The Crisis (44 page)

The answer came lightning quick. “They are enemies of Islam and God. Therefore they are our enemies.”

“I'm an enemy of Islam? How can that be? I am Muslim myself.”

“Americans are Christians,” he said with the complacency of the ignorant. She tried not to bristle. If only a closed mind came with a closed mouth!

“Americans are of many religions. There are those who say Americans are the most religious people on earth.”

Al-Khasmi shrugged, popped meat into his mouth, but winced as he bit down. Nuura added something in an undertone and he looked at her, at Aisha, then back at the food. Finally he muttered something she translated as, “Let them practice what religion they like, so long as they don't do it here.”

“If it's our presence you object to, we'll be gone as soon as the famine's over and you have a functioning government. If you want us out of Ashaara, join the ADA. There's room for your men in the new police force, the new army. Room for you too.

“The Prophet, blessings be upon him, always sought to make peace. He endured hunger, torture, his loved ones' murder by those who hated him, but he remained merciful. When he conquered Mecca only four died. Do you wish a name sweet in the mouths of the people? Then join in making peace.”

Al-Khasmi had listened attentively, both to the English and the translation. He spoke at length, tapping the carpet with a fingertip. Nuura said, “He says: I do not know the Book as my old master did. But I do know this: ‘To those against whom war is made, permission is given because they are wronged; and truly, God is powerful in their aid.' ”

A voice in her left ear whispered, “You're going to have to move six inches to your left to give me a clear shot.”

She leaned forward, making sure her head covering concealed the earbud
she'd tucked into her skull before getting out of the van. Behind her, behind the deeply tinted glass, Paul Erculiano would be focusing a telephoto. If nothing else, she'd return with photos of the elusive Tiger.

Who was still speaking, in that gentle, persuasive voice. “It has been revealed to me that what the foreigners present as help is really war against us and our religion. If some, even innocents, must die as we defend ourselves, that must be God's will; since to do otherwise would mean Islam itself perishes. If you are truly Muslim this must be clear to you as well.”

She said more sharply than she'd intended, “That's superficially persuasive, but both your premises and conclusions are wrong.”

Nuura hesitated. “I don't know those words,” she muttered.

“Sorry, I'll use simpler ones. Tell him we're not here about religion—I mean, we're not here either to attack or to promote Islam. We're just here to feed the starving.”

“He says that makes no sense. Why should those who have food give it to those who do not?”

The Ashaaran spoke on, wearily, as if he'd said all this many times before. “What wise man buys a camel the price of which he does not know? Or a wife from a father who says, ‘I will tell you the price of your bride next year'? What is the fee for what you bring? Perhaps you can tell me. After all, you say you are an American.”

Ah, she thought, sitting back. He talks Muslim, but thinks Ashaari. She'd noticed their callousness toward each other. The hardness toward even their own suffering. Like the boy with the hole in his face, who'd pointed to it, grinning, as he begged. Like the children she'd watched torture a kitten, pushing it into a fire with sticks, laughing as it screamed, until it lay down and smoldered and burst into flame.

Maybe they had to be that way, to survive. She wouldn't judge. But how to reach one whose view was so stark? So underpinned with the certitude that—like rainwater dipped from the hollow of a dune—something for you only meant less for me?

“Because we're all of the same family,” she said. “You understand the obligation to family, don't you? It's the same. Those who starve must be fed.”

Now it was his turn to lean forward, no longer smiling, as he gave his triumphant words to the slight trembling woman beside her.

“ ‘Those who starve must be fed.' This sounds well, yes. You foreigners have so much. Machines and radios and airplanes. But you do not say, ‘If you are hungry, we will feed you.' What you say is, ‘If you want your children to live, you must give up your weapons, give up your law that avenges
injury, give up the purity of your women to our licentiousness.' Did you not propose that bargain to my martyred master, the revered Sheekh Nassir Irrir Zumali, peace be upon his memory? For so he told me the day he died.”

She deliberated her answer. It was acceptable not to respond at once.

Who was “General” Al-Khasmi? The madman in the desert the intelligence agencies were portraying? The “menace to the fragile reconstruction of Ashaara” the
Economist
had called him? She had to admit, he looked the part. Wild-haired, with that terrible wound and far-off gaze. Again that familiarity tugged at her brain, and again, faded without bringing any association to the surface.

But he didn't seem clinically paranoid. (The jittery, mumbling guy next to him acted much more bizarre.) Only obsessed with narrow fundamentalism and dreadful suspicion of foreigners. The peace
was
fragile, but so far, it could still be called peace. The essential thing, Peyster had told her, was to drag the guy into the process. Once he was out from behind a machine gun, they could feel out leverage. Give him incentives to cooperate, and disincentives if he didn't.

“It's true, that's what I told Sheekh Nassir. And I believe he was considering what I said. I think he was murdered for it by elements of his own circle.”

“This I do not believe,” spat the jittery man, the one with the swollen eyes and the hockey puck in his cheek. “American lies. It is they who killed our revered sheekh.”

“We were not involved in his death.”

The man shouted, spittle flying. Nuura translated. “You want to disarm us so you can occupy us. You are colonialists like the Italians and French. Your election is a fraud, and your Dobleh is a toy.”

“I have met Dr. Zumali Dobleh. He is the wise leader Ashaara needs. Not only is he a devout Muslim, he is a hajji, as am I. We have made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Have you?”

The red-eyed man didn't answer, just jittered his leg violently and glanced at Al-Khasmi.

“What about General Assad?” she asked them. “You don't like Dr. Dobleh. Do you like Assad better? The Diniyue, Jazir, Xaasha—do you want them back in power? That's what you'll get if the Governing Council have their way.”

Al-Khasmi answered that. “Assad's our enemy, yes, but he's a patriot in his way. At least he's not uncovering himself for the foreigners. But they're not the true government, no matter what they say.”

“What's the true government? If it's not Dobleh, and not Assad?”

“The only true government is of the ulama; sharia law. This is the policy of the Waleeli. The West lies with honeyed promises while they steal and kill. We tell the truth about our goals.”

“That's not an option,” she said flatly. “The United States won't back it. Nor the UN. What about the Christians? The Hindus? Muslims who don't care to stone women for adultery? You're talking about starting a civil war, a religious war.”

They shrugged, both at once. “So America will be our enemy,” the tall one said.

She felt any chance slipping away. But maybe she could leave him with something to think about. “Only if you choose. But yes, we'd be your enemies. Do you have any idea what that means? How fast we can put a precision-guided bomb on your encampment here?”

His wounded mouth twisted into a painful-looking smile. “Now we hear the true voice of America. Not food, but bombs. If what you say is so, why should I not take you hostage now? See what your people will pay for you.” Nuura flattened her hands on the carpet, looking fearfully at Aisha as she translated. “He says: ‘It seems to me, they will pay much.' ”

“Tell him he forgets my guards.” She nodded at the GrayWolf men, who stood facing her in a rough circle around their meeting place. Then she stiffened.

Behind each stood a Waleeli, cloth wrapping his feet. They must have crept up step by step, noiselessly. Each aimed a rifle at his target's head.

If one of the PMCs looked around, he'd start shooting.

A massacre was only a motion away.

Without thought, she was on her feet. Her SIG was out, muzzle pressed to Al-Khasmi's skull, which she cradled with her left arm. The nervous guy jerked back and scrabbled for his weapon, then froze at a glance from his chief.

“Call them off,” she muttered. To Nuura: “He's not taking any hostages today. Or he'll be doing it without the side of his fucking head.
Tell him!
”

The bandit chief sat motionless. “You're a Muslim fighter,” he murmured.

“No, I'm a fucking federal agent, with police powers through UN Resolution 610 to support humanitarian aid to this benighted shithole. Tell him that.”

The tall one burst out with something violent, but his boss put out a weary hand. He called to his men, who began backing away. Whalen turned and saw them; he glanced at her but, to her relief, didn't go off the deep end. He patted the air, signaling his personnel to stay cool. Then nodded at the smooth-faced, very young man who'd been covering him, as
if to say, one professional to another, Yeah, you got the drop on me; nice play. Next time it'll be the other way around.

Al-Khasmi waited till she took the pistol from his head. Till she stowed it away inside her abaya. “Tell me something, Aisha Ar-Rahim. You say you are Muslim.”

The voice in her ear said, “Jesus, Aisha. Don't know what just happened, but I got a terrific shot of it.”

She wondered how he'd missed four terrorists taking aim at their protective team. “Yes. I am,” she told the Ashaaran.

“A convert, or from your birth?”

“From my birth.”

“But the true Muslim fights for victory of the faith and the restoration of the caliphate. Are you fighting for the faith?”

She saw the trap and didn't want to go there. Then steeled herself. “I
am
a good Muslim. But I won't force others into Islam. I try to be the most generous and compassionate human being I can. If all Muslims showed the compassion of God, all those who saw them would want to follow God too.”

“Sharia? You don't believe in it?”

“It was God's way for us at that time in history. But He's given us more knowledge since the days of the Prophet, peace be upon him. I believe in what sharia was meant to accomplish. An Islam of justice, not violence. One with its women's faces uncovered, its daughters healthy, everyone educated and fed and at peace. That's what I believe in, General.”

He plucked at the tarp, studying her with narrowed eyes. “You have lived too long with the Jews and Christians. You are not a true daughter of God.”

“I believe I am.”

“Be silent and learn. This is His land, this desert. Here He spoke to Musa and Issa and Muhammad, may their names be blessed. Here He speaks to me, the Pruner. There are those who call me the Maahdi, the announcer. God in His time will confirm or deny.

“Come back to Islam. It is not I who give you this chance. This is God himself stretching out His hand.”

Nuura gasped and fell silent. Aisha nudged her. “What is it?” she hissed.

“I can't.”

“You can't
what
? Tell me. It isn't your
water breaking
, is it?”

“He said . . . he wants you to marry him.”

At the last instant she stifled her first reaction—to throw back her head and guffaw. An Ashaaran warlord was like a street punk in Harlem: One did not dis him in front of his men. She let her head covering fall forward
to hide her eyes, as if deeply moved. At least, she hoped that was how he'd read it.

The first time anyone had ever asked. One to tell her grandchildren. If she ever had any. Proposed to in the African desert by a crazed terrorist.

One thing was for damned sure: She wasn't ever going to mention this to her mother. In no way, shape, or form. She nodded toward the woman who'd served them. “You have one wife already. At least.”

“She's not my wife. She's my sister.”

Enough. She cleared her throat and stood again, and he stood with her this time, still smiling. She remembered to step aside from the line of sight from the van, in case Erculiano hadn't gotten enough photos the first time around.

“He asks: You are leaving?”

“Yes. But the offer stands. About the police, the army. His men will be welcome. There'll be food and steady pay.”

“And all we have to do is take the orders of the infidels.”

“No. Of the democratic government of Ashaara, representing all the people.”

Even as she said them the words tasted like cardboard. She believed them, but on another level, maybe she didn't. And he must have sensed that uncertainty, because he moved a step closer, till she could smell him again, as she had when she'd held his head against her chest. Nuura coughed. “He says: Perhaps he will attend one of these conferences. To see what it is you bring. Will you arrange that? If he sends a man to you?”

“I'll be happy to,” she said, surprised.

“He also says: ‘Sooner or later you will realize no one can be Muslim, and fight against Islam. When you realize you are on the wrong side, come and join me.' ”

“I'm on the right side already.”

“Be silent. God knows you better than you know yourself. Join your Muslim brothers and sisters. Only then will you know true peace.”

“It is Shaitan who lies,” she told him, and turned and headed back to the van as the guards wheeled and pulled in.

She slid onto the hot leather seat as the engines started, the air-conditioning came on. As she returned to the metal electrical womb of America. She'd made her words loud, confident. He was a head case. A bandit with delusions of Apocalypse. But was she as confident as she'd pretended?