The Crisis (57 page)

“I am sorry. In war, such things happen. We lose many friends as well, to your soldiers.”

“They're not my soldiers. Ireland's a neutral.”

“What were you doing in the Empty Quarter?”

“Research.”

Now she realized what they were staring at. “What is that symbol, on your neck?” the small man said politely.

“The claddagh.”

“A Christian symbol?”

“No.”

“Jewish?”

“It's a Gaelic friendship sign.”

“ ‘Gaelic'?”

“Irish.”

“What does this symbol mean?”

“It means friendship. Love. Loyalty. My husband gave it to me.”

“You have a husband. Where is he?”

“In Ireland.”

“Yet you work here?”

“Correct.” She explained about the International Hydrological Programme. He waved her to silence before she was done. “Yes, the UN. We
know. What is your relation to your husband? That he's in Ireland, and you're here?”

“We're estranged.”

He sighed. “Are you a Christian, a Muslim, or a Jew?”

“I'm not a Christian or a Jew, no. Nor a Muslim.”

“Then what religion are you?”

She tried to keep her tone level, soft, the way the guards liked the captives to speak. “I'm a scientist. I don't believe in religion, I'm afraid. I have aunts back home who do.”

They exchanged glances. Finally the fat man said, a bit sadly, “You will not say you are a Christian?”

“That wouldn't be true. As a scientist I value the truth, you see.”

“That is what we also value. You must become Muslim, then.”

She almost smiled, but tried to make it look sympathetic rather than superior. “I've no reason to do that.”

The man in robes shifted; the one squatting in shadow remained motionless. Could this be the one they called Al-Maahdi? He was supposed to be very dangerous. The steadiness of his stare was disconcerting. Could he be mad?

“I believe you have a very good reason, Doctor. You see, if you are a Christian, or a Jew, that would not be a problem. Unless you attempt to proselytize, of course. Proselytizers must be put to death. However, we are not required to make People of the Book convert. So long as you submit, you may stay Jew or Christian. But a pagan must convert.”

She shifted on the stool; her infected thighs felt like the skin was being peeled off. Her eyes itched madly. “Right. Or else what?” she managed to say, not really following. No question, she'd showed a better game once.

“Otherwise you must die,” the little man said, still apologetic, a customs official explaining a silly rule. “It is not difficult. All you need do is say: ‘There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet.' That's all that is required. See those others, over there? They have converted, have joined Islam.”

She saw them: the ones who'd been called away before her. At least, some of them. They sat a few yards away, bowls before them, though they weren't eating. She started to laugh, then found she couldn't. Could these gobdaws be serious?

They seemed so, absolutely, as did the red light of the video camera. She swallowed, mouth suddenly devoid of the water she'd stolen. “Please, may I have a drink?”

“Water's precious. You were given some when the sun rose. You should not need more.”

“There's something wrong with my eyes. I need medical attention.”

“We'll discuss that after you convert.”

“My aunts are Catholic. I was raised Catholic.”

“No, Doctor. You already renounced Christianity. But if you think we're asking you to renounce Jesus—Issa—we too hold him to be one of the great prophets.”

The man on the carpet interjected a few words, leaning his face on his fingers. Looking at him, she thought through her terror: It must hurt. Must hurt terribly. But he didn't seem in pain. Or perhaps just didn't mind.

“You must decide now,” the little man said regretfully, as if to imply, I'm really sorry to put you to all this trouble. She wanted to say,
Wait a minute, let me think
, but the guard was already hauling her up. He walked her twenty paces to the lip of another, deeper sinkhole. The videographer followed, silently, as if he were only a great eye.

She was thinking now, though, reasoning desperately with each hobbled, pain-filled stride. She'd decided years before religion was pants. At best a prescientific way of explaining the world by imaginative but ignorant desert tribes. At worst, a cynical scam, selling tickets to a nonexistent afterlife to yobs too credulous to see through the mumbo jumbo. Virgin births, invisible angels . . . bollocks.

On the other hand, if the alternative was death, and she didn't believe anyway, why not recite a few ridiculous words?

She stopped at the edge. Down there, at the bottom, lay bodies. Fresh ones. She recognized the nun who'd led the prayer group.

“The proselytizers,” the fat man said. “Those who brought lies to our land. Even now, we would have forgiven them, had they come to the truth. Will you?”

She wanted to say, Science is the search for truth. Not religion.

But you couldn't martyr yourself for science. The very idea was a contradiction.

She opened her mouth, to find something else stopping her. Church as a child? Her aunts' humorless explications of how a merciful God sent all non-Catholics to Hell? Whatever it was, she couldn't form the words. She felt more violated, more deeply defiled, than after the rape.

This was ridiculous! It didn't matter what she said to some fundamentalist fanatic! She had to survive. Without her, no one might ever know about the life that waited beneath the desert.

She bowed her head. “There's no god but Allah,” she tried under her breath. It didn't taste very good.

“Louder, please. Face the camera.”

“What then? What'll you do with us? Those you haven't killed.”

“We'll release you. Why not? We're getting in touch with your friends in the city. Now, confess the truth.”

“There is no god. But Allah. And Muhammad is his prophet.”

Had they caught it, that hesitation? Even as she spoke she'd been unsure; it had come out of a tangle of urges and fears that tried to pick and choose the next word past cracked lips. But they didn't seem to notice, or didn't care. Once the magic words were spoken.

They smiled, and led her from the edge. Took her to the others, and served corn mush, flat bread, a little gristly goat meat, and as much water as she cared to drink. She and the other new converts sat not meeting one another's eyes. She made herself swallow. But the food had no taste, and her hands trembled so, water slopped from her plastic cup onto the lifeless goat-churned sand.

H
AVE you seen my assistant? Nuura?”

The Ashaaran at the reception desk bowed. “No, ma'am. She did not come in this morning.”

Aisha frowned. Her small, modest translator was dependable as the sun. But today she was nowhere to be seen.

She stopped at a window. The day was bright, but past the compound wall smoke darkened the sky. The embassy staff carried themselves with new jauntiness, calling cheerful greetings. Everyone looked relieved, though the host country employees seemed guarded.

For now, the rebels had been pushed back. Chaos was at a safe distance. Others were suffering, not they.

But where was Nuura? She glanced at her watch, then dismissed the question till later. She found the right door, next to the deputy's office,
and gimlet-eyed the GrayWolf guard, impassive behind his wraparounds, as she flashed her pass. He seemed familiar—the one who'd hassled her at the conference?—but said nothing as he stepped aside.

Peyster was already sitting with Jolene Ridbout and the ambassador. The deputy too, the AID director, and several other counselors. She grimaced inside; the ambassador, by protocol and custom, arrived at meetings on time and expected everyone else already seated. She'd planned to be early but had gotten sidetracked searching for Nuura.

Dalton looked more rested than at their last encounter. He half rose, smiling icily; she nodded and hastily took the last seat. The attaché was in the battle dress she'd worn since hostilities had begun, sleeves rolled up, holstered pistol riding on a nylon belt. Peyster wore a white cotton kurta, like a Pakistani guayabera, with slate slacks and woven leather shoes. She owned some herself, from Morocco. “Going native, Terry?” she whispered.

“Love the scarf.”

“Why're we here, Terry?”

“The news is good.”

“I read the cable.”

“You did?”

“You info'd NCIS and DIA.”

The deputy put a finger to his lips. She quit whispering and focused on Ridbout. The attaché was giving the daily report. “The Marines have retaken the Victory Bridge. The rebels are in retreat. They counted on overwhelming us. When that didn't work, they had no staying power. They're fading back into the desert. We have road communication from the Zone to Camp Rowley and bulldozers are clearing the ring road. The marine terminal's bringing in their first ship this afternoon. With luck, we'll be able to discontinue rationing and resume food, fuel aid, and electrical power to the city very soon. That completes my report, Mr. Ambassador.”

“That leaves the rest of the country,” Dalton said. “WFO's predicting thousands of deaths.”

“We can't be held responsible, sir. Not in the face of a major attack. Force protection had to come before the humanitarian mission.”

“I suppose so, Jolene. What's General Ahearn doing now? Are they . . . in pursuit?”

“Not exactly, sir. He plans to push up the highway toward Fenteni, reestablishing order along the way in coordination with the Governing Council.”

“Olowe?” Aisha put in. Heads swiveled like high-speed sunflowers.

“General Olowe, correct,” Peyster said. “I know you don't care for him personally—”

“A mass murderer who takes bribes? One of my favorite people.”

“Aisha,” the ambassador whined.

“Actually he's our last chip,” Peyster observed. “So let's take what we're dealt and make hay, shall we? As I was saying, the GC troops are establishing order. Rooting out rebel sympathizers—”

“Meaning, massacring the southern clans—”

“Aisha—”

“Those militias cooperated with the insurgents, Agent,” Ridbout pointed out. “We can't expect our marines to distinguish a friendly Ashaari with a rifle from an enemy Ashaari with the same rifle. It may be necessary to rearm the GC, by the way. To bind them more closely to our interests.”

Aisha coughed, choking on the phlegm from her congested lungs and the sickness at her heart. She'd argued with Peyster after the meeting with Olowe at Ahearn's headquarters. Tried to point out how contrary to common sense it was to ally themselves with the very clans that'd supported the corrupt and repressive former regime. The RSO had said equably that Olowe had been a bit player then. He'd be dependent on his new patrons.

More and more, she was wondering who Peyster actually was. Did he really work for State? The Bureau of Diplomatic Security? Or something darker? The NCIS ranked low on the federal peeing pole compared to this other agency.

“Okay, next topic,” Peyster said. “The unaccounted-for aid personnel. The good news: they're alive, most of them. The bad: we have a communication from the Waleeli. Through Al-Jazeera, interestingly enough.”

She occasionally watched the all-Arabic satellite news channel, based in Qatar. The rapid colloquial language was difficult, but usually she could follow. Seen as independent, it had become a channel for Islamicist groups throughout the Middle East. The RSO said the station had passed the message to the special representative in New York. Someone in his office had sleight-of-handed it to Dr. Dobleh's former e-mail account, with info copies to Leache and Dalton.

Dalton said, “There's no ADA left, then?”

“None to speak of, sir. The Cosmo bombing took down the whole leadership, except for three wounded.”

“Where are they?”

“They left the country, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Oh . . . hell.”

“Yes, sir. Now: the aid personnel. The quote, Waleeli National Resurgence
Council, unquote, says they're holding five women and three men. They're being treated well and will be turned over unharmed on delivery of a five-million-dollar ransom.”

“Not more ransoms,” muttered Dalton. “Isn't this a UN matter?”

“Well, sir, I called Mr. Kazuma's office and they feel it's in our area of responsibility, since the implementation on the resolution entrusts us with physical security of international relief personnel. He quoted paragraph 9(c) at me. I could argue with their legal staff but I'd probably lose.”

“Meaning what?
We
have to pay?”

“We could do a stakeout if we did,” Aisha put in.

Peyster raised his eyebrows at her but kept speaking to Dalton. “Not that we specifically have to, sir, no. My own recommendation would be not to. I read New York as saying basically that since we were responsible for protecting them in the first place, getting them back's up to us as well.”

“How do they propose we do that?”

“They were unwilling to provide guidance. Said we were closest to the problem.”

Dalton rubbed his scalp furiously. For a man whose siege had just been lifted, he looked distraught. “I have a call with the SecState at ten. I'll mention it, see if they have any guidance.”

“Yessir, but right now I don't think we can avoid at least passing the ball to someone else. I suggest General Ahearn.”

Dalton perked up. “Will you call him, Jolene? For me? He could stage a commando raid. That'd be best, I think.”

Ridbout said reluctantly, “If you authorize me to speak in your name, sir. For a raid, well, hostage rescues are hard to do right. We'd have to know exactly where they're being held. But I'll ask. . . . What should I say about the funds?”