Fred’s tour ended before Omar left the hospital. He returned to the states and tried to put Afghanistan out of his mind, but occasionally, he would think about Omar and wonder what had happened to him. With the passing of time Fred thought about Omar less often—sometimes several years would pass without his giving Omar a thought, but then something would trigger the memory, and Fred would send up a quick prayer for the boy who had been the victim of a car bomb.
As Fred watched the boys, he once again sent up a quick prayer, “Please help Omar wherever he is, and, Lord, if it’s okay, I’d sure like to know what happened to him.” Fred checked his watch, and rose from his chair. It was time to cross the street and meet with Hadad.
ψ
Hadad’s office was of medium size, dingy, and brown. Although Wainwright had implied that Hadad had a great deal of money, it was apparent that he did not spend much of it on rent. The building, which was situated in a low-rent district, displayed peeling plaster, grimy tiles covering the floors, and dirt in every corner. Hadad’s private office contained a few shelves displaying statues of camels in brass, plaster, wood and various other media. The scuffed wooden desk and few straight-backed chairs were old and dusty. The view from the single window was of the wall of an equally old building with cracked stucco about ten feet away.
Hadad was smiling and talking—sizing Fred up to determine just how much money he might be able to get out of him. “As you can see,” he said as he gestured around the room, “I am a businessman. I have extensive real estate holdings here in Dubai as well as in Europe, Asia, and the United States. Others of my countrymen choose to live lives of idleness, but not me. I build my fortunes because one must always be prepared for the unexpected.”
Fred thought that Hadad must have spent a considerable amount of time in the United States. His English was flawless, and there was barely a trace of an accent. About fifty years old, he was not really fat, but his body was soft, and his hips were wide. His hair was black and thick, but his hairline was receding. His large brown cow-like eyes peered at Fred from behind wire-rimmed glasses which he removed from time to time to mop his face with a stained handkerchief. He was dressed in a white short-sleeved button-up cotton shirt, khaki pants, and tan canvas shoes with no socks. Fred thought that Hadad looked as if he did his shopping at the Dubai equivalent of Wal-mart.
“How may I assist you?” Hadad was asking.
“I am looking for information on Josef Helmick. I think he has lived here in Dubai for at least fifteen years. Have you heard of him?”
“Ah, yes. Herr Helmick is…infamous, as they say. One hears a great deal about him, but who can say how much of it is true? He is like a shadow. He disappears and reappears without warning, and no one seems to know where he goes or why.”
Fred was growing irritated. “Can you help me or not?”
Hadad sensed his impatience and immediately changed his tone. “Of course, but information is an elusive commodity. Real estate is different—it is what it is. Not so with information; you cannot put a price on it.”
“Yet, I’m betting that is exactly what you’re about to do, so why don’t you jump right in and give me a figure?”
Hadad looked at Fred out of the corners of his eyes, trying to judge how much he could get from this naive American. “Five thousand to start.”
Fred returned his stare, “Fifteen hundred.”
Hadad was surprised that the American was haggling over the price, but he had started high to hedge against that happening, “Twenty-five hundred.”
“Done,” Fred counted out the bills and handed them to Hadad along with his card containing his PCD number. “Let me know when you have something.”
Hadad smiled broadly. Only an American would have paid twenty-five hundred. He was already thinking about how much he should demand for his next payment.
ψ
When Fred entered the street, the soccer game was breaking up. One of the boys was headed in his direction, and Fred spoke, “Do you speak English?”
The boy smiled and nodded. He was a handsome youth of about fourteen. His eyes were large and dark, and his hair hung almost to his shoulders in soft black curls. Fred felt encouraged.
“Would you like to be my translator? I’m here on business, and I need someone to translate for me. I’ll pay you, of course.”
The boy’s smile broadened. “I’m your man! What do you need?”
“Right now, I need lunch,” Fred responded.
The boy motioned for Fred to follow and took off down a side street. Fred hesitated for only a moment before following him to a dilapidated café.
The boy looked so pleased with himself that Fred asked him to order lunch for both of them. The boy spoke to the owner in Arabic and then turned to Fred. “Sit at one of the tables. The food will be here soon.”
Lunch was an indistinguishable mass of shredded lamb and vegetables that tasted like a combination of spices and dirt, but Fred made a show of pretending it was delicious—a move that apparently pleased the boy very much.
As they ate, Fred asked the boy about himself. He learned that his name was Walid and that both of his parents were dead. He lived with his grandfather not far from the café. He did not go to school because his grandfather would not allow him to attend classes at the mosque. Afshin was a follower of Pluto, the god of the underworld, and he was waiting for Pluto to rise from the bowels of the earth and reestablish his kingdom.
Fred wanted to know more about Walid, and he felt that the best way to find out about him was to meet his grandfather. “Do you think your grandfather would agree to meet me?” Fred asked.
Walid looked thoughtful. “I think so, but there is a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Well,” the boy continued, “I am your man; I would serve you without charge, but my grandfather will not speak to you unless you pay him. To him you are the infidel.”
“How much?”
“I think two hundred dollars American,” the boy responded. As he spoke his eyes searched Fred’s face for his reaction.
“Two hundred dollars it is,” Fred replied. “Take me to him.”
Chapter 13
The old man’s eyes that met Fred’s were clouded with cataracts, and it was apparent that if he could see at all it was only shapes and movement. His hair was long and matted and his robe was stained and streaked with dirt. Fred thought that Afshin should have been an object of pity, but a spirit of such evil and darkness came out of the old man that when Fred looked into his eyes, he took an involuntary step backwards.
“Grandfather,” Walid said, “I have brought someone to meet you.”
Afshin’s sightless eyes darted about and his head moved in quick little jerks like some ancient bird of prey waiting for an unsuspecting animal to scurry by. “Why are you here?” Afshin asked in a hoarse quavering voice. “I do not serve your God.”
Fred remained silent and the boy spoke, “Grandfather, he wants to know about the Gate to Hell.”
“Ahhhh,” the sound that came from the old man’s throat was like a stream of putrid air gushing forth from a grave. “So, you want to know, do you? First you pay,” and he held out a trembling, wrinkled hand with gnarled fingers and long thick nails.
Fred handed Afshin the two hundred American dollars that he and the boy had agreed on, and Afshin smiled as he turned the bills over in his hands, feeling their surfaces with his calloused fingers. When he was satisfied, he tucked the bills inside his robe and leaned back against the crumbling wall.
In the dimly-lit room with specs of dust drifting thickly through the rays of light filtering through the single window, the old man’s hoarse voice had an almost hypnotic effect. “For many years those of us who still practice the ancient arts were scoffed at. We were told that the Gate to Hell did not exist—that it was only a myth for fools, but we knew better. We knew that the time for the god of the underworld to reign was at hand. We knew that the stories of the Plutonium wer
e true because we had experienced the power of the underworld in our ceremonies. We knew that there was a place where Pluto’s breath pours forth from the deep recesses of the earth, destroying all who mock him. We had our ancient manuscripts that told us times and times and half a time need pass before Pluto would rise from his place in the underworld and inhabit his throne on earth.
“I was sixty years old when the Italian made the discovery. He was conducting an archeological dig in Turkey, near Pamukkale, when he uncovered some ruins of the ancient city of Hierapolis. As his team dug they came upon some fragments of Apollo’s temple where the pilgrims came to bathe in the sacred pool and receive his blessing.
“Near the pool they found the Plutonium—the most sacred of all places. At first look it appeared to be only a small cave, but when one ventured closer he could smell the warmth of Pluto’s breath emitting from the earth. The space was filled with a vapor so misty and dense that one could scarcely see the ground. Any animal that passed inside met instant death.
“In ancient times when pilgrims came to worship, small birds were given to them to throw into the cave so that they could experience the power for themselves. The priests breathed the vapors and were made to see visions as they led bulls into the cave as a sacrifice to Pluto.”
Afshin’s eyes glittered as he spoke, “I, myself, made a pilgrimage to the Gate to Hell where I threw sparrows into the mist. They immediately breathed their last and fell to the earth. The sweet scent of death was everywhere.”
The old man suddenly stopped speaking and turned toward Fred. “Why have you come here? You are no friend to me. You have come to learn our secrets and destroy the portal to the underworld. The infidels came by night and filled the portal with stones. They set explosives to wipe it from the earth, but they could not destroy it. The god has hidden it from your eyes, and one day he will send forth his mighty breath to destroy all who oppose him. On that day you will die, and Pluto will rise to claim his kingdom. I curse you!” he screamed.
Fred was not frightened, but such a sense of horror engulfed him that he retreated from the stifling room into the bright sunlight outside.
Walid watched him with interest, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
Finally, Fred spoke, “Do you also practice the ancient arts?”
“No,” the boy replied. “Those are the old ways for old men.”
“Do you believe in God?” Fred persisted.
The boy looked down and shrugged, and Fred felt a thrill of excitement. Perhaps he would be able to share his faith with this boy. Perhaps he would see him accept Jesus before his time in Dubai ended. “Would you like to know God?”
The boy looked into Fred’s eyes and smiled. In that young face so full of trust and hope Fred saw his first opportunity for evangelism in this dry hostile land.
Chapter 14
After Fred had arranged to meet Walid the following morning, he walked aimlessly about the streets. He could not stop thinking about his meeting with Afshin. The old man had such a presence of evil about him that Fred wondered how Walid was able to endure life with him. Walid was still a child with a child’s dreams; Fred had looked into his eyes and seen something that set him apart from the other street boys—an expectancy, an optimism, a kind of raw faith that his life would one day be better.
Fred did not know how long he had walked when his attention was drawn to a small store front with a wooden sign that read “Yeshua Ministries” printed in Arabic, French and English. He stopped and tried the door. To his surprise, the knob turned and the door opened.
Fred found himself inside a small room with a few uncomfortable-looking chairs. Sitting at a worn wooden table was a young woman working at a computer. She looked up and smiled, “The pastor is not here,” she said in accented English.
Fred looked uncomfortable, “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I saw your sign, and I was just wondering what Yeshua Ministries does. I can come back another time.”
“No, please,” the woman replied. “I am happy to talk to you. You are American?”
“Yes.” Fred felt very foolish. He had barged into the offices of Yeshua Ministries to satisfy his curiosity. It had not occurred to him that he might be acting rudely.
The woman did not appear to be offended. “I am Fatema,” she said, “the wife of Pastor Saeed. He is visiting those in the church who are sick, but he will be back in time for services this evening. You are welcome to attend.”
For the first time since arriving in Dubai, Fred felt welcome. He was staying in a luxurious hotel suite where his every need was met. The service was impeccable; the employees were gracious and smiling, but Fred did not feel welcome. Yet, in this hot, dingy building he felt peaceful and relaxed. “Will you tell me about your work here?” Fred asked.
“We are a Christian ministry working to bring Jesus to Muslims,” Fatema answered. “We provide Bible training for hundreds of believers every year. We have much teaching in the UAE, but it is dangerous because evangelism is not allowed in Islamic countries. We have our offices in Dubai because Christians are allowed to have home churches and other churches here too, but not evangelism. We train here and then send missionaries to Islamic countries to work secretly under the covers.”
Fred struggled to suppress a smile at the young woman’s choice of words.
“That is how you say it?” Fatema asked when she saw the hint of a smile play around his lips. “Under the covers?”
“Yes,” Fred replied. “They work undercover.”
Fatema smiled broadly and continued, “Some of our pastors are arrested and sent to prison, but they continue to preach the Gospel while they are in chains. We have taken 2 Timothy 2:9 as our scripture for those who are in prison for their faith: And because I preach this Good News, I am suffering and have been chained like a criminal. But the word of God cannot be chained. Much good is done by our Christian brothers who suffer for Christ. They will not be silent, and they have brought many to Jesus as they sit in their cells.
“We also bring the Bible to the people. Yeshua Ministries has printed more than one million New Testaments, and we are now printing a second million. But it was not always so, and still there are not enough Bibles to meet the need for the Gospel. I work with believers in Iran because that is where I am from. I could tell you many stories of the things God is doing there. Do you have time to hear about the work?”
Fred nodded, and Fatema continued, “A young Iranian girl named Elham lost her father when she was only thirteen years old. He was arrested because of his Christian ministry and taken to the police station. Elham’s family could get no information about him for three weeks, and then they were informed that he had been hanged.
“Elham was so sad that she could not think of how she would go on living, but one day she decided that she would honor her father by following Jesus, and she began her own ministry. Elham’s father had been an evangelist, and she, too, wanted to evangelize for Jesus. In the Middle East Christians are called ‘People of the Book’ because they spend so much time reading and teaching the Bible, but Elham had only one Bible—the one that had belonged to her father. How could she share the Bible when she had only one Bible?
“After much prayer Elham felt God leading her to copy scriptures and leave them in public places. She and a Christian friend began to write short scriptures out by hand and leave them in taxis, restaurants, doctors’ waiting rooms—wherever seemed good to them. All that time she prayed that God would send Bibles to Iran so that her people would hear the Gospel and be saved.
“Elham worked always to spread the Gospel with her scriptures, but when she was seventeen she felt the need to copy the Gospel of John by hand. It took her one month of working every night, and when she finished, she wrapped it like a gift and walked through the streets until she felt God lead her to leave it on the doorstep of a strange house.
“Nine years after her father was martyred Elham came to Yeshua Ministries to study and prepare for ministry
. She was full of surprise when she found that a team here was translating the Bible into modern Persian. When the translation was finished, ten thousand copies were printed and distributed to the people of Iran. It was a dream come true for Elham.”
“Is Elham still with Yeshua Ministries?” Fred asked.
“Oh, yes. She is the leader of our women’s television ministry that is broadcast into Iran.”
“So, your workers have been protected here?”
“Yes, but we had one thing happen that is still a mystery. Four years ago Rashin, a young girl who did women’s street ministry, disappeared. She had gone out to talk to women as she did every day, and she simply vanished. We did much inquiry with the police and talking to women in the area where she usually went to speak, but we were never able to find anything. We believe that she was arrested and imprisoned, but we have never been able to find the smallest bit of information of what happened to her.”
“How did you come to Yeshua Ministries?” Fred inquired.
“If it will please you, I will tell you my story,” Fatema replied.
When Fred nodded, Fatema began.
ψ
“I was born into a Christian family in Iran. When I was five or six years old, my father was imprisoned and executed for sharing his faith. After that my mother lived in fear that one day the police would again come to our door and take away other family members.
“I was never allowed to go outside during daylight hours. Sometimes at night my grandmother would take me into the small patch of dirt surrounding our house and allow me to look up at the stars and feel the fresh air on my face, but she was always watching and listening, always afraid that the police would come and snatch me away. I did not go to school, but my mother taught me to read, and together we studied the Bible every day.
“Always I could feel Jesus in my heart, and when I was alone in my bed I would ask Him to help me serve Him. Perhaps it was because I was the only child that I drew near to Him; I only know that day and night I dreamed that I would leave our small house and travel into the world beyond to tell people about Jesus.
The Force (The Kingdom Chronicles) Page 7
