The Aisha Prophecy (36 page)

THIRTY SEVEN 

Haskell had almost had to change his position. Two busses had stopped, several passengers got off. The busses took their time moving on. While idling, they were blocking his view. Then there were the people who were waiting for busses. He’d forgotten that people ride busses.

One man wandered by to check the bus schedule that was posted at one end of the shelter. He had a sense that this man was looking him over. An odd little man dressed in work clothes like Gilhooley. As it turned out, however, the man’s only interest was in Haskell’s half-eaten Danish pastry. It sat atop the white bakery bag that still held the camera and cell phone.

He asked, “Where’d you get it? This bakery right here?”

Haskell answered, “That would seem the way to bet.”

“They sell coffee in there?”

He said, “One would assume so.”

“Thanks. I’ll go take a look.”

He was gone none too soon. The first guests were arriving. Haskell pressed Record on the video camera. He held it, chest level, in his right hand with his left hand placed over it for concealment. He began his narration with the words, “Part One. The lambs being brought to the slaughter.”

The big bartender had stepped out the front door and was waving a stretch limo into its space, picking up traffic cones as he did so. “This would be Harry Whistler in the limo,” said Haskell.

But it wasn’t. Two girls emerged, then a third, then two women, all but one of them bearing wrapped gifts. The limo’s driver had opened the rear door for them. The bartender helped them climb out. The sight of Stride in the flesh caused a stirring inside him. There she was, standing tall, looking up and down the street. Alert, but not skittish. She would never be skittish. It was just one more thing to admire about her. Her scan of the street took in Gilhooley’s truck which was parked several car lengths further on. But it was only a glance. Her attention did not linger. No more so than it did on other vehicles. The limo’s driver indicated that he’d stay with the car. Haskell thought that he was probably armed.

He recognized three of the others from their photos. “Correction,” said Haskell into his camera. “These are none other than the handmaidens who stole from your wonderful charities.” He named them as he recorded them. There was Rasha, the princess, now a traitorous apostate, in a cardigan sweater, a blouse and a skirt. By her standards, that was probably daring. Standing with her were the two sisters from Iran, the older one dressed in a stylish sheath, the younger one wearing the sort of chemise that women wear when there’s a little too much of themselves. Everyone smiling, their party faces on. Well, not all. Not exactly. The younger sister seems to be a bit slower than the others to get into the spirit of the thing.

Speaking of which, where is Aisha, Haskell wondered? And who is that other woman with Stride?

Oh, wait. That’s no woman. “That’s her. That’s Aisha.” And, thought Haskell, she looks utterly smashing. Form fitting black dress, low cut in the back, her hair styled in a twist that flowed over one shoulder. Both shoulders were otherwise bare. Only sixteen years old? Not in that dress. That’s a full grown woman inside it.

“That’s her,” said Haskell into his camcorder. “No question about it. That’s her. That’s the heretic who claims to be Aisha reborn. A Nasreen, of course. Another lesbian whore. Just look at her in that sluttish black dress. Well, you won’t hear any more out of her.”

Haskell watched the bartender-owner. He’s so struck by what must be this new look for her that he’s actually standing there applauding. Aisha seems abashed. She draws back toward the limo as if to escape. Elizabeth stops her. Encourages her. The bartender offers Aisha his arm, asking her, “May I have the honor?”

Whistler must have decided that the birthday girl deserved to show up in his limo. Aisha and the bartender led the way in. More than escorting, he was steadying her. She did seem a bit wobbly, thought Haskell. She also seemed taller than she did in her photos. Ah, it’s the heels. She must not be accustomed to heels. More applause greeted her as she entered the restaurant. He could hear shouts of “Wow” and a chorus of whistles. He could see the bartender waving his hand as if saying, “That’s enough. You’re embarrassing her.” Even Gilhooley had joined in the clapping. Had to seem one of the gang.

The black Mercedes sedan pulled up next. Still no Harry Whistler. That’s Roger Clew driving. Haskell tried to make himself smaller, but Clew never glanced in his direction. Clew’s passenger, now emerging, was… could that be Sadik? Not Kessler, for sure, unless he’d aged since Angola. He was a courtly-looking man, well tanned, well dressed although in need of a shave. He didn’t look much like an Arab to Haskell, but he knew that had to be Rajib Sadik. He said so into the camera.

“This is the mole the prince told you about. Rajib Sadik. Wormed his way into Hamas. Spies on them for the Zionists. The man with him is his handler, Roger Clew. “

The third car was a good three minutes behind. It was the green Subaru, Martin Kessler at the wheel. His passenger, no question, Harry Whistler himself. No mistaking that beard or that Tyrolean hat. There was not enough room left in front of the restaurant. The bar owner hadn’t figured on the stretch. So Kessler pulled into the service alley. He had to stop at the curb cut, let Whistler out first, before he could squeeze the car in. He parked and locked not ten feet from the bomb. This was almost too perfect to be happening.

A third man was with them, He got out behind Whistler. Small, pear-shaped. He seemed vaguely familiar. Haskell started to zoom in, but the third man had somehow melted away. Never mind. Stay on Kessler and Whistler.

He named them, but he’d forgotten what the note called them. He had to reach into his inside jacket pocket where he carried both versions of the suicide note. One with Stride, one without. He’d go with the second. He could always change his mind later.

Ah, yes, here it is. He read from it aloud. “Harry Whistler, a great enemy of God who pulls so many strings from Geneva in Switzerland.”

Hmmph. Should have made that much stronger, thought Haskell.

He continued, “And his puppet, the German, Martin Kessler, who mocks Islam from Harry Whistler’s house in Belle Haven.”

That one could have used more specifics as well, but let’s remember that the prince was thoroughly blotto and kept scratching holes in the paper. Can’t use that excuse to the Saudis, of course. Charles Haskell wasn’t there. He only found the poor man later. The proof? Here it is. In his illicit cell phone. All the photographs he took of the suicide scene. The prince with his blackening tongue sticking out. Leland’s bathroom and the rest of Room 3 as it was before his fair weather friends had it tidied.

“Their day of judgment is at hand.” said Haskell, for the benefit of his audience-to-be.

All of them. Including Bentley and Leeds.

But all in good time. First things first.

Gilhooley watched them enter from his up-front location. First Stride and the girls. Their progress was slow. The lady cop, Karen, tending bar to help Sam, leaned over the bar and stopped the traffic herself to tell Aisha how terrific she looked. Her dress, her hair, her black pearl pendant earrings.

Gilhooley turned up his faux hearing aid in time to hear the one called Shahla chime in. Saying to Aisha, “Didn’t I tell you?” Karen saying to Aisha, “I’d kill for that skin. Me, I spend a fortune on makeup.” Aisha blushed while asking, “Do you think this is too much? Shahla insisted on doing my face.” Karen asked, “What? A little lip gloss? A little eye liner? No, I think it’s just the right touch.” The small one in the sweater saying to Karen, “Do you like Niki’s dress? She looks really good, too.” Karen picking up on the hint. “You’re like fairy tale princesses. All four of you.”

This caused Aisha to give the small one a nudge. All four of them smiled. Must be some inside joke.

They hadn’t progressed more than halfway back when Clew, the guy from State, came through the front door along with a man who seemed somehow out of place. Sadik, thought Gilhooley? Must be.

The girls, at least, had reached the back room, passing under the Happy Birthday banner. The three carrying presents placed them on a table where a few were already displayed. Stride lagged behind. She was talking to Sam. Gilhooley had stretched to see Kessler and Whistler turning into the alley in the green Subaru. Whistler getting out while Kessler drove further in. Haskell’s got to love where he parked it, thought Gilhooley. Scratch one green Subaru.

Suddenly through his earpiece, he heard his name spoken. He looked back toward the rear. Sam was looking right at him. So was Stride.

He looked away quickly, mouthed some words to people near him, pretending to be in conversation with them. But he listened. Getting fragments. They were talking about his truck. Stride must have asked him whose pickup it was. Sam told him. Gilhooley. Down there at the end. Stride must have spotted him and his truck, maybe making one pass too many. But whatever her concern, Sam did not seem to share it. Gilhooley heard him say, “Does odd jobs. He’s all over.” The answer seemed satisfactory to Stride. But Sam said, “I’ll keep an eye on him anyway.”

Great, thought Gilhooley. He’s already a suspect. The sooner he’s out of here, the better.

Whistler was barely through the front door when another round of greetings erupted. “Harry, you old pirate. How long are you staying? Hi, Martin. Get him in here. What are you drinking?” Karen was ahead of them. She was holding up a bottle of Glenlivet 18. Must be Whistler’s drink of choice, thought Gilhooley. Without waiting for a nod, she poured two glasses, neat, and had them passed to Kessler and Whistler. Now Sam spotted Whistler. He was pushing through the crowd. This seemed a good time to take a smoke break.

Haskell saw him exit, saw him take out a cigarette, saw him patting his pockets for the book of matches, forgetting that he’d left it on the bench. He motioned for Gilhooley to come over.

“Smoking’s bad for you, Desmond, but do you know what’s worse? Abandoning your post is what’s worse.”

Gilhooley explained the slow progress toward the tables. He mentioned the fish-eye that he’d got from Stride. He also noticed the red light on the video camera. He asked, “Do you have me on that thing?”

“I’m awaiting your signal. That’s part of the narrative. Without you, this report would look choppy.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Now, that,” said Haskell, “I will have to edit out. Don’t mention Christ again. Don’t bless yourself either. The Saudis might find that jarring.”

Gilhooley’s miffed response was to turn his back to him and stand, arms folded, foot tapping.

Haskell took the moment to check the camcorder and make sure it had plenty of juice left. Having done so, a movement to his left caught his eye. He looked out through the shelter’s plastic window. What had caught his eye was the man who had asked him where he had got his cheese Danish. He was exiting the bakery with a larger white bag and seemed about to cross the street toward Mangiamo. That was odd. The man had seemed to be waiting for a bus. Perhaps the baker prevailed on him to bring some extra goodies to the celebrants.

The man looked to his own left and paused at the curb when he saw that a car was approaching. The car was moving slowly as if searching for a space. The man with the bakery bag waited. Now Haskell saw that the driver of the car, a man wearing a red baseball cap and green jacket, seemed more interested in cars that were already parked. His head had turned toward Gilhooley’s black pickup. Creeping by, the driver brought his right hand to his window and looked as if he was… what?… aiming something at the pickup?

He crept forward and now he was doing the same as he passed the stretch limo and the restaurant’s entrance and Harry’s Mercedes sedan. His brakes gave a screech as he passed the service alley where Stride’s Subaru had been left. He’d slowed to a crawl. Haskell could see that his lips were moving as if he were talking to himself. The little man with the baked goods was watching this as well. He hadn’t yet left the curb. He stood casually munching on a donut from his bag, powdered sugar falling onto his jacket. But his interest was short-lived. He gave a shrug, turned and entered the bar.

At that moment it struck Haskell where he’d seen that car before. It was among the photos that Gilhooley had sent him. It was the silver Ford Escape that Gilhooley had seen prowling. He’d offered no other information. Haskell had dismissed it as being unimportant. A burglar. That was it. That was what he’d assumed. Casing houses and parked cars to burgle.

Haskell said to Gilhooley who hadn’t been watching, “Have you learned any more about this one?”

Now Gilhooley saw him. He had not seen Gilhooley. And now they both saw what the driver had been pointing. Another video camera. A mini.

“Yeah, the Greek,” said Gilhooley. “He’s been hanging around. He showed up in Mangiamo one night last weekend. Looking for Whistler. Says he knows him from Piraeus. He does know Piraeus. I quizzed him a little. Says he does some shipping for Whistler.”

Gilhooley’s voice had trailed off as he said this. “But what the hell’s he doing with that camera?”

Haskell watched as the Ford Escape passed on by. “Broken tail light,” he said, “Did you do that, by chance?”

“Too many silver or white SUVs. Made this one easier to spot.”

They watched as it continued to the end of the street, then made a U-turn and came back just as slowly. The car pulled over some fifty yards in. The Greek double-parked it, got out, didn’t lock it. He seemed to have left the engine running. He walked up the street close to other parked cars, his eyes fixed on Mangiamo’s front entrance. He was a scrawny non-descript little man. He walked with the slow measured stride of a heron. Or more aptly, that of a stalker.