The Aisha Prophecy

by Maxim, John R.

  He smiled. “I’m so glad I thought of this, Hester. What are some of my other ideas?”

  She slapped his shoulders indicating that the rubdown was over. She crossed to the opposite side of the counter and pulled up two stools facing his. She climbed onto one of them, turned her head, and called out, “Sadik. It is time for a break. Come sit with us in the kitchen.”

  Whistler started to rise. He said, “You don’t need me to sell this to Sadik. Do it. It’s decided. It’s time for my bath.”

  She planted her elbows, her chin in her hands. She said, “Sit. New subject. The prophecy.”

  FORTY SEVEN

  It took them a while to get to that subject. Sadik went from being dazed to being dazzled at the prospect of controlling all that money. His concerns, and there were several, kept being dwarfed by the prospect of having ten thousand new doctors.

  He was doodling on a notepad, playing with numbers. Ten Thousand? Twenty thousand was possible, he said. Or ten thousand plus a thousand local clinics. At least twenty million vaccinations a year paid for by the interest alone.

  Whistler used the time to make more calls to Geneva to confirm that the various foundations Hester spoke of were equipped to deal with such amounts. The answer was basically, “We don’t see why not.” The founders of Microsoft have established foundations that total four times as much. They would arrange a meeting of all the directors to be held on the following Monday. Sadik should plan on attending that meeting. He’ll be asked to take a seat on the board.

  Hester was calling him back into the kitchen. She repeated, “Now the prophecy. Come sit.”

  He’d heard Sadik’s arguments over the good that even the talk of this prophecy might do. He was not greatly interested in hearing them again, except that here was Hester, an Israeli Jew, who seemed to have embraced it as well. He was curious as to her reasons.

  Besides, he felt he owed her. Not least for the massage. She had just relieved him of a major headache. A six and a half billion dollar headache.

  The main argument was an old one, centuries old, but revived with a vengeance by the prophecy bloggers on thousands of internet sites. A great many Muslim thinkers had been critical of Islam. This once brilliant culture of scholars and poets, consummate builders, mathematicians and astronomers, had gradually allowed itself to be mired in a bunkered long-ago past. Unlike Christianity, it’s never had a Martin Luther to spark a self-examining Reformation. It’s never had a Jean-Jacques Rousseau to plant the seeds of a Renaissance.

  Sadik said, “But of course, that’s not strictly true. There were plenty of reformers, progressives and liberals. Like Luther, most were branded as apostates and heretics by a clergy that saw its authority threatened. The only movement that ever really got off the ground was one that went backward, not forward.”

  “The Wahhabis?”

  “Uh-huh. Fundamentalist Sunnis. Got in bed with the patriarch, Abdul ibn Saud, who was then just a run-of-the-mill tribal leader who eked out a living raiding caravans. They’d support him if he’d support them. He’d accept their Islam as the only true Islam. In return, they’d give him a religious dispensation that permitted him to rob any non-Wahhabi, which meant everyone else in the world.”

  “That would seem to come in handy for a bandit,” said Whistler.

  “You got it,” said Hester. “It also worked for the mullahs of Iran who snatched most of that country’s GDP for themselves.”

  Sadik winced as she said it. “They’re not all like that.”

  She said, “No, they’re not all like your old college roomie. But even Abbas Mansur has to watch what he says. But, okay, let’s stick with the Wahhabis.” She said to Harry, “Aside from being anti-modern, anti-all things western, even banning sunglasses there for a while, they were a disaster for women. They said a woman’s only function was to breed more men. There were plenty of women who thought, ‘Well screw you,’ but they didn’t dare say it out loud.”

  “Until the internet.”

  “Yes. That’s where this thing got its wings. There are some who’ve been calling her a Muslim Joan of Arc but that’s exactly what we don’t need. No one’s looking for the kind who’ll lead armies into battle. But we’d love to see a champion arise and speak out, both to women and to fair-minded men. And we need a voice that cannot be silenced.”

  “This Aisha,” said Sadik, “has only one message. She says read the Koran. You don’t need a cleric to interpret it for you. They’ve twisted its teachings long enough. All through it, it tells women, ‘Be the best you can be.’ Within limits? Yes. Because family is important. But it spelled out women’s rights that western women wouldn’t get for another twelve hundred years.”

  Harry said to Hester, “You said we need a voice. Just so I’m clear, who is we?”

  “Women,” she answered. “All women. Jews included. Read the blogs. Some of the most heart-felt are from Hindu women. The Wahhabis, not to mention the Pakistanis, want the Hindus just as dead as the rest of us.”

  Sadik said, “Speaking of that part of the world, do you want to know who doesn’t feel the need for a champion?”

  Harry waited.

  “It’s the Muslims with whom you do business, Harry. All the Muslims of the Caspian republics. Neither Sunni nor Shiite, these are Hanafi Muslims. They are the least fundamentalist of all Muslim sects.”

  Hester chimed in. “And their women are regarded as a equals, not as property, and nearly all are at least high school graduates. Literacy, both sexes, stands at 99 percent. Middle east Muslim countries average half that. How come? Those countries were Soviet Republics. The Soviet Union’s educational system stressed the sciences regardless of gender. It encouraged talent regardless of gender. They are not cowed by clerics. They think for themselves. They interpret the Koran for themselves.”

  “And their women,” Sadik added, “still manage to raise children while designing roads and bridges and pipelines.”

  “Okay, I get it.” said Harry. “Education is key. Let’s get back to this Aisha reformation…”

  “Good name for it,” said Hester. “Good thinking.”

  “The protestant reformation was hardly peaceful,” he reminded her. “The medieval Catholic church, unless I’m mistaken, was just as intolerant of dissent.”

  “Until Martin Luther. Until Rousseau. Until they freed people to follow their hearts.”

  Harry had to smile. “Nice thought, but not true. They were merely divided into warring camps of Catholic and Protestant armies. I assume you’ve heard of the Thirty Years War. They proceeded to slaughter each other.”

  “Harry,” said Sadik, “warring camps need warring leaders. All these leaders were men. That’s what’s going to be different this time.”

  “Um… how so?”

  “Aisha, to begin with, doesn’t divide. You heard Hester. Her message unites. And as Hester said, she cannot be silenced. If a Muslim Martin Luther were to spring up, they’d cut his throat before you could say boo.”

  “They could cut our Aisha’s throat just as quickly,” said Harry. “That’s where you lose me on this.”

  Hester asked, “She is safe, is she not?”

  “She’ll be out of reach soon. But not forever.” He said. “Look, we’ve all dodged a bullet today. That suicide note was only written last night. Haskell had time to fax a copy to the Saudis with a promise that he’d kill us all.”

  “He didn’t,” said Sadik. “I’m named in that note. The first Saudi who read it would have picked up the phone and asked Hamas to arrest me just in case. I can assure you that my wife would have heard. She would have called me by now.”

  “That’s the Saudis,” said Harry. “What about the Iranians. Mansur asked you to track down the prophecy. You’re in Tehran one day and in Belle Haven the next. The Iranians, who get CNN by the way, might be able to add two and two.”

  Sadik said, “You leave the Iranians to me. I promised Abbas Mansur that I’d report and I will. I’ll give him my word that Eliz
abeth Stride’s Aisha had no role whatsoever in the spread of this prophecy. He’ll believe me because it’s the truth.”

  “Niki Darvi sure did. What will you say about her?”

  “I’ll tell him, if asked, that his suspicion was correct. The younger Darvi sister made some mischief. She’s been punished by Elizabeth; she’s no longer in Belle Haven. She was not, however, the original source. There were already references to the prophecy on Google. Thousands of others must have seen them and discussed them long before Niki sent her first email. This is also the literal truth.”

  “Some mischief?” asked Harry. “That’s what you’ll call it? She claimed to be Aisha’s handmaiden, for Pete’s sake. She claimed to have seen her in the flesh. She claimed to have taken that ten billion dollars so that Aisha could give it to the poor.”

  “Juvenile mischief. You took it. She didn’t. You took what was left of it and gave it to me so that I could give it back to the poor. Maybe she overheard what you were planning to do and decided to pretend that Aisha did it.”

  Hester raised an eyebrow. “That’s pretty damned thin.”

  “Perhaps,” said Sadik. “but what can he say? It didn’t start here and it won’t end here either. But no more of it will be coming from Niki.”

  “He’ll have heard about the bombing. What will you say about that?”

  “Not related,” said Sadik. “It was the act of a man who had a personal grudge against some of the people in that restaurant. I can place my hand on the holy Koran and swear that it was not about the prophecy.”

  Whistler was doubtful. Sadik saw that on his face. He said, “Listen to me, Harry. This was Mansur’s big question. Is this prophecy part of a Western conspiracy to cause turmoil in the oil-producing countries? I can look him in the eye and say that it is not. Will some try to take advantage? Of course. Some always do. But because, when you come down to it, all it really is, is gossip, there is nothing for them to try to crush.”

  Whistler asked Hester, “Would you say we’re home free?”

  “From whom? The Inquisitors? Muslim heretic hunters? I would say maybe. For a time. With some luck.”

  “A most comforting answer. Thank you, Hester.”

  She said, “Washington, I think, might make a pest of itself. But not for long. You’re Harry Whistler. You find oil.”

  He rubbed his eyes. He said, “Okay. Let’s get back on the subject. You haven’t told me what you want me to do about keeping the prophecy alive.”

  “Who said keep it alive?” Sadik asked. “Just don’t kill it.”

  “Explain.”

  Sadik said, “Only what you’re already planning to do. Keep these girls, all of them, out of sight for a while. Keep an eye on Niki especially. You don’t want her, as she’s threatened, to spill the beans and tell the whole world that this was a hoax – which is, incidentally what Mansur has in mind for her. Many Muslim women would be made to look foolish. Those awakened might go right back to sleep.”

  “Um… isn’t it already being labeled a hoax?”

  “Labeling isn’t knowing. And besides, she’s really come. Aisha’s spirit is already out there. I’ve been working on Niki to make her understand that she has actually done some real good. But only if she never speaks of it.”

  “Go on.”

  “The second,” said Sadik, “is for you to keep silent. You know that this part of it began as a lark. You know that it grew out of four girls talking. We’re simply asking that you never say so. Not even if the president asks you.”

  “That’s all you’re asking? That I don’t derail it?”

  “Deny, if asked, whether you are behind it. I know. You don’t deny. You don’t tell them a thing. But in this case, we don’t want it said that an infidel…”

  “This infidel will deny all involvement.”

  Hester and Sadik exchanged satisfied smiles. This was easier than either had expected.

  Harry said, “Not so fast. There are conditions.”

  “That it never touch Aisha?”

  “If anyone I know should so much as hint that our Aisha is the Aisha of the prophecy, I’ll call a press conference myself. I will give my word that she has not, and never pretended to be, the Aisha of the prophecy reborn.”

  “Fair enough,” said Sadik. “But you won’t say it’s false?”

  “The prophecy? Who am I to say such a thing? I’ll only say that it must be some other Aisha.”

  Sadik hesitated. He was rubbing his chin.

  “Rajib?”

  He said, “It’s agreed. She is not the new Aisha. A small part of me, however, can’t help wishing that she might be. She’d have more than an angel to protect her.”

  “Okay, you’ve said it. Can you now put it out of your mind?”

  Sadik offered his hand. “My word on it. Done.”

  Harry took it. He said, “Let us hope so.”

  They spoke for a while on a number of subjects. Harry still wasn’t sure that he understood why Hester would ally with Sadik. Sadik is Sadik, but Hamas is Hamas. And the bedrock raison d’etre of that organization’s charter is the final destruction of Israel. That would seem to be an obstacle to peace.

  Another, even stronger, is in the Koran. The language is very specific. You may not, repeat not, make peace with an enemy who has taken your land. One could argue all day about whose land it is and who had the greater historical claim. One could argue about which was the chosen of God. One could note that fully a fifth of all Israelis were Muslims with full rights of citizenship. But the fact remained, at the end of the day, that many more had either been driven from their homes or not permitted to return.

  Sadik had asked him, “You’ve read the Koran?”

  “I re-read it on the plane coming over.”

  “Next time read more carefully. That’s not all it says. It says we must either drive them from our land or else let them stay and pay tribute.”

  Harry seemed to recall that it did, in fact, say that. Hamas’ charter, however, does not offer that option. Sadik then pointed out that the Koran takes precedence over any political document.

  Harry asked, “Then why bother including it?”

  “To get Saudi backing. You don’t get Saudi backing without Wahhabi backing. Israel’s there to stay. We all know that,” said Sadik. “No one’s driving them into the sea.”

  “As long as they pay tribute? That would seem… unlikely.”

  “It would?” asked Sadik. “They’re already paying. Israel has paid millions in reparations to Muslims whose land they have taken. Over here, you call that eminent domain. You take homes where you need to build a highway.”

  “That’s compensation,” said Harry. “Not tribute.”

  “Semantics,” said Sadik. “Israel is paying. But from their point of view, they are making an investment. Not a pay-off, not a bribe, but a legitimate investment. The Palestinian work force is far and away the most educated and industrious in all the Mideast. In that regard, the two peoples have much in common. They’re already trading partners on quite a large scale.”

  “We buy their grain,” said Hester, “their fruits and their vegetables. We buy copper and potash and sulfur from their mines. You know this new wall that you hear so much about? All its concrete comes from Palestinian companies that were more than happy to sell it. We also buy about a third of our fresh water from them. All this can only increase.”

  Harry remained doubtful. “Trade still isn’t tribute.”

  “It is if we say it is,” said Sadik.

  Hester added, “But of course no one says it out loud. This is just to quiet the die-hards. It allows them to believe that they’ve not only won something, but have satisfied Allah’s primary requirement. More investment, meanwhile, provides jobs and good lives. What will those who have them say to the die-hards? More and more, they will say, ‘Oh, shut up.’”

  “More and more,” asked Harry, “over how long a period? The pace of change has been less than breath-taking.”


  “Not as slow,” said Hester, “as your civil rights movement. Your blacks had been citizens for almost a century before they began to be treated as such. Why then? Because their own Martin Luther stepped forward. The writer, James Baldwin became their Rousseau. All Palestine had was Yasir Arafat who never missed an opportunity to miss an opportunity. But then, of course, he was…”

  “Only human?” asked Sadik.

  “And a man,” Hester answered.

  “Two encumbrances,” said Sadik, “that Aisha’s spirit doesn’t share. Perhaps she can pick up the pace.”

  FORTY EIGHT

  Two helicopters were waiting on the tarmac in Geneva. The alternate aircraft that Kate Whistler had chartered touched down a few minutes after sunset.

  Harry’s Gulfstream had, as he’d suspected, drawn a reception committee at Reagan. There were cameramen among them, but not from the media. Gerald Stickles had intended to be photographed interdicting Harry Whistler and the terrorist, Sadik, as proof that he was in full command. The Gulfstream’s pilot had warned Harry off as soon as he saw the line of black cars race up and block the aircraft from moving. Clew’s limo proceeded to Baltimore.

  The crew of the Gulfstream had been detained and denied further access to telephones. But they couldn’t be held for more than a day. It was only after they were once again airborne when Harry learned that his Gulfstream had been standing wingtip to wingtip with a Trans-Global Oil & Gas corporate jet signed out to its CEO, Charles Haskell. The world seems to get smaller by the day.

  The two helicopters were five-seat Bell Rangers. They had waited well away from the passenger terminal but under a bank of bright floodlights. The helicopters were painted a candy-apple red and, as with the Gulfstream, Harry’s initials stood outlined in gold, this time only two feet high on the fuselage. A Humvee waited near the Bell Rangers, this one gold with Harry’s initials in red.