The Mahboob Chaudri Mystery

by Josh Pachter

  Dr. Apostolou grinned and reached down from his place on the step above her to touch her shoulder reassuringly. “You’re a trooper, Kate,” he said. “I hope Jessie and Sarah are holding up as well as you are.”

  She pressed his hand and returned his smile, and Chaudri found himself wondering if their relationship was entirely a professional one.

  There was no opportunity for him to pursue the thought. The sound of sandals scuffing on stone reached him from below, and the guard who had captured him and the Senator the night before came into view as he ascended the spiral steps toward them. It was difficult to see the man clearly in the dimness of the tower, but it seemed to Chaudri that his expression was less threatening than it had been. His mouth had slackened, his eyelids drooped, his curly black hair was oily and streaked with dust, the Kalashnikov he held cradled in his arms seemed to have taken on extra weight.

  He has not slept, the Pakistani realized, and he filed that knowledge away for possible future use.

  “Mahsool,” the terrorist addressed him in liquid Arabic, “I must speak with you.”

  Perhaps it was only the strain of the long hours of imprisonment, but Chaudri thought he could read a plea in the Arab’s penetrating gaze. A plea for what? It was the Sword of God which had the weapons, the Sword of God which controlled the situation. What could they possibly want from him, their captive?

  “If you must be speaking, then I must be listening,” Chaudri replied.

  The Arab glanced briefly at the two Americans. He was really no more than a boy, Chaudri saw, at most 19 or 20 years of age. But even at 19 or 20, he was old enough to carry a rifle, old enough to know how to use it. He was old enough for that.

  “We must have food and water,” the boy announced suddenly, “but your government does not approach us. How are we to communicate with them and let them know our demands?”

  “What’s he saying?” Nurse Hewitt whispered, and the doctor squeezed her shoulder to quiet her, afraid the guard might harm her for interfering.

  But the guard ignored them both, his attention fixed on Mahboob Chaudri.

  They have no plan, Chaudri recognized, and the thought astounded him. In the passion of their religious fervor, they determined to take over the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque, but they did not anticipate having to deal with hostages. Now they are holding the shrine, but they are stuck with us as well. This is the first time the Sword of God is doing anything more than writing angry letters to the press, and they have no idea how to proceed.

  Interesting, he thought, most highly interesting. Does this often lie beneath the heartless exterior of terrorism—this uncertainty, this confusion, this doubt? Is this the way it was aboard the Achille Lauro, aboard Flight 847, at the American embassy in Tehran? Is it possible that the Shi’ite extremists are as much the victims of their madness as they are its agents?

  “You ask me to help you,” said Mahboob Chaudri slowly, “but how can I be helping you when you treat me as if I am your enemy? I am not your enemy. I am your brother, and these Americans are your brother and sisters.”

  “You lie,” the boy spat. “America is not my brother. America is the Great Satan, the despoiler of Islam, the—”

  “I am not speaking of America. I am speaking of these innocent Americans, who came to Bahrain to heal the sick—not just their own people, but all who are in need of their skills. What have they done to deserve your anger, your threats?”

  Nurse Hewitt reached for the doctor’s hand and held it tightly. A silence hung heavily in the air.

  “This is wartime,” the Arab boy said at last. “And, in wartime, the innocent must suffer for the sins of their governments. This country was a model of Islamic purity until—”

  Chaudri shook his head. “But this is not the answer. I am a Muslim myself, and I am agreeing with you that there are problems in the world, problems here in the Gulf, in Bahrain, problems which can and must be solved. But this”—he indicated the Kalashnikov with a gesture—“this violence, this terrorism, this fanaticism, this is not the answer. Perhaps we have been done injustice, but is it Allah’s will that we should be repaying the injustices of others with injustice of our own?” He sighed deeply. “No, that is not the way. As it is written in the Holy Quran, ‘Direct us in the right path, in the path of those to whom Thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom Thou art incensed, nor of those who go astray.’ Put down your gun, my friend, put it down. Let us find another path to peace.”

  Again it was silent, and the absence of sound was a living thing which wrapped itself around them and held them for a timeless interval. The doctor, the nurse, the Pakistani, the Arab—the silence entered into each of them and touched them and told them its secrets.

  Mahboob Chaudri listened to the beating of his heart, and with great serenity put out his hands to the terrorist, his brother.

  The Arab boy licked dry lips and swallowed his uncertainty. “My name is Hamid,” he said.

  * * * *

  The sun beat down fiercely from its perch in the ivory sky, sucking rivulets of perspiration from Chaudri’s forehead and armpits. The columns and archways of the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque squatted patiently in the heat, the twin minarets pointing impassive fingers at Heaven’s vastness.

  Chaudri stood alone between the spires, his only companions the sun and stone, the oppressive warmth and choking dust. The wooden balconies above were empty; Yousif Falamarzi was waiting with Hamid Yacoob and the two Americans within the tower that had been Chaudri’s prison, and the remaining pair of terrorists was hidden from his view on the far side of the second minaret. His Public Security Force comrades and the Western reporters waited beyond the compound wall; although Chaudri could not see them from where he stood, he knew that they were still out there, that they would remain at their posts until the confrontation with Saifoullah wound its way to a conclusion.

  The Pakistani moved slowly toward the second minaret, the olive-green material of his uniform chafing his arms and legs with every step. Hamid and Yousif had wanted to accompany him, but he had decided it would be best to go alone. If there was trouble, if there was gunfire, he must face it by himself. Uncomfortable as it might be in the summer heat, Chaudri’s uniform gave him that obligation.

  The Americans had wanted him to take one of the Kalashnikovs, but again he had demurred. He would go alone, he had told them firmly, and he would go unarmed. They had tried to change his mind, had tried to convince him that he was taking too many risks, but Chaudri had been resolute. Alone, he had repeated, and unarmed. That was the way it must be.

  A determined fly buzzed circles around his head as he crept closer to his destination, alighting momentarily on his ears, his nose, his lips, then flitting off to safety as he slapped at it uselessly.

  He reached the stone base of the minaret and paused for a moment to listen. The heat and the silence closed in on him and made the drawing of every breath an arduous task. Chaudri was tempted just to stand there, to wait, yet he knew that there was nothing to be gained by waiting. He had waited long enough already.

  Courage, Mr. Chaudri, he told himself. He raised his hands in the gesture of surrender he had used the night before—and realized with clinical interest that the Arabic word for “surrender” is “Islam.”

  Islam, the surrender to God’s will, the surrender to destiny.

  With surrender in his heart, he stepped around the base of the minaret and gasped in sudden fear to find himself staring down the barrel of an AK-47.

  * * * *

  An eternity passed before he recognized that the rifle was in the hands of Senator William Adam Harding, and one of the two remaining members of the Sword of God lay motionless in the dust at his feet, his thobe and ghutra in disarray.

  “Well, hot damn,” the Senator roared, “it’s you!” He flung aside the Kalashnikov and pounded Chaudri gleefully on the back. “I shore am glad to see your u
gly mug again, there, son. I’s afraid they might’ve—”

  “What—?” Chaudri stammered. “How—? How did you—?”

  “Well, hell, son, there was only two of ‘em,” the Senator beamed. “It’s not like they had thesselves a damn army or nothin’. I took out this here downstairs one first, while he’s around this side of the tower and out of sight of the rest of ‘em, anen I snuck upstairs and whomped the other’n. I’s just on my way over to take care of your two when you walked into my gun and like to scare the pants offa me.” He looked Chaudri up and down with admiration. “But I guess you handled your boys okay on your own, there, din’t you? I thought you was kind of runty for a police officer, if you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so, but you done good, son. I’m right proud of you.”

  Chaudri looked down at the body lying crumpled and motionless in the dust. “Is he—?”

  “Dead?” The Senator chuckled. “Hell, no, he’s just takin’ hisself a li’l nap, that’s all. I din’t hardly hit him hard enough to raise a lump. And don’t you fret none about the one upstairs, neither. He’ll be back on his feet afore the ladies in there stop bawlin’.”

  “They are not hurt?”

  “Naw, they’re fine and dandy, son.” He jerked his head toward the entrance. “They’re inside there havin’ thesselves a good old-fashioned cry, but they ain’t been hurt none.”

  Chaudri put a hand to his heart. They were all alive, then, and it was over.

  He shook his head in disbelief. It could so very easily have ended in bloodshed and horror. The Senator’s solution had been unbelievably rash, had been taken without sufficient thought, had endangered all their lives.

  And yet....

  And yet the man had succeeded, praise Allah, and no one had been hurt.

  They were a strange people, these Westerners, and the Americans were the strangest of them all. As strange, in their own way, as that small minority of Muslims who fervently believed that violence was the behavior God demanded of them.

  And yet it seemed clear to Mahboob Chaudri that, in a world rocked with acts of senseless terrorism, it was perhaps possible after all for his culture and the Senator’s to work together toward the goal of peace. And, if it was possible to live in harmony with the Westerners, then perhaps it might be possible to live in harmony with the likes of Saifoullah as well.

  Insh’Allah. If only God was willing.

  And that, Chaudri decided, as he found the ring of keys in the pocket of the fallen Arab’s thobe and moved through brilliant sunshine to the gate in the wall which surrounded the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque, would be a very good thing.

  Oh, dearie me, yes, that would be a very good thing indeed.

  Afterword

  I originally wrote this tenth Mahboob Chaudri story in 1988, but EQMM and AHMM both turned it down, both editors explaining that, given the Middle Eastern geopolitics of that time, it was too true-to-life for their readerships, who read crime fiction to escape the headlines, not to get a look at the realities which lie behind them.

  In my own opinion, though, this was one of the best stories in the series, and I was disappointed not to be able to share it with Mahboob’s—and my—readers. Some 20 years after I wrote it, British anthologist Maxim Jakubowski paid me to translate several Dutch crime stories into English for The Mammoth Book of Best International Crime, a collection he was editing. I agreed, and asked him if he’d be willing to consider one of my own stories for inclusion in the book. He agreed, I sent him “The Sword of God,” and he bought it.

  Although Senator William Harding is an entirely fictional character, American Ambassador Paul Northfield is loosely modeled on Peter Sutherland, who was the American Ambassador to Bahrain from 1980 to 1983. Partly because the American community in Bahrain was small and therefore tightly knit and partly because his wife Carol was a member of the informal “Welcome Wagon” which looked after visiting University of Maryland faculty members, Ambassador Sutherland would sometimes call me up late at night and invite me over to the embassy residence to drink a beer and listen to him play jazz piano. Peter and Carol were good people, and I wonder where they are now. Google for once has let me down when it comes to locating them.

  The Suq-al-Khamis Mosque remains a Bahraini tourist attraction today. It is one of the oldest mosques in the country—some sources say the oldest—with a foundation dating back to the 11th century or possibly even earlier. In this photograph, you can see the twin minarets described in the story—which, by the way, don’t seem to have been part of the original mosque, but were added when the structure was rebuilt in the 15th century—and the stone wall which surrounds the compound:

  Abdullah al-Muharraqi (b. 1939) was when I was in Bahrain and remains today the emirate’s most important and best-known modern artist—and certainly one of the most important and best-known throughout the Gulf region. I still have a copy of his Scenes from the Gulf, a gorgeous volume containing 56 full-color reproductions of his paintings, and the description of Aiysha, Hassan al-Shama’s first wife, which appears near the end of “The Tree of Life” is very closely based on one of the paintings which appears in that book. Here’s another painting, titled “The War Generation,” which I think goes well with the subject matter of “The Sword of God.”

  Scenes from the Gulf is long out of print, but you can sometimes find a used copy on Amazon or Abebooks.com, and you can find more of al-Muharraqi’s work online by Googling his name.

  As I write this Afterword in 2015, I seem to once again have picked up the threads of a “career” as a writer. My non-series story “Police Navidad” was in the January 2015 issue of EQMM, and another one-off, “Selfie,” is scheduled to come out later in the year—which will make this the first time I’ve had two of my own stories appear in the pages of EQMM in the same year since 1986, when three of the stories you’ve just read all debuted (“ASU” in April, “Jemaa el Fna” in June, and “The Night of Power” in September). And in November 2015, Simon 451 (a new speculative imprint of Simon & Schuster) will publish Styx, a zombie cop novel on which I collaborated with Belgian writer Bavo Dhooge. In principle, Bavo and I will be doing two sequels to Styx together, and I’m also working collaboratively with another Belgian, Dirk Vanderlinden, on what’s intended to be a 10-volume series of thrillers, the first of which is titled The Fiandre Brotherhood.

  Will Mahboob Chaudri ever return? Perhaps.

  The year 2018 will mark the 50th anniversary of the publication of my first short story, “E.Q. Griffen Earns His Name,” in the December 1968 issue of EQMM. I’ve already begun work on a special story to mark the occasion. I’m calling it “50,” and it features E.Q. Griffen, the hero of that first story, all growed up and thinking back on a case he failed to solve as a teenager.

  Revisiting my old friend E.Q. has got me thinking nostalgically of my old friend Mahboob. It would be fun to spend some more time in his world, all these years after he and I first got to know each other. And, hey, there’s still “Home Leave”—part three of the trilogy that began with “ASU” and continued with “The Ivory Beast”—to be written.

  So perhaps Mahboob will be back.

  Insh’Allah….

  Acknowledgments

  The illustration of the Beer Drinkers was drawn by Dutch graphic artist Piet Schreuders from a photograph taken by Josh Pachter. It is copyright © 1984 and is reproduced here with the permission of the artist. For more information about Piet Schreuders, please visit his website at www.pietschreuders.com.

  The photograph which appears in the Afterword to “The Tree of Life” was taken by Harold Laudeus and is reprinted with his permission. You can find more of his photography at www.flickr.com/photos/haerold/.

  The illustration which appears in the Afterword to “The Tree of Life” was drawn by Jim Odbert and was originally published in the January 1986 issue of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. It is copyright © 1986 and is reproduce
d here with the permission of the artist. For more information about Jim Odbert, please visit his website at www.nyborart.com/about.html.

  The illustration which appears in the Afterword to “The Qatar Causeway” was drawn by Ron Wilbur. Both the magazine cover and illustration are copyright © 1988 and are reproduced here with the permission of DSM publisher Gary Lovisi. For more information about Detective Story Magazine and its later reincarnation as Hardboiled Detective Story Magazine, please visit Gary Lovisi’s website at www.gryphonbooks.com.

  The reproduction of Abdullah al-Muharraqi’s painting which appears in the Afterword to “The Sword of God” is used with the permission of the artist.

  All other photographs in this book were either taken by Josh Pachter or found online. An attempt has been made to identify the photographers and to request permission to reproduce their work here. If you took one of these pictures, please contact Josh Pachter or Wildside Press, so that you can be given appropriate credit for your work in subsequent editions of this book.

  About the Author

  Josh Pachter is the author of some 70 short crime stories, which have appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, and many other periodicals and anthologies in the US and around the world. He translates novels and short stories from Dutch and Flemish into English. Styx, a zombie cop novel on which he collaborated with Belgian author Bavo Dhooge, will be published by Simon 451, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, in 2015, and he’s currently working with another Belgian writer, Dirk Vanderlinden, on The Fiandre Brotherhood, the first book in a projected series.

  In his day job, Josh is the assistant dean for communication studies and theater at Northern Virginia Community College’s Loudoun Campus. He is an avid traveler, bike rider and photographer. His wife Laurie is a writer/editor for a Federal agency in Washington, DC, and his daughter Rebecca is an attorney in Arizona. He lives in Herndon, Virginia, with Laurie and their dog Tessa.