Critical Mass (29 page)

“Mahdi, perhaps, have a care.”

“Why is that? Do they suddenly know me in Peshawar? Am I not hidden by God himself?” The Twelfth Imam had been rendered occult by Allah. He would not be discovered, could not be, until the time was right.

“I don’t know, Mahdi.”

“I do know, and I tell you that I’m in no danger here.”

“Yes, Mahdi.”

He enjoyed Eshan calling him by his title. Glorious title. Eshan had seen the way his hell-raising boss had changed once the great office was conferred on him, had seen him literally transform into a new man, as the Mahdi’s ancient spirit filled his own young and brash one.

The door in the thick garden wall was kept locked. Aziz approached it, took down the big key, and fitted into the lock. “Are you afraid, Eshan?”

“Yes, Mahdi.”

When he opened the garden gate, he saw a woman rush past with her hair flying, then another in Western dress, who was wearing a blue veil. There were men, too, and he saw a great column of smoke behind the roofs of the houses.

Eshan came behind him. “Master, don’t go far.”

“What is this, Eshan? What’s burning over there?”

“Sethi Mohalla.”

“A mosque is burning?”

“The mosques of the truly faithful are all burning.”

“But—”

“You should look at the news!”

Eshan’s tone astonished Aziz. “Where is your respect? Don’t forget who I am.”

“Then stop sitting around drinking tea and pretending you’re the Prophet’s left foot. We’re having a catastrophe! Anyway, we’ve known each other a long time, Aziz.”

Aziz held in his surprise. First the boy goes mad, and now this. “We must trust in God. God does all.” Some girls passed, again without veils. He gestured at them. “What is this? What is this business?”

“Our women are removing the
hijab
in protest against the bomb, and Christian women are wearing the blue veil to announce respect for Islam, the Veil of Mary, Mother of Jesus. Christians and Muslims are worshiping together, all over the world. They are praying together everywhere, hand in hand.”

This could not be true. His clerk was overwrought. But the matter of the
hijab,
this Aziz could see with his own eyes. “This is illegal, to remove the
hijab.
”

“Not in Pakistan.”

“They must be stoned, Eshan.”

“Mahdi, there are not enough stones. Millions of Muslim women are doing it. The whole Muslim world is united as never before—against you, Mahdi.”

Eshan quoted the great words of the Muslim Brotherhood. “ ‘Allah is our objective. The Prophet is our leader. Quran is our law. Jihad is our way. Dying in the way of Allah is our highest hope.’ ” He continued, “Conversion is violent, often. It has always been thus. But afterward—what happiness!”

“The Muslim Brotherhood denounces us.”

“We are masters. Above the Brotherhood.”

“We are denounced.”

Anger raced the Mahdi’s heart, but he strove to appear serene. He let the breath of rage slip from his body. “Very well,” he said. He wanted to curse the arrogant devils, especially these females, but he turned, instead, and went back to his garden. He gave the outer door a good, hard slam. They would learn of the power of Islam, these women, all of them! Devils!

From deeper within the house, he heard the voice of Al Jazeera—another
female, and she also was speaking of the “universal protest of the Muslims against the monsters who dropped this bomb.”

“Zaaria and the others are watching television?”

“Yes, Mahdi.”

Not even his three wives knew for certain who he was. This was a man’s secret, this secret and sacred life of his. “Go and turn it off! Devils!”

There was movement from behind the black curtain that concealed the women’s rooms. A small hand darted out; then the curtain parted. Slowly, his daughter Jamila came into the garden. At thirteen, she had a roselike purity about her, with flawless skin, her olive cheeks brushed pink, her lips just becoming sensual. It would not be long before she went into purdah, but not just yet. Every father longed to delay that moment, especially when he had such a beautiful child as Jamila.

Jamila wore a blue
hijab,
not a black one. Black for the heart of the female, black to prevent disturbance among men.

“What is this blue?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She twirled around. “What if I take it off?”

“You will be stoned, Daughter.”

“Oh,
stoned
! With little stones or big stones?”

Absently he gestured toward some cinder blocks that were stacked against the garden wall.

“Do only women get stoned, Father, dear Father?”

“Whoever disobeys a law that requires stoning is stoned. Now let’s leave this subject.”

“My mommas say you’re the Dajjal. Are you the Dajjal, truly?”

“This is monstrous! A monstrous lie!” The Dajjal was the antithesis of the Mahdi, an evil being such as the Christians called the Antichrist.

Jamila twirled, and as she did, the blue scarf floated off her head. “Do you like me,” she trilled in the music that was her voice, “or perhaps I’m not pretty to the eyes of a demon.”

“This is madness.” He took her wrist. “Stop this!”

“No! Don’t you touch me!”

“Be silent! I am your father! Get that
hijab.
”

“Stone me; you’d love to even though it’s not the law! I’m not in purdah yet, and I’ll never go into purdah, not for you. You’re a bloody, evil
monster
!”

It took all the strength he had in him not to slap her senseless. They had been infected by that accursed Al Jazeera with its rubbish nonsense!

“Wasim! Come stone me; my father commands it!”

Wasim came from inside the house, followed by a scent of cooking spices. “What is this?”

“I’m disobeying the law! I must be stoned!”

Wasim looked toward Aziz. “Mahdi?”

“She will not be stoned.”

“What? But Wasim, you cut off heads! Surely you can stone, too!” She took his wrist. “Here, come to these blocks. Pick one up. I’ll be a good girl; I’ll kneel. You can crush me easily!”

“Mahdi?”

“Wasim, go back to your cooking.”

But Jamila blocked his way. And then she did more; she did the unthinkable. “Ba-ba-
bang,
” she chanted as she tore off her blouse. “Ba-ba-biddy-
bang
!” She bent, then came up again. She stood naked. “Now, Father, I am obscene. The filthy female.” She danced in front of Wasim. “Getting excited? How about you, Father? Is not your filthy daughter pretty? Will you not want me among your virgins in your heaven?”

“No! No, oh, God, what is this? This is madness!”

She went to the blocks and hefted one. The big, gray thing almost caused her to fall back, it was so heavy against her frail nakedness.

Certainly a woman going naked would be severely punished. But a child?

“Daughter, there is nothing in the law to require the punishment of a foolish girl.” He went to her and lifted the great block out of her hands, and returned it to the stack.

Then Zaaria, who was Jamila’s mother, came out of the curtained room. She came to the center of the garden. He knew her by her eyes. His wives obeyed the sura, and thus she was in full purdah.

“Zaaria, your child is misbehaving. Please take her away.”

She reached up and unbuttoned her robe, her dexterous fingers working quickly.

“What are you doing?”

“You are not of the Ahul al-Bayt. You did not become known in Medina.”

The robe opened, and in her hand he saw the knife used for the dressing of chickens.

“You are no Mahdi, but I will tell you who you are, because I know.”

“I am Aziz, of course, only Aziz, son of the carpenter. The Mahdi is
concealed within me. Only when the Caliphate is restored will you see my transfigured form.”

“ ‘The Dajjal will bring hell to paradise, and what he will call paradise will be actually hell; so I warn you against him as Noah warned his nation against him.’ ”

“How dare you quote scripture to me! And stop this immodesty. Get the naked child and go away.”

Then his other wives came into the garden, one of them wearing a Western bathing suit, little more than a gaudy yellow string. The other was in jeans and a sweater, and, like Jamila, wore the blue veil.

“Dajjal,” Maya, his second wife, hissed. “You murdered a whole city!”

“I saved the whole world!”

Maya carried a big butcher’s cleaver and Salwa an iron bar. Salwa hefted it and came forward. “You’re the monster of the whole world!”

He knew what these weapons meant. He knew that he was being betrayed. Only one thing mattered now. “Eshan, is it completed?”

Zaaria said, “Tell him nothing.”

“Tell me!”

Eshan saw what was happening. The Mahdi was leaving this man. “I must go, now, Aziz.” Eshan had been told exactly what to do in this event. Should Aziz become too dangerous a receptacle, Allah would simply move the Mahdi to another.

“Help me! Get the gun, the gun, Eshan!”

Eshan left the garden and went into the house. Aziz shouted after him, “Is it completed, Eshan?” There was no response.
“ESHAN!”
But Eshan did not answer. He must go now to a certain madrassa.

The women came closer to Aziz.

“What are you doing?” He tried to smile. Their faces were awful.

“Do you know that Salwa lost toes?” Zaaria asked him.

“I don’t understand.”

“While you were warm on your djinn of a horse, do you remember the figures walking behind you? The
shadows
!”

“Of course I remember!”

“And no hospital, then. No hospital for her! She has gangrene, you
scum
.”

He backed away, toward the outer door.

“Don’t let him,” Maya snarled.

Wasim took a few steps, until he was between Aziz and the door. He turned around and threw Wasim against the wall. “You’re all apostate! I am the Mahdi!”

“Dajjal,” Jamila sang, twirling with her hands over her head. She danced on her mother’s discarded burka.

Outside, there were shots; there were screams. The sick-sharp odor of cordite sifted through the air.

“They are purging Pakistan of the ones like you, the followers of the Dajjal.” Salwa raised her arms high. He watched the beautiful arms, watched the black bar in them. Above it, he saw the fading green of the trees that overhung the gardens and, higher, white clouds in the blue.

There was a pain, and then ringing silence. He knew, then, that he was on the ground. Salwa stood over him, the iron bar in her two hands.

As he was raising his arms, she hit him again, this time a blow that glanced off his shoulder, making him cry out as the bones separated. A rush of nausea swept him. He pushed himself away, and the third blow slammed into the ground with a sickening
thunk
.

“No! Please, I’m young; I deserve to live! I was forced. Yes! They told me if I did not obey, you would all die! Yes! They told me this!”

Maya came down to him, pressed her soft face into his. “You deserve hell! What of the children you burned? Have you seen that? The fields full of charred bodies?
What of them, Dajjal?
”

Then he felt a coldness on his neck, then searing heat, then an agonizing choking sensation. He reached up; he felt, his hands trembling, losing control—an effort now—he felt the handle of the cleaver.
It was in his neck!
He fought the growing weight of his own hands, fought to close his fingers—and then it was out; it was in his lap. There was a sound. Rain. No, his blood—
blood
—gushing out of his neck.

He managed to raise his head, and they were all there, Maya, Zaaria, Salwa, Jamila, and Wasim.

Aziz’s throat had a torch in it. “Please, I can’t breathe,” he said.

Wasim barked out a laugh. “Kiss the feet of the dead, Mahdi.”

“Don’t call him that; it’s impious,” Zaaria said. She took out a pack of Marlboros and passed them to Salwa and Maya, and as his struggle turned slowly from agony to a sort of floating warmth, they stood smoking and watching him die.

“It . . .” He wanted to tell them that it changed nothing. But there was no strength.

Then it was dark; there was a child singing in perfect voice, like a distant lark.

They watched his head loll, his eyes roll back. Then his breath stopped.

“Well, it’s done,” Zaaria said.

“Are we rich, now?” Wasim asked. “I want to go to live in Paris!”

Zaaria went to Aziz’s office. There was little here, just his mysterious codebooks and Eshan’s laptop. She picked up the laptop and hid it under her burka.

“Let’s go,” she said. “To get this money, we need to start with the police.”

They opened the garden door onto a street that was quiet again. A police truck stood at the nearby turning. Beyond it, fire equipment rumbled; and white steam rose where the firemen directed their streams into the ruins of the mosque.

It had come time for prayer, and muezzins raised their calls across the city—most of them, to be sure, electronically, but the age-old call of Islam nevertheless spread far and wide, echoing off the old stalls in the markets, off the walls of houses, floating through the gardens, the call to prayer.

Zaaria walked up to the police truck. From the back, uniformed men watched her, lazy with disinterest. “Nobody prays?” she asked.

One of them smiled a little; that was all.

She went around to the front of the vehicle where their officer was facing Mecca.

“The peace of God be with you,” she said as he finished.

“And with you.” He came to his feet. He was a prim man with a neatly trimmed moustache and an aroma of ginger and roses. His uniform was so bright and clean, it appeared to have been just made. “Have you trouble for me?”

“I have news that the man who is behind all these plots is dead.”

“You can prove this? That it’s him?”

“We have his codebooks, his radio equipment, a laptop, many things.”

“So, you will have done Islam a great service.”

“And the twenty million dollars the Americans are offering?” Salwa asked.

“Is it so much now?”

“I saw it on Al Jazeera. Last hour, they doubled.”

“If this is true, you will have it.”