The Aisha Prophecy (46 page)

She’d slept well past noon. Danielle came in to wake her. She said, “I’ve fixed you some lunch.” Danielle carried a tray containing soup and a sandwich and three folded sheets of copy paper. She set the tray down and reached for a towel. She said, “These are emails just in. First from Dr. Sadik. It is addressed to either you or Mr. Kessler. I review all correspondence. It’s for everyone’s protection. This one is good news for Rasha.”

Elizabeth’s eyes brightened. She sat up and reached for them, ignoring the towel that Danielle was holding for her. She opened the fold, dropping two of the sheets. She said, excitedly, “Sorry. Wet hands.” She stepped out of the tub while reading the first. “We have robes here,” said Danielle, “should you feel the need.” Elizabeth gave no sign that she’d heard.

Sadik’s email read:

“Rasha’s mother, an hour ago, arrived in Toulon. Tell Harry that my arms dealer came through in return for the incentives we discussed. She’s at the same Nasreen safe house where Rasha first stayed. For security reasons, she has not been told that you are at Harry’s private retreat, only that Rasha is in excellent hands. I’ve emailed Harry separately with the Toulon number. Let Harry decide how best to make contact and how to reunite her with Rasha.”

Elizabeth was thrilled. She couldn’t wait to tell Rasha. No, better yet, let it be a surprise. Let her watch as one of Harry’s Bell Rangers approaches. Let her see who climbs out of this one.

Danielle stood holding the two pages that she’d dropped. She said to Elizabeth, “Still mostly good. But not if these cause you to die of pneumonia. First the robe, then I give you the next one.”

Elizabeth yielded to Danielle’s sense of modesty before starting on the second of the pages. This one was from Roger Clew.

It read:

“Tell Harry that Bigfoot doesn’t waste any time. It seems he visited some of Haskell’s executives. One of them, while he was still able to talk, told him where Gilhooley might be found. There’s a company called Scorpion Systems that Haskell’s friend, Bentley controls. It has only one office and that’s in Kuwait. Gilhooley’s either there now or he’s on his way. I told Sam to sit tight and let me look into it but I’m less than confidant that he will. I spoke to Netanya. He has people in Kuwait and he has his own interests. He says they’re aware of Scorpion Systems as an oil field security firm that is thought to do Haskell’s dirty work on the side. He says they’ll watch for Gilhooley themselves and will advise when he’s no longer an issue.”

Hmmph, thought Elizabeth. Netanya has “interests?’ Of course he has interests. He’ll take Gilhooley not so much to save Sam the trouble as to keep Sam from queering an operation of his own. They’ve probably long since infiltrated that company. Either way, he’s committed. Gilhooley will be found. Perhaps Netanya will send Harry one of his ears with that big hearing aid still hanging out of it.

Danielle said to her, “This last one might not be so welcome. Mr. Clew says that you might want to shop for a wig.”

Elizabeth had to sit down as she read it. It was all about the upcoming editions of Time and Newsweek Magazines. The second coming of Aisha on both of their covers. One of them headlined with the question, “Is She Coming?” The other using that same illustration with “Riding The Internet Lightning” in a banner underneath. The treatment inside is similar for both. Reactions from all over the Muslim world including American Muslims. Interviews with clerics, most of them skeptical, but not willing to brush it off entirely. Pro and con lifts from Internet blogs which are running about ten to one pro. Photos of women holding vigils in Tehran and of other demonstrations throughout the Gulf states. This is under the sub-head, ‘Millions Flocking To Her Banner.’ There are also a few reports of claimed sightings including a possible in… Belle Haven.

Clew wrote:

“It’s a shot of you and Aisha leaving Mangiamo. It appeared in Thursday morning’s Alexandria Gazette. Very small in that paper. Part of a montage. But both magazines picked up on it. No names, but it’s you, smoke coming from what’s left of your hair, you and Aisha all hijabbed in those white tablecloths. Both magazine’s noted that it’s eerily similar to the drawing their using on the cover. All that’s missing is a sword and the camel. And at least you’ve lost that helmet look that Newsweek says is catching on big time. Tatiana got both magazines to send galleys. I’ll fax them as soon as I’ve read them. Both magazines to hit the stands in one week. International editions as well.”

Danielle said, “International includes Chamonix. In French and in German and also in English. You cannot be seen with her in town.”

No, thought Elizabeth. Not even in the week before they hit. And certainly not looking like this. “Wigs,” she said. “Does the town have a wig store?”

“Quite a good one,” said Danielle. “Every style, every color, from classic to funky. Also clothing stores for every taste, every age. All of you will need to buy new clothing.”

Yes, they would, thought Elizabeth. Especially the girls. They came with only what they could carry. Harry can arrange to have the rest shipped, including their Korans and their prayer rugs. But whatever they’d worn in Hilton Head or Belle Haven ought not to be worn in Chamonix.

Danielle said, “This evening I’ll write down all your sizes. Tomorrow, Saturday, I will shop for the women. What you don’t like, I will return. I will bring Mr. Kessler because he’s European. Between us we’ll know what you’d like to wear, but also the things that you ought to wear.”

Elizabeth made a face. “I suppose.”

“I see… what? Reservations?” asked Danielle.

No, she saw concerns. There were plenty of those. Not least was how or whether to keep Aisha from seeing her name and her face on every news stand. The only way would be to keep her cloistered for a while, but even that wouldn’t do any good because she’ll hear about those issues eventually. No. let her see them. And then help her deal with them. But this wasn’t what she said to Danielle.

“You see disappointment that I can’t shop with them. Especially with Aisha whose new dress was ruined and whose wonderful party was blown all to hell. But… sorry. Never mind. You would not understand.”

Danielle responded with a face of her own. “I am fifty years old. I’ve never known disappointment? I’m a woman. I don’t understand shopping?”

Before Elizabeth could answer, Danielle said, “A new plan. I shop in the morning, but only for wigs. I come back with new looks for both you and for Aisha. You go back to town in one car with Rasha because she looks nothing like Aisha. Mr. Kessler goes in the second car and he shops with Aisha and the sisters. You start at opposite ends of the shops. You are never seen together as a group. You don’t even acknowledge each other.”

“Good idea,” said Elizabeth. “Thank you.”

“Tonight at dinner we’ll decide more than sizes. New names for all of you, especially for Aisha. Don’t be overheard calling her Aisha. In France there are many girls with dark hair. I recommend good French names like Dominique and Gabrielle.”

“How about Christiane?”

“She might not be amused,” said Danielle, who then shrugged. “Even so, it would certainly help to disguise her. But it’s not enough. We need a total new look. I only wish that she was not such a beautiful young girl. Perhaps we can put some weight on her.”

Not bad, thought Elizabeth. A sensible idea. Niki goes one way, knocks off twenty pounds, and the rest of us eat until we’re morbidly obese. But no way. New looks will have to do.

For how long? There’s no telling. She who’s coming might be coming for another five years. Martin may or may not have five good years left in him. So how long? Three months. Maybe six, but not longer. Just long enough to grow out her own hair. She and Martin have some living to do.

She can’t wait to get down to that wig shop herself.

Maybe something Dolly Parton-ish. Or maybe something Cher-ish. A total change from her normal low-maintenance cut. Martin likes it as it was, but he might like a sexy wig. She’ll leave the final choice up to him.

Oh, no she won’t.

Martin, remember, has a weird sense of humor. He’d probably claim to go for the Alpine peasant look. Golden blond with pigtails down to her butt.

No, wait. Oh, wait. Get one of those for Aisha. Or else something heavy metal. Streaked with purple. And a nose ring. She who’s coming isn’t coming looking like some rock groupie. Or a biker babe. Or a strung-out teen druggie.

This time shopping is going to be fun.

EPILOG 

In Washington, another four days had passed. It was the following Wednesday, early evening.

Howard Leland, who had listened to Clew’s arguments at length, and to others by Harry himself, had concluded that he must resign all the same. He felt that his honor required it. Clew then promptly met with the Deputy Chief of Staff. He alerted him that the gesture would be forthcoming and explained why it had best be declined.

The administration would lose more than an honorable man if Leland were to go public with his reasons. Its strongest supporters, its biggest contributors, were members of The Bohemian Club. They would be exposed to considerable discomfort. Think special prosecutors, think criminal indictments, think search warrants and corpse-sniffing hounds, think the dredging of their lake and their river. Think trying to explain to the Saudi government why the prince was there in the first place. Are most members innocent? Of this they are, yes. But how much scrutiny could many of them bear?

For these and other reasons, Stickles saw to it that Leland’s resignation would be refused. He felt that as long as Leland retained his office, he would remain answerable to the White House. If he should leave, no longer bound by his oath of office, he might place his energies and his prestige in the service of Whistler’s business empire which he saw as a rogue shadow government.

“Shadow government?” asked Harry when Clew called with the news.

“I know. That’s a new one. You’re up there with Big Oil.”

“Should I expect to be invaded?”

“Nope. We got you to stand down.”

“Who did?” asked Harry. “You and Howard?”

“Yup. You’ve promised to take no further action against the Bohemian Club’s membership. You’ve promised that you would take no further action aimed at bringing down the Saudi regime – without prior consultation with the White House, that is - and you’re going to keep your hands off their oil.”

“Any discussion of the prophecy?” he asked. “Anything about Aisha and Elizabeth? I assume he’s seen Time and Newsweek.”

“The prophecy came up. I denied you’re behind it. I wasted my breath; he doesn’t buy it. Not that it matters, however. The White House doesn’t want to go anywhere near this. It would be a no-win no matter which side they take. Say anything positive, piss off half the world’s Muslims. Brush it off and risk losing half of this country’s voters who are sympathetic toward the Muslim feminists. Unofficially, they hope you’ll raise hell with it.”

By the time these terms had been related to him, Charles Haskell’s body had resurfaced. Haskell’s gardening crew found it at his Palm Beach estate. They found it neatly posed in the umpire’s chair that overlooked his grass tennis court. That’s where Netanya’s plumbers had left him after having him cleaned up and packed in ice for three days in order to make his death seem unrelated to the events in Belle Haven. Harry had specified the grass court.

Haskell’s death, called murder, was widely reported in the world’s business press and on the BBC and CNN. Elizabeth saw the coverage, but offered no comment. Harry found that somewhat disappointing. He thought she’d see the poetry of it. But in truth the pose had not been his idea. He would not have imagined that a private court would have such a thing as an umpire’s chair. No, not even at a Palm Beach estate. Netanya’s plumbers had made the delivery, saw the chair, and had found it impossible to resist. They’d tried to pose him, finger pointing, as if calling a foot fault. But Haskell, by that time, was sufficiently thawed that they’d have to have propped him up with cut branches and they’d have to have worked in the dark. They’d decided that it would probably never look right and besides, they needed to get back to D.C. They left him with his hands clasped together, his chin on his chest as if in prayer.

Clew had said, “They’re still trying to dope out what that means.”

Harry asked, “Dope out what what means?”

He said, “The message that you were trying to send by leaving him in that position. Not that you’ve been named, but that’s the gossip.”

The account that appeared in Business Week magazine called Haskell a “plunderer extraordinaire even by the freebooting standards of his industry.” The umpire’s chair, if one saw it as a throne, was seen to symbolize that ranking. The pose was described as depicting a man who’d been humbled and had been “possibly, although doubtfully, penitent,” before the coupe de grace to his throat. Not much was said about his other injuries. They were all superficial. They did not suggest torture. He looked more like he’d been in a bar fight.

Clew said to Harry, “Speaking of gossip, it’s an even bigger mystery how you managed to get to that banker.”

The death of Sir Reginald might have been the last straw that led to Gerald Stickles feeling the need to protect the remaining Bohemians. Was his death, as was reported, from natural causes or was this the long arm of Harry Whistler at work?

The simple truth was that Leeds had a stroke.

Ah, said the gossip, but what brought it on? He was probably frightened to death. Some fellow Bohemians had described his demeanor as seeming to be terrified out of his wits upon learning of Haskell’s demise and especially how Haskell had been found. They said that his behavior was increasingly bizarre over the several days preceding. Not willing to return to his assigned cabin. Sleeping on lobby couches or porch furniture elsewhere, inebriated much of the time. Running off at the approach of Huntington Bentley who seemed on the verge of panic himself, having taken a call from some Saudi acquaintance – an apparently very angry acquaintance – and was heard unconvincingly protesting his innocence to whatever he was being accused of. After which Bentley managed to catch up to Leeds. There were a few minutes of heated discussion. The color was seen to drain from Leeds’ face. Leeds clutched his temples, let out a squeal, and the poor man dropped dead on the spot.

Harry Whistler, of course, knew what had them so upset. Sadik knew. And Hester knew, but nobody else. Two of them down. Two confirmed dead. Another seven hundred million will soon go to Sadik through Hester’s off-shore machinations. Huntington Bentley should not be far behind. His time at the Grove is up this coming weekend. Perhaps Stickles will offer him a Camp David guest room in return for him throwing his media clout behind all of the president’s policies. Whatever. He can’t hide forever.

Sam Foote had returned to his home in Belle Haven. Harry had offered him his old job in Italy and had offered to finance a new restaurant there. Sam was torn. He loved all things Italian. He’d made, however, many friends in Belle Haven, none of whom knew of his colorful past. In Italy, he’d been feared. Here, not the least bit. He was inclined to rebuild.

“But,” he told Clew, “something weird has been happening since those two magazines hit the stands.”

“Other than attracting the curious?” Clew asked.

“Curious isn’t the word for it, Roger. You ought to drive down here and see.”

Sam went on to try to explain what he meant. It was not so much the story of the Aisha Prophecy and the effect that it was having world-wide. It was not so much what seemed a connection between the prophecy and the destruction of Mangiamo as suggested by that ‘eerily similar’ photo of Elizabeth and Aisha emerging. Some in Belle Haven had known Aisha and Elizabeth, if only by their first names. Many more knew their faces. They’d seen them in the restaurant and around town and playing tennis together. It was not so much that both of them had suddenly vanished. It was not so much the whispers about them that were spreading.

Whispers like, “Call me crazy, but they never seemed quite… human. They always seemed sort of… up there… sort of almost otherworldly. The older one… Elizabeth… ever noticed her eyes? An unusual color. Amber. Like a cat. And like a cat, she hardly made a sound when she moved. And the younger one, Aisha… that’s what she was called. And that seems one hell of a coincidence.”

They were a mystery. No question about that. And mysteries discussed are either solved or they deepen.

They deepened mostly among those whom the mystery attracted.

Muslim women.

They were coming by the dozens.

Just a handful at first. They appeared the same day on which Time and Newsweek were published. By the next day, they numbered about twenty. Most were young. Most were covered. Some were not. Some held copies of either magazine across their breasts. Others held copies of the Koran from which they’d read aloud, although softly. They would stand on the sidewalk across the street from what remained of the restaurant. Sam had seen them. He’d walked over to ask why they were there.

One told him, “We just wanted to come here.”

“There’s nothing to see. Just a boarded-up building.”

“We don’t have a better answer than that.”

Sam decided to ask them outright. “Do you believe that the Aisha of the prophecy was here?”

“Not necessarily. Don’t make us sound silly. It’s more what we find ourselves feeling as we stand here.”

“Might I ask what it is that you feel?”

“The love of God,” said one.

Another said, “Hope.”

Sam asked, “Hope for what? That she’ll come back here to lead you? To free you?”

Some frowned at the question. Others smiled. One answered for them, “We don’t need to be led. We don’t need to be freed. But others do. We stand here for them.”

By the third night there were twice that number. By the fourth, there were many more. Some came by car, some by bus, some came on bicycles. A few made the pilgrimage on foot. Sergeant Dave Harris called Sam at his home and asked what, if anything, he wanted done.

“They’re still just standing?”

“Pretty much,” said the Sergeant. “Some have brought flowers and candles. They leave the flowers and candles on your front step. Some break off a splinter or pick up a piece of glass and kiss them before putting them in their pockets. Some leave little notes or verses from the Koran and then they go back across the street.”

“All women?”

“Mostly women. But they’re not all Muslim women. Some want to make it clear that they’re Christians or Jews and that this has become a solidarity thing. I’ve seen Karen with them a couple of times. I asked whether she was joining the movement. She told me it’s none of my business.”

“You say mostly women. How many men?”

“Not a lot,” Harris told him. “But a few more each time. Karen says they seem to be just standing guard in case anyone tries to harass them.”

Sam asked, “Has anyone?”

“Not yet, but we’re holding our breath. A lot of Muslims out there see this as a heresy. But don’t worry. If anyone so much as shakes a fist at them, he’ll get busted the minute we get there.”

That’s when Sam called Roger Clew and made the suggestion that Clew come down and see this for himself. He said, “I think Elizabeth ought to know about this. And you know her a lot better than I do.”

Clew told him, “I’ll meet you. One hour.”

“No, go alone. See what you make of it. Then call me. I’ll buy you a beer.”

Clew drove down to Belle Haven in his car, a white Buick, and pulled up several yards short of the bus stop. He sat doubled parked, his engine running. He could see the candles flickering out front. Others were held by the women themselves. They seemed mostly young, some as young as in their teens, but quite a few were considerably older. Mothers and daughters, perhaps.

There were about sixty, not counting the men. Three or four of the men stood mingled with the women, but most stood off to one side. They didn’t seem to be part of the vigil as such, but none showed any sign of impatience, disapproval. Their faces showed, if anything, concern. Probably husbands and fathers.

The women had paid no notice of him, but a couple of the men to the side were more wary. One of these turned and said something to the others. They nodded in what looked like approval. He said what looked like, “Stay here. I’ll see what he wants.” He stepped into the street. He approached Roger Clew’s idling Buick.

He said to him, “Good evening. Are you the police?”

“Good evening to you, sir. No, I’m not.”

“A reporter?”

“No. Just a friend of the owner.” He gestured toward the soot-blackened building. “If I seem to be intruding, that’s not my intention. I’m told that no one else is going to bother you either. Least of all the police.”

“You’re a friend to those who were here on that night? Were you here yourself when it happened?”

No harm in it, thought Clew. Not if he didn’t give his name. He nodded. “Yes. I was here.”

The man hesitated. “May I ask… did you know her? Did you know the girl, Aisha, and her… guardian?”

“I did. I’ve known them both for some time.”

“So you’ve spoken to them. To the girl as well?”

“Of course. On many occasions.”

The man turned his head toward the gathering of women. He was making eye contact with one in particular. A woman in her thirties. It was probably his wife. He was motioning her to come over. She came. She brushed a lock of hair back under her scarf as if to see Roger more clearly.

Her probable husband said to the woman “This man tells me that you won’t be disturbed.” He asked Clew, “You have such authority?”

“Just enough to guarantee that you’ll be left alone as long as you’re standing here peacefully.”