The Aisha Prophecy (45 page)

Harry asked, “Then why bother including it?”

“To get Saudi backing. You don’t get Saudi backing without Wahhabi backing. Israel’s there to stay. We all know that,” said Sadik. “No one’s driving them into the sea.”

“As long as they pay tribute? That would seem… unlikely.”

“It would?” asked Sadik. “They’re already paying. Israel has paid millions in reparations to Muslims whose land they have taken. Over here, you call that eminent domain. You take homes where you need to build a highway.”

“That’s compensation,” said Harry. “Not tribute.”

“Semantics,” said Sadik. “Israel is paying. But from their point of view, they are making an investment. Not a pay-off, not a bribe, but a legitimate investment. The Palestinian work force is far and away the most educated and industrious in all the Mideast. In that regard, the two peoples have much in common. They’re already trading partners on quite a large scale.”

“We buy their grain,” said Hester, “their fruits and their vegetables. We buy copper and potash and sulfur from their mines. You know this new wall that you hear so much about? All its concrete comes from Palestinian companies that were more than happy to sell it. We also buy about a third of our fresh water from them. All this can only increase.”

Harry remained doubtful. “Trade still isn’t tribute.”

“It is if we say it is,” said Sadik.

Hester added, “But of course no one says it out loud. This is just to quiet the die-hards. It allows them to believe that they’ve not only won something, but have satisfied Allah’s primary requirement. More investment, meanwhile, provides jobs and good lives. What will those who have them say to the die-hards? More and more, they will say, ‘Oh, shut up.’”

“More and more,” asked Harry, “over how long a period? The pace of change has been less than breath-taking.”

“Not as slow,” said Hester, “as your civil rights movement. Your blacks had been citizens for almost a century before they began to be treated as such. Why then? Because their own Martin Luther stepped forward. The writer, James Baldwin became their Rousseau. All Palestine had was Yasir Arafat who never missed an opportunity to miss an opportunity. But then, of course, he was…”

“Only human?” asked Sadik.

“And a man,” Hester answered.

“Two encumbrances,” said Sadik, “that Aisha’s spirit doesn’t share. Perhaps she can pick up the pace.”

FORTY EIGHT 

Two helicopters were waiting on the tarmac in Geneva. The alternate aircraft that Kate Whistler had chartered touched down a few minutes after sunset.

Harry’s Gulfstream had, as he’d suspected, drawn a reception committee at Reagan. There were cameramen among them, but not from the media. Gerald Stickles had intended to be photographed interdicting Harry Whistler and the terrorist, Sadik, as proof that he was in full command. The Gulfstream’s pilot had warned Harry off as soon as he saw the line of black cars race up and block the aircraft from moving. Clew’s limo proceeded to Baltimore.

The crew of the Gulfstream had been detained and denied further access to telephones. But they couldn’t be held for more than a day. It was only after they were once again airborne when Harry learned that his Gulfstream had been standing wingtip to wingtip with a Trans-Global Oil & Gas corporate jet signed out to its CEO, Charles Haskell. The world seems to get smaller by the day.

The two helicopters were five-seat Bell Rangers. They had waited well away from the passenger terminal but under a bank of bright floodlights. The helicopters were painted a candy-apple red and, as with the Gulfstream, Harry’s initials stood outlined in gold, this time only two feet high on the fuselage. A Humvee waited near the Bell Rangers, this one gold with Harry’s initials in red.

“So much for our new low profile lifestyle,” said Elizabeth as their unmarked aircraft rolled to a stop.

“Harry is Harry,” said Kessler.

She saw Kate Whistler standing by the gold Humvee. No airport officials, no customs officials were anywhere in sight. She assumed that Harry had a standing arrangement that certain arrivals with certain guests would remain officially unnoticed.

Elizabeth unbuckled. She went to rouse the four girls. They had slept through much of the crossing. Rasha and her kitten were easily wakened, as were Shahla and Niki. All three yawned and stretched and, realizing where they were, excitedly pressed their foreheads to their windows. Aisha seemed almost unwilling to wake up. She’d been dreaming, no doubt, of her mother again, telling her, perhaps that she had been right. It had been a birthday to remember.

She told the girls, “All six of us are staying aboard until Harry’s helicopters are ready to go. We’ll wait until those damned lights go off. “

Shahla asked her, “Aren’t we staying in Geneva?”

“No, we’re going to France. The French Alps.”

Harry himself had passed some of the flight in the co-pilot’s seat, on the radio with Clew or watching video replays on one of two cameras that the twins brought aboard. These were not the cameras of Mulazim and Haskell. They were the cameras of commuters who had come off the bus and who had taped the chaos, the smoke and confusion that followed the explosion at Mangiamo. The twins, upon establishing that Harry was safe and that no serious harm had come to the girls, set about relieving those commuters of their cameras. Harry didn’t ask by what means they had done so. He assumed that the owners of the cameras had been left looking much like all the others in need of first aid.

Disconcerting for them, but they’ll get over it, thought Harry. He was glad to have their cameras because they had in fact recorded Elizabeth’s dismantling of Haskell. They’d also recorded Haskell’s nearly successful strangulation of Roger Clew. Poor Roger. Not much of a fighter, but he tried. Harry would erase his awkward flailing. He would also erase the footage that showed the late Charles Haskell being stuffed into the trunk of a limo bearing State Department plates.

One of the twins had also recovered his hat. It was in need of professional care, but it had suffered no permanent damage. That alone would be worth a nice bonus.

Sadik had spent nearly all of the flight quietly working with Mossad’s Hester Lazarus on the two laptop computers. The Humvee was for them. Kate Whistler would be driving. One twin would go with her. She would take them to the family villa in Geneva where, by week’s end, they intended to complete the transfer of several billions more.

The lights were turned off, the Two Bell Rangers were ready. The other twin escorted the girls into one. She and Kessler and Harry would fly in the other. They took off into the night.

After a flight of less than two hours, they approached the lights of the helipad of what Harry referred to as his ski shack. It overlooked the Chamonix valley from the western slope of Mont Blanc. In architectural style, it was a chalet that could have passed as a four star hotel. Three stories high, twenty bedrooms and suites, surrounded by eight hundred acres, all forested, except for a half dozen ski trails, all private. Kessler and Elizabeth knew the place well. Elizabeth had once convalesced there.

She’d said to Whistler as they passed over Chamonix, “Tell me you haven’t painted it red.”

“I’m only that Harry Whistler when I want to be, Elizabeth. No, it’s the same. It’s all wood and stone. A retreat is a retreat, not a showcase.”

“You’re full of it, Harry. I bet Kate put her foot down. Have I told you that you don’t deserve her?”

He said to Kessler, “I see she’s lost none of her charm.” He said to Elizabeth, “Love your hair, by the way.” He said, “No red Humvees either. The lodge comes equipped with two Saab SUVs. One is dark brown and the other dark green, the better to blend into trees. Both are highly powered; you’ll need a light foot. Both are bullet resistant. In addition there are some new electronics since you last favored me with a visit. No unexpected guest can get near you undetected. It’s even safer than the house in Belle Haven.”

“What good are the cars? We can’t go to town, can we?”

He said, “Not you with Martin, never together, even though Chamonix is always crawling with tourists. But singly, or with one, even two of the girls, by all means, go to movies, go shopping. I don’t need to tell you not to use credit cards. How much cash do you have between you?”

“Not much,” said Kessler. “A few hundred, American.”

“Dollars won’t attract notice, but Euros are better. My head housekeeper is French. Her name is Danielle. She keeps about fifty thousand on hand. It’s there for guests who run short; use whatever you need; replenish it when you’re able to transfer your own funds. Two armed guards with dogs are on patrol around the clock. Have you brought weapons of your own?”

“Only her knife,” Kessler answered.

Harry asked Elizabeth, “No Ingram Mac-10? When have you ever been without it?”

“It burned with my car. But it’s going to be found.”

“And assumed to be yours. So what if it is? You’re Elizabeth Stride. It would be laughable to charge you with possession.”

He said, “Danielle will show you where our weapons are kept, ranging from handguns on up. You’re not likely to need them. No guest ever has. On the other hand, it hasn’t been often that I’ve entertained a Muslim messiah.”

Elizabeth hissed, “Harry, Aisha is not…”

“You’re not here because she is. You’re here because there are people who might think she is. Don’t worry. This will pass in due course.”

It might, thought Elizabeth. It should. It had better. Unless Aisha, who’s already been wondering about it, begins to believe it herself.

It was the next morning, a bright and beautiful Friday, before the girls got their first real look at the splendid scenery around them. Although it was July, the mountains were snow-capped. Aisha and Rasha were thrilled by the views. Neither had ever seen snow. The Darvi girls had. Tehran has cold winters. There were ski trails about an hour’s drive north. Men and women had to use separate slopes, but the snow is pure and white, not like that of the city. In the city it would be covered with a layer of soot almost before it stopped falling. They had never really played in the snow.

Harry told them at breakfast, “Then you’re all overdue. This morning we drive up Mont Blanc.”

He was able to scrounge enough winter clothing and jump suits that had been left by other guests. Some fit Aisha and Shahla, both of whom were full grown, and some fit Niki Darvi who was nearly so. Rasha swam inside hers, but at least she’d be warm.

Elizabeth had put some fresh salve on Aisha’s burns before she began to suit up. Happily, the burns didn’t look bad at all. There was some minimal blistering, nothing likely to scar or discolor. In addition to the clothing, Harry brought from his ski room a pair of aluminum disks made for coasting and one well-waxed wooden luge. Rasha asked for first dibs on the luge.

Kessler went with them in one of Harry’s SUV’s, two pairs of skis on its rack. It had been too long since Kessler was on skis. Harry Whistler was counting on him being stale and that his ski legs would take a while to come back. He had never beaten Kessler down a run before this. He’d bet a bottle of Cristal that he would.

A trip up above the tree line, more than anything else, just might be the best medicine for Aisha. A breath of fresh air, so to speak. By and large, she seemed her old self again. Certainly there were periods of reflective melancholy over the uprooting that had been forced upon them for the second time in three months. Forced on Elizabeth as well.

That much, however, was true of all four. But in Aisha’s case there was also an awareness that she was very much at the center of all this. Not to blame for it. Not at all. But somehow responsible. So much, good and bad, had been done in her name. Well… not in her name, but we get the idea. And so much more was likely to be done. All we can do is try to help her to focus on the good, all those new doctors, for example. And on the courage that so many Muslim women have found. And on the many good men who are listening.

Elizabeth had chosen to stay at the chalet. The girls didn’t need her. They could do with some fun. So could poor Martin and for that she blamed herself. She’d not been very pleasant since that email from Netanya. And even less so since people died at a party that she had insisted on going ahead with. She’d even groused at him for not giving her some time with that little insect from the Hasheem who he’d left in the men’s room. The one who’d murdered Bernice. Totally unfair to him. He’d had no idea. And he’d been so very kind to her since. Sitting in that pool with her. Listening. Understanding. Taking her to their bedroom. Helping her to undress and dry off. Helping her into a warm nightgown. And holding her, just holding her, until morning.

Well, being such a bitch ends today, she decided. She’ll make it up to him when he gets back. He’ll want to take a shower and she’ll climb in with him. There’s nothing like a shower stall to shut out the world and to strip oneself of all other baggage. Left to her, she’d soap him up and screw his brains out. But Martin doesn’t do that. He slows everything down. Lots of holding and whispering and feather-light touching. Where did he learn that? It wasn’t from her. But because of it, he’s got her for as long as he lives. And he’d better live for more than five years.

He will. He’s strong. He gets stronger by the week. Doctors get it wrong all the time.

The girls had all urged her to come out and play with them, even offering to stay and really meaning it. Martin, too. She told them, “Tomorrow. We’ll all go tomorrow. I’ll find some red paint and some used Brillo pads. We’ll make a snowman that looks like Harry Whistler.”

See that? We’re not shits, but she was being a shit. She still hadn’t thanked Harry for all that he’s doing. And speaking of the Brillo that they’d used for Harry’s beard, that’s exactly what her own hair now looked like. “Love your hair,” the big ox said, flying down here on his Ranger. For that crack, he’s got it coming. Well, she might let him off. But the fact remains, two thirds of it’s gone. She’d better see what she can do with it.

For now, she’d enjoy the first solitude that she’d known since her walks on the Hilton Head beaches. Maybe she’d take a little nap. Maybe she’d have pleasant dreams. Maybe if she willed it hard enough, she’d get Aisha’s mother to drop in. There were a few things she’d like to say to her. She’d say leave the kid alone. No more coming in her dreams. But if you do, if you must, don’t be so damned Delphic. Say it flat out. It’s not her.

Say, “Sorry to scare you, but it’s true; you’re not her. I know because I just had a chat with her.”

This would perk Aisha up. She’d say “Really?”

“Yup. And it turns out you’ve got lots of time. She who’s coming won’t be coming for a while yet.”

Aisha would ask, “But she’s still coming?”

“Can’t say for certain. She might be rethinking. I mean, why bother making the trip if half the world thinks she’s down there already?”

“But what if some of them still think it’s me?”

“Yeah, you’d better sit tight until this thing blows over.”

“And if it isn’t me, or if she’s not coming through me, what was that about ‘beyond my wildest dreams?’”

“What, that wasn’t a hell of a party? People coming from all over? All those fireworks afterward?”

“Mom…”

“And tell Elizabeth that I thought you looked really good. Can’t say the same for her. She looked like hell when she walked out with you. Hey, you know who she looked like?”

“The angel Qaila?”

“I was going to say more like a butch biker chick. If I were her, before I’d put any moves on Kessler, I’d think about getting a paper bag and putting it over my…”

Yeah, right, thought Elizabeth. If only.

She did work on her hair. Waste of time. It was hopeless. But Harry had a well-equipped exercise room that included a Jacuzzi and a sauna. She worked the Stairmaster, the bike and some weights before treating herself to a soak in the Jacuzzi. She’d put on some music. It was Bach. Chamber music. With the tub gently bubbling in time with the music, she was asleep in five minutes.