The Aisha Prophecy

by Maxim, John R.

  Harry Whistler had just completed a phone call. He said, “It’s just as well. I have someone driving down here who I’m going to need. You’ve met Hester Lazarus, haven’t you?”

  “Your forger? Formerly Yitzhak Netanya’s?”

  “You diminish her, Roger. The woman’s an artist. She’s still attached to the Israeli embassy, but I supplement her income considerably. She lives in Fairfax County. She’ll be here within the hour. In the meantime, is anyone hungry?”

  He hadn’t eaten. None of them had. The three of them, Sadik included, retired to the kitchen where Clew put on some coffee while Harry and Sadik explored the panty and fridge. They found some cold lamb. They made sandwiches.

  Clew said to Sadik, “As long as we’re waiting, what’s the story on how Dr. Freundlisch of Geneva became Dr. Sadik of Hamas? Were you already a Muslim when I met you?”

  He wasn’t. He said he’d been Lutheran if anything. He had been raised in a Swiss-German household by parents only casually religious. But then he’d met Maryam while at Medical school. She’d gone there on a scholarship grant. She’d won it in an open competition that is held every year in Amman.

  “Maryam is Jordanian?”

  “Palestinian,” said Sadik. “And yes, she is Muslim. Her family is from Hebron, West Bank.”

  Sadik recounted the middle part of the story, hitting only on key highlights to do so. Graduating. Getting married during his residency. Joining a surgical practice in Geneva. Maryam, a year later, doing the same within her own specialty of Obstetrics. Maryam already pregnant herself. Meeting Harry when called on to patch one of his people. Patching Harry himself on two occasions. Later flying to Bucharest at Harry’s behest where he took two bullets out of Elizabeth. That’s where he met Kessler for the first time. Harry had known him for some years.

  Harry said, “That’s about when he got tired of patching.”

  Sadik shrugged. “I know. That’s was the reason I gave. The truth was that both of us, Maryam and myself, had admired the good work of Doctors Without Borders. One’s religious faith made no difference to them. Moving to Brussels, working with them, seemed very worth doing. We would give it two years.”

  “With your daughter?” Clew asked. He bit into his sandwich.

  “What better education could she get?”

  To cut some of the cords, they changed Freundlisch to Friendly. It wasn’t intended as a disguise. It was more that they had begun a new chapter. It seemed a good idea at the time. All three traveled in the service of that organization throughout Africa and the Mideast. More and more the Mideast. More and more the West Bank. It was where he concluded that Maryam was right in what she’d been saying since before they were married. It was where both their skills were most sorely needed. Two years would not be enough.

  They set up their first clinic. Harry contributed. They’d stayed in close touch with Harry. But it became clear that he would only be trusted by Muslims if he were a Muslim himself. He was, of course, well acquainted with Islam and was reasonably fluent in Arabic through his wife. He converted for practical, although not insincere reasons. He admired many aspects of Islam. He took a Muslim name. He chose Rajib Sadik. Friendly always seemed a good name for a doctor. It ought to work the same in any language.

  For reasons that were equally practical, he and his wife joined Hamas. Hamas, being largely supported by the Saudis was where most of the money and the influence was. Using Hamas funds, they opened more clinics. Harry was still more than willing to help, but it was always best to use Muslim money. Saudi money in particular. All he could get. They had so much more than they deserved.

  In order to do the most good for the poor, he had to try to ignore the more bloody activities of the militant wing of Hamas. He detested their attacks on Israeli civilians and yet he understood why they were done. Many hundreds of innocent Palestinians had died through Israeli shelling and strafing. Thousands humiliated every day of the week by their status as an occupied people.

  “On that subject,” said Sadik, “don’t make the mistake of seeing this as unique to this particular conflict. All occupations are hateful.”

  “I know that.”

  “Israelis, British, Americans… doesn’t matter. They must impose restrictions; they will be seen as bullies. Go here. Don’t go there. Open that bundle. Making women lift their skirts; their husbands helpless to prevent it. Humiliation brings resistance which brings countermeasures. The occupiers have all the tanks and the war planes. The resistance never does. Their bombs must be hand-delivered or in cars or on bikes. How could anyone be surprised that this is so?”

  “Can we get back to…”

  “No, let me say this. Both sides kill the innocent. The occupier bombs a house; there is collateral damage; the bomb kills women and children. Someone retaliates with a suicide bomb. You believe that this someone is from Hamas because the Israelis tell you he is. As often as not, it’s some father or brother who can’t live with the shame of not avenging them.”

  “Yes,” said Clew, “but who gives him his bomb?”

  “Here’s another surprise. Almost anyone, that’s who. You think you are fighting one group in Iraq? It’s more like a hundred. You think they seem to spring up out of nowhere and they do. They spring up, they attack, their rage is spent and they’re gone. That’s why you can never defeat an insurgency. There’s never one single head to cut off. It only ever ends when you get out.”

  “Point taken,” said Clew. “But on the matter at hand…”

  “I’m ranting. I know that. I just want the killing stopped. And another way to stop it is maybe, just maybe…” Sadik bit his lip.

  “Aisha coming?”

  “Never mind. Who knows? Let’s get back to your question. You were asking about me and Hamas.”

  Hamas, Sadik told him, has been the only game in town when it came to helping Palestinians. Hamas, unlike the PLO, didn’t steal. There was almost no corruption in Hamas. You never saw them riding around in new cars as soon as a new donation came in from the World Bank or whomever. But Hamas would have no credibility with the people unless it was willing to strike back in kind. A dirty business? Yes. Unending? He hoped not. There were reasonable people on both sides of the struggle. More and more of them. They were equally sick of it. Among them were people like Yitzhak Netanya whom he’d met years before through Martin Kessler.

  Clew said, “Not to mention men like Abbas Mansur.”

  Sadik grunted. “I take it you’ve been making inquiries.”

  “I have. But I’m not clear on your relationship.”

  “I’ve known Mansur since college. The University of Geneva. We were roommates for two of those years.”

  “And he went on to become an alternate chairman of Iran’s revolutionary Council of Guardians?”

  Sadik shrugged. “Who knew at the time?”

  Mansur, he said, could not have been called pious when they were rooming together. Respectful, yes, but not pious. Their many conversations, as with most college students, were about politics, religion, women and sports, but by no means necessarily in that order. He helped Mansur with his English and his German. Mansur, in turn, taught him some Arabic, using the Koran as a text. The Arabic he learned stood him in good stead when later, while attending medical school, he met the woman who would one day be his wife.

  Clew paused to take a sip of his coffee. “Harry, Netanya, Mansur and Hamas. You’ve made some impressive connections.”

  “I’ve made friends. One can’t have too many.”

  “Have you ever been accused of playing both sides?”

  “Of course. And I do. It’s not an afternoon tea. I play both sides all the time.”

  Clew had a question of immediate interest concerning Sadik’s recent visit to Tehran. He’d started to ask it. Sadik waved it off. “Not so fast. Let’s talk about my connections.”

  He told Roger Clew that it was due to those connections that he rose to his present rank in Hamas. He headed Hamas’ Heath Serv
ices wing. It was one of five departments of Hamas, entirely distinct from the militant wing or even the political wing. Even so, he’d been asked many times to use his connections for various purposes. Among those purposes was tracking down women who’d bolted and especially those who’d been helping them to bolt. But he’d always refused. He said let them go. He’d said he’d willingly let his own daughter go if she were to choose to make a life somewhere else, assuming that she’d thought the matter out.

  But he’d also been asked to intercede with Netanya to get this or that arrested Muslim operative released. Sometimes asked by Hamas. Sometimes asked by the Saudis. He’d done so, for some, but it was always a trade. He would want additional funding in return. More than that, he needed something to trade with Netanya. Netanya’s motto was “Nothing for nothing.”

  And it worked both ways. One day, Netanya offered a Saudi arms smuggler in trade for two women who’d been imprisoned in Riyadh.

  Sadik had asked Netanya, “Are they Mossad?”

  “These two? No. These two are good Muslims. They have no connection with Israel.”

  Sadik asked Netanya, “Then why do you want them?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Well, at least you must tell me what is their crime.”

  Netanya answered, “They are Nasreens.”

  Sadik was aware that the Nasreens existed, but had, until then, never given them much thought. What, in any case, would Netanya want with them?

  It was no use asking Netanya again. But Sadik knew Netanya and he could guess. If Netanya wanted these two women freed, it wasn’t so that they could resume their activities. It was so he could trade them to someone else for something else that he wanted. Or perhaps he owed a favor to the Nasreens for some favor that they did for him. Who knows?

  But he got them released and he took them to his home until a pick-up by Netanya’s Mossad could be arranged. He got to know them a little and found that he liked them. Courageous, dedicated, entirely sincere. More than that, it turned out that his wife knew them well. Not these two. Not personally. But his wife knew their work. She was all for it. So was his daughter. They treated some injuries that they’d suffered in prison. Both Nasreens had probably been raped by the guards, but he, Sadik, had no need to ask. Not while there was a gynecologist handy. His wife and daughter had them take a good long soak in the bathtub while they went out and bought them new clothing.

  The upshot of this was that after their release, the Nasreens knew who to go to when they needed a favor. Within months, his wife and daughter were full-fledged Nasreens. There’s no membership committee. You don’t get voted in. You become a member by helping where help is needed. Contributing some cash now and then doesn’t hurt, but you can’t just write checks; you must be active.

  As for the prophecy, he’d paid little attention until he saw more women asserting themselves. Not rebelling so much. Not antagonism toward men. Or at least not toward men in general. It was more like saying to them, “There are changes in the wind.” They would say, “Whether Aisha is coming or not, a lot of eyes and hearts are being opened. You’re seeing it everywhere, even in Syria. People don’t feel like sheep in some great flock anymore.” And the men were listening to their wives and their daughters. Not all, of course. Some were totally dismissive. Especially the Saudis and some others he could name. But even there some were saying to their women, “You are right. It is in the wind. More than that, It’s overdue. You deserve full respect and you shall have it. In time.”

  Overdue? And yet they still say, “In time?” This prophecy might be just the right medicine.

  He’d known through Netanya and also through Kessler that Elizabeth had almost died once before. That was in Jordan, near the Saudi border. He knew that her life had been saved on that occasion by the woman for whom the Nasreens were later named. Stride might even have been one of their founders.

  He’d known that she still had a price on her head. He’d known that she became tired of being hunted and had gone to America to start a new life. He’d known that she had somehow connected with a group of Nasreens in South Carolina. He’d heard that she, for some reason, had more or less adopted a young Egyptian fugitive named Aisha. He’d heard this from Kessler himself.

  It struck him after reading the prophecy, that Qaila sounds a lot like Elizabeth Stride. Just a thought. A passing thought. Then one day he took a call from Abbas Mansur. Mansur wanted him to locate two Iranian girls who were thought to be somewhere in South Carolina, taken there by the Nasreens. Mansur asked because his old school friend was known to have close connections with the Nasreens. Sure he did. They lived under his roof.

  Mansur, it seemed, had reason to believe that these same girls were involved in the prophecy. Or at least they were saying so over the internet. They were claiming that they’d actually seen Aisha. They said her “coming” was imminent. Mansur said that many of their friends had been arrested. If Sadik agreed to help, they’d be released.

  Sadik declined when he was first asked, even though he had considerable regard for Mansur. His thoughts about Stride were no more than conjecture, even with South Carolina thrown in. The arrests, however, did trouble Sadik. He went on his computer to try to find out how widespread such arrests were. He found that there were many. Trouble all over. The web site for Amnesty International confirmed that some sixty had been imprisoned in Tehran alone. One had been sentenced to be flogged with a number of lashes that she wasn’t likely to survive.

  Clew asked him, “Is this when you flew to Tehran?”

  “Not yet. Only sentenced. Don’t get ahead of me. In the meantime, I had my own problems.”

  His main source of funding, Saudi Overseas Charities, seemed to have frozen his access to those funds. He flew to Riyadh to look into it. It was there that he saw what these “handmaidens” had done, never mind that it was really only Niki. Aside from announcing that this “coming” was imminent, they’d helped themselves to ten billion dollars.

  “Moreover, as you know, Haskell’s banker friend was there. And Rasha’s father. They were out of luck as well. All at once, this was bigger than I had imagined.” He looked at his watch. “We’re still waiting for Kessler?”

  “And Hester Lazarus. Get to Tehran.”

  “I called and tried to get through to Mansur. It was then that I learned that the flogging had begun. I rushed to Tehran and I… stopped it.”

  “Her name was Farah,” said Clew. “I’m told that she died.”

  “She died in peace. Don’t ask for details.”

  “But you spoke to her. Did she know that the Darvi girls were here? Did she know that Elizabeth and Aisha were here?”

  No, Sadik, told him. Not specifically here. Nor did she seem to recognize Elizabeth’s name. If he wondered, however, so might someone else. He decided that he ought to try to find out. If she wasn’t involved, she might know who was. She might have an interest in containing this thing before her own Aisha came under suspicion and ended up as a target. At the very least, she ought to be warned.

  He had no means of contacting Stride. He didn’t know where Kessler was either, but perhaps he and Stride were still together. Netanya would know. Netanya always keeps tabs. Through Netanya he contacted Kessler.

  His motive? His intentions? He found that they were evolving. First find Elizabeth. Through her, find the girls. Let Elizabeth know that they were playing with fire and many had already been burned.

  “But the more I learned, and the more I considered it, this prophecy appeared to be a very good thing. Mansur himself said it. It made men stop and think. So perhaps we shouldn’t be too quick to say that your Aisha’s not the Aisha of the prophecy.”

  Harry raised a hand. He touched a finger to his lips. He said, “Hold that thought. I need a minute.”

  He got up, left the kitchen and, making no sound on the carpeted floor, he walked down the side hall to the nearest guest bedrooms. The first was Aisha’s. The door was inches ajar. The ro
om was dark and silent. He looked in.

  He saw Aisha in her bed. She was lying on her stomach. The light from the hallway caught the glow of the salve that Elizabeth had dabbed on her arms and bare shoulders. Beside her, in the bed, was young Rasha, also still. Between them, a ball of gray fur, Rasha’s kitten. Neither, he supposed, felt like being alone. Any dreams seemed unlikely to be pleasant.

  He carefully eased the door closed. He returned to the kitchen where he said to Sadik, “I don’t think they heard you. I wish I hadn’t. Please tell me that you weren’t serious.”

  “I said perhaps. Don’t dismiss it too quickly.”

  “Is this the ‘one way’ you started to mention?”

  “This thing could work miracles, Harry.”

  “But at what cost?” asked Whistler. “Having our Aisha hunted? Having our Aisha killed? Or do you prefer to use the word ‘martyred?’”

  “Harry… this is me. You’re not talking to some nut. The least you can do is hear me out.”

  “No, the least I can do is end this discussion. You’d keep her hidden for… what? Five more years?”

  “Harry, she’s going to be hunted regardless. Sure, we could change her name, give her a new identity. Make her a Catholic. Say she’s Spanish or Italian. But that means she can’t be with Elizabeth Stride with whom she’s now widely identified. Can you see Aisha agreeing to that? Can you see Elizabeth agreeing?”

  Clew nodded. “He does have a point.”

  “Then we’ll tell the truth. The whole thing was a hoax. Niki did this all on her own. The prophecy. The ten billion. All of it.”

  “Yes, it’s the truth, but who would believe it? We still have trouble believing it ourselves and we know the truth beyond doubt.”

  Harry heard someone coming in the front door. He knew that it could only be Kessler and Stride. “Not a word of this to them. Not from either of you.”

  “We’ll talk again later,” said Sadik.

  “No, we won’t.”

  Harry rose from his chair. He left his half-eaten sandwich. “Not until we’ve given it more thought.”