Fallen Masters (42 page)

“Quite a lot of people listen to him.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

“You don’t listen to him at all, do you?” Bobby asked Dawson. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have asked that question.”

“I don’t listen to him, and I did ask.”

“For the last month, Dave Hampton has been on this kick of good versus evil. This, he says, is a manifestation of evil.”

“Well, duh, that’s not hard to figure out, is it? I mean that killing someone, mutilating their body, and carving out their heart is evil.”

“I think the scope of his shows go beyond that. I think he’s talking good and evil without material form or substance.”

“Wait a minute,
Viva Domingo
—,” Dawson said, interrupting. “Let me check something.”

Dawson walked over to the desk, where lay a copy of the complimentary paper. On the front page, above the fold, was a picture of Charlene St. John kissing the cheek of one of the men who had tried to abduct her. On the door behind her were the words
VIVA DOMINGO
.

“Yes,” Dawson said, returning to the call. “Have you seen the picture of Charlene St. John kissing the cheek of one of her would-be captors?”

“I have,” Anderson answered. “Written on the door behind her is,
Viva Domingo
.”

“That’s funny,” Dawson said. “I didn’t see this the first time I looked at the photo.”

“How could you not notice it? The words go all across the door,” Anderson said.

“No, I’m not talking about the words. I’m talking about the picture. There is a picture on the door behind the words.”

“What picture?”

“Don’t you see it? It’s of a woman wearing long flowing robes and—huh, if I didn’t know better, I would say—it is! It’s a drawing of the Virgin Mary. Are you telling me you didn’t see that?”

“I’m looking at the photo right now,” Anderson said. “There is no picture behind those words.”

“Maybe the newspaper airbrushed the picture out.”

“I’m not looking at a newspaper,” Anderson said. “We’ve got prints of the original photo. And I’m telling you, there is no picture of a woman behind the words.”

“And I’m telling you that…,” Dawson said; then he drifted off in midsentence. “That’s strange, I don’t see it now. It must have been the way the light was hitting the photo or something. ‘Live Sunday,’ huh?”

“That’s what the words
Viva Domingo
means,” Anderson said. “But what it means in a greater context, I have no idea. I was hoping you might know.”

“I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” Anderson said. “Do it fast, though. I have a strong feeling that brief is better—that we are quickly running out of time on this investigation.”

“Seems like it to me, as well.”

“Thank you, Dawson. May I call again if I have more questions for you?”

“Of course, you have my word I’ll pick up the phone, even if I know it’s you.”

*   *   *

As he broke the mobile connection, Anderson laughed—for the first time in several weeks it seemed. He sat by himself in his hotel room with no lights on as the day ended and the sun fell below the horizon visible from his window. Never before in his life had he felt as lonely or as powerless in the face of evil as he felt at this moment. He wanted to get Dawson’s take on the murders but didn’t feel comfortable talking to his old friend about his other case, particularly over open lines.

Bobby Anderson had learned very early on in his career as a homicide investigator that it was vitally important never to stop when two plus two equaled four. There was more—there was always more—to the problem than simple arithmetic.

The placement of the bodies and the messages contained within were too close in time and too significant not to be, somehow, related to the global phenomenon signified by the sudden and frequent appearance of
Viva Domingo
. Everywhere it appeared, it was associated with mayhem and violent death. But how was it significant beyond the obvious warning and taunting? Who could orchestrate such a worldwide series of events with a consistent message?

He asked the same question regarding the killing field in Belfast where the bodies had been secretly and carefully arranged after having been marked so brutally. By the same hand? That was virtually impossible, physically and geographically. By the same organization? But
who?

There was an art to this demonstration of evil intentions. True art, in turn, depends on an underlying unity—a unity of message to the soul, even if the visible result appears to the unschooled eye as abstract or chaotic or violent. Indeed, in the Belfast killings the uniformity was the very essence of the crime—with the promise of more to come, up to the expected total of twelve dead bodies, twelve clearly articulated messages of doom.

Counterintuitively, the “art” of
Viva Domingo,
in its seemingly random manifestations reported by witnesses and investigators in locales that had no unity whatever, spoke to Anderson with a loud, even eloquent voice.

No question in Bobby Anderson’s mind, and in his investigator’s well-trained nose, that forces were moving in a single, unified direction. That they were aligning in a powerful way that was intended to be visible to everyone in the world—and that everyone in the world, good, bad or neutral—

Bobby had just stepped over the line that separated him from being on the outside looking in to standing on the inside looking out. It would take a while for his vision to clarify, but he had made a significant leap forward in his thinking.

Whatever doubts and questions remained, he felt he had to be on the right path now.

CHAPTER

76

London

“Omar, must it be Shakir? If this thing is to be done, tell me again, why can it not be me?”

“Remember Abraham, how he built an altar and laid the wood in order, then bound Isaac his son and laid him on the altar upon the wood. And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.”

“But Allah stayed his hand and Isaac was spared.”

“That is not the point. The point is, Abraham was willing to show his love for Allah by sacrificing his son. Do you love Allah any less?”

“No.”

“Then you will do this thing.”

*   *   *

Muti locked himself in a back room so he could think of what he must do. How could he convince Shakir that martyrdom would be a good thing?
Was
it a good thing? He did not want to lose his son, but he felt that he had no choice.

“You do have a choice,” someone said.

Startled by the unexpected voice, Muti whirled around to see a man standing before him. The man was wearing richly adorned raiment with a huge turban that featured a large emerald. He had a long gray beard, and there seemed to be a shimmering light about him.

“Who are you? How did you get into this room? And what do you mean I have a choice?”

“You ask many questions, Muti Faradoon.”

“And you have answered none.”

“I am Suleiman. If it is not too immodest of me to say so, I have been called Suleiman the Magnificent.”

“That is impossible. Suleiman the Magnificent died over four hundred years ago.”

“Has it been that long? No matter, there is no time where I am now, although, if the forces of evil have their way, time will run out.”

“Who are the forces of evil?”

“You do remember, do you not, a visitor to your restaurant not too long ago. I believe you and your brother referred to him as ‘the One.’”

“Yes, I remember him. He was a strange man indeed.”

“He is from the Dark Forces of Evil. I am from the Light Forces of Good.”

“Forces of evil, forces of good, what are you talking about?”

“I am talking about the great battle that will establish forever whether Allah is to rule—or Satan. There are many who serve Satan and are working for his rule. The One is such a person. So is your brother Omar.”

“Omar? No, that cannot be true,” Muti said. “Omar is a good man who strives always to serve Allah.”

“Omar is a man who is driven by hate and revenge for the injustices he believes the infidels have put upon his people. Hate and revenge are not the tools of Allah. If you would serve Allah, you will follow the precepts of tolerance and appreciation.”

“But we are in a jihad,” Muti said. “Every Muslim must be prepared to die for his belief.”

“To die for your belief is a matter of free will. It is not something that should be forced upon you. You have free will. Shakir has free will. Do not send him to die for the evil ones.”

“I am very confused. Omar is my older brother, I now must listen to him, do as he says.” Muti bent his head and ran his hands through his hair nervously. “But you tell me that I—” When Muti looked up, his visitor was gone. When he checked the door, it was still locked from the inside. How had his visitor gotten in? How had he left? Was his visitor really Suleiman the Magnificent?

What was I doing? I was about to sacrifice my own son. Abraham! As Allah stayed Abraham’s hand to prevent him from killing his son, so, too, has Allah, by this visitor, stayed my hand. I will not send him to die!

*   *   *

Omar was in the supply room checking on the inventory when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw the same man who had visited the restaurant earlier, the one he and Muti had called “the One.”

“You must hurry,” the One said.

“I must hurry to do what?”

“There are forces at work, someone who is trying to prevent Shakir from fulfilling his glorious destiny.”

“Who?”

“It is not important. You must go to Shakir now, reach him before his father does, and tell him that it is his destiny to honor his father and his family, that by divine providence has he been chosen.”

“Yes,” Omar said, his eyes gleaming now in resolute fanaticism.

*   *   *

“Where is Father?” Shakir asked.

“Muti does not have your strength and your courage,” Omar replied. “He knows that you must do this, that you honor all of Islam by your sacrifice. And he is proud that his son will be remembered forever on earth as a martyr, and will be received into glory by his action. But he is a weak man who does not have the strength to ask you to do what must be done.”

“I—I don’t want to do this,” Shakir said.

“But you must.”

“Please, Uncle, I cannot do this.”

“Would you rather spend the rest of your days spit upon and scorned because when Allah called you, you were too frightened to answer His call?”

“What must I do?”

“I will give you a backpack to wear,” Omar said. “The backpack is a bomb with nails and nuts and bolts sewn into it. I will take you to Piccadilly Circus. There you will get out of the truck and walk to the center, where most of the people will be. When you get there, all you will have to do is open the zipper on your backpack.”

“What will happen then?”

“You will feel nothing. One second you will be walking across Piccadilly Circus, here on earth, and the next second you will be welcomed in Paradise. There, you will be treated as a hero and a martyr forever.”

“I am frightened.”

“You need not be frightened, Shakir. I will be in the truck, watching you. You will know, with your last moment on earth, that you were not alone.”

“What about my mother and father?”

“You do this thing, and your mother and father will live in your glory until the end of their days. You will be in Paradise before them, to welcome them. You do want to honor them, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You do want to serve Allah, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is what you must do.”

*   *   *

Asima was sitting at her computer, the letters on the monitor flying across the screen in keeping with the rapid motion of her fingers.

In the days of Aisha Bint Abu Bakr, one of the most famous women in all of Islam, there were no universities such as we have today, and had there been, she would not have been allowed to attend. Despite that, her words are studied in faculties of literature, her legal pronouncements are read in law colleges, and her life and works are researched by students and teachers of Muslim history today, as they have been for over a thousand years.

Are there no such women in the Islamic world today? I think there are many such women, but the unenlightened leaders of our religion and our culture are squandering a great resource by keeping these women down.

Asima had been working at the computer for two hours without a break, and she felt the need to get up, stretch, and walk around. This would be her third book. She had written two previous books, and had printed them out, then bound them … for what? She knew that, as a Muslim woman, she felt it was dishonorable to get the books published without her husband’s permission, and that would never happen. Once perhaps, but not in his current frame of mind. Still, it fulfilled something in her psyche to write them. Maybe someday, long after she was gone, someone would find her books, read them, and be uplifted by them.

Asima walked downstairs from their apartment that was over the restaurant. The restaurant was busy, there were many diners present, and the kitchen and waitstaff were occupied, but she didn’t see Muti or Omar anywhere.

“Margaret, have you seen Muti or Omar?” she asked the hostess.

“I have not seen Mr. Muti Faradoon, but Mr. Omar Faradoon is in the supply room.”

“Thank you.”

Asima walked to the back of the kitchen, then up a long narrow corridor to the supply room, where extra cooking utensils, chairs, and even some folding tables were kept.

“Mr. Faradoon?” she called. “Mr. Faradoon, are you in here?”

Even though she and Muti had been married for fifteen years, she still called Omar Mr. Faradoon because she sensed that was exactly the way he wanted her to address him.

Omar did not answer her, and a quick perusal of the supply room let her know that he wasn’t here. She was about to leave when she saw a piece of paper on the floor. She picked it up. It was an iTelegram, which was used in some places in the world since Western Union no longer sent telegrams. Asima marveled at the fact that there were still telegrams of any kind in existence … and that she was holding one in her hands.