and get his medical bag. He took Kessler aside and out of her hearing. He said, “Her chest has been crushed. That blood’s from her lungs. All I can do is ease her pain.”
“Can she live?”
“I don’t think so. Too much damage inside.” Having said this, he cursed, he gritted his teeth. He said to Kessler, “That makes two in three days.”
Kessler knew what he meant. He meant Farah. Shahla’s friend.
Sadik stood and was about to enter the archway when Elizabeth returned from the street. She was holding her nose. She was blowing and swallowing, still in the process of clearing her ears. She told him that Sam had the girls. She said to him, “Why is Aisha still here? I told you to grab her and go.”
Aisha either couldn’t hear her or chose not to hear. She continued rocking and whispering softly. She still held the hand of the waiter. Kessler noticed that Aisha’s new dress was torn and that part of her black bra was showing. She’d also lost her shoes in all the tumbling and scrambling and her new panty hose was in shreds. Like the rest, she was wet and streaked with soot.
Kessler glared at Elizabeth, annoyed by her tone. “Oh, you told me, did you? Open your eyes. Can’t you see…”
He didn’t finish because it was at that moment that the Subaru’s gas tank erupted. A sheet of flame rolled across and above them, licking at the ceiling’s sagging tiles. It quickly receded, leaving only glowing embers, but its heat was enough to sear Kessler’s face and Aisha’s bare shoulders as well. Elizabeth, standing, got the worst of it. Smoke rose from her hair where it was singed. The fabric on her blouse puckered. But she barely flinched. Her concern was for Aisha.
She said, “Aisha… now. Get out of here now. More ceiling could come down any moment.”
Aisha answered, “Elizabeth, it will drop on them, too. We’re not hurt, but they are. I’m staying until we get help.”
Elizabeth growled. An expression of frustration. But her eyes showed pride more than anger. What anger she felt, she took out on Sadik. She said, “You heard her. Let’s get them some help.” Before leaving, however, she spotted a cabinet in which the white table linens were kept. She reached in, took a table cloth, and shook out its folds. It was one of the big ones, banquet size. She draped it over Aisha’s head and shoulders.
This was, although no one realized it at the time, the third miracle in the making. Or perhaps it was more of a curse.
She and Sadik were gone for no more than a minute when Kessler thought he heard Haskell’s name being called. Clew’s voice? Yes, he thought so. Sounding choked. And there it was again. Clew’s voice. The name Haskell. Suddenly the sprinkler system shut off. Now he heard a lot of shouting and banging. He heard a man’s voice. It sounded in pain. He peered out through the smoke. It had thinned a good deal. He could make out Elizabeth, Clew and Sadik. They were standing at the open trunk of the stretch. He couldn’t tell what was happening out there. Had Clew decided to announce to the world that Haskell and his bunch were responsible for this? Not impossible, but what made Clew think so?
He saw Sadik coming with his medical bag. Kessler asked him, “What was that all about?”
Sadik said, “That can wait. It’s under control.” He knelt beside the cook and got to work.
Harry Whistler appeared, his red blazer now gray. For once, he blended into a crowd. He said, “I’m leaving. We’re taking the limo. It can’t be here when those sirens arrive. I’ll take the three girls with me.”
Sadik said, “Take Martin. He’s done all he can. I’ll stay and watch over Aisha.”
Harry left. Kessler didn’t. He’d watch Aisha himself. But then he heard several shouts from the bar. Among them a woman’s. “That man has a gun.” He thought that this warning must be related to the shouting and banging that he’d heard outside. But this wasn’t outside; it was inside. He looked through the thinning smoke and he saw faces turned to a man who was groping along the far wall. That part of it was mostly intact. The man seemed to be trying to feel his way, not toward the front, but toward the rear. He had reached the ruined mural and the Happy Birthday banner which had long since fallen in a tangle. In his right hand, he held a Glock pistol.
No idea who he was; he’d never seen him before, nor was Kessler aware there’d been a shooting outside. Kessler didn’t see him as much of a threat, but a gun was a gun so he took it away. No struggle, he simply took it out his hand and stuck it into his belt.
“Just like that?” Roger Clew would ask later.
“This man was a zombie. One eye halfway out, cheek the size of a grapefruit, blood all over one side of his face. As I say, though, a gun is a gun.”
He said it took this man perhaps two or three seconds to realize that the weapon was no longer in his hand. He looked around to see if he had dropped it. He sank to his knees feeling through the debris. Kessler wanted to get out to the girls and decided to drag this man along. He reached to seize him by the collar of his jacket. Just then, he saw Elizabeth coming back in, intent on retrieving Aisha. He saw that she was bleeding from a cut on her scalp and that she’d lost the heel of one shoe.
He asked again, “What was all that outside?”
She answered with one of those satisfied smiles that he’d get whenever she aced him at tennis. “Show you later,” she said. “A surprise.”
He was about to ask her if it rhymes with rascal, but the man in his grip cocked his head when she spoke. He suddenly stopped struggling and turned his good eye in the approximate direction of the sound. He went rigid. He seemed to recognize her. Suddenly he let out a squeak like a mouse and tore himself loose from Kessler’s hand. Now he was clawing through the sodden debris in an even more desperate search.
Kessler said to the man, “It’s not down there. I have it.” He touched his fingers to the butt of the Glock. He asked, “What did you have in mind?”
The man was frantic. He tried to lunge at the weapon, but his feet got no traction; he fell in a splash. Elizabeth, meanwhile, had shown little interest. She knew that he could deal with… whatever this was. As she continued on her way, this man’s good eye followed, all the while trying to find the snap would open the sleeve of his jacket. All the while snorting and gasping. By this time, as far as this man was concerned, he, Kessler, was no longer there. Elizabeth had disappeared through
the archway, this man scrambling after her, crab-like. He was making new sounds or perhaps saying words that were unintelligible to Kessler.
Right then, Elizabeth reappeared in the archway. She’d heard the sounds that this man was making. She looked at the man. She looked at Kessler. She said, “That was Arabic, Martin.”
“Saying what?”
“That I’m a slut. And a lesbian whore.”
Kessler said, “Go. I’ll take care of this.”
Certainly, this raised questions that ought to be asked, but he doubted that this man could process any thoughts beyond his opinion of Elizabeth. He was more than half out of his mind. So enough was enough. They could sort this out later. For now, get him out of the way.
Kessler picked him up by his belt and looked around for a place where he might put him. He decided that the nearby men’s room would do. It seemed unlikely to be needed for some time. As he dragged him through the door and threw him into a stall, the man was still tearing at the cuff of his sleeve, fumbling for something inside it. Another weapon, thought Kessler, more than likely. Kessler lifted him, turned him, stripped the green jacket off him and saw the knife that was taped to his arm. Kessler banged the man’s head against the tank of the toilet in order to settle him down. He went limp. He peeled the knife loose and examined it. A cheap throwing knife from a sporting goods store. A cutting edge had been ground on one side. He’d made a graspable handle using band-aids.
“With this,” Kessler asked him, “you’d go after Elizabeth? You would take on Elizabeth Stride?”
The question was rhetorical. The man was unconscious. Perhaps he thought that a slut and a lesbian whore would fall all to pieces at the sight of this toy. No more time for this, however. Kessler left him.
“That’s it?” Clew asked later, “You just left him?”
“I severed his Achilles. He’d be going nowhere else. I left his knife stuck in the ceiling.”
The young cook had succumbed before the ambulance got there. Sadik had stayed with her to the end. He’d given her morphine. Perhaps enough. Perhaps more. No one seemed willing to ask.
The waiter lived a few hours longer. The EMT medics worked to stabilized him before lifting him onto a stretcher. They found him conscious, in good spirits and in little or no pain. He told them, “I’m all right. Don’t bother about me.” He was talking to them, but he was looking at Aisha. She’d been holding his hand all the while.
But she had to let go when they carried him out. Elizabeth would not let her follow. In the ambulance, they learned later, he’d repeated his assurance that he was not badly hurt. He said he’d thought he was, but he wasn’t anymore after Aisha knelt with him and prayed with him. He’d told them that she was an angel. He’d made it to the intensive care unit where he died of massive trauma to his skull and his spine. And yet he’d never suffered. Not while he was with Aisha. Her name was on his lips when he died. That, at least, was the story.
Another miracle? Or was it a trick of his brain, anesthetized by soothing and comforting words, to say nothing of the flood of endorphins released when the body goes into deep shock. This was Elizabeth’s preferred explanation. “That’s all we need, damn it,” she said with disgust, “is anyone thinking she’s a healer.”
Elizabeth was actually mad at herself for the way she’d left the restaurant with Aisha. It turned out to be the frosting on the cake.
As she and Aisha walked out the front door, there must have been twenty flashing cameras. There were also the strobing blue lights of the police cars, the red lights of fire trucks, the amber lights of the EMT vehicles and of ambulances still lining up. There was no room as yet for the TV mobile units, but these were waiting on the next side street. Their reporters, however, had come forward on foot and were lining up witnesses to be interviewed.
Those twenty or so flashing cameras outside recorded every person, not already out, as they appeared in the doorway on foot or on a stretcher. They did, however, miss Rajib Sadik who certainly had no wish to have his face on news broadcasts. They ignored him, assuming he was just another doctor who’d arrived well after the event.
But the damnedest shot they got was of Elizabeth and Aisha. There was Aisha wrapped in a white table cloth that covered her from head to mid calf. Aisha, who’d worn hijab in the past, had arranged the tablecloth in much the same way. Not on purpose. Force of habit. Old habit. And there was Elizabeth, escorting her, protecting her, her mascara having run in such a way that there seemed a great fierceness about her. Add to that her hair, not burning, but burned, and still steaming from the residual water that still dripped from all over the ceiling. Elizabeth had grabbed a tablecloth of her own. For warmth. Not for modesty. She was feeling a chill. The air cooling system still functioned.
That shot would appear the next morning, Thursday, on page three of the Alexandria Gazette. The paper hadn’t been able to get their names, but its reporter had learned from whatever source that they’d stayed to care for the dying. The accompanying caption said as much and it called them Angels Of Mercy. The shot wasn’t quite a twin of that artist’s rendering that appeared in the Bahrain Tribune. No camel, of course. And no flaming sword. But there was Aisha face with those same big eyes and with that same dimple on her cheek.
And looking radiant. Fairly glistening in the lights. Miraculously untouched by all the soot and the grime that had covered every single other person. How, one might ask, could this have been possible? She was, after all, in there almost the longest. The answer, of course, was the clean tablecloth, but that might not be enough for some people.
Still, there was cause to count a blessing or two. At least it hadn’t made the front page. It was one of many that ran on a spread that covered the fourth and fifth pages. Most were quite small, maybe three inches high, and all part of a larger montage. It showed perhaps a dozen survivors in varying degrees of distress, several taking oxygen, others huddled under blankets. There was also a close-up of the burned-out Subaru and a number of interior shots showing the blast and water damage. The front page had been reserved for a wide-angle photo showing the exterior with its dangling sign and the gaping holes where its windows had been.
The Darvi sisters and Rasha were not shown at all. They’d been ushered by Harry into the stretch limo and were already long gone. The Mercedes, badly scarred, but entirely drivable, had moved several car lengths up the street where it waited beyond the art gallery. This was done at the direction of the fire department who needed it out of their way. The driver was one of the twins. There, it waited for Elizabeth and Aisha. Kessler had run interference for them, pushing several reporters aside. That didn’t stop more shots from being taken as they climbed into the Mercedes. But none of these had appeared in the spread or on any of the late TV broadcasts. Of all the coverage, there was only that one single photo of the two “angels” emerging. And since that was only one among many, perhaps Aisha would be lost in the crowd.
Roger Clew, like Sadik, had escaped being photographed as did Harry Whistler himself. They’d already left the scene in the limo, Charles Haskell still in the trunk. The presence of State’s Director of Intelligence would have attracted the notice of the media world-wide. Bad enough that the bombing itself had already. It was among the leads on several internet news sites within ninety minutes of the blast. There would be no hope of containing this.
And yet speculation was curiously muted as to the cause of the explosion. Few even used the word “bomb.” Terrorism was mentioned, but generally dismissed. No one could think of any possible motive for targeting this restaurant in particular. None realized that any at the party were Muslims, let alone being runaways brought out by the Nasreens. Haskell’s scheme notwithstanding… and Aisha’s photo notwithstanding… no one drew a connection between this attack and either the prophecy or the Saudi ten billion. This was true of the media. Largely true of the police. Their interest was local. Their interest was personal.
One of them had been helping tend bar.
&n
bsp; FORTY
The policewoman, Karen, full name Karen Hoffman, had witnessed a good deal both inside and out. Her first instinct had been to get people to safety. She did so while calling 911. Her biggest concern had been for the girls. She shouted to Harry asking if they’re okay. He’d shouted back through the din. “We all seem to be, yes. Martin’s checking on the staff. We’ll need ambulances.”
“They’re coming,” she told him. “I can hear them.”
Karen had been in and out several times, giving aid wherever she saw the need. She was in when the struggles with Haskell occurred. They’d only lasted for a minute or two. She was out when Harry appeared with the twin, first making at least one call of his own. She seen him send the twin for the Ford Escape that had been left idling down the street. She knew it wasn’t Harry’s. It belonged to the Greek. She saw the twin drive it to the next street up where there was a building under construction, but with no workers present at that hour. She saw the twin – not that she knew he was a twin - step out of the car, having left it in gear, and walk back as the Ford Escape kept going, finally coming to rest between a pile of sand and a heavy construction site dumpster.
That was all the attention she’d had time to give it until perhaps a good hour later when the body of the Greek was discovered.
A fireman had found him in the men’s’ toilet stall. He promptly called in the nearest police in the person of Karen and her sergeant, Dave Ragland. They’d been out taking statements from witnesses while avoiding saying much to the press. The sergeant was in uniform. Karen was not. She still wore the grimy white shirt and stained slacks that she’d put on to help with the party. But she wore her badge on her belt. The Greek had bled out from a wound to his face and from one deep cut through his Achilles. They saw the throwing knife stuck in the ceiling. They saw fresh blood on the side that had been sharpened. They saw the bandages on the dead Greek’s right forearm, some of which conformed to the shape of the knife. They found a Greek passport in his pocket. It gave his name as Zenobias Polykarpos. Within it they found a plastic key card with the name of a nearby motel. And they found a snapshot of a somber little girl who was dressed in Muslim attire.
The Aisha Prophecy Page 39