by J Randall
“Thank you. I have always done my best for the tribe. Come and sit with me and I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.”
The four men sat down and the shopkeeper went on. “Over the last month, there have been rumors that people are falling through the earth’s crust—and no explanation. No one thought much of it, since the people were foreign infidels and are blamed for much that’s wrong in Iraq today. As the rumors continued, it was whispered among some that the religious were involved.”
“What foreigners do you speak of and why were religious people suspected?” asked Medhat.
“I’m talking about some missing men who wear the blue hats.”
Medhat leaned forward. “Who do you mean by that?”
“You know. The infidels that work for the UN. No one can say what happened to them—or perhaps they’re too scared to talk. I was warned once to stay away from the places the blue hats visit, especially if I see clerics in the area. Do you think it has anything to do with the cleric the tribe is seeking?”
“I’m not sure, but we believe he has come to Baghdad.” Medhat stood up. “We have occupied too much of your time during business hours and it’s getting late. Talk to the vendors you trade with—there may be other rumors that haven’t reached your ears. Any rumor, no matter how small, could be helpful.”
The men shook hands with the vendor and agreed to meet in two days.
* * *
The three men were let into the house by the old lady, who was always dressed in a black chador.
She served them tea and a light snack.
Before going home Shapira gave Medhat a note from Hilal.
“Spending the night at Taji air base with friend. Will return in the morning. Please wait for me.”
* * *
The following morning, after eating a breakfast set out by Shapira, they waited on their cousin’s return.
The three men heard the front door open and Hilal, still in his flight uniform walked in.
“Assalaam alaikum, cousin,” Medhat said in greeting and Nasif and Omed echoed.
“Wa alaikum Assalaam,” replied Hilal.
“What have you heard from your friend?”
Hilal set his green air force cap on the table and took a seat next to Medhat. “He flew low over the desert on our side of the border. He spotted two abandoned vehicles, but neither of them resembled military jeeps. He said they looked like commercial 4-wheel drive vehicles. Japanese. He followed the tracks a ways into Iraq, but the windblown sand made it impossible to tell where they went.”
Nasif raised a finger. “The military in Saudi Arabia have many Japanese vehicles. I suppose that’s why cousin Sattam said they were like the ones used by soldiers. Was your friend able to tell how many there were?”
Hilal shook his head. “Perhaps if he had landed, but the sand’s too soft and he didn’t have the time.”
Hilal adjusted the position of his chair. “Something has been gnawing on me since first hearing the story. Cousin Sattam said that the vehicles had been painted sand color. I don’t understand why someone would want to camouflage them if they were being driven on the roads, unless they were trying to hide something. Could they have been stolen or too easy to identify with their original color—or both?”
Omed, who had remained mute, could wait no longer, “May I ask a question?”
“Of course,” said Medhat. “What is it?”
“It may be nothing, but I was thinking about the gossip we heard in the bazaar yesterday. Cousin Hilal, what type of motor vehicles do the UN drive?”
The silence in the house emphasized the street traffic out front as the men contemplated the question.
Hilal was starting to see a connection. “Young cousin, is it that obvious to you?”
“The rumor we heard,” said Omed, “mentioned the missing men who wear blue hats. I don’t know if it means anything, but I’ve seen the vehicles they drive and most are painted white. Our cousin at the bazaar had also heard that the devout from the mosques might be mixed up in it somehow.”
“I encountered the UN a week ago in the desert,” said Hilal. “It was most puzzling at the time. Their reason for being there made no sense. Unless…”
“Unless what, Hilal?”
“Unless they were searching for their missing men. The man in charge was civil. He apologized for the misunderstanding in the desert…Perhaps I should contact him. He said he worked at the UN compound here in Baghdad.”
Omed was no longer asking for permission to speak or even looking at his father first. He asked, “Do you think he’ll talk to you?”
“It’s possible, but I can’t go to their compound. He’ll be reluctant to meet me, but I have nothing to lose—unless the military authorities find out…
“William Holden.”
CHAPTER 41: RETURN TO THE MOSQUE
THE TWO TRUCKS carrying the Imam and his immediate retinue had arrived back in Baghdad late Wednesday night.
The clerics who met them had been overjoyed at their safe return, but their joy couldn’t dispel the Imam’s anguish and disappointment. His sleep was unsettled by dreams of Ehab and a vision of UN jeeps chasing him.
He arose before dawn prayers and remained agitated late into the morning, when he met with other clerics at the mosque.
The small room was austere, with the exception of the worn carpets that lay on the floor, their rich colors and patterns having long been worn down by the clerics who had visited or served in the mosque.
The room was well away from the public areas, restricted from access by the faithful. The Imam stood as his brothers came into the room and sat on the carpet facing him. He waited until the last man arrived, then closed the door.
The Imam dropped slowly to his knees and sat back on the heels of his feet. “You have news for me,” he said, as a statement, not as a question.
“We have received word from Turkey that weighs heavy on our hearts,” said Mustafa Wazir, a young cleric whom the Imam favored because he reminded the Imam of himself when he was a young man.
Mustafa shifted the weight of his willowy figure from his left leg to his right then back. The brown hair of his beard was fine and sparse and adorned his cheeks like a young girl’s curls.
“What could be worse than the cave near Mecca’s being taken by the Saudi military?”
Mustafa paused briefly, although not consciously for effect. “One week ago nine of our brothers were shot and killed by the Turkish police and another one’s in jail. We assume he’s being tortured.”
“What happened—why were they shot?”
Harun, who was considered extreme amongst the brothers in the mosque, assumed the floor. “Our brothers were going to collect weapons for our cause and a devil betrayed them.”
During Harun’s spirited summary his long beard squiggled like punctuation. The Imam had chastised him to keep his facial hair trimmed as was dictated by the Prophet, but Harun’s beard was as wild as his spirit.
“To avoid capture, they fled the mosque that sheltered them and used the crowds of a bazaar to shield themselves. But something went wrong and they sprayed hundreds of people.”
The Imam flinched. “Why would our brothers take such an action? My orders were to harm no one unless it was absolutely necessary!”
“They were desperate, brother!” said Harun, trying to justify their actions. “They were trying to escape—they had no choice!”
Harun vehemently spat out the next sentence. “The police mowed them down like wheat as they tried to leave the bazaar!”
The Imam let this sink in. Something about his demeanor prevented anyone present from speaking into his silence.
At last he said harshly to Harun, “No one is safe from sin unless one controls one’s tongue. Do not speak of things you do not comprehend! They had a choice. They did not have to take an action that resulted in the erasure of hundreds of lives. Our brothers failed to think logically. Their grave mistake in Turkey has endangered our quest.”
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He paused for emphasis. “Contact the other clerics and tell them to suspend all projects until further notice. They will be under observation now.”
The Imam placed a hand over his breast and through the fabric of his robe, rubbed the medallion. “This news has caused me great anguish and adds another burden on my heart.”
“Yes, Imam, I am sorry.” Harun now wished that someone would change the subject.
Mustafa obliged him. “Imam, you say this news adds another burden on your heart. What’s wrong—is there something we can do?”
“Thank you, brother, for offering, but there is nothing you can do for my own failing. I should have destroyed the false cave straightaway. Leaving my friend from Jordan to do what I should have done was my own grave mistake, which I cannot correct.”
“Why do you say it was a mistake? You didn’t know the cave would be found.”
The Imam paused for a moment and looked down at his hands folded on his lap. “I should have known that the UN would return. In my excitement over the news of the True Cave outside Mecca I allowed myself to become distracted from the evident facts of the situation. There was no reason to close up the false cave, other than sentimentality over the place of the revelation.”
This wasn’t the first time that the clerics present had witnessed the Imam’s teaching by example of self-examination. More than one of them was made mindful yet again of his own shortcomings.
The Imam concluded on a hopeful note. “With Allah’s guidance, I won’t again lose sight of the goal of fulfilling the Prophecy of Muhammad.”
Hearing the closing words of the Imam’s meditation, the clerics detected a single mindedness they hadn’t seen in him before. They were apprehensive, but would never question his decisions or guidance.
Mustafa Wazir broke the silence. “Yes, Imam, what is it you want us to do?”
“Contact as many of our brothers in Baghdad as you can. I will meet with them tomorrow. To carry out Allah’s will, we must adjust our plans.”
The Imam’s eyes hardened. “And I need to know about the man in Baghdad in charge of the UN. Use our contacts. Ask them to be discrete. I do not want him to fear we are watching him.”
“Yes, brother.”
Harun would abide the words of the Imam, but he knew in his heart that the other clerics were too passive. If some action could be taken—something to rid them of the infidel quickly so the Imam wouldn’t have this burden—they could focus on fulfilling the Prophecy.
The Imam wanted the infidel, and Harun would find a way to bait and hook him.
* * *
It was six in the morning of the Holy Day by the time the nine local clerics who could be contacted sat down with the Imam.
A cleric from a small mosque south of Baghdad emphasized each word with exaggerated hand movement. “We haven’t ferreted out yet how the Saudi government discovered the cave. The brother who unearthed it is a faithful follower and would have died before revealing what he knew. And the masons—”
The Imam cut him off. “It is no longer important how they learned of it, brother. We have suffered no more than a mere delay in fulfilling the Prophecy. I have devoted many hours to meditation and prayer. Allah wants us to prepare for the day when our future brothers will see the Prophecy come true. We will continue to gather the tools of our enemies, but it is no longer urgent to do so. Once we have hit upon a suitable place, we will begin again. The Prophecy will unfold at its own pace.”
The assembled clerics nodded, in some awe of the Imam’s apparent certainty and ease.
“I realize now that I was mistaken in believing that I was the Guided One. I am but a messenger. The Guided One may not set foot on this earth for hundreds of years, but when he does we will have paved the way for him.”
The cleric from the small mosque was anxious. “Is there nothing we need to do then, brother?”
“You must find another hiding place. When it is ready, we will send word to our brothers. The cave outside Mecca will wait for us.”
Following the Jum‘ah prayer the clerics left the mosque to begin their search.
The Imam’s heart was steady in its love and devotion to Islam, but his mind was racing with uncertainty and pain over the death of Ehab. A death that pained him as a mortal man.
CHAPTER 42: EYE TO EYE
EARLY IN THE MORNING on the third day after the Imam’s return to the Kazimayn Mosque, the young cleric, Mustafa Wazir, walked silently into the room that served as the mosque’s library.
The Imam was sitting at a plain wooden table reading.
“What is it, Mustafa, that would cause you to interrupt a man studying the words of Muhammad?”
“I’m sorry, Imam, but you asked us to make inquiries about the man in charge of the UN in Baghdad.”
The Imam was irritated, but interested. “What news is there?”
Not wanting to antagonize the Imam, Mustafa Wazir carefully told him what he had learned. “His name’s William Holden. He’s an American. He has worked for the blue hats in Baghdad for two years. The people who’ve heard of him say he speaks Arabic…and say he is an honest man for an infidel.”
The Imam’s eyes flashed. “There is no honest man who does not proclaim that there is no God but God and Muhammad is the messenger of God. Does William Holden proclaim that?”
“No, Imam, he does not.”
“Then the people you talked with are wrong. What else can you tell me?”
“The blue hats have stopped their meddling and most of their infidels have flown out of Iraq. I was told it would be two weeks before they return.”
The Imam’s eyes darted to Mustafa’s. “Has William Holden also left?”
“No, Imam, he left for two days but is back in Baghdad. One of our faithful observed him yesterday leaving the blue hat hotel with a companion. He was in a private motor vehicle, not one with the blue hat colors. He remained out of the hotel for two hours before returning.”
The Imam exhaled and seemed to relax a little. “Thank you, Mustafa. This William Holden is a man we must watch. I want to know when he leaves the hotel and where he goes.”
“Yes, Imam.”
Later in the afternoon, a Toyota Land Cruiser, painted white with large blue UN letters on the doors and roof, exited the BMVC compound. The lone occupant was a big man wearing a blue UN baseball cap and dressed in khaki.
Merging with the light morning traffic, he drove at a leisurely pace toward the center of Baghdad. Taking The 14th of July Street, he slowed as he passed Zawra Park and Zoo then stopped for a few seconds at the Monument of the Unknown Soldier.
The civilians on the sidewalk stared at the driver, but a cluster of soldiers diverted their eyes.
Having made his presence known, the driver pulled back into traffic and headed for the outskirts of the city.
Crossing the Tigris, he headed in the direction of the golden domed Kazimayn Mosque, whose magnificence could be seen in the distance.
He checked the rearview mirror periodically to make sure that the small motorcycle following him was still there. Near Zawra Park the motorcycle stalled at a stoplight, necessitating a quick stop by the Toyota to give the motorcycle time to catch up.
The driver of the Toyota was curious that whoever was following him, it wasn’t the military or the police.
When he reached the mosque, he parked directly across from its main entrance and waited. The rainbow of colors was as artistic as the day before.
His previous visit had been clandestine, but today he was letting his presence be known.
He watched the motorcycle pass and turn into a small street next to the mosque.
* * *
The motorcycle rider removed his sandals and hurried into the revered sanctuary through a side door.
He stopped and uttered a short prayer then continued into the mosque and searched frantically for the young cleric who had instructed him to watch the blue hat hotel.
Rushing around a column, he collided w
ith the elderly man who helped clean the mosque and knocked him to the ground.
“Watch where you’re going, Silent One!”
Mustafa heard the commotion and got up from the table where he was reading the Qur’an. He adjusted his robe and hurried toward the disturbance.
He reached down to the aged man struggling to his hands and knees and helped him up.
Mustafa glared at the rider. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be watching the infidels.”
“I was bringing you news when Silent One almost knocked me down.”
Mustafa’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you call him that? Do you think he’s less devout than you?”
“No, but he’s deaf and dumb…I don’t see why you let him live in the mosque.”
“He has been deaf from birth, through no fault of his own. That doesn’t make him less of a man than you or I. As for his speech, I’ve been told that the praise for Allah and Islam that came from his mouth was inspirational to those who heard it.”
The rider looked anew at the man, amazed. “Has he taken a vow of silence?”
“He did take one—when he was being questioned by the secret police. It was during the time when Shiites were persecuted in Iraq because they didn’t think the same way as their Sunni brothers…His vow of silence cost him his tongue.”
His whole body shaking, the rider lowered himself before Mustafa. “I’m sorry, brother. I didn’t realize.”
He gazed reverently at the gray haired man, who had been observing the silent conversation while cleaning the floor, but who dropped his eyes when the motorcycle rider glanced at him.
“Now tell me,” scolded Mustafa, “what are you doing here? You can’t watch for the infidel here in the mosque.”
“But he’s here—outside the mosque!”
Mustafa scowled at the man and raised his voice, “Have you lost your mind or do you want to feel the wrath of the Imam?”
“No, please listen to me!” The rider prostrated himself before the cleric.
“The blue hat infidel is here. I followed him when he left the hotel—as you told me. He’s parked across the street.”