Wild Cards IV: Aces Abroad

by Stephen Leigh

  “Because of Allah’s dream,” Misha insisted.

  “Allah’s dream or yours, woman?” Sayyid asked. “What will the infidels do if Nur al-Allah does as I’ve asked? The West has done nothing about the hostages Islam has taken, they’ve done nothing about other killings. Will they complain to Damascus and al-Assad? Nur al-Allah rules Syria in all but title; Nur al-Allah has united half of all Islam behind him. They’ll complain, they’ll bluster. They’ll cry and moan, but they won’t interfere. What will they do—refuse to trade with us? Ptah!” Sayyid spat on the intricate tiles at his feet. “They will hear Allah’s laughter in the wind.”

  “These Americans have their own guards,” Misha countered. “They have the ones they call aces.”

  “We have Allah. His strength is all we need. Any of my people would be honored to become shahid, a martyr for Allah.”

  Misha turned to Najib, still looking at his hand as Sayyid and Misha argued. “Brother, what Sayyid asks ignores the gifts that Allah has given us. His way ignores the gift of dreams, and it ignores kuwwa nuriyah, the power of light.”

  “What do you mean?” Najib’s hand fell.

  “Allah’s power is in your voice, your presence. If you meet with these people, they would be swayed the way the faithful are swayed when you speak. Any of Allah’s people could kill them, but only Nur al-Allah can actually bring the infidels to the faith of Allah. Which of the two is the greater honor to Allah?”

  Najib didn’t answer. She could see his luminescent face furrowed in a deep frown, and he turned to walk away a few paces. She knew then that she had won. Praise Allah! Sayyid will beat me again for this, but it’s worth it. Her cheek throbbed where Najib had struck her, but she ignored the pain.

  “Sayyid?” Najib asked. He looked from a slitted window to the village. Faint voices hailed the glowing visage.

  “It is Nur al-Allah’s decision. He knows my counsel,” Sayyid said. “I’m not a kahin. My foresight is limited to war. Nur al-Allah is strong—I think we should demonstrate that strength.”

  Najib came back to the mihrab. “Sayyid, will you allow the Kahina to go to Damascus and meet with the Americans?”

  “If that’s what Nur al-Allah wishes,” Sayyid answered stiffly.

  “It is,” Najib said. “Misha, go back to your husband’s house and make yourself ready to travel. You’ll meet this delegation, and you’ll tell me of them. Then Nur al-Allah will decide how to deal with them.”

  Misha bowed, her head to the cool tiles. She kept her eyes down, feeling the heat of Sayyid’s gaze as she passed him.

  When she had gone, Najib shook his head at Sayyid’s sullen posture. “You think I ignore you for your wife, my friend? Are you insulted?”

  “She is your sister, and she is Kahina,” Sayyid replied, his voice neutral.

  Najib smiled, and the darkness of his mouth was like a hole in his bright face. “Let me ask you, Sayyid, are we truly strong enough to do as you suggested?”

  “In sha’Allah, of course, but I wouldn’t have said so if I didn’t think it true.”

  “And would your plan be easier to execute in Damascus, or here—in our own place, at our own time?”

  Comprehension made Sayyid grin. “Why, here, of course, Nur al-Allah. Here.”

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 1987, DAMASCUS:

  The hotel was near the Suq al-Hamidiyah. Even through the chatter of the air conditioner’s ancient compressor, Gregg could hear the market’s boisterous energy. The suq was swirling with a thousand brightly hued djellaba, interspersed with the dull black of the chador. The crowds filled the narrow lanes between the stalls’ colorful awnings and spilled out into the streets. On the nearest corner a water-seller called his wares: “Atchen, taa saubi!”—if you thirst, come to me.

  Everywhere there were crowds, from the suq to the white minarets of 1200-year-old Umayyad Mosque. “You’d think the wild card never existed. Or the twentieth century, for that matter,” Gregg commented.

  “That’s because Nur al-Allah has made sure that no joker dares to walk the streets. They kill jokers here.” Sara, on the bed, laid her orange on the peels littering the copy of al Ba’th, the official Syrian newspaper. “I remember one tale we got from the Post stringer here. A joker had the misfortune of being caught stealing food in the suq. They buried him in the sand so that only his head showed, then they stoned him to death. The judge—who belonged to the Nur sect, by the way—insisted that only small stones be thrown, so the joker would have sufficient time to contemplate his many sins before he died.”

  Gregg laced his fingers in her tousled hair, gently pulled her head back, and kissed her deeply. “That’s why we’re here,” he said. “That’s why I hope to meet this Light of Allah.”

  “You’ve been edgy since Egypt.”

  “I think this is an important stop.”

  “Because the Middle East is going to be one of the main concerns of the next president?”

  “You’re an impertinent little bitch.”

  “I’ll take the ‘little’ as a compliment. A ‘bitch,’ though, is a female dog, you sexist pig. And I can smell a story.” She wrinkled her nose up at him.

  “Does that mean I get your vote?”

  “It depends.” Sara threw back the sheet, scattering al-Ba’th, orange, and peels to the floor, and took Gregg’s hand. She kissed his fingers lightly and then moved his hand lower on her body. “What kind of incentives were you thinking of offering?” she asked.

  “I’ll do whatever I have to do.” And that’s true. Puppetman stirred slightly, impatient. If I make Nur al-Allah a puppet, I influence his action. I can sit down at the table with him and get him to sign whatever I want: Hartmann the Great Negotiator, the world’s humanitarian. Nur al-Allah is the key to this region. With him and a few other leaders . . . The thought made him smile. Sara laughed throatily.

  “No sacrifice is too great, huh?” She laughed again and pulled him on top of her. “I like a man with a sense of duty. Well, start earning your vote, Senator. And this time, you get the wet spot.”

  A few hours later there was a discreet knock on the outer door. Gregg was standing by the window, knotting his tie as he looked out on the city. “Yes?”

  “It’s Billy, Senator. Kahina and her group are here. I’ve told the others. Should I send her on to the conference room?”

  “Just a second.”

  Sara called quietly from the open door of the bathroom, “I’ll go down to my own room.”

  “You might as well stay here for a bit. Billy will make sure no one sees you leave. There’ll be a press conference after, so you might want to head down in half an hour.” Gregg went to the door, opened it slightly, and spoke to Billy. Then he stepped quickly to the door leading to the adjoining suite and knocked. “Ellen? Kahina’s on her way.”

  Ellen came in as Gregg was putting on his jacket; Sara was brushing her hair. Ellen smiled automatically at Sara, nodding. Gregg could feel a mild annoyance in his wife, a glimmer of jealousy; he let Puppetman smooth that roughness, lathing it with cold blue. He needed very little effort; she had had no delusions about their marriage from the start—they had married because she was a Bonestell, and the New England Bonestells had always been involved in politics in one way or another. She understood how to play the supportive spouse: when to stand beside him; what to say and how to say it. She accepted that “men had needs” and didn’t care as long as Gregg didn’t flaunt it in public or stop her from having her own affairs. Ellen was among the most pliable of his puppets.

  Deliberately, just for the small pleasure that Ellen’s hidden distaste would give him, he hugged Sara. He could feel Sara holding back in Ellen’s presence. I can change that, Puppetman murmured in his head. See, there’s so much affection in her. Just a twist, and I could . . .

  No! The depth of his response surprised Gregg. We don’t force her. We never touched Succubus; we won’t touch Sara.

  Ellen watched the embrace blandly, and the smile never left her li
ps. “The two of you slept well, I hope.” There was nothing in the tone beyond the mere words. Glacial, distant, her gaze left Sara; she smiled at Gregg. “Darling, we should go. And I want to talk to you about that reporter Downs—he’s been asking me the strangest questions, and he’s talking to Chrysalis as well. . . .”

  The meeting wasn’t what he’d expected, though John Werthen had briefed him on the necessary protocol. The Arab guards along the wall, armed with a mixture of Uzis and Soviet-made automatic weapons, were unnerving. Billy Ray had carefully beefed up their own security. Gregg, Tachyon, and the other political members of the junket were in attendance. The aces and (especially) jokers were elsewhere in Damascus, as President al-Assad toured the city with them.

  Kahina herself was a surprise. She was a small, petite woman. The ebony eyes above the veils were bright, inquisitive, and searching; her dress was plain except for a line of turquoise beads above her forehead. Translators accompanied her. In addition, a trio of burly men in bedouin dress sat nearby, watching.

  “Kahina’s a woman in a very conservative Islamic society, Senator,” John had said. “I can’t stress that enough. Her even being here is a break with tradition, allowed only because she’s the prophet-twin of her brother and because they think she has magic, sihr. She’s married to Sayyid, the general who masterminded Nur al-Allah’s military victories. She might be the Kahina, and she’s had a liberal education, but she’s not a Westerner. Be careful. These people are quick to be insulted and very long on holding a grudge. And—Jesus, Senator—tell Tachyon to tone it down.”

  Gregg waved to Tachyon, dressed outrageously as usual, but with a new twist. Tachyon had abandoned the satins, too hot for him in this climate. Instead he looked as if he’d raided a bazaar in the suq, emerging as a movie-cliché vision of a sheikh: red, baggy silk trousers, a loose linen shirt and jacket with intricate brocade, bead and bangles jingling everywhere. His hair was hidden under an elaborate headdress; the long toes of his slippers turned up and curled back. Gregg decided not to comment. He shook hands with the others and seated Ellen as everyone found chairs. He nodded to Kahina and her entourage, who tore their gazes away from Tachyon.

  “Marhala,” Gregg said: greetings.

  Her eyes gleamed. She inclined her head. “I speak only a little English,” she said slowly in a heavily accented, quiet voice. “It will be easier if my translator, Rashid, speaks for me.”

  Headsets had been provided; Gregg put his on. “We’re delighted that Kahina would come to make arrangements for us to meet with Nur al-Allah. This is more honor than we deserve.”

  Her translator was speaking softly into his headset. Kahina nodded. She spoke in a stream of rapid Arabic. “The honor is that you have even gotten this close to meeting him, Senator,” Rashid’s husky voice translated. “The Qur’an says: ‘For those who disbelieve in Allah and His apostle. We have prepared a blazing fire.’”

  Gregg glanced toward Tachyon, who raised his eyebrows slightly under the headdress and shrugged. “We’d like to believe that we share a vision of peace with Nur al-Allah,” Gregg answered slowly.

  Kahina seemed almost amused by that. “Nur al-Allah, for this once, has chosen my vision. On his own, he might have stayed in the desert until you were gone . . .” Kahina was still speaking, but Rashid’s voice had trailed into silence. Kahina glared at the man, saying something that made him grimace. One of the men with Kahina gestured harshly; Rashid cleared his throat and resumed.

  “Or . . . or perhaps Nur al-Allah might have followed the advice of Sayyid and slain you and the abominations you bring with you.”

  Tachyon pressed back in his chair in shock; Lyons, the Republican senator, blustered, leaning over to Gregg to whisper, “And I thought Barnett was sick.”

  Inside Gregg, Puppetman stirred hungrily. Even without a direct mindlink, the surging emotions could be felt. Kahina’s attendants were frowning, obviously upset by her candor but afraid to interfere with someone who was, after all, part of the twinned prophet. The guards around the wall tensed. The UN and Red Cross representatives consulted in whispers.

  Kahina sat calmly in the middle of the turmoil, her hands folded on the tabletop, her regard on Gregg. The intensity of her stare was unnerving; he found himself struggling not to look away.

  Tachyon leaned forward, his long fingers interlaced. “The ‘abominations’ are blameless,” he said bluntly. “If anything, the responsibility should be laid at my feet. Your people would better serve the jokers with kindness than scorn and brutality. They were infected by a blind, horrible, and undiscriminating disease. So were you; you were simply lucky.”

  Her attendants muttered at that, darting angry stares at the alien, but Kahina answered calmly, “Allah is supreme. The virus might be blind, but Allah is not. Those who are worthy, He rewards. Those who are not, He strikes down.”

  “And what of the aces we brought with us, who worship another version of God, or perhaps none at all?” Tachyon persisted. “What of the aces in other countries who worship Buddha or Amaterasu or a Plumed Serpent or no gods at all?”

  “The ways of Allah are subtle. I know that what He has spoken in the Qur’an is truth. I know that the visions He grants me contain truth. I know that when Nur al-Allah speaks in His voice, it is truth. Beyond that, it’s folly to claim to understand Allah.” Her voice now held an undertone of irritation, and Gregg knew Tachyon had hit a nerve with her.

  Tachyon shook his head. “And I would claim that the ultimate folly is attempting to understand humans, who have made these gods,” he retorted.

  Gregg had listened to the exchange with growing excitement. To have Kahina for a puppet: she might be nearly as useful to him as Nur al-Allah himself. Until now he had dismissed Kahina’s influence. He’d thought that a woman within this fundamentalist Islamic movement could wield no real power. Now he saw that his evaluation might have been wrong.

  Kahina and Tachyon had locked gazes. Gregg held up his hand, making his voice reasonable, soothing.

  “Please. Doctor, let me answer. Kahina, none of us have any intention of insulting your beliefs. We’re here only to help your government deal with the problems of the wild card virus. My country has had to cope with the virus for the longest time; we’ve had the largest affected population. We’re also here to learn, to see other techniques and resolutions. We can do that best by meeting with those who have the most influence. Throughout the Middle East we have heard that this person is Nur al-Allah. No one holds more power than he.”

  Kahina’s gaze now flicked back to Gregg. The resentment had still not left the mahogany pupils. “You were in Allah’s dreams,” she said. “I saw you. Strings ran from your fingertips. As you tugged, the people held at the other ends moved.”

  My God! The shock and panic almost brought Gregg out of his seat. Puppetman snarled like a cornered dog in his head. His pulse pounded against his temples, and he could feel heat on his cheeks. How could she know . . .?

  Gregg made himself laugh, forced a smile to his lips. “That’s a common dream of politicians,” he said, as if she’d made a joke. “I was probably trying to make the voters check the right box on the ballot.” There were chuckles around his side of the table at that. Gregg let his voice drift back to seriousness. “If I could control people, aside from being president already, I’d be pulling those strings that would make your brother meet with us. Could that be the meaning of your dream?”

  Unblinking, she looked at him. “Allah is subtle.”

  You must take her. No matter that Tachyon is here or that it’s dangerous because she’s an ace. You must take her because of what she might say. You must take her because you may never meet Nur al-Allah. She is here, now.

  The power in Gregg was impatient, eager; he forced it back down. “What will convince Nur al-Allah, Kahina?”

  A burst of Arabic; Rashid’s voice spoke in Gregg’s ear. “Allah will convince him.”

  “And you. You’re his adviser too. What will you tell him?�
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  “We argued when I said Allah’s dreams told me to come to Damascus.” Her escorts were muttering again. One of them touched her shoulder and whispered into her ear fiercely. Kahina shook her head. “I will tell my brother what Allah’s dreams tell me to say. Nothing more. My own words have no weight.”

  Tachyon pushed his chair back. “Senator, I suggest that we waste no further time with this. I want to see the few clinics the Syrian government has bothered to set up. Maybe there I can accomplish something.”

  Gregg looked around the table; the others were nodding. Kahina’s own people looked impatient. Gregg rose. “Then we’ll wait for word from you, Kahina. Please, I beg you, tell your brother that sometimes when you know an enemy, you find that he is no enemy at all. We’re here to help. That’s all.”

  As Kahina stood, taking off her headset, Gregg casually held out his hand to her, ignoring the contempt the gesture elicited from her escorts. When Kahina didn’t respond by taking his hand, he kept his hand extended. “We have a saying that, in Rome, one is supposed to act Roman,” he commented, hoping she would understand the words or that Rashid would translate. “Still, the first step in understanding someone is to know their customs. One of ours is that peers shake hands to show understanding.”

  He thought for a moment that the ploy had failed, that the opportunity would pass. He was almost glad. Opening the mind and will of an ace who had already terrified him with her unknowing perception, and doing so with Tachyon standing alongside him, watching . . .

  Then her hand, surprisingly white against the midnight darkness of her robes, brushed against his fingers.

  You must . . .

  Gregg slid along the curving, branching tendrils of the nervous system, watching for blocks and traps, watching especially for any sign of awareness of his presence. Had he felt that, he would have fled as quickly as he’d entered. He’d always been extremely cautious with aces, even with those who he knew had no mental powers. Kahina seemed unaware of his penetration.