'Allah does not will such clarification - His will be done. Perhaps He does not take sides - so be it.'
'But surely you must have a reason for saying what you're saying!'
'As Allah has given me that reason - His will be done.'
'How's that again?'
'Quiet rumours heard in the corners of the mosque. Whispers these old ears were meant to hear. I hear so little I should not have heard them had Allah not willed it so.'
'There must be more!'
'The whispers speak of those who will benefit from the bloodshed.'
'Who?'
'No names are spoken of, no men of consequence mentioned.'
'Any group or organization? Please! A sect, a country, a people? The Shiites, the Saudis... Iraqi, Irani... the Soviets?'
'No. Neither believers nor unbelievers are talked of, only "they"?'
'They?'
'That is what I hear whispered in the dark corners of the mosque, what Allah wants me to hear - may His will be done. Only the word "they".'
'Can you identify any of those you heard!'
'I am nearly blind, and there is always very little light when these few among so many worshippers speak. I can identify no one. I only know that I must convey what I hear, for it is the will of Allah.'
'Why, muezzin murdenis? Why is it Allah's will?'
'The bloodshed must stop. The Koran says that when blood is spilled and justified by impassioned youth, the passions must be examined, for youth - '
'Forget it! We'll send a couple of men back into the mosque with you. Signal us when you hear something!'
'In a month, ya Shaikh. I am about to undertake my final pilgrimage to Mecca. You are merely part of my journey. It is the will of - '
'Goddamn it!'
'It is your God, ya Shaikh. Not mine. Not ours.'
Chapter 2
Washington DC
Wednesday, 11 August, 11:50 am
The noonday sun beat down on the capital's pavement; the midsummer's air was still with the oppressive heat. Pedestrians walked with uncomfortable determination, men's collars open, ties loosened. Briefcases and bags hung like dead weights while their owners stood impassively at intersections waiting for the lights to change. Although scores of men and women - by and large servants of the government and therefore of the people - may have had urgent matters on their minds, urgency was difficult to summon in the streets. A torpid blanket had descended over the city, numbing those who ventured outside air-conditioned rooms and offices and cars.
A traffic accident had taken place at the corner of twenty-third Street and Virginia Avenue. It was not major in terms of damage or injury, but it was far from minor where tempers were concerned. A taxi had collided with a government car emerging from an underground parking ramp of the State Department. Both drivers - righteous, hot and fearing their superiors - stood by their vehicles accusing each other, yelling in the blistering heat while awaiting the police who had been summoned by a passing government employee. Within moments the traffic was congested; horns blared and angry shouts came from reluctantly opened windows.
The passenger in the cab climbed impatiently out of the back seat. He was a tall, slender man in his early forties, and seemed out of place in surroundings that included summer suits, neat print dresses and attache cases. He wore a pair of rumpled khaki trousers, boots and a soiled cotton safari jacket that took the place of a shirt. The effect was of a man who did not belong in the city, a professional guide, perhaps, who had strayed out of the higher and wilder mountains. Yet his face belied his clothes. It was clean-shaven, his features sharp and clearly defined, his light blue eyes aware, squinting, darting about and assessing the situation as he made his decision. He put his hand on the argumentative driver's shoulder; the man whipped around and the passenger gave him two $20 bills.
'I have to leave,' said the fare.
'Hey, come on, mister! You saw! That son of a bitch pulled out with no horn, no nothing!'
'I'm sorry. I wouldn't be able to help you. I didn't see or hear anything until the collision.'
'Oh, boy! Big John Q! He don't see and he don't hear! Don't get involved, huh?'
'I'm involved,' replied the passenger quietly, taking a third $20 bill and shoving it into the driver's top jacket pocket. 'But not here.'
The oddly-dressed man dodged through the gathering crowd and started down the block towards Third Street - towards the imposing glass doors