The Aisha Prophecy (12 page)

The mogul thinks he’s obsessed. Intrigued is more like it. She’s become like the tune one can’t get out of one’s head. She plays tennis, they say, at a near-champion level. Well, he plays a pretty strong game himself. Although he’d never admit it to the mogul or the banker, he’d envisioned himself playing singles with her. On his own court. At one of his homes. The one in Palm Beach should impress her.

Hell, for her he’d rent Wimbledon Stadium, center court. Play a set or two before breaking for lunch. He’d have it catered and served in the royal box. What woman could say no to that?

Well, she could. And would. She’d have to know him a lot better. Given time, she would like him. She really would. Or at least she would like whatever version of himself seemed to appeal to her the most.

“Charles…”

Right. Don’t do that. Not with her. Be yourself. A little gentler, perhaps, with a touch of Sidney Poitier. Every woman has a past. But every woman has a yearning. Most don’t know what for until the right man comes along. From then on, past is past. All that matters is the future. Dreams come true. The spirit soars.

And don’t say it.

I know.

This is horseshit. Won’t happen.

We both know that, but one is entitled to one’s fantasies. As long as we keep our thoughts to ourselves. Until Kessler is out of the way.

And it’s not just Stride. Let’s be clear about that. It’s also about retribution for Angola. Can anyone think we’d fold our tents and go quietly? A loss on that scale, if gone unavenged, is seen as a weakness. It emboldens other enemies.

And whatever Kessler is scheming at the moment, it probably has to do with retribution as well. For the ill-fated attempt to snatch Stride. For forcing her to give up her home and her friends and the quiet life she was trying to lead. If Kessler is unfinished business to us, we are surely unfinished business to him.

Well, we’ll see who finishes whom.

Within an hour of his meeting with his two hackers, he’d chosen the man who he would send to Belle Haven. By the next day, he had his man in place. His man’s charge, for the moment, was strictly surveillance. Who’s who, who does what, who goes where; that sort of thing.

His man, Gilhooley, tried to balk at the job. Too dull. Not what he’s best at. Not what he’s used to. What he’s best at is blowing things up from a distance. What he’s used to is living exceedingly well in between and even during his assignments. In Belle Haven, however, the best way to avoid notice is to masquerade as a handyman. They’re seen all the time driving ratty old pick-ups. He’d have to find a cheap room on the fringes of Belle Haven and take all his meals in local taverns or diners. A working stiff. That would be his cover.

Beneath him? Well, tough. It served this man right. On his most recent job, he’d been sent to London on mission that he botched up entirely. No explosives this time, just one troublesome journalist. He got the right address, a townhouse in Kensington, but he managed to get the wrong people. The intended target and his wife had gone off to the country. They’d swapped houses via one of those internet sites with a couple who wanted a week in the city. Gilhooley, unaware of this recent development, stole into the house in the dead of night. He put a bullet in each of their heads while they slept. Only then did he shine a light on the two and see that it was not his best work.

One would think that at least he’d have got away clean. But he was pulled over not two blocks away for, of all things, a malfunctioning tail light. The policemen who stopped him asked for his license. He felt that even if he’d been let off with a warning, this was too close for comfort to the scene. When the two dead house-swappers were eventually found, he would surely be remembered as a possible suspect, not having resided in that area. Add two London Bobbies to his tally.

There was hell to pay, of course. A nationwide manhunt by an outraged Scotland Yard. More nasty reportage by the journalist. Ordinarily, he would have disposed of Gilhooley. But in fairness Gilhooley had been given a task that was not within his primary expertise as developed during his IRA years. Gilhooley worked from a distance, not so up close and personal. He blew up cars and trucks, sometimes yachts, not sleeping heads. He never went anywhere without ready access to a few pounds of Semtex and the means to ignite them. Haskell, instead, put him on probation and gave him a task that he couldn’t screw up. Be a bar-fly-on-the-wall, so to speak, in Belle Haven. And don’t be caught with a weapon.

Haskell told him who he’d be watching for. It turned out that he knew Kessler, but by reputation only. And of course he knew of the owner of that house. Everyone had heard of Harry Whistler. But he’d never heard of Elizabeth Stride and Haskell chose not to enlighten him. His thoughts might have turned to that price on her head. At the very least, it might color his judgment, make him less objective. Haskell wanted objective reporting.

Gilhooley had called in his first report as Haskell was preparing to leave for the Grove. He’d confirmed that indeed there were several people living in the Belle Haven house. He’d seen a woman who has to be Stride according to Gilhooley’s description of her. He’d seen her cutting lilacs in the front yard accompanied by a young dark-haired girl who was holding a kitten in her arms. He’d seen a man who must have been Kessler doing most of the driving to and fro. He’d seen Kessler in a restaurant with two other girls. The bartender knew them. He’d called both girls by name. One was called Nicky. The other had a name that sounded like Eye-sha. Haskell assumed that the name must be Aisha. A common Muslim name. Not so with Nicky. Must be the short form of something else.

Gilhooley took pictures wherever he could. Haskell told him to FedEx them all to the Grove along with a written report.

“Take plenty of photos of all who come and go. Those who live there and anyone you see visiting. Especially get some good photos of the woman. Good clear photos of her face and some full body shots. Take note of everything about her. I want it all, no matter how trivial. What she’s wearing, how she seems, what sort of person do you make her. I’ll be the judge of what’s important.”

Gilhooley didn’t try to hide his annoyance.

“That’s what this is about? It’s for one of your doxies?”

Haskell’s voice turned hard. “Watch your mouth.”

TWELVE 

Mulazim reached Belle Haven in the late afternoon. The first thing he did was to look in a phone book. He found nothing for a Harrison Whistler. He tried Information. He was told that the number was not listed.

Phone number not listed, post office box address. Must be a man who doesn’t like to be bothered when he comes to stay in this house.

He spent the remaining hours of daylight driving the winding streets to get to know them. He drove looking at houses that were of a size that seemed to fit this Niki’s description. There were too many. That was no help.

While driving, he would watch for young girls, especially those with dark hair. He did see two who might be Arab or Persian, but the first was ten years old at the most and the other, the right age, but with a ring on her lip and on a skateboard and half naked. Most unlikely.

When darkness approached, he made his way to the tennis courts that Niki had told him about. It was where he was mostly likely to spot them. The easiest to spot would probably be Rasha if she still played her tennis in long pants and long sleeves. Especially if she played with Elizabeth Stride who would not be so hard to spot either.

This place, Marcey Park, had three lighted courts. Only two could be easily seen from his car, so he had to get out and walk around them on foot. There were several benches where he could sit and watch through the pair of binoculars he’d bought. He went dressed for comfort, also for anonymity, in the sweatshirt with a hood and the sweat pants from the Wal-Mart. He also wore a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses of the type that wraps around the sides of one’s eyes.

There were very few men. They were mostly young women either playing or waiting to play. He saw some of them marking a list that was posted. There was apparently a limit of one hour for each group. Some played in tennis dresses that could almost be called modest. Most, however, were utterly shameless. Some played with legs bared all the way to the hip. Some played with bare shoulders in a garment called a tank top and some with even bare bellies. With most, you could see their breasts bouncing as they played. One in particular enjoyed being watched. She and her partner looked to be in their late twenties, bearing no resemblance to any he sought. She looked over at him and cupped both her breasts as if asking if he liked what he saw. Such a slut.

Those he did seek, however, were not there the first night. He was not dismayed. A good hunter is patient. He would choose a new motel and then he’d go out for his first good meal since he got to this country. On Bernice’s laptop, he searched for a restaurant that served the sort of food that would not give him gas. He was pleased to find several boasting Mideast cuisine, most of them within a short drive. Most had the word “kabob” in their names. He chose the one nearest. It was in a shopping center.

After dinner he would choose a new license plate.

The next day, more driving, more looking around. Except that he knew the streets well by now, it was not a productive use of his time. As the hour approached to go back and watch tennis, he was suddenly struck by a thought. Last night, instead of searching for Mideast cuisine, he should have been looking for Italian. Niki had written that Aisha’s party was planned in “a small Italian restaurant that we like.”

He’d wondered at the time why Italian was chosen. So much garlic, so much sauce. Why not food that they knew? But she had also said that Martin likes going to bars. Italian restaurants have bars. Mideast restaurants, not so much. He had probably influenced the choice.

Once again, he plugged in Bernice’s computer and did a search for Italian. There were many. Too many. The list went on for pages. More than two hundred fifty in this part of Virginia. Of these, more than forty were not far from Belle Haven. Three of these, however, were described as being “intimate.” If one of these was the restaurant that Niki said “we like,” it follows that they all must have eaten there before, perhaps often enough to be remembered. Mulazim wrote down the names. He would visit all three. Success comes to the hunter who is thorough.

That day, however, did not end so well. He was forced to kill a policeman.

He’d been aware that he’d been noticed by some tennis players when he was the only spectator. But mostly only glances. On the whole, he was ignored, seen only as a man who liked to watch tennis and this was, after all, a public place. Anyway, his dark hooded sweatshirt from the Wal-Mart helped him to blend into the shadows.

But the slut was back again, dressed much as before, playing with the same other woman as before. The partner wasn’t so bad. A loose T-shirt and shorts. Also skinny, not so much to show off. The sluttish one deserved to be caned. On her, fully half of her breasts were revealed. He could see the line where they’d been partly tanned. Her body glistened with a sheen of sweat the way wanton women glow after sex. And she had a tattoo at the base of her spine. He raised his binoculars to see what it was. Hard to tell. Maybe some kind of bird.

Watching her caused a stirring in his lower region, but the sin was not on him; it was on her. A stiffness followed. It would not go away. He was tempted to go into the restroom near his bench and relieve what had become a protrusion.

Those two had reached the end of their hour. Both were on the far side of the court. They were gathering their equipment and toweling off. The slut was making a call on her cell phone. He would not have thought the call had any relevance because she did not look in his direction. But not three minutes later, she was pointing at him. She was pointing him out to a uniformed policeman, an older man perhaps in his fifties.

The policeman approached. He asked, “Well? What’s the story?”

“Story? No story. I am here watching tennis.”

The slut with the cell phone had also approached. She said to the policeman, “That’s not what he’s watching. He never even looks where the ball is going. All he looks at are asses and tits.”

Mulazim reddened. “This is not so.”

“Easy, young lady,” said the policeman. “We don’t need that kind of language.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she answered, “but we don’t need creeps either. And why would he need a pair of binocs to watch tennis from fifty feet away?”

The policeman asked the girl, “Only looking, you say? Has he bothered you otherwise? Has he said anything?”

“Heavy breathing was enough. We could hear it from the court.”

He said, “Sir, let’s take a walk to my car.”

“No, no,” said Mulazim. “You both misunderstand.” He took care to keep his eyes from this one’s breasts. “I am looking, yes, but I am looking for my niece. She ran away from the school that she attends in New York along with one of her classmates. Her mother is afraid for her. She asked me to help find her. When last heard from she was here because her classmate comes from here. Her mother says that these two play tennis all the time. I come here in the hope that they come here.”

The policeman said, “That accent. Where are you from, sir?”

“I am Hungarian. From very near Budapest.” He wasn’t sure what led him to say that. But his answer seemed to satisfy the policeman. He nodded. He said, “So you’re new in this country.”

“New, yes, but my sister is not. I came over to visit. It is five years since I saw her. Until I got to her house only three days ago, I did not know that my niece had run off.”

“You don’t know her on sight? You need binoculars to find her?”

Mulazim was no stranger to police asking questions. He had found that he has a good mind for it. He said, “I have not seen her since she came here from Hungary. She was only this high.” He held a hand at hip level. “She is now fifteen years old, but still not very tall. I have with me a photo that my sister gave me. It was taken, she told me, this past year at her school. May I show you this photo of my niece?”

The policeman nodded. “And some ID.”

Mulazim reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt. He drew out the photo that he always kept with him. He said to the slut, “To you, my apologies. You will see why I need to look closely.”

The slut looked at the photo. “What is she? A nun?”

Mulazim smiled within himself. A nun? Good idea. “No, no, it is a costume. This is for a school play. But all it shows of her face is from her chin to mid-forehead. Is it possible that you might have seen her?”

The slut, now less impudent, said, “No. Not off hand.”

“When she was little, she was burned with hot oil. She knocked a pan off a stove. Bad burns scarred her legs and one of her arms. That is why I was looking at legs in case she no longer covers them up even though my sister says she does.”

The slut winced. She said, “Ouch. How bad are the scars?”

“She is marked for life. Very sad.”

“She covers them with what? With a warm-up suit?”

“A warm-up suit, yes. That is the term my sister used.” It was what that girl at the tennis school called it.

“A lot of people wear them, but on cool mornings mostly.” She studied the photo. “What color’s her hair?”

“Dark brown,” said Mulazim. “Much darker than mine. And long, although she might have cut it.

The slut narrowed her eyes as if trying to remember. She said, “Yeah, I’ve seen a group that comes in here some nights. Mostly dark-haired, or at least the kids are. Come to think of it, one of them does play in warm-ups. And yeah, I guess she’s pretty small.”

Mulazim’s hand went to his mouth, such was his excitement. “You say kids? How many? Is there also an adult? A parent, perhaps, of the classmate?”

Her eyes again narrowed. “Three girls. No, wait. Four. There was one who only watched. And a couple of adults. A woman, mostly, but also a man. But they didn’t look like parents. They were both lighter skinned. Instructors, maybe. They were coaching the girls. I’ve seen them playing each other while the girls watched. They go at it. They’re both pretty good.”

Mulazim asked, “Please. Could you describe this man and woman. This might help me to find my little niece.”

She squinted. “Let’s see. The woman’s blond, fairly tall, I guess about thirty five. And she’s hot. Stays in very good shape.”

“And the man?”

“A little older. Rugged-looking. Curly brown hair. More laid-back than she is. Kids around with the girls.”

“What of names,” asked Mulazim. “Did you hear any used?”

“Look, I really wasn’t paying that much attention. We come here to play our own game.”

Mulazim understood. Nor did he need any names. The description of Stride was enough. “But they did not come here last night or tonight. Is there another place where they might play?”

She replied, “I don’t know. Maybe they switched to mornings.” She said to the policeman, “My friend’s waiting. I’m her ride.”

The policeman said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

Mulazim’s head was spinning as he watched her cross the court to where her tennis partner was waiting. Even the way this one walked was immodest. Deliberately so. To invite sinful thoughts. Her friend, not so brazen, but sitting, legs spread. He would like to teach both of them a lesson.

But the policeman said, “Let’s still take that walk. I’d still like to see some ID.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mulazim. “You must do your duty.” He gestured toward the restroom. It was in the same direction as the parked cars. “Do you mind? I am in some discomfort.”

The policeman nodded. He said, “Yeah. Me too.” They entered the one marked for men. Mulazim stood at his urinal only pretending, while he reached up his sleeve for the flat throwing knife that he’d fastened to his arm using bandages. The policeman had taken the urinal adjacent. Mulazim waited until he was fully engaged, his head tilted forward, looking down. He freed his knife and plunged it down hard where the policeman’s spinal column joined his skull.

It was very efficient. No outcry. No sound. The policeman went rigid before he went soft. Mulazim left the knife where it had entered in order to prevent a gushing of blood that he would have to waste time cleaning up. He embraced the policeman before he could fall. With great effort, he managed to drag him backward and into the nearest toilet stall. He sat the dead policeman on the toilet. Only then did Mulazim reclaim his knife. There was blood this time, but only a trickle because now the man’s heart had stopped pumping. And yet he kept peeing in several short squirts. This surprised Mulazim. Every day you learn something. He wiped the blade clean with toilet tissue.

Mulazim took the policeman’s Glock pistol and the extra clip of bullets from his belt. Also his handcuffs. They might come in handy. Also his taser. Same reason. He took the squawky little radio from his lapel. He arranged the policeman in a natural position and pulled his pants down to his ankles. The little radio would tell him when his dispatcher started calling this policeman to ask where he is. Getting no answer, more police would come looking. Not a problem. Mulazim had plenty of time. It would probably be thirty minutes or more before any would think to look in this restroom.

He thought of latching the stall door and then climbing over, but that seemed unnecessarily strenuous. It was enough to jam some toilet paper into the latch plate. It would keep the stall door from swinging open. With this housekeeping done, he stepped out of the restroom. No one was approaching. No one was near. No sound except the whop of tennis balls being struck and a single car’s engine being started.