by Ken Hansen
He pulled back and kissed her on the lips, long yet softly. He had refused to trust himself to even this simple level of intimacy with a woman for several years. Since Hanna and her harangues. Since they had parted. Since he had abandoned his mother. Damn, why do you think of such things at a moment like this? He pulled back from Sonatina and forced a fake, weak smile.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said, but he had lied to her, and she could tell. In that one precious, intimate moment, his mind had turned to his mother again, and all the troubles of the past returned. He cared for Sonatina, but he just couldn’t focus on her any longer. What did the priest say? Perhaps God had kept his mother alive for him. For what? For his own personal purgatory on Earth? Yes, he had done everything he could for his mother that last year, but he could never forgive himself for abandoning her. So how could he possibly expect that she might have forgiven him, even if her brain had been able to form such a complex thought, or even if her heart or her soul could somehow overcome that weakness as the old priest had hinted.
“Chris, what are you thinking about?” Sonatina asked softly.
She was holding his hand, and he gripped hers tighter and smiled back. A tear was running down his face. “Have I ever told you about my mother?” Why am I telling her this? That feeling in his gut had become a torrent of liquid that wanted to flow out of his mouth, through the now open floodgates. She had become the only available basin for this unexpected outpouring.
“I know she passed away, and it has been too difficult for you to discuss.”
“Maybe I should tell you why,” he responded meekly. He spent the next hour trying to describe why the contacts list had spoken the truth when it proclaimed his mother had been forsaken. As he spoke, she held his hands, and the warmth of her touch washed over and through him. He had never been the touchy-feely type, yet somehow her tenderness in this moment gripped him deep within.
At the end of the long conversation, they sat, smiling softly at each other. He felt free, but exhausted and nearly limp. But there was something more. Could he confide even that with his newly found confessor? “This may seem strange,” he said, “so please do not think of me as a nutjob, but have you ever felt a strange emptiness inside? No, not really emptiness—it is more like something or someone lurking in that deep hole in your gut, and it calls out to you. You don’t know what it looks like, but it scares you, nonetheless. You try to pretend it doesn’t exist. You feed it with your life’s goals—your work and your relationships and your passions—and then, for a while, the thing disappears. But eventually the luster of those goals just dissolves into you like so much food and vanishes. Yet the hole remains, and when you have a quiet moment, the creature reappears, calling out to you, ‘What do you seek and why?’”
She looked back at him lovingly but said nothing.
Huxley continued, “I don’t know how to answer it. I keep thinking the answer will be there when I arrest another terrorist. But the thing never seems satisfied. The truth is, I don’t know the answer to that question, and it haunts me.”
Huxley wiped a tear from his eye. He had been babbling and had to stop. When he looked into Sonatina’s eyes, he saw something he never quite understood. It was empathy, but it felt like something more.
She sat there looking at him for a few seconds and then looked down at his lap. She smiled and looked back into his eyes. “I think I understand. My advice to you is to trust your hands on this one. Maybe they understand the answer in your heart better than your brain may ever admit.”
Huxley looked down at his lap and realized he had pulled out the crucifix and was rubbing it methodically with his left thumb. “Uh…no, no,” he said, shaking his head. “That thing is there just to remind me of my mother. I don’t even believe in God anymore,” he said as he shrugged and returned the object to his pocket.
“Chris, perhaps you should reconsider. Think back to your youth. You may think you can destroy God in your heart, but that is impossible! He will be with you always.”
“I don’t know, maybe just in my dreams.”
“Your dreams?”
“Yeah, I’ve been having weird dreams about the same people. But they are Arabs or something—at least they are dressed like them, with robes and the like. One is wearing fancy silk robes with various colors, but I don’t really see his face—it is like I am him in the dream. In one dream, I think he saw me too. The other is always dressed in white robes. I could swear he looks like Jesus. When I was in the hospital, he seemed to be calling to me, asking me if I truly seek the truth.”
Sonatina smiled broadly. “Perhaps that is God reaching out to you, telling you that you need him.”
“Or maybe it was just a homely nurse telling me to come back to reality.” He laughed awkwardly.
Sonatina stared back at him with a soft smile.
Huxley looked down at his hands again, at the crucifix. God again? Why did they keep trying to pull him back there? His mother, the old priest—he laughed at what he had told the old priest. It all seems like fantasy to me. Maybe, if I had been there to see it, I could believe. Now the thing in his belly grabbed him, like it was dragging him closer to Sonatina, but then he sighed and pulled himself out of it. He looked back up at her slowly and said, “You don’t happen to work for an old American priest, do you?”
“Che cosa?”
“Never mind.”
“Chris, your answers lie here.” She tapped him on the chest. “Trust them. Have a little faith and love will come back to you.”
He smirked. “Then tell the thing in my gut to stop poking me there.” He stood up. “Look, I’m sorry for being such a sap. I had a wonderful time. You are an inspiration. May I call you again?”
She smiled coyly and stood up with her wine glass in hand, raising it toward him. “To beautiful beginnings.”
He left her apartment a few minutes later, his lips still smiling and his heart still singing. But then his mind turned again to the investigation, and his heart struck a discordant note. Sonatina always seemed to say exactly the words he needed to push his case forward, just as she had done tonight. Just as Anwari had done before her. Though he could see it coming from Anwari, he had to have his radar on high alert when he talked with Sonatina. The radar had been down tonight, but now the signals were beaming straight through.
What is really going on here? Is she mixed up in this strange terrorist plot? Is she tugging on my emotional strings to manipulate me? Is that why she is trying to drag me back to God? She had seemed so genuine: he had trusted her way beyond what his mind told him was safe. Yet he doubted he could ever truly read her, and that made him feel naked. Was she empathic or merely calculating? Was she loving or just deceiving? Was she a clever, beautiful muse or simply a brilliant, dangerous lover? And how could he ever know which?
Chapter 36
“The mission was a complete success, Imam,” Anwari said into his latest cell phone. “The second package has now been attached to the special equipment and taken away by your agents. As far as we know, the authorities remain unaware that either package is missing.”
“Excellent,” Pardus replied. “You serve as Allah’s right hand.”
“Thank you, but I must tell you I still worry about this plan.”
“Oh? Events seem to be moving ahead as I had hoped. Are you aware of something I should know?”
Anwari licked his lips, looked down and sighed. “I fear what might happen if the Americans do not react as you have anticipated. What if someone gets the wrong idea and goes through with this thing? I could not forgive myself, and, worse yet, I fear that Allah would never forgive me.”
“Forgive you? Abdul, He will praise you and save a special place in Heaven for you. Remember, Allah has said, ‘Fighting has been ordained for you, though it is hard. You may dislike something although it is good for you, or like something although it is bad for you: Allah knows and you do not.’ This is difficult for you, Abdul, but it
has been ordained for you because it is good. Do not forget you are on Allah’s side.”
“Yes, Imam, but did not Allah also say, ‘Do not overstep the limits. Allah does not love those who overstep the limits.’ And He told us, ‘If they cease hostilities, there can be no further hostility, except toward aggressors.’ Is America really an aggressor? Al Qaeda’s murder of Americans on 9/11 brought their wrath against those pigs who had been running my country. And, yes, the Americans have killed some innocents here, but I know they usually try to protect those who do not fight them. Does America, does the Vatican, really fit the enemy here? I am struggling to see it. Are we not overreaching the limits Allah has set for us? I only wish to do what is right.”
“You wish to avenge your brother’s death do you not?” asked Pardus.
“I killed him as much as they.”
“Pfft. Abdul, you are confused,” Pardus said. “You were co-opted by the Americans to help them in their wars against the Muslims and were an instrument of your brother’s death only because you let yourself be swept into the infidels’ control. You think their holy war against us started with Afghanistan? What about their attack on Iraq in 1990?”
“Iraq attacked Kuwait first. The Americans helped a Muslim brother against a Muslim conqueror.”
“Huh? What propaganda is this? Is that what you think it was about? No, the Americans just wanted to secure the source of their ongoing addiction—oil from the Middle East. They chose to protect their main source—the Saudis—against the one emerging Arab oil power who refused to act at their behest. So they set Saddam up. Iraq attacked Kuwait after the American President had hinted his country would look the other way. And look what they have done to that part of the region ever since? It is a mess, with civil war in Syria and Iraq and those other idiots playing like they are a real army, though they are doomed to die in the desert. Do you think that is accidental?”
Anwari closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“No, it is not,” instructed Pardus. “The U.S. benefits when Muslims fight each other. Everyone thinks the Americans want to stabilize the region. Bull. They and their oil buddies, the Saudis, want instability everywhere but where the oil pours out in the vastest quantities to the West—Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and the UAE. As long as there is enough oil flowing, instability in Iraq and Syria serves their long-term interests. When the oil is threatened, the Americans come riding over the hill and kick some ass until they are satisfied the source of their addiction remains safe. But in the long term, no new opponent with any real power can arise. Hell, they would love to keep the Shiites in Iran down as well, but they have not yet figured out how to manage that. They staked Saddam as their horse for a time and then realized he might be more of a threat than Iran. So then they welcomed Iran into the fray in Iraq and Syria, hoping the thing ultimately would blow back in Iran’s face and eventually destabilize it as well. And the Saudis smile right along with them.”
Anwari bit his lip. He realized anything he said now would be dangerous.
Pardus continued his lecture, “The Americans need two stable nations in the region: Israel to keep the uppity Arabs at bay, and Saudi Arabia to keep the oil flowing and keep the calmer Arabs in line. And have you forgotten that the Americans have continually supplied military assistance to the biggest threat to Muslims in the world—Israel? Without the U.S., there is no Israel today. The Saudi’s usually look the other way because business is just fine for them.
“I see,” Anwari said softly.
“But forget all of this political underhandedness if it spins your head around or you want to look the other way and pretend everything is as America wants it to appear. You can forget it, but do not forget your brother, Karim. Have you forgotten his plea? Did he mean nothing to you?”
Anwari said, “No, I have not forgotten.”
“Then you must also remember the screaming of women and children around him after the Americans attacked his friend’s home? Do you remember him screaming for his wife and sons—your own nephews? They were like sons to you—that is what you told me. And then your American friends abandoned you and let his killer go free. When I first came to you, you were a broken down wreck. I showed you that the Qur’an provides the only true path, and it exhorts us to avenge those who try to kill Muslims. No, you must never forget: ‘wherever you encounter the idolaters, kill them, seize them, besiege them, wait for them at every lookout post!’ I know I will never forget these words of Allah. Have you?”
Anwari said dully, “No.”
“I believe you,” said Pardus. “Trust me. You are on the right path, my friend. Do not stray from that path or Allah may not be merciful. The Americans will accede to our demands and nobody will need to be hurt. Even if something should go wrong with the plan, the result would end in glory and justice in the eyes of Allah. The disbelievers would feel the Blaze of Allah’s eyes at the Day of Judgment.”
Anwari said nothing.
After a couple seconds of silence, Pardus asked, “Are you still with me?”
Anwari’s chest tightened. Honesty would end in death, so he responded with the conviction of a wali, “Of course, Imam. I am totally committed to you and Allah. I merely seek your wisdom to understand our purposes so that I may serve you and Him better. I only wish to do Allah’s bidding.”
“Of course, Abdul. I understand. I promise you we do this only for the glory of Allah to defeat His enemies.”
Chapter 37
Another week seemed to flitter by while Huxley fought to clear the decks with Mayer and Blount and even Patismio. Though he was anxious to resume the hunt at the Mosque in Lahore, Pakistan, Mayer had run him around in circles through his report until he finally seemed convinced that he knew everything. But Huxley had still managed to keep Anwari to himself. He shouldn’t complain. At least the extra week finally cleaned out the remaining cobwebs in his head. As he drove to the airport, the international call finally connected. “Hey superstar, have you located Anwari yet?”
“Yes and no,” Kira responded.
“Give me the ‘yes’ part.”
“I know where he isn’t—at his house in Kabul. I told you he flew back to Afghanistan the day after the bombing in Florence—that was nearly a month ago.”
“Yeah, so he’s not at home. Do you have an idea where he is?”
“No, and its not just me. I tried to locate him without help as you asked, but I finally had to reach out to our boys in Afghanistan.”
“Son of a bitch. Sorry, excuse my French.”
“That doesn’t sound like any French I know.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything. I told you we need to keep this out of certain channels.”
“Don’t worry. No CIA. Just a few trusted sources in the military that I know. No reports, just a friendly visit or two or three. Anyway, he seems to have gone underground. He landed in Kabul as expected, but from there, we don’t know where he went. No report of him leaving the country, but no sightings in Kabul either. If he went home, it wasn’t for long. I could find out more if you lifted the restrictions, but…”
“Thanks for reminding me of my little foibles.”
“Little?”
“Okay, take it easy,” Huxley said. “You are still my favorite assistant, right?”
“Yep, right up until they sack me for going along with your little act of deception.”
“Deception? I just haven’t gotten around to reporting this one little stray factoid yet. I really don’t know anything for certain about Anwari.”
“I’m sorry, I should have realized you would not want the facts to get in the way of a good story.”
Huxley chuckled but then chose a more serious tone. “Hey, you still with me on this?”
“Sure, just yanking your chain.”
Chapter 38
Standing in the enormous sahn, or courtyard, Huxley understood why the Badshahi Mosque lasted three centuries as the largest mosque in the world. At 276,000 square feet, the courtyard could
accommodate nearly five American football fields. The thing just swallowed you up and made you feel insignificant, which was probably its intent. And before him stood the beautiful red sandstone structure of the mosque itself in all its Mughal glory, with its 196-foot-high minarets, and three huge qubbas, or domes, each covered with a cone and topped with a tall spire reaching for the heavens.
Huxley walked toward the structure, searching for the next clue. He had not deciphered the last part of the poem yet, so he figured its lines might tell him more precisely where to look:
Now cherish deep within our words of Lord
The times her forlorn shrine has been restored:
The main lies here all split apart in two,
While source of thee doth hold a simpler view.
The line “The times her forlorn shrine has been restored” must have linked back to the Church of the Annunciation, since the feminine pronoun seemed unlikely to apply to this mosque. The shrine to Mary had been rebuilt five times, so the clue should be keyed with the number five. He saw some Arabic words on the entrance gate, but that inscription merely referred to the builder and its date, with no number five. No, the words he needed were “deep within” and must be “words of Lord.”
He walked silently into the prayer chamber, or so they called it, though the word “chamber” seemed too inconsequential to describe the space. An arched niche stood in the center and was surrounded on its sides with five additional arches. Here the three Mughal-styled domes showed their interior magnificence. The entrance to the prayer chamber was paneled and enriched with marble inlay in lineal floral and geometrical patterns.
Huxley was admiring the beauty of the structure and almost had forgotten his purpose when he came upon some words in Arabic inscribed in the prayer chamber under the main high vault. They were the Kalimah: six general Islamic sayings memorized in Arabic by many Muslims in Pakistan and elsewhere. He smiled. Was this too easy? He looked at the fifth of the sayings, better known as the Kalimah Istighfar, or “The Word of Penitence.” He pulled out his phone and searched for the most common English translation, the one the writer might have chosen:
