by David Wood
Heat from the burning car buffeted his face, prompting him to raise a shielding hand to his eyes. There was little chance of a secondary explosion; as he had surmised, the gas tank had been the source of the explosion, though what had triggered the detonation was anyone’s guess. He had not fired a single round outside the museum which strongly suggested that Rafi himself had caused the explosion, probably by shooting into the tank. That explained the what, but not the why.
His first thought was that the killer might have been trying to use the exploding car as a diversion to cover his escape or possibly some kind of flanking attack, but if that had been Rafi’s plan, it had ended disastrously. A smoldering body lay twenty feet beyond the wreckage. His clothing had been almost completely burned away, and his skin had not fared much better, but there was enough left for Professor to recognize the corpse as the young intern that had worked alongside him only a few hours before.
He felt Jade’s hand on his arm, felt her shudder in horror as she glimpsed the burned remains. Whether by accident or intentionally, Rafi had killed himself with the explosion, and any answers that he might have given had gone with him into the afterlife.
“I have to know,” Jade insisted.
Professor smiled patiently. He had seen this confrontation coming almost from the moment the attack had occurred. “I understand that. And I agree with you. It’s imperative that we learn what’s really going on. But that doesn’t mean you can go off half-cocked. Let me do some digging.”
“Fine. You dig. I’m going to London.”
He sighed. Although they had been taken by ambulance to the hospital in Pisco—the same place Rafi had been treated after his near-drowning—the doctor had elected not to admit them for observation. Professor felt certain part of the reason for the clean bill of health was the fact that the hospital was now under intense scrutiny from the police who wanted to know how Rafi had slipped away from the hospital without anyone raising an alarm. That was fine with Professor. The hospital was too public, too exposed. Their current accommodations, a cabana at a resort in Paracas, were marginally safer, but Professor would not breathe easy until they were well away from Peru.
He and Jade had also been the focus of police scrutiny, initially at least, since there were no witnesses to corroborate their version of what had happened. Several members of the television crew confirmed that Roche had requested a private meeting with Jade but that did little to exonerate them, particularly when those same individuals reported that Jade’s reaction to Roche’s arrival had been “tense.” An investigation into Rafi’s background however had soon shifted the suspicion away from Jade and Professor.
A cursory examination of Rafi Massoud’s social media presence revealed a connection to the “Crescent Defense League,” a coalition of journalists and Muslim social activists dedicated to fighting Islamophobia. Given the level of anti-Islamic sentiment in the United States and Western Europe, which often took the form of outright racism, the mission of the CDL was laudable, but their tactics, more often than not, only added fuel to the fire. Overly generous application of terms like “Islamaphobe,” “racist” and “Nazi” had stifled meaningful discussion of what many believed was valid criticism of a religious belief system that seemed inextricably, and all too often unapologetically, linked to acts of violence, while inflaming extremists on the opposite side of the political equation who were only too happy to wear such titles as a badge of honor.
Some of their crusades had a polarizing effect on people who would otherwise have been sympathetic to the cause, such as the call to boycott a summer blockbuster film because one of the characters used the term “pachys,” an abbreviation of the polysyllabic name of a particular dinosaur species appearing in the movie, which to the ear of CDL social justice warriors sounded suspiciously like “Pakis,” a slur sometimes used in the United Kingdom to refer to citizens of Pakistani descent. What most regarded as a completely innocuous homophone instead became yet another subtle racially-charged attack. The resulting blowback, predictably, was further antipathy toward the so-called “politically correct” movement and an increase in anti-Muslim sentiment, which was, Professor suspected, what the CDL had intended all along.
There was nothing on the CDL’s carefully worded website that could be construed as advocating violent solutions, but the rhetoric was rife with subtext and dog-whistles, particularly in the section listing “Enemies of Islam.”
Gerald Roche had been on that list.
Rafi Massoud seemed to have merely been a passive supporter of the group—a Facebook follower, one of several hundred thousand worldwide—and not an activist, but it was a connection the Peruvian national police had no trouble making. Their working hypothesis was that the young archaeology student, seeing an opportunity to strike a blow against a hated enemy of his faith, had slipped away from the hospital, procured a rental car and a gun, and then gone after Roche, subsequently immolating himself in an explosion intended to take the lives of the only witnesses to his crime.
There was no denying that the narrative fit the facts of the situation, and Professor had seen Rafi pull the trigger on Roche with his own eyes. Nevertheless, something felt off about what had now become the official version of events. He knew Jade felt it, too.
For one thing, although the Crescent Defense League had put Roche on their hit list, there was very little in his conspiracy-theory fueled world-view that could be described as anti-Muslim. In fact, he was on record as being a supporter of Palestine and a vocal critic of the Israeli government, which on balance ought to have made him a hero to the CDL. His inclusion on the list seemed to derive solely from a chapter in one of his books where he described in great detail how religions—not just Islam, but all the world’s major faiths—were being used to advance the “Changeling hegemony.” Professor suspected that Roche, who was almost universally regarded as delusional, had been included to make the other people on the list seem equally deranged—insane by association.
Of greater concern to Professor however was the fact that Roche had specifically sought Jade out, and now he was dead. If the official version was correct, then the attack had been an impulsive action brought on by a coincidental encounter. But if the official version was wrong, there were a lot of missing pieces in the puzzle, and Professor needed to know what they were.
Jade wanted to know as well, and she had every right to feel that way, but in typical fashion, her response was to leap before looking, which in this instance meant traveling to London in order to figure out what Roche had been trying to tell her.
“Roche is the key,” she said, almost shouting, though whether this was because of lingering temporary deafness from the explosion or simply unrestrained ardor, it was impossible to say. “Rafi targeted him. Almost like he wanted to silence him. Roche was onto something.”
“You may be right,” Professor said, not for the first time. “All I’m saying is, take it slow. Before we do anything, we have to figure out who was behind this.”
Jade regarded him warily, as if sensing that he was trying to catch her in a logic trap. “So you agree that this whole Muslim extremist thing is a load of crap.”
“I don’t know what to believe. Something about it seems a little fishy. But what’s the alternative? Changelings? Aliens?” He waggled his hands like Jeremiah Stillman which had the desired effect of getting Jade to crack a smile. “Roche said he was being targeted because of what he had discovered about Phantom Time. I’ve got to say, that makes even less sense than the idea that Rafi was some kind of terrorist assassin, but that’s about the only lead we’ve got.”
Jade folded her arms. “Which is why I want to go to London. Roche said he wrote a book explaining everything. We need to see what’s in that book.”
“Roche also said that his publisher was murdered to keep the book from being released. That’s something we can verify with a phone call.”
“Fine. Make the call.”
“I will,” he replied, a little m
ore sharply than intended. She stared back at him for several seconds and then they both burst into laughter.
With the tension finally broken, Professor set about making good on that statement. He took out his smart phone and entered the string “Gerald Roche publisher” into Google. The top result directed to Chameleon Press International, a British firm with a catalogue primarily composed of books written by Roche, but the search also returned an unusual news item.
The story, dating back three weeks, was actually quite familiar, though Professor did not immediately grasp the connection until he looked at the section of the article which had caught the attention of the automated search engine. “Oh, this is interesting.”
“What?” Jade moved closer so she could read over his shoulder.
“Roche was technically wrong when he said his publisher had been killed. Officially speaking at least, Ian Parrott, president and editor-in-chief of Chameleon Press International, is not dead. He’s missing, along with everyone else on Flight 815.”
“Wait, the Flight 815?”
Professor nodded. There was no need for further elaboration. Three weeks after the fact, the disappearance of Flight 815, Sydney to Los Angeles, was still the subject of water-cooler discussions across the globe.
The plane, a Boeing 777, had been proceeding along its designated trans-Pacific flight plan, the pilots making routine checks with international air traffic controllers, with no hint of trouble, until three hours into the flight, all communication ceased. The plane’s GPS locator and radar transponder failed to return any signals and an exhaustive—and still ongoing—search for the plane had not yielded even a scrap of physical evidence as to its fate. The only thing that could be said with any certainty was that Flight 815 had not crashed anywhere along its intended course.
The loss of the aircraft was eerily reminiscent of Malaysian Air Flight 370, which had gone missing more than a year earlier, which invariably led to the as yet impossible to refute belief that the two events were connected. The fact that some debris from Flight 370 had recently been discovered did little to silence the speculation. Were the disappearances the work of international terrorists who were hijacking planes in mid-flight in order to build a fleet of jets for a 9-11 style suicide raid? Or was the explanation something even more diabolical? Theories ranged from the improbably mundane to the unthinkably impossible.
“Roche’s publisher was on the Flight 815,” Jade said again. “Do you realize what that means?”
“It doesn’t mean anything,.” Professor said, a little more forcefully than he intended. “It’s a coincidence. The kind of thing men like Roche and Stillman use to spin their conspiracy webs. Nothing more.”
“Except now Roche is dead,” Jade countered.
Professor lowered his voice an octave, as if afraid that someone might overhear. “Jade, you don’t seriously think that some shadow conspiracy killed hundreds of people just to keep a crazy man from publishing his book. The world doesn’t work that way.”
Even as he said it, he knew better. The world did work that way, all the time.
“You know I don’t believe in Changelings or aliens or any crap like that,” Jade said, “but we both know that conspiracies and secret societies do exist. Maybe Roche stumbled on something in his research, something that they don’t want anyone knowing. Probably something that doesn’t have anything to do with Phantom Time. The answer will be in Roche’s book. There’s got to be a copy of the manuscript. Either at his place in London, or with the publisher. If you’re right, and this is all just a bizarre coincidence, then we won’t be in any more danger in London than we are right here. But if Roche was killed to keep this a secret, then whoever did it is going to come after us eventually. We need to know.”
“Even if you’re right, and there is some kind of conspiracy at work, why go to the trouble of taking out a whole plane just to kill one guy? They could have just popped him on a street corner, made it look like a mugging. Or simply walked up and shot him, like Rafi did. And for that matter, how did our intern get mixed up in this?”
“Maybe this Parrott guy wasn’t the only target on that plane. As for Rafi, I have no idea, but you’re right. It doesn’t make any sense. That’s why we have to go to London. We have to figure out what Roche’s big secret is.”
Professor sighed. “You’re insufferable when you’re right. You know that, don’t you?”
Jade just grinned.
SIX
New York City
Atash Shah opened his front door before the visitor could knock. “Gabrielle. Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Of course. I was still at the office when I heard. I came straight away.” Gabrielle Greene gripped Shah’s hand, not shaking but clasping it in both of hers. Her dark eyes, framed by even darker hair, a stark contrast with her pale skin, probed the interior of the apartment.
“Raina is already in bed,” Shah said, answering the unasked question.
He thought he saw something like a smile flicker across her face. It was probably his imagination.
Wishful thinking.
Even now, facing this unprecedented crisis, he could scarcely contain his longing for her. Just being around her was intoxicating. Working with her day in and day out at the Crescent Defense League home office was enough to make him perpetually giddy, but having her here, in his home, with his wife sleeping so close…that made the forbidden fruit of their unconsummated love seem all the sweeter.
Gabrielle’s dark serious gaze fell squarely on him. “How bad is it?”
Shah allowed the fantasy to slip away, and looked around furtively. He had it on reliable authority that he was the subject of a secretly sworn and executed FISA warrant. His telephone calls and emails were being screened and he was certain that both his apartment and office were bugged.
Ordinarily, the watching eyes and listening ears did not concern him. He scrupulously avoided doing or saying anything that might even be faintly construed as illegal. As both a Muslim and a journalist who frequently exposed the government’s illegal excesses and abuses of power, there were many—both in government circles and in the mainstream news media—who considered him far more dangerous than any terrorist, and rightly so. The old saying was true after all; the pen was mightier than the sword. Tonight however, was a different matter. Tonight, the distinction between pen and sword had become very blurry indeed. He touched a finger to his lips and stepped out of the apartment, closing the door behind him. He led Gabrielle to the stairwell and up to the roof where, hopefully, they would be able to converse without being overheard by federally sanctioned eavesdroppers.
Gabrielle understood the need for discretion. Thought she was not a Muslim, her hard-hitting investigative reporting, which often made use of highly-placed informants—men and women who were legally and technically committing treason by sharing what they knew with a journalist—had put her on the government’s radar as well. The fact that she worked closely with Shah, co-founding the Crescent Defense League with him, as well as using him as a source for her freelance articles, surely had not improved her reputation, but that was the price both of them were willing to pay to see a world free from tyranny and intolerance.
It was their holy crusade. A jihad, not for Islam—Shah’s faith was a complicated thing, informed more by science than the words of the Prophet—but for the truth.
With more than 1.6 billion adherents—twenty-three percent of the global population—the world’s fastest growing religion was also arguably the world’s dominant religious belief system, regaining a status it had once held for more than four hundred years, from the 8th to 13th centuries. That time, still remembered as the Golden Age of Islam, had been a period of unparalleled scientific, intellectual and cultural achievements, made possible by the unifying power of the Prophet’s writings. Shah, like many modern thinkers who shared his culture and faith, was skeptical when it came to matters of divine revelation, but he was a believer in the power of a united purpose. A seco
nd Golden Age of Islam was possible, but only if Muslims everywhere recognized and lived up to their potential for greatness.
Shah’s mission in life was to make sure that happened. He would be the Mahdi, the last imam, who would reunite Sunni and Shia, and all the fractured sects of the faith and lead them to a greatness surpassing even the days of the Prophet. Truth was his weapon, a fire that burned through the endless storm of lies and prejudices. The articles he posted on the Crescent Defense League website not only exposed the agenda of Islam’s enemies, who sought always to characterize Islam as a violent faith, filled with radicals and terrorists, but dug deeper, revealing more subtle forms of intolerance, such as unflattering portrayals of Muslims in movies and television shows, which all too often conflated “Muslim” with “terrorists.”
Unfortunately, like fire, the truth was sometimes difficult to control, and letting it loose could have unpredictable consequences.
“Roche is dead,” Shah said.
Something like relief or satisfaction spread across Gabrielle’s countenance. “How?”
“That’s the problem.” He briefly related what his sources had told him about Rafi Massoud and the brutal murder the young student had committed. “They’re going to try to put this on us,” he continued. “They’ll say that I incited this young man to commit murder.”
Gabrielle made a cutting gesture with her hand. “Let them.”
Shah swallowed nervously. Gabrielle may have shared Shah’s mission, but her motives were more complex.
“This is what we do, Atash,” Gabrielle went on. “Turn their attacks against them. If you distance yourself from this, you’ll appear weak. Apologize and they win. You have to own this.”
“I don’t think that will work this time. They want to paint us as a religion of violent extremists and terrorists. You would have me admit they’re right?”
