He looked from one to the other. “I didn’t think we’d make it,” he said.
“Have we?” Nabila asked.
He cleared his throat and turned to the audience. “Not often in the history of mankind has there been so much owed to people who must remain hidden. I know that these medals are only a small token, but they are, nevertheless, the little we can offer you for a job well done.”
Traditionally, there was little said at the presentation of the Intelligence Medal. Some of the people in this room were not even cleared to know exactly why they were receiving it.
The president pinned Jim’s medal to his suit, and presented Nabila with hers. A few moments later, the ceremony was concluded and the medals were placed in their black felt boxes, to remain there until they would be buried with the recipients.
Afterward, the president, Jim, and Nabila went into the Oval. “Jim,” the president said, “I’ll get right to the point. You know that we’ve been making some changes in intelligence operations.”
“I noticed.” It wasn’t just change, though, not this time. There was a revolution under way. The whole system of classification was being revised, and stovepiping of information now carried with it serious penalties. Whole agencies and departments were being disbanded and reconstructed along new lines. The gigantic outsourcing process, so fraught with danger to the nation, was being ended, and the two private mercenary armies, as well as the various private intelligence operations, were being dissolved. Jim himself was no longer a contractor but once again a direct employee of a currently leaderless CIA.
“Jim, I’d be grateful if you’d accept the Directorship of National Intelligence. Could you do that for me?”
“No, Sir, I could not.”
Nabila sucked breath. She knew that no such offer would be made to her. Muslims had work to do in the West, a lot of it. Repairing the damage would take generations. She was lucky her clearance hadn’t been pulled.
“There oughtta be a law against that—declining your president.”
“Sir, I’m needed in the field. It’s going to take years to identify and roll up this group that calls itself Inshalla. They’ve been hurt, but they’re still out there, and at last count, we’re looking at nearly a ton of plutonium still missing. Plus, we’re penetrated. I don’t think I’m competent to deal with that. I’m a frontline guy.”
“You underestimate yourself, Jim.” He turned to Nabila. “I hope you don’t.”
“I know my skills, Sir.”
“Good, because what I want you to do is build something for me. We’re starting a new directorate. Secret. We’re going to repair the damage done to the interdiction infrastructure. We’re going to find the people we can’t trust, once and for all, and get rid of them.”
She was silent. “It will be a secret directorate, so it’s politically safe to appoint me, is that it?”
The president smiled a little. “I can’t get you through a public advise and consent, obviously, Nabila. But if you’ll let me, I can help you serve in a capacity that’s worthy of your abilities.”
“I will accept the directorship.”
They left then, and while they were returning to their house, Nabila’s phone rang. It was the White House. A meeting was scheduled at seven tomorrow morning. Orientation and a discussion of policy.
“You’ve never had any operational training, have you?” Jim asked her.
“No Camp Swampy for me. Guns in the hands of Islamists—bad idea.”
“Then you should have some. Defensive driving. Neck breaking, perhaps.”
“Is this funny? Should I be laughing?”
“It’s funny. You should be laughing.”
“It’s not Arab humor.” Then she did laugh. “First Arabs blow everything up and the CIA director is fired. Then the new CIA director comes along and it’s an Arab. That’s funny.”
“You’re not getting that directorship.”
“Not officially, but you know that’s what it is. What it amounts to. Actually, it’ll have higher priority than CIA. Which is funny. Arab funny.”
“Why so?”
“Don’t you see? It’s purdah for me when I am rejecting purdah. My face is naked; my legs can be seen. But in my work, I remain in purdah. The woman is hidden!”
“It’s not American humor.”
“I was born here, remember! I am an American, Jimmy. Never forget it.”
“You’re an Arab-American.” He kissed her cheek.
“Careful, I will forget I am driving.”
That night, they lay discreetly together. Very late, she whispered to him that he must wait for her to bear him his children. She wanted this work. She wanted it very badly.
He held her, felt her strong heart beating against his, and loved her more deeply than he had thought it was possible for him to love, and went with her in the ship of the night, always now with her.
Syed Ahmad sucked his water pipe and watched the television. For the first time in history, Muslim leaders were in attendance at the investiture of a new pope. All eight Grand Muftis were there, part of what was said to be the greatest procession of religious leaders ever assembled, moving through the streets of Florence to the huge Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore. Ahmad smoked and watched with the others in the small coffee bar. Soon enough, there would be a new Mufti in Saudi Arabia, also, and it was already being said that the pope would attend his accession.
Blasphemy. Apostasy. God would curse them all.
But when there was applause, Syed also applauded and smiled. Secretly, though, he sent constant prayer to Allah, begging that the fire be put to their skin, and again, and again.
As God made all, God also made this. Inshalla had failed God, so God was repaying them by allowing this obscene blasphemy to be spat in the faces of the faithful.
Or perhaps there was another way to look at it. Perhaps this was purification. After all, Aziz had been corrupt, had he not, with his fast cars and his liquor? Who knew if he had truly given up his sins? Perhaps others besides Aziz had angered God also.
Syed was careful in his prayer and full of love and devotion. He could not be the reason that there had been this failure, and he did not think he was blamed. No, he was not blamed; otherwise he would never have been allowed to escape from Pakistan.
His journey had been harrowing, but at least its possibility had been contemplated and there had been planning.
He had initiated it by sending Eshan on a certain errand into the center of the city, one from which it was not intended that he would return. His identification, however, had come back, but now it had Syed’s picture where Eshan’s had been.
That easily, Syed had gone from being an Arab of fifty-three years to an American of forty-one years. A little dye had turned back some years, and he had left Pakistan using the American passport of his own clerk. So Syed was here in the United States as a proud citizen—or rather, Eshan was.
He had come a long way, flying first to Karachi, then to Paris, now here. There was nothing against Eshan. This was his homeland. There would be no questions here.
The customs officer had asked him, “What were you doing in Pakistan for two years?”
He had replied, “My mother was ill. I was helping her until she died.”
“For two years?”
“She died at once. I was settling the estate.”
“You have an accent.” He was looking at a computer screen, seeing that Eshan had been born in this country.
“I do?” He had laughed. “I’ve been gone too long!”
“Two years just to settle an estate? Must have been a big one.”
“Not big. Arab.”
He’d laughed then, the hard young customs man. “Welcome home,” he had said.
And so it was. The new Eshan would start his old life over. He had no living relatives here, his father having met with a tragic accident just before they were to be reunited at last. Indeed tragic.
Even under this new name and in this un
holy place, he still bore the idea of the Mahdi in his soul. He would start everything again, yes . . . but slowly and carefully. Go back to putting a grain beside a grain, the way it had been with them always.
Perhaps there would be no further attempt in his generation. But there was the future, and God had all the time that existed.
God had all the time, but Ahmad was tired. His body and his bones felt stripped of life, exhausted, and he thought that death was not so far in his future. The truth was, the failure had broken him.
Perhaps he shouldn’t even be watching this. Perhaps his rage and disgust would weaken him even more.
Another round of applause. Was there not a single faithful man in here? Not one sitting off, keeping to himself?
Not one.
It was early yet here, but the sun was shining in Florence, on all the great men of the world, kings, presidents, prime ministers, and all those apostate and faithless religious leaders, strutting their lies.
Even so, Ahmad was at one with God’s will. Not at peace inside himself, far from it, but certain, still, of heaven.
In fact, as the smoke relaxed him, he put on a smiling face for those around him. Agents, he assumed, were everywhere among the Arabs, noting everything. Why is that one not smiling? Give us his name. . . .
On the far wall there was a faded portrait of the old Saudi king Faisal, may God forgive him. In the back, a mural of the Arabian desert. But Ahmad was not really Arab; he was Baluchi, a man used to seeing his wealth stolen by others.
He listened to the fawning voice of the Al Jazeera reporter, a slick-looking Kuwaiti, grinning in his ridiculous Western suit of clothes. Why wear such things, the clothing of barbarians?
“The new pope has taken a name out of a famous prophecy. Cardinal Arinze, the first African pope, is to be Peter the Roman, Petrus Romanus. In the prophecy of Saint Malachy, Petrus Romanus is the last pope, but Peter the Roman has a message to add from the words of the Christian Book of the Revelation of John ‘I am Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last.’ He says, ‘The last is also first, and the last Roman pope shall also be the first pope of a new church, in a new era of peace, that will be everlasting in the world.’ This is the message he gave upon his triumphant restoration of the ancient Catholic papacy.”
That was enough. Ahmad left. He could bear no more. You break their city, you leave it burning—and here they are!
Ahmad had no television in the small room he had taken above the shop of a leather-goods seller, but he certainly didn’t want to see more of this. When he needed news, he looked in the papers or listened to the radio.
He had some dates and cheese from yesterday, and would take this for breakfast, with an orange soda.
He went slowly up 3rd Street, in a whipping morning wind, and saw that the trees were touched by buds and there were petunias lifting their heads in the small flower boxes that so many people kept in their windows, here in Bay Ridge. He thought that he would like Brooklyn, despite the cold. He had crossed many borders, and passed through many lands, and dark. This one, though, smiled its innocent American smile, and hoped only that the traveler would accept the welcome that was offered at every turn.
Yes, Brooklyn was a good place for him to be. He would be safe here.
Whitley Strieber, Critical Mass
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