Gospel (110 page)

O'Hanrahan looked into his old acquaintance's eyes and saw the worry, the lines on a face that had borne the sorrows of the continent. They embraced and exchanged Arabic blessings:

“As-salaamu ‘alekum,”
said O'Hanrahan, concluding the cascade of well-wishing.

“Wa 'alekum as-salaam wa rahmatu 'llahi,”
said Dr. Mehmet, kissing O'Hanrahan's right hand, moved to see him. And after Lucy was introduced and praised and blessed, the learned Moslem guided them to his office. Dr. Mehmet's black skin was ashen and his gaunt face very creased; his eyes were yellowed and weak. The Sudanese man walked with great dignity with a walking stick, but very slowly.

“I have a strange version of Meroitic for you to look at,” said O'Hanrahan walking beside him, keeping Dr. Mehmet's pace.

“All versions of that language are strange,” he sighed. “In my youth I promised myself to decipher its mysteries, but this Allah has not allowed.
Walk not proudly on the ground,
says the Quran,
truly thou canst by no means cleave the earth.
”

O'Hanrahan smiled. But what old man who has given his life to the holy books does not suspect he will one day rouse the attention of God?

“Meroitic is very popular, no?” asked Dr. Mehmet.

Both Lucy and O'Hanrahan faltered in step. O'Hanrahan asked feebly, “Someone else, Ibrahim, has made inquiries?”

“Why, yes. Two days ago. An orthodox monk was referred to me from the National Museum. Something about a Christian gospel in Meroitic. It is surely the only one—what a precious artifact! You yourself, my friend, should attempt to find such a thing!”

*   *   *

The taxi driver returned Lucy and O'Hanrahan to their block. O'Hanrahan had left some of the
Gospel of Matthias
photographs with Dr. Mehmet though he didn't expect any miracles. How did that rascal Rabbi Rosen translate this thing so easily? And how did this damn Orthodox monk stay a step ahead of them?

Lucy and the professor strolled down the sidewalk, seeing the hotel ahead. Ragged children cavorted upon El Qasr Boulevard, kicking a deflated soccer ball with the lines worn off it, all of Khartoum their soccer pitch. O'Hanrahan saw a tobacconist shop that beckoned to him: ah, cigars from Cuba, one of their allies. Lucy longed for her hotel room, washing her face, scrubbing away the dirt, lying in her underwear under the ceiling fan.

“Patrick O'Hanrahan?”

Lucy looked up to see the short, sturdy dark Arab policeman in the white uniform who had observed them at the Hilton. Behind him were two tall, indifferent African soldiers, submachine guns dangling from their belts, waiting at the door of the hotel.

“May I help you?” asked O'Hanrahan, his expression darkened by the prospect of dealing with the authorities.

“Coom eenside to de hotel wi' me,” the officer said in a beautiful African-lilted English, which was spoken in Khartoum by most educated Sudanese, a vestige of colonialism. “I am Major Mohammed Ali Nessim of Internal Security.”

Inside the lobby the hotelkeeper and his wife met him with a look of concern. “We are sorry, Mr. O'Hanrahan,” said the proprietor, “but there is a problem with the credit card, yes?”

The gig is up, thought Lucy.

“Nonsense,” bluffed O'Hanrahan, elaborating that his MasterCard had been accepted everywhere they had gone.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the officer, “but alas eet ees not so. I was present at de Hilton Hotel and I was to see dat de card was no good for you there.”

Lucy attempted a rescue: “Well, no matter. I have a credit card, sir. Father dearest,” she directed at O'Hanrahan for authenticity. Lucy fished through her handbag and handed the proprietor her sister's MasterCard.

“You mus' coom wi' me, sir, I am so sorry to say.”

“But if my daughter's card is good, which it is, why is there a problem, sir? A simple mistake, after all…”

The compact man was implacable, offering justification after justification. O'Hanrahan's heart sank, realizing this trifling situation was merely a pretext for an arrest, which meant the officer could revel in reporting a Western criminal to his superiors, and, of course, bribery for all around. No doubt they had been stalking him since the folly at the Hilton, the lone Americans in town this summer, imagining him made of money, scouting for his first infraction.

“Is there some way,” began O'Hanrahan, “that this entire episode can go away?”

“Many serious charges we have, sir. You have in your room an empty bottle of alcohol, no?”

The proprietor, whose retainer had procured beer for O'Hanrahan, swept in with rabid denunciations of demon alcohol, the wisdom of the Prophet in banning it forever, the glory of the government in enforcing the prohibition, so vigilant and just the government!

The officer brushed the hotelkeeper aside. “I theenk also that de woman here is not at all your daughter, sir.”

O'Hanrahan kept his calm. His calm would mean the difference between a small
baksheesh
bribe or a major investment to scrape away the attentions of the Islamic authorities. “My stepdaughter, Major Nessim. That is why our last names are different. I accompany her so she can see your marvelous country. She is a student of Islam.”

This gave the officer pause. Lucy smiled feebly, panicked that something Islamic would be asked of her. Suddenly, the hotelkeeper's wife stood at the telephone desk and said something in Arabic—to the effect, Lucy realized, that her sister's card had been rejected too.

Now
they were broke.

“I theenk it is best dat you coom now to de station, sir.”

O'Hanrahan's eyes narrowed, his shrewdness surfacing. “After a phone call, I would be glad to accompany you, Officer.” He turned to the hotelkeeper and said, “My friend, you shall not be reimbursed for your loss if I cannot secure new finances. A phone call will have my money wired here by tomorrow and you will be paid. Do I seem like a criminal to you?”

The man shook his head, no happier about the attention of the police in his hotel than O'Hanrahan. “A local call?”

“Yes, to the U.S. Embassy.”

The hotelkeeper looked at Lucy and O'Hanrahan, considering …

“Or perhaps,” O'Hanrahan whispered with a tense smile, “I should tell the officer about your refrigerator and its wondrous collection of libations, hm?”

The proprietor relented with a bow. The wife dialed the number, easily found in the Khartoum phone book. Meanwhile, O'Hanrahan casually placed his satchel in Lucy's hands; she now was entrusted with hiding the
Gospel of Matthias.

O'Hanrahan's call was put through to the U.S. Embassy. “Hello, connect me to In-Country Emergencies, please.”

A
UGUST
22
ND
–23
RD

Colonel Westin sucked in air through his teeth, shaking his head in patronizing disappointment. “Patrick, Patrick,” he said. “May I call you Patrick?”

O'Hanrahan begrudged to his rescuer, “If you like.”

“We have a discretionary fund through the State Department, as you might imagine, for unexpected materiel, emergencies of nationals in-country, and miscellaneous actualities, uh, contingency-wise.”

The professor tried to smile. He diverted himself by looking at the grinning, affable portrait of George Bush in this U.S. Embassy office. Westin had flown down from Jerusalem to bail him out, and clear up any red tape and difficulties—which seemed way beyond the call of duty. No one was more shocked than O'Hanrahan to see Colonel Westin within 24 hours of this trumped-up interrogation in Khartoum. Money was distributed, apparently, and the matter disappeared. O'Hanrahan had been released by the police but he had had to surrender his and Lucy's passports, so they couldn't leave Khartoum.

“What about our passports, Colonel?”

“We have them,” he said helpfully. “An assistant is getting them stamped with an Ethiopian visa.”

“Ethiopia?”

“As I was saying about our discretionary fund, Patrick, we have a bit of petty cash to work with, and we've been able to book you and Miss Dantan on a local flight to Addis Ababa in Ethiopia. We'd send you to Cairo but Egypt and the Sudan seem to be about to engage in hostilities. Besides, Addis is closer and there are connecting flights to the United States. A colleague of mine in Addis will meet Miss Dantan and provide her with a ticket on Ethiopia Air to Chicago, back home, safe and sound.” The colonel paused, expecting to hear objections. “That's all right with you?”

“Perhaps,” said O'Hanrahan, forgetting to prop up the love-nest charade so dear to the colonel. “And as for me?”

Colonel Westin stood and grabbed a desk chair and put one highly polished boot on the chair, leaning forward on his knee. “I've also got a ticket to Addis for you, Patrick, but first I want some straight talk.”

“Of course,” said O'Hanrahan, priming himself to invent a new round of lies.

“You met with a Mohammed Baqir al-Taki, did you not?”

O'Hanrahan impulsively decided to tell the truth here, however. “Yes, he offered me a position at Teheran University. You had me followed while I was in Jerusalem, Colonel?” O'Hanrahan recalled the black Mercedes and the red Golf. It was also clear to O'Hanrahan that Colonel Westin was in reality surprised about the job offer in Teheran.

“No Patrick, I assure you, this didn't find us in a state of nonexpectation. Did you know Baqir was among the students who were instrumental in the taking of the American hostages in 1979?”

O'Hanrahan wasn't surprised, but feigned innocence.

Colonel Westin: “Was that the whole purpose in your contact?”

“I know, Colonel, a great deal about Islamic texts. They were offering a position to teach about Christianity in Teheran, as Jesus is reckoned the Fifth Prophet of Islam. For an old man, retired, such excitement is very tempting. As a master there I would have my meals and lodging provided, and there was talk of a young wife.”

“You old dog, you.” The colonel slapped his knee. “You dog!”

O'Hanrahan smiled wanly.

“Hell, Pops, you just don't run out of steam! You're getting more than I am, that is for damn sure.” He leaned in: “What's your secret?” Not waiting for an answer, he asked, “You'll consider taking it, of course?”

O'Hanrahan had yet to see Colonel Westin's motivation, so he answered cautiously. “Well, I'm worried about the danger. I know the Iranians want a better relationship with the West but the mullahs are still in power and I'm not exactly confident. Besides, I must finish the project I'm working on.”

“The U.S. government, Patrick,” said the colonel in a whisper, “wants you to take this position.”

Now
O'Hanrahan understood. “And spy for the U.S.?”

Colonel Westin joined the fingertips of his hands daintily. “Ssssh, ssssh, we don't know if the Soviets have bugged this place but use of the word ‘spy' is problematic connotations-wise. We just need an intelligent man's report now and then.”

You know, this deal didn't exactly repulse O'Hanrahan.

“The tickets,” Colonel Westin said, reaching into a jacket pocket and producing two. “These are for tomorrow, Patrick.”

O'Hanrahan was giddy. Life was perversely presenting him with both the
Gospel of Matthias
and “Q” and don't forget the
harim!

(Aren't you forgetting someone?)

The colonel produced a manila envelope with 400 Sudanese pounds. “This should square all hotel debts and provide a bit of food money. The less time spent here the better, professor. A lot of curious people from known paraterrorist and contraversion units seem to find you out. Nor do I wish one American citizen to be in harm's way with the crisis in Kuwait building. We have reports that missiles are being shipped in from Iraq for the purposes of shelling the Aswan Dam.”

“Jesus,” muttered O'Hanrahan, inwardly cursing the stupidity of the Sudanese government.

“I will personally see to it, Patrick,” Colonel Westin was saying, “that you find yourself on the flight to Ethiopia tomorrow morning. We'll send a hired car for you and Miss Dantan tomorrow at six
A.M.
, which will give you plenty of time to make your flight. Oh, there is a small bit of bureaucratic wrangling we were not able to help you with. These exit visas need a stamp from the Ministry of Transportation. Not even the U.S. government can help you there.”

Colonel Westin explained that the Ministry of Transportation was open until six
P.M.
so he and Miss Dantan had better get a move on. The colonel concluded with a bemused laugh, “So they're gonna fix you up with a regular harem, huh? You old devil.”

(We would call that a fair characterization.)

An embassy car dropped off O'Hanrahan on El Qasr Boulevard a half-block from his hotel. As he walked by the merchants and the surplus of children in the street this afternoon, he felt warmly toward them in their shambles of a country. Such good-natured people. Such a stupid government. Per capita income of $325 a year. Designated a
fifth
-world country by the U.N., incapable of subsistence. In the ravaged south, there is one doctor per 90,000 people. Millions died in the 1985 famine; they say 27 million will be affected by the next. Meanwhile the Sudan goes $10 billion in debt so they can buy arms to put down the 21-year-old civil war against the Christians and tribal Sudanese who have watched their country become fanatically Islamic, militaristic, and inconceivably corrupt. It figures in the coming big blowout they'd back Saddam Hussein, who was mounting an effort to get himself shot off the map.

Ah, next to his hotel was the tobacco shop he had admired the wares of two days ago.

O'Hanrahan stepped inside to a world of aromatic tobaccos, for pipe and hookah, and indeed, the prize was there: Cuban cigars …