THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller (30 page)

Warhaftig stared back at Decker with a cold, unflinching gaze. His lips were curled up in the corners. He wore a fearsome smile, well practiced and professional. Then he shrugged, the slightest movement of the shoulders, almost too subtle to be noticed. He looked back at the monitor, breaking the seal, and all the air rushed in.

Decker felt an undertow of anger ripple through him. He sat down on Warhaftig’s desk, leaned in and said, “You know, one hand washes the other, as my mother used to say.”

“Did she now?”

“Fuck you,” said Decker. He started for the door. Then he hesitated, turned and said, “Why did El Aqrab kill Miller? What was it about the Israeli furniture salesman that linked him to the terrorist?”

“Of course there is. You just haven’t found it.” Decker shook his head. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you contact passport control in the Canary Islands? See if there’s been an up-tick in tourist traffic from the Middle East, odd shipments from the Newly Independent States, any baffling thefts or murders.”

“The Canaries. Why, what’s up?”

“It could be nothing. Or it could mean everything.”

“I’d like to help, John, I really would. But Johnson’s got me running down every cab company in the city. I don’t have time to–”

“You don’t have time! That’s a laugh. Tell you what, Otto: When you start helping me, I’ll start helping you. Because if we don’t start helping each other, pretty soon we won’t have any time at all.” With that he turned and vanished out the door.

Tuesday, February 1 – 6:33 PM

New York City

Decker wandered aimlessly through the streets, past the state and city courthouses, past City Hall and southward toward the Battery. The evening was oppressively cold. He could see the condensation of his own breath in the air, suspended, ballooning under streetlights. He was still fuming, still replaying his conversation with Warhaftig when he found himself at the southernmost corner of Manhattan. He leaned against the railing and stared out across the frigid waters of the bay, at the Statue of Liberty glowing in the distance. She seemed to be carved out of a solid block of ice, blue green and absolutely still. Decker’s phone began to vibrate in his pocket, making him jump. He flipped it open. It was another text message, short and sweet. It read:
Islamic Cultural Ctr, 97 - 2 & 3
.

It took Decker a good half hour to make it to the Upper East Side. The Islamic Cultural Center at Ninety-sixth and Third – with its great dome, marble walls and golden minaret – was one of the most striking buildings in a city known for its ostentatious architecture. Built at great cost, the mosque was a landmark of modern and classical design, blending two great schools of architecture.

Decker noticed they were doing some construction just east of the Cultural Center. A huge hole, mostly obstructed by graffiti-splattered plywood walls, had been carved out of the ground. Massive earth-moving machinery slaved away in the pit, bellowing like bulls, tearing at the earth. When there was so much concrete everywhere, thought Decker, it was easy to forget the soil beneath. This is what remained of Manhattan Island’s gentle rolling hills, her meadows and forests and fields – a great scar in the earth, covered by Man.

The main gate leading to the mosque on Third Avenue was locked. Decker walked uptown to Ninety-seventh and noticed another entrance running along a wire fence beside the construction site. A pair of men sat by a two-wheeled
halal
stand, doling out chicken and beef, accompanied by freshly baked bread. And there he was – Professor Hassan – standing right there, alongside them, joking and laughing, biting at something in a piece of wax paper. As Decker approached, the Professor turned away, tossed the paper into a nearby garbage can, and headed toward the mosque. Decker followed. The entrance led into a narrow corridor. There was a gift shop on the right. Then the hall opened up onto a foyer. A set of double stairs led to the second floor. To his right, Decker noticed a small
masjid
studded with blue and white tile. A line of men stood praying inside, each facing the same direction. One got onto his knees. They were barefoot, Decker noticed. Their shoes and socks were stacked in little cubicles outside the entrance to the mosque.

Professor Hassan hesitated for a moment by another door. When he realized Decker was behind him, he pushed it open. It led into a kitchen with a restaurant-style range. Then the Professor disappeared through yet another door. Decker had to move quickly to keep up. He followed Hassan through the kitchen, through the next door and down along a corridor. There was a fire exit to their left. Hassan pushed it open and started to descend a set of concrete steps. Decker followed. A moment later they found themselves within another corridor, deep beneath the mosque. Hassan came to a stop by a door with the number seven stenciled on the front. He looked about. He stared at Decker for the first time. The corridor was empty. They had not seen a soul since the
masjid
. Hassan removed a key from his coat, unlocked the door and stepped inside, with Decker close behind.

The room featured a little metal cot, a washbasin and mirror, and a table. There were no windows; the room was too far underground. Books and papers were strewn across the surface of the table. There were printouts of the various wallpapers pinned to the wall, some in color, and some in black-and-white. Hassan had run a grease pencil along the Arabic, highlighting lines and punctuation marks. It was clear the professor was working on the designs recovered from the hard disk.

If anyone ever finds out I’ve handed over all this evidence,
thought Decker,
it will mean the end of my career, such as it is
. Yet he didn’t care, which rather surprised him. It was too late for that now anyway. If he succeeded, all would be forgiven. And if he failed . . . Well, it would matter even less. “What’s going on?” he said.

Hassan hovered by the table, flipping through printouts, books and papers, as if searching for something in particular. “I can’t add much to the first translation, the
masjid
or Individual prayer,” he said. “And I’m afraid the sources of the third and fourth wallpapers still elude me. All I can make out are the same words you translated:
Death will overtake you.
And,
On the ocean like mountains
. Plus the numbers fifty-four thousand
and zero. But here,” he added, pulling out a printout from the pile. “I’ve made considerable progress on the second wallpaper.” He showed him the familiar arabesque design, the curling script. He ran a fingertip along the lines. “You see,” he said. “It does indeed resemble a
jami’ masjid
, the prayer used on Fridays in the Congregational mosque.

“At first I was confused,” he continued. “I mean I’d translated a part of it as, ‘How many a deserted well and palace raised high,’ which seems to be from
Al-Hajj
. But this other part,” he added, pointing. “Here. You see? It didn’t make any sense. Then it dawned on me. It’s not an extension of the same line. It’s another quote altogether? Take at look.”

He handed Decker a copy of the Qur’an. He flipped it open to a specific page. “That’s the first quote from
Al-Hajj
, the Pilgrimage. ‘So how many a town did We destroy while it was unjust, so it was fallen down upon its roofs, and (how many) a deserted well and palace raised high.’ And here’s the second.” He turned the pages quickly. “It’s a quote from
Hijr
. It talks about Allah and Iblis – the angel who refused to genuflect to Man.” He read aloud. “‘I will make error appear as attractive to (people) in this life and I will lead them all astray . . . surely hell is the rendezvous for them all. It has seven gates; each gate has a portion of them allotted to it.’ I’ve translated them but I have no idea what they mean. Iblis has nothing to do with deserted wells or palaces. I’ve been pulling my hair out all afternoon.”

Decker studied the illustration. Unlike the first wallpaper, the calligraphy in this design didn’t flow in one straight line, along the
qibla
. The two quotes from the Qur’an came together at the
mihrab
, where the
qibla
and transversal axes intersected. Indeed, two words from the two quotes were overlain – both “well” and “seven.”

While Hassan struggled for logic, Decker repeated them under his breath, forging the words together as on the page.
Well and seven
, he thought,
well and seven
. And it suddenly came clear. The wells of seven. He laughed. After all this time, those years of Sunday school in Iowa had finally paid off. The wells of seven was Beersheba, the town where Abraham had made a treaty with Abimelech. “Genesis twenty-one,” he said aloud. “Verse twenty-seven.”

Hassan stopped fidgeting. “What?”

Decker looked up. “The wells of seven,” he repeated. “It’s from the Bible. Beersheba is first mentioned as the place where Hagar went–”

“After Abraham sent her away,” concluded the professor. “Of course, what an idiot!” He smacked his own forehead with his palm. “I’ve been looking at it all day, and then you come along and . . . The wells of seven. I’ll be damned. It’s the same in the Qur’an. Hagar was Abraham’s Egyptian-born concubine, who had a son by Abraham – Ishmael, the father of Islam – when his wife Sarah believed she was barren. Then, when Sarah eventually gave birth to Isaac – the father of the Jewish and Christian faiths – she could no longer tolerate Hagar’s presence. So she demanded Abraham send the concubine away. This was the event that marked the split between the Muslim and Judeo-Christian worlds.”

“I didn’t know Ishmael was the father of Islam,” said Decker. “I thought he and Abraham were Jews.”

“The Qur’an and Bible feature many of the same characters. As does the Hebrew Torah. According to the Qur’an, Abraham wasn’t a Jew. He was a deist, pure and simple. He believed in one God – call him Allah, or Yahweh, or whatever. It was only later the religions diverged.”

To Muslims, Hassan continued, Jews and Christians and the followers of Islam were all “People of the Book.” Indeed, the Qur’an emphasized the purity and righteousness of
every
prophet in the Bible, including Jesus Christ.

“We simply don’t believe Christ was the Son of God,” he said. “And this notion of the Trinity – Father, Son and Holy Spirit – is anathema to us. The
Fatihah
, with which the Qur’an begins, states clearly:
Thee alone do we worship; Thee alone do we implore for help
.”

“There is but one God,” said Decker, “and Mohammed is his messenger.”

“Exactly. Nor do we believe in Original Sin. In fact, the Qur’an stresses as fundamental the purity of ‘the nature designed by Allah.’ How could it be otherwise? Choice and free will are paramount. Faith is a matter of conscience, and conscience cannot be compelled. The Qur’an clearly states:
There shall be no compulsion in religion
. Allah calls us all.”

“But the radicals, the extremists who label the United States the ‘Great Satan,’” said Decker. He was confused. “This notion of Jihad. I thought . . . ”

“Jihad simply means exertion,” Hassan said. “Like the word Crusade, jihad can refer to anything. It doesn’t necessarily mean an act of violence. You could say President Johnson’s ‘War on Poverty’ was a Jihad. The real Jihad is the fight against everything that keeps you inward, against God, such as human passions.” He sighed.

“There’s also a difference between
aggressive
Jihad, which is frowned upon, and
defensive
Jihad, which is approved by the Qur’an. Even war-like examples of defensive Jihad are governed by rules. True followers, for example, are prohibited from hurting women and children, or old people, just as they’re forbidden from destroying nature, such as acts of deforestation. Fighting is permitted only to repel aggression. Should the enemy be inclined to make a truce, the Qur’an says we must take advantage of it:
Whenever they kindle a fire to start a war, Allah puts it out. They strive to create disorder in the land and Allah loves not those who create disorder.
He who would seek the pleasure of Allah must not merely be just, but benevolent as well. He must render good without thought of a return, forgiving wrongs and injuries until beneficence becomes an intrinsic part of who he is. There is another term in Arabic that means Holy War. It’s
harbun muqaddasatun
. But it’s not in the Qur’an.

“Look,” he added, “I’m a devout Muslim. You know that. You also know that I support the Palestinian cause, just like El Aqrab, with all my heart. I may be Egyptian, but the Palestinians are my brothers in the
Ummah
. I’m not an anti-Semite, but I do believe that what the conservatives have done in Israel is reprehensible, and – ironically – so do many Jews, even in Palestine. I think Garron is one of the most dangerous men on earth. Right up there with Osama Bin Laden and El Aqrab. If there is another Nine Eleven some day – Allah protect us – it will be because of Garron, because of his intransigence, his failure to resolve the tragedy of Palestine. And because of our failure to ensure he does so. One day – mark my words – if this quicksand isn’t filled, if we Americans don’t at least address the Palestinian problem even-handedly, the extremists throughout the Arab world will rise up like a great wave, and it will kill us all. This is what I believe, and yet I’m helping you. Why? Not because I’m American. It’s not my patriotism that drives me; I think you know that. It is my Muslim faith, my sense of moral values.”

Hassan smiled sadly. “There are extremists in every religion, Agent Decker. Look at those Christians who preach hatred against their fellow men, who use the Bible to justify acts of wanton cruelty. To them, to the boys who beat up Malik on that subway train, my son was simply a ‘towel head.’ What can you say to such people?”