The Prophet's Ladder

by Jonathan Williams

  Todd sank back into his khakis chair. “But...but why?”

  The sheikh saw that Todd was concerned and adopted a serious tone, his amusement at Todd’s perplexity fading.

  “Todd, you understand, I’m sure, many of the technical aspects of what we’re trying to do at Al-Hatem Aersopace, yes? The space elevator. The Tower of Babel.”

  Todd nodded. “Yes.”

  “And I’m sure you’ve thought of the ramifications, at least in your field, if we are successful. The impact it will have on the fields of space exploration, aerospace engineering, astronomy, the hard sciences, even the impact it will have on the economy of the planet. There will be a gold rush of unprecedented magnitude and scale.”

  “I have considered the ramifications, yes.” The falcon squawked loudly, and Todd jumped ever so slightly in his chair, almost spilling his tea. Jaffar cooed at the bird, and placed another strip of meat in its cage.

  “Do you think the other governments of the world, yours, China’s, the EU's, will sit idly by and let us build such a wonder? Especially here! It would completely shift the balance of power, and those with some foresight can see it. It would be a Panama Canal connecting Earth to the heavens, and in the UAE! ‘Allah forbid!’ they’ll say.” The sheikh stood up and began leisurely pacing the sandstone outcropping.

  “No, I can assure you my friend, that they have their spies amongst us, despite our thorough vetting, and our every security measure. They are watching, and waiting, for now. But we know this, and we know some of those who are in their employ. It is very much a game you see, one that I am quite good at. But you must understand that you are indeed being watched. Especially because of your status as an American.”

  Todd took a leap of logic. “Are your people shadowing me, watching me as well? My wife too?”

  “To a degree, yes, but only for your own safety, your protection. I know I can trust you.”

  “That is only somewhat reassuring, Nur.”

  “I understand your concerns, my friend. You Americans yearn for your individual rights: your freedom, your privacy. It is a part of who you are.” The sheikh placed his hand on Todd’s shoulder and locked eyes with him. “I promise you, I give you my word: we will respect those rights, and you and yours. But your safety and your work are paramount to all else. Once the Solifuges project is up and running I will need your input on other components of the Tower, its upkeep and so on. Do you understand?”

  Todd was silent for a few moments, processing all that he’d been told. “Yes, yes I do.”

  “Good. Good!” The sheikh seemed pleased, and somewhat relieved. “But if you find that something... overt happens, or if you notice something that in your judgment could compromise our security protocols, those you’ve already been briefed on, please report it to me or to a staffer immediately. Alright?”

  “Yes, most definitely.”

  “Then let us talk of other things! The day’s hunt has only begun.”

  ****

  Ali was sweating. The heat from the lamps was near overwhelming, and the light shining on his face was blinding in its intensity. Nonetheless, he stared directly ahead at the camera, as ordered. He was kneeling in front of a black and white Islamic State of the Maghreb flag, which had been strung up against the wall. Behind him stood several men with assault rifles and machetes.

  Earlier that morning, at dawn he had been kicked awake by these same men, unchained, dragged on top of a grate, and hosed down before being handed a pair of trousers and a dirty, oil stained t-shirt; they hadn’t even given him a towel to dry off his soaked, battered body. They had not bothered to feed him. He thanked God that at least he’d been able to keep his shoes, as the concrete floor of the warehouse was ice cold and he’d not slept at all, only rested on the heels of his feet. It was a small kindness amidst a storm of cruelty.

  A piece of paper was handed to him by one of the armed terrorists, and he was instructed to read. “My name is Ali ibn Abd al-Aziz. I wish to confess my sins to God. I have slandered the holy Quran with my writings on my website. I have defiled my family’s honor with my words. I now realize the error of my ways. I do not support a secular government in Tunisia. Rather, I favor the return of the Islamic Caliphate in North Africa. I beg the forgiveness of the Most Merciful, for I have sinned. I will be punished.”

  Ali’s hands began to shake, his nerves once more getting the better of him. They told me I would be set free. The men behind him began shuffling their feet, but he did not dare turn around. Instead, he read the words scrawled on the paper.

  “God is great.”

  The cameraman began yelling at him. “Shout it! Shout the words if you want God’s grace!”

  “God is great! Allah Akbar! God is great!” Ali screamed the words, knowing that it was all he could to preserve his mother, his brothers, Amina. He felt a wind brush the hairs of his neck. In that instant all he could think about was his fiancée, how she was all that really made sense to him in this irrational, unjust world. She was so beautiful: her scent, her eyes, her passion, her confidence. His nerves momentarily forgotten, his heart aching with thoughts for her, he longed to hold her in his arms just once more. Oh Amina. I love you.

  The machete blade fell, and Ali’s head toppled from his body, a look of mild shock and surprise on his face. Blood sprayed violently from his eviscerated neck and shoulders. The body remained seated for several seconds before slumping over. While the jihadists chanted slogans the cameraman wiped the ichor from his lens with a clean cloth. He knew he’d be hunched over his computer well into the night, cutting and pasting the day’s footage on editing software, inserting logos and scrolling text, polishing the beheading footage, making it look ‘professional.’ Recently, he’d struggled for some time learning how to upload videos directly from the production program onto various online video hubs, but just yesterday he discovered a tutorial that made it all seem so easy. If he were perfectly honest with himself, the cameraman felt his craft was unappreciated amidst the collection of insurgent hardliners, mercenaries, and ex-soldiers, but he dared not complain. After all, he was doing God’s work.

  ****

  Amina was asleep in bed when the police chief called. It was 4:30 AM on a Friday, and she struggled to find her cellphone on her nightstand. Having forgotten to set the phone on silent, she picked up only to ensure her parents didn’t wake up from the blaring ringtone, if they hadn’t already.

  “Miss Hannachi? This is chief Radhouen Al-Din.” She bolted instantly awake.

  “Yes chief? What is it? Is it about Ali?”

  “Miss, we’ve received additional information concerning your fiancé. I must ask you to come down to the station as soon as possible. Can you be here by 6:30?”

  She listened as the chief spoke, a tone of reluctance in his voice, as if he was keeping something from her.

  “Is it possible for you to have your father accompany you? We’d like to speak to him too, if that’s all right. We may have identified the perpetrators based on recent information.”

  “Yes, I think so, I’ll ask him.”

  “Good. Good. See you shortly, Inshallah.”

  Washing and dressing herself rapidly, Amina was ready to go in short order. Hassan, her father, had immediately agreed to drive her to the station and to speak with the chief. They arrived as the light of dawn burned away the dense nighttime fog that had rolled in from the sea.

  The mood inside the bureau was oppressive. The chief immediately whisked them both into his office. “Have you watched the news or gone online yet this morning?”

  “No, we don’t listen to the radio in my car. Too distracting. It’s dangerous enough driving in this city as it is. Tell me sidi, what is this all about?” Her father was always blunt and to the point when discussing business or other serious matters.

  “Well I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. Ali’s been...well…” The chief swallowed, his nerves spilling through his usually stoic disposition. “There’s no good way to say th
is, so I’ll just say it, God forgive me. He’s been murdered. By extremists. I’m so sorry.”

  And just like that, Amina’s world fell apart. She didn’t remember anything else she said or did, just her father and the chief alternately yelling at one another and comforting her, over and over. Someone had been screaming, loudly; she wasn’t sure if it’d been her. It was several hours before the rest of her immediate family arrived to escort her home, along with the family doctor who offered her a sedative.

  Her tears dried up as her mother walked her to her bedroom. Instead, a stony pit, like the center of a stale date began hardening in her stomach: hardening, and growing, feeding her strength despite its uncomfortable weight. Encompassed within the pit was a mixture of hate, rage, and despair in equal measure. She would find a way to win, to beat the monsters. And when she did… it would be all encompassing: an absolute victory to avenge her beloved. Her Ali.

  ****

  There was rioting on the street the next day. Once the beheading video went viral on the Internet and the mainstream media picked up on the story, thousands reacted in shock and horror. Many of the protests were peaceful, a large contingent of Arab Spring veterans held candlelight vigils once they realized Ali had been one of their own, an anonymous voice for their generation who’d been there all along, lifting them up with words, with rallying cries from the underground. Many Tunisians of all stripes: academics, blue-collar workers, the unemployed, and others came forward and publicly admitted they were devotees of his writings. A few turned violent, attacking the gates outside the Tunisian parliament building and those political party headquarters that had known Islamist ties. Some even picketed Tunis police stations, angry that their law enforcement personnel couldn’t protect a civilian living in the heart of the capital.

  Both Ali’s and Amina’s families were hounded by the press, followed by tabloid reporters and respected journalists day and night, many demanding exclusive interviews or biopics. Amina remained locked away in her room, the only light visible that of her computer monitor. Her mother left her meals outside her door, inwardly concerned for her daughter, though not willing to press the issue. Her father handled all inquiries on her behalf, repeatedly asking the media to respect their privacy. On the other side of the city things fared only slightly better. The neighborhood rallied around Ali’s family, shielding them, particularly his mother, from the worst excesses of the frenzy.

  The country seethed and pulsed with anger. Tunisian politicians vowed to address the issue of Islamic terrorism, wishing to curry favor with their constituents. The military stepped up patrols of rural areas and the Algerian border, hunting for members of the Islamic State. The beheading story was quickly picked up internationally, with world leaders devoting press conferences to the events in Tunisia. The incident even drew the attention of those in power in the United Arab Emirates, who saw far reaching implications stemming from the death of one particular journalist.

  Chapter 6

  1326 CE, the Ilkhanate

  “I am to understand that you hail from the kingdom of the Marinids, in Morocco?” The khan leaned back, reclining on a lavish bed of silk pillows. The lord’s tent was so sumptuously decorated that one could hardly tell that he and his retinue had pitched camp on the road north of Baghdad. Baghdad: that once glorious city, now conquered and beaten, a pale shadow of its earlier splendor. A servant offered Ibn Battuta a plate of colorful, succulent grapes, which he politely declined.

  “Yes great khan, that is correct. I made the Hajj and now am continuing my travels, wishing to see the entirety of the known world.”

  The khan laughed. “A lofty goal! I am told you are a scholar as well. What do you think of my lands, the Ilkhanate? How do they compare to your own?”

  “They are truly incomparable, mighty khan. Your lands are a paradise next to mine. We of Tangier and the Maghreb are but a minor province, an extremity of the Dar Al-Islam, yours, the heart and the soul. There is ancient beauty here, and untold wisdom in its people and its history.”

  “Well spoken, well spoken!” The khan chortled, and drank from his glass of iced cucumber water. “Well, I would not see a man of your learning want for provisions here in my demesne. I shall see that you are provided with fresh food, water, a fine riding mare and several additional pack camels for your journey. Let it not be said that the Abu Sa'id Bahadur Khan is an ungenerous host of the learned, and the pious!”

  “Your kindness astounds me, my lord. Thank you. Thank you so much. May God bless you and your children and your children’s children. I shall speak of your generosity to all I encounter.” Ibn Battuta bowed in obsequious gratitude.

  “Haha. Indeed.” The khan nodded his head at the Moroccan, and he was ushered gently but quickly out of the tent by aids waiting in the shadows. Outside it was just before midday and already extremely warm. All about the khan’s caravan there were fields of withered crops and dusty, cracked soil. Somehow the materials and construction of the monarch’s tent had kept it pleasantly cool despite the oppressive sun overhead. Ibn Battuta’s friend Mohammed, a vizier in the imperial court, approached out of another tent’s side flap.

  “Well, how did your audience go?”

  “The khan was extremely generous. I have been gifted with provisions to extend and ease my journey.”

  “Excellent! Khan Abu is indeed a wise lord. Wiser than his predecessors, many say.”

  Ibn Battuta nodded in agreement and accompanied his friend to the rear of the encamped procession of tents, yurts, wagons, carriages, and animal herds, where his own meager bedroll laid ready and packed by Mohammed’s bivouac. As they walked he considered, not for the first time, that such a procession would better suit a traveling circus than a powerful king. But then, perhaps they are one and the same.

  “Where will you travel to next my friend?” Mohammed asked him. “Surely you’ve attained all that you desire. You’ve been to Mecca and completed the Hajj; you’ve seen Cairo, Damascus, and mighty Baghdad, or at least what remains of its former glory. Certainly you must have thoughts of home creeping into your mind?”

  “No my friend, I will not yet return home. There is still so much to see! I think I will travel to Tabriz next, I have heard it is quite lovely.”

  Mohammed laughed. “It is! It is indeed.” He looked at his companion shrewdly. Well, I can already see I will not sway you. Travel safely. If you should return this way to Baghdad, call on me again. It has been a pleasure conversing with you these past few weeks.”

  Ibn Battuta clasped hands with his friend. “ I will. Peace be with you.”

  “Wa Allakum, Salaam.” They kissed one another on the cheek and parted ways. A servant to the khan had quickly brought the gifts he had promised Ibn Battuta as he packed his gear. The horse was a fine Arabian, coal black. Atop the steed was another fine, if unexpected, gift: a beautiful Mongolian saddle, its leather soft and warm like fresh goat butter.

  The two camels accompanying the horse were loaded with satchels of fresh fruits, dried bread, and water skins. The Moroccan thanked God privately for the occasional benevolence of the powerful. Wasting no time, he harnessed the horse, which made no protest as he mounted and guided her around the camp. “I shall name you Iskandra, for astride you we shall travel the ends of the Earth. How does that sound?” Ibn Battuta patted the noble charger on her flank, and she neighed appreciatively. The animal was indeed well trained, eminently suitable for a great khan.

  A steward finished packing his gear, and handed the reigns of the small pack train to Ibn Battuta, who discovered that the additional beasts of burden seemed less willful than his own camel. Perhaps they are fearful of the khan’s wrath should they misbehave. I know I would be.

  The path to Tabriz meandered northeast, growing steeper and steeper until it passed through a gap in the mountains, eventually connecting to a well-traveled trade road. The terrain was quite impressive, with the rocky peaks covered in snow, reminding Ibn Battuta of his homeland’s Atlas mountain range. Ther
e were no inns or caravanserai at this elevation. Instead, he found comfortable shelter in caves or lean-tos each night for himself and his animal train, using kindling and sticks to light fires for heat, though the camels’ body heat provided warmth enough, despite the oppressive, bestial odor.

  Eventually, the city of Tabriz appeared on the horizon as the road began to descend slightly. Its skyline was filled with minarets and richly decorated palaces, emulating the peaks of the surrounding mountains. Tabriz was one of the few cities that remained untouched by the recent Mongol conquests. Unlike its southern neighbors it had welcomed the khan by opening its gates rather than trying to resist the invaders, as Baghdad and other metropoles had done. In this way the city was spared and now grew wealthy and prosperous, serving as the Ilkhanid capital. Ibn Battuta reckoned that he was one of the first from Morocco to visit the revitalized city, and delighted at the prospect. As he passed beneath the outer gates he noted that the entire ring of stone walls was lined with beautiful gardens, a feast for the eyes of a practiced aesthete like himself. Roses, lilies, and tulips flowered beneath cypress and hornbeam trees, while delicate lotus blossoms emerged from shallow ponds beside which many residents picnicked in the warm afternoon air.

  Nodding to the city guard whose watchful eye scanned the line of merchants passing by, Ibn Battuta smiled, making his way to the nearest Madrasa. I think I shall like it here. It was his standard protocol to ingratiate himself with the learned academics of a realm, thus obtaining free lodging and friendship in equal measure.

  Admitting himself at the entrance of the marble and granite structure, the young man from Tangier bowed to a bearded, middle aged scholar and spoke in erudite classical Arabic, the lingua franca of the age, spoken from Iberia to India and beyond. “Peace be upon you, wise sir, my name is Ibn Battuta, and I hail from far afield….”