THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller (20 page)

Decker watched the Professor amble slowly down the portico, gazing lackadaisically at paintings and woodcuts on the walls. The students buzzed, and swerved, and swirled around him. Then he vanished through a portico into the Late Gothic Hall.

After a few minutes, when the students had passed by, Decker circled around the other way, past the Early Gothic Hall, the Pontaut Chapter House and Langon Chapel, moving backwards through time. He made his way along a long stone corridor, down several flights of stairs, and finally exited in front of the museum.

The sky was cloudy and white. It looked like it was going to snow. He started walking back along the promontory toward his car. Decker could see the distant Hudson River far below the palisades, studded with blocks of ice, chugging lethargically along, and it brought to mind the Mississippi, Iowa and home. Or, what had once been home. The Quad Cities hadn’t changed much over the last decade; yet they seemed so far away now, so alien and small – just as the tapestries remained predominantly the same; only the audience was different.

Then, out of nowhere, he remembered what Warhaftig had told him the first time they had met:
El Aqrab is no ordinary killer
.

But how a poor kid from south Lebanon, the son of a part-time electrician, could be the same man who had learned to paint with fire, to illuminate the Qur’an with incendiary pain and death, with a calligraphy of flames, Decker simply couldn’t fathom. It was indeed a mystery, as inscrutable as those initials on the tapestries within.

Sunday, January 30 – 6:06 AM

Damascus, Syria

The three mules of Gulzhan Baqrah arrived in Syria early Sunday morning – hungry, dusty and ground down by the road. It had taken them more than twenty-five hours of non-stop travel to make the journey from Kazakhstan to Rasht in Iran, then by land in separate cars and trucks and even, for a few hours, on horseback through the mountainous regions of northern Iraq, before finally arriving in Damascus. They traveled along separate paths to a small, non-descript apartment building just south of Al Shouhada Square, where a young man named Ghazi Khadeja greeted them. Khadeja did not know much about the operation other than the fact that the three men were important friends of Gulzhan Baqrah. The men washed up and had a hearty meal of lamb and raisins and falafel bread.

Just before noon, as the sound of the muezzins called the faithful to prayer, a man arrived at the apartment. His name was Moustapha. Tall and skinny with a scruffy thin black beard, Moustapha carried a message from Gulzhan Baqrah for each of the three mules – their instructions for the next leg of their journeys. Within an hour following the noonday prayers, the mules were packed and ready for the road, assembled in a little courtyard behind the apartment building.

Ali Hammel was the first to be collected. An old man with a patch over one eye appeared in a battered dark green Land Rover. The Algerian got in without even saying goodbye.

Five minutes later, it was Ziad’s turn. A truck transporting what appeared to be chrome or manganese ore picked up the Lebanese. He nodded once toward Auwal Al-Hakim and Khadeja, and then climbed up into the cab.

Another five minutes passed and a third and final vehicle appeared. Auwal Al-Hakim watched as the black Citroen nosed its way through the alley and pulled over on the far side of the courtyard. A thin young man jumped out to help him with his case, but the giant Egyptian glanced at him with his vacant ox-like eyes, and he hesitated, stopped and backed away. Khadeja introduced the young man as
Zimrilim. He would take Al-Hakim as far as the docks in Tartus. The Egyptian thanked Khadeja, picked up his silver case and knapsack, and squeezed into the front seat of the car.

* * *

It took Zimrilim several hours to drive the 250 kilometers north to the coastal town of
Tartus, and it was dusk when they finally reached the city limits. They had barely spoken the entire journey. Zimrilim had tried to strike up conversations with Al-Hakim, on several different topics, but – in the end – he had simply given up. Al-Hakim preferred to sleep, and he snored volubly for hours until Zimrilim pulled over for the evening prayer. They stopped once more for gas before they reached the coastal plain. Zimrilim had an uncle in Tartus, and he invited the Egyptian for supper, but Al-Hakim told him it would not be wise. So they kept driving. They drove and drove until the great gray Mediterranean opened up before them in the distance, and they could drive no more.

With over 160,000 inhabitants, Tartus was Syria’s second most important port town after Latakia. Zimrilim told Al-Hakim that the city had once been a charming fishing village but it had lost most of its grace over the last few years due to over-development. Even the famous Cathedral of Our Lady of Tortosa in the old city was surrounded now by modern office and apartment buildings.

Founded in antiquity, the city had originally been called Antaradus, since it was anti-Aradus, or facing the island of Aradus, a former Phoenician colony. Zimrilim pointed to the island off the coast. “The city was rebuilt in AD 346 by Emperor Constantine I,” he said, “who renamed it Constantia, and it flourished during Roman and Byzantine times as a significant trading port. Eventually, Crusaders converted it into a fortress-town, successfully defending Tartus against Muslim attacks throughout the twelfth century. Even Nur Al Din took over the port city for a time before the Crusaders recaptured it and placed it under the dominion of the Templars. Tartus was the Templars’ last stand on the Syrian mainland. When the city fell–”

“Did you say Nur Al Din?” interrupted Al-Hakim, as if he had just woken from a dream.

“You’ve heard of him?” said Zimrilim. “He was a great explorer, a conqueror and–”

“He was Egyptian. From the
Arabian Nights
,” said Al-Hakim. “It would be wise for you, Zimrilim, to remember the behest he made Hasan, his son, as he was dying. ‘Be overintimate with none, nor frequent any, nor be familiar with any. So shalt thou be safe from his mischief, for security lieth in seclusion of thought from the society of men, and I have heard it said by poets,
In this world there is none thou mayst count upon/To befriend thy case in nick of need/So live for thyself nursing hope of none/Such counsel I give thee now, take heed!
’” The big man laughed, and looked down at his watch, and said, “How much further?”

Zimrilim glanced at the Egyptian. “Not far,” he said. “Ten minutes, maybe less.” Then he stared back at the road. He was young, only recently turned nineteen, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what Al-Hakim was telling him.

They traveled through the narrow winding streets of the old city to the main shipping yard. As they drove along the docks, Al-Hakim noticed a number of foreign ships lit up in the harbor and Zimrilim told him that Lebanese, Egyptian and even Greek shipping companies routinely registered their bulk and cargo ships in Syria due to the country’s favorable maritime regulations. Zimrilim pulled over to the side, stopped the car, and pointed toward a freighter.

It was a small ship, less than 50,000 dead weight tons, an old Handy workhorse of the dry bulk market. Al-Hakim got out at the bottom of the gangway and stretched his legs. Zimrilim remained inside the car. For some reason, the Egyptian’s reference to the
Arabian Nights
had unnerved him. There was something about Al-Hakim that did not brook debate. Zimrilim waved once, slipped the Citroen into gear, and drove away.

* * *

Al-Hakim climbed the narrow gangway up onto the deck. The night watchman told him that the Chief Mate was expecting him. After a brief conversation, the Mate escorted the Egyptian to his quarters – a tiny fo’c’sle on the starboard side. There Al-Hakim remained the entire voyage south, sleeping for almost ten hours before the steward woke him early Monday morning. They would be docking in Port Said in another hour, he told the Egyptian. Time to get ready.

As soon as the freighter approached the Egyptian coast, a small launch pulled up along the starboard beam, and the harbor pilot came aboard. It was his job to help the captain navigate the local waters, and to cue up for her passage through the 192-kilometer canal – from Port Said to Port Taufik on the Red Sea. Baqrah had not lied; everything had been arranged. Once the freighter was in convoy, the launch returned to pick up the harbor pilot, and to replace him with another pilot for the passage through the canal. At last, thought Al-Hakim, as he scrambled down the rope ladder. He was almost home. He stepped aboard the launch and, half an hour later, climbed safely up onto dry land.

He was met by an Egyptian named Mashish, a placid young man who did not feel the need to chatter senselessly as Zimrilim had done. It was late morning and, despite the season, the sun was hot. Mashish drove silently along the coastal road to the Egyptian/Israeli town of Rafah. It was an uneventful journey and by the time they arrived at the border, it was well after eleven. Mashish pulled over into a narrow alleyway and stopped the car beside a nondescript white stucco house with a single desultory palm tree dozing in the front. Neither man spoke as he cut the engine and ushered Al-Hakim through the front door.

The house was situated only fifty yards or so from the Israeli border. Al-Hakim could see the barbed wire fence that marked the line between the occupied territory and Egypt through the living room window. There was a terminal a little further north. A group of Arabs was standing by the barbed wire fence, shouting and waving at another group of Arabs on the other side. No wonder they had labeled it the “calling wall.” Just then, Mashish returned with a platter of fruit and a steaming pot of tea.

“
You’d better eat something before we cross,” he told him.

Al-Hakim did not reply. He was staring out the window. Then he asked, “What is that settlement? Over there?”

Mashish moved next to him. “Camp Canada,” he said. “More than three hundred and sixty Palestinian families live there, including mine. It was built by the Zionists in ’71 as a relocation camp for Rafah families left homeless by the widening of the roads in Gaza – part of Garron’s Iron Fist campaign. But in 1982, when the final phase of the return of Sinai to Egypt was concluded, those in the camp were stranded on the wrong side of the border. We were told that we’d be there for just a few weeks, that the Zionists would give us land in Tel el Sultan, give us work permits. But it never happened. Although the land was allocated, it wasn’t until ‘86 that Israel agreed upon some kind of repatriation process. Since then, only eight families have returned to Sinai. The rest are forced to renew their Egyptian tourist visas every six months. Today, unemployment in the camp hovers around seventy percent. It is a cemetery of the living.” He laughed bitterly. “The Zionists could transport ten thousand
falasha
, ten thousand Ethiopian Jews, in only a few days. But for us, eight families was all that they could manage. Even when we’re granted permission to immigrate, they insist we have twelve thousand U.S. dollars in construction funds. The PLO financed the first few families but, since the Gulf Wars, the money has dried up. Who has twelve thousand dollars? We barely have enough to feed our children.”

“
Who operates the terminal?”

“
It is manned by Palestinians, but the Israeli Army is in charge. You see over there?” he added, pointing at another small settlement on the Israeli side of the fence. “That is the illegal Gush Katif Jewish settlement. Over there. By the tanks.”

“
I see it.”

Mashish looked at his watch. “It is almost time.” He moved away from the window and walked over to a corner of the room. Then he squatted on his haunches, pressed a piece of masonry in the floor, and a panel in the wall swung open. Mashish smiled and said, “They find the tunnels almost as quickly as we build them. But this one has never been used. It is brand new.”

“
Where does it go?” asked Al-Hakim.

“
To the Palestinian Community Center, beside the Gush Katif.” Mashish glanced at his watch again. “Look, now,” he said.

Al-Hakim stared through the window. As he watched, a small group of boys materialized on the outskirts of Camp Canada. They began to pick up stones, and to throw them with uncanny precision over the fence at the tanks guarding a pair of bulldozers beside the Jewish settlement.

“
Behold our Palestinian artillery,” Mashish added with a grin.

The tanks came to life. Their turrets swung around toward the Palestinian refugee camp. Then, without warning, they opened fire with thirty-caliber machine guns. The children stood their ground. The continued to throw stones even as the sand around them exploded in puffs of dust. Al-Hakim watched with fascination. He could see tracers despite the noonday sun. Then the Israeli soldiers found their mark. A small boy, no more than eleven or twelve, picked up a stone, reeled back to throw it, when gunfire rippled through his chest and sent him sprawling to the ground. His head exploded like a firecracker. The rest of the boys dispersed in all directions.

“
It is time,” Mashish said. “Quickly now.”

Al-Hakim followed Mashish into the opening. A narrow corridor led through the darkness to a staircase. They scrambled down wooden steps. As they moved, Al-Hakim could hear Mashish begin to cry. “Why do you weep?” he asked him. He could not see the Palestinian’s face. Mashish carried a flashlight but he kept it pointed at the steps.