The Sword of God
- concluded -
The heavy iron gates had been barred and chained by the terrorists. It was well after sunset, and the moon hung obscured behind heavy clouds — but Public Security floodlights bathed the gateway and the twin minarets towering above it in a harsh illumination which gave the mosque the artificial appearance of a disused film set.
The two armed guards stood motionless on their perches, as they had stood for hours. Saifoullah had issued no further demands, had not even asked for food or water to be delivered for themselves or their hostages. It was as if the scene was frozen not only in the glare of the spotlights but in time as well, as if the Sword of God awaited some word from absent leaders — some ineffable sign from its vengeful deity — before proceeding with the next step of its plan.
Behind the compound, all was dark. Mahboob Chaudri and the Senator slipped soundlessly between two government vehicles parked far enough apart to allow them to make their way to the wall surrounding the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque unobserved. They crouched there for a moment to catch their breath, backs pressed against the rapidly cooling roughness of the concrete, hearts pounding with the rush of adrenalin, listening intently to the viscous silence which enveloped them. Far away, a nightbird laughed raucously at the folly of their mission.
"You know what happens if we screw this up, don't you?" the Senator whispered fiercely.
Chaudri's nod went unnoticed in the blackness. "Indeed I do," he answered, his voice barely audible. "You and I are probably being injured, sir, quite possibly being dead — and most certainly being unemployed and disgraced. And the hostages? Our actions may be serving to further endanger their safety, rather than restoring it. Shall we be giving up and going back now, Senator?"
Harding tasted his lower lip. "Hell, no," he decided. "Not if you really think there's a chance we can keep this mess from turnin' into tie-a-yellow-ribbon-'round-the-old-oak-tree."
"I do think so, Senator. It is a dim chance, at best, but it is better to act and pray for success, I am thinking, than to do nothing and wait helplessly for failure."
"Them's my sentiments exackly, son. Lead on."
The two dark figures straightened and began to work their way westward in single file, the Pakistani in the lead, each of them tracing the course of their progress along the wall with the tips of his fingers. It was difficult to walk quietly on the loose pebbles which rolled beneath their feet; they took slow and cautious steps to compensate, pausing often to listen for movement around them. When the moon peeked out briefly from behind its blanket of clouds, they stopped completely, and waited without speaking until it once more hid its face from sight.
At last Mahboob Chaudri dropped back a step and put his lips close to the Senator's ear. "We are nearing the opening in the wall," he breathed.
And, at that moment, a shape appeared from the shadows before them, and the clouds parted as if on cue to let the moon show them a long white thobe and a pair of burning black eyes and a Kalashnikov assault rifle held at the ready.
"You have reached the opening in the wall," the Arab said coldly, in English, "and you are prisoners of the Sword of God."
O pehan yeh geya, thought Mahboob Chaudri bitterly.
"Holy Kee-rist," the Senator sighed.
They raised their hands above their heads.
* * *
The terrorist turned away from him, the back of his thobe shimmering like the eyes of a cat in the night. His hands gripped the barrel of the AK-47 tightly, and he swung the rifle high over his shoulder and smashed the butt end down at the head of the figure who lay in the sand at his feet. He battered his unconscious victim again and again, and with every slashing stroke of the rifle butt he screamed, "Saifoullah! Saifoullah! Saifoullah!" When he lowered the thin metal golfing stick at last, the dead man's head was small and round and drenched with orange blood, its features shattered beyond recognition. The Arab looked around at last, and the face framed by his checkered ghutra and black agal was the face of Senator William Harding.
Mahboob Chaudri shuddered at the bloodlust in the Senator's eyes and awakened. It was morning, and somewhere a lone rooster was celebrating the dawn.
Chaudri squirmed around on the stone step where he had slept, trying not to disturb Dr. Apostolou two steps above him or Nurse Hewitt two steps below, but it was impossible for him to find a comfortable position. His muscles were cramped and sore from the long hours of sitting, his bottom was numb from the chill of the stone, his throat was cottony with thirst, his stomach rumbled.
"Merea rabba," he muttered, then cursed himself for speaking aloud when the young nurse stirred restlessly and a pained whimper escaped her. He held his breath and kept still, and was gratified to see her settle back into an uneasy slumber.
Allah let them sleep, he prayed. Every moment they were sleeping was one less moment they would have to deal with the horror of their situation — unless, of course, they went on dealing with it, as he had, in their sleep.
Had the Arabs who were guarding the minarets been able to sleep? Had they taken turns standing watch, or had they forced themselves to remain alert throughout the night? Chaudri did not know. There was much, he found, that he did not know. What was happening in the other spire, where the other pair of terrorists was holding Senator Harding and Nurses Graham and Gaylor? What was going on outside the compound? Were negotiations to effect their release underway? Were demands being made, being met or rejected? Were his comrades on the Public Security Force aware that there were now six hostages within the wall surrounding the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque? And, with the Senator a captive, would the Americans finally involve themselves, or would they continue to leave the situation in the hands of the Bahrainis?
Chaudri did not know the answers to any of these questions, and it was the not knowing which worried him more than anything else.
When he looked up from his thoughts, the doctor was awake. He was a large-boned man with the look of a boxer gone to seed, his forehead receding into what had once been a full head of thick brown hair. He regarded Chaudri through narrowed eyes, his thin lips pressed together tightly.
"What do we do now, mahsool?" he said. His voice was hoarse from disuse. They had spoken together the night before, when Chaudri was first brought into the minaret, and the American's story had been quickly told.
Dr. Apostolou had suggested an after-work expedition to the Suq-al-Khamis ruins to his colleagues at the Mission Hospital. Three of the nurses on his shift had agreed to accompany him. The foursome had explored the compound for perhaps half an hour, but the day was hot and there was little to see, and they were on their way back to the doctor's car when the four Saifoullah Arabs had burst through the iron gates. There had been much shouting and waving of weaponry, and eventually he and Nurse Hewitt had been deposited halfway up the minaret steps with guards stationed above and below them. The doctor was not sure what had become of the other two women, but there had been no gunfire, and he hoped they were safe within the second tower. It had all happened around three the previous afternoon; it was now almost seven in the morning, and they had been given neither food nor water in all that time. After the initial encounter, they had seen only one of their captors and him only once, when Chaudri had been brought in to join them.
"What do we do now?" Dr. Apostolou asked, and the sound awakened Nurse Hewitt, who stretched luxuriously and opened her eyes and shrank back in on herself as she remembered where she was, and why.
"I do not know," said Chaudri, watching helplessly as the pretty young Western woman's shoulders shook with the effort to hold back tears. She seemed about the same age as Shazia, his own dear wife, and — though her complexion was pale and tinged a delicate pink by the sun, where his wife's was a rich and beautiful brown — she had Shazia's jet-black hair and bottomless wide black eyes. His heart went out to her, and to the doctor, and to the other women he had not yet seen. "We must wait and pray," he said, but the words seemed hollow and empty in the narrow confines of the minaret.
"I'm not frightened," Nurse Hewitt insisted. "If they were going to — to hurt us, they'd have done it by now, wouldn't they?" She folded her thin arms across her chest and hugged herself. "I just wish they'd settle whatever it is they have to settle and let us out of here. If I don't get a hot shower and a decent meal sometime soon, I'm going to scream."
Dr. Apostolou grinned and reached down from his place on the step above her to touch her shoulder reassuringly. "You're a trooper, Kate," he said. "I hope Jessie and Sarah are holding up as well as you are."
She pressed his hand and returned his smile, and Chaudri found himself wondering if their relationship was entirely a professional one.
There was no opportunity for him to pursue the thought. The sound of sandals scuffing on stone reached him from below, and the guard who had captured him and the Senator the night before came into view as he ascended the spiral steps toward them. It was difficult to see the man clearly in the dimness of the tower, but it seemed to Chaudri that his expression was less threatening than it had been. His mouth had slackened, his eyelids drooped, his curly black hair was oily and streaked with dust, the Kalashnikov he held cradled in his arms seemed to have taken on extra weight.
He has not slept, the Pakistani realized, and he filed that knowledge away for possible future use.
"Mahsool," the terrorist addressed him in liquid Arabic, "I must speak with you."
Perhaps it was only the strain of the long hours of imprisonment, but Chaudri thought he could read a plea in the Arab's penetrating gaze. A plea for what? It was the Sword of God which had the weapons, the Sword of God which controlled the situation. What could they possibly want from him, their captive?
"If you must be speaking, then I must be listening," Chaudri replied.
The Arab glanced briefly at the two Americans. He was really no more than a boy, Chaudri saw, at most 19 or 20 years of age. But even at 19 or 20, he was old enough to carry a rifle, old enough to know how to use it. He was old enough for that.
"We must have food and water," the boy announced suddenly, "but your government does not approach us. How are we to communicate with them and let them know our demands?"
"What's he saying?" Nurse Hewitt whispered, and the doctor squeezed her shoulder to quiet her, afraid the guard might harm her for interfering.
But the guard ignored them both, his attention fixed on Mahboob Chaudri.
They have no plan, Chaudri recognized, and the thought astounded him. In the passion of their religious fervor, they determined to take over the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque, but they did not anticipate having to deal with hostages. Now they are holding the shrine, but they are stuck with us as well. This is the first time the Sword of God is doing anything more than writing angry letters to the press, and they have no idea how to proceed.
Interesting, he thought, most highly interesting. Does this often lie beneath the heartless exterior of terrorism — this uncertainty, this confusion, this doubt? Is this the way it was aboard the Achille Lauro, aboard Flight 847, at the American embassy in Tehran? Is it possible that the Shi'ite extremists are being as much the victims of their madness as they are being its agents?
"You ask me to help you," said Mahboob Chaudri slowly, "but how can I be helping you when you treat me as if I am your enemy? I am not your enemy. I am your brother, and these Americans are your brother and sisters."
"You lie," the boy spat. "America is not my brother. America is the Great Satan, the despoiler of Islam, the — "
"I am not speaking of America. I am speaking of these innocent Americans, who came to Bahrain to heal the sick — not just their own people, but all who are in need of their skills. What have they done to deserve your anger, your threats?"
Nurse Hewitt reached for the doctor's hand and held it tightly. A silence hung heavily in the air.
"This is wartime," the Arab boy said at last. "And, in wartime, the innocent must suffer for the sins of their governments. This country was a model of Islamic purity until — "
Chaudri shook his head. "But this is not the answer. I am a Muslim myself, and I agree with you that there are problems in the world, problems here in the Gulf, in Bahrain, problems which can and must be solved. But this" — he indicated the Kalashnikov with a gesture — "this violence, this terrorism, this fanaticism, this is not the answer. Perhaps we have been done injustice, but is it Allah's will that we should be repaying the injustices of others with injustice of our own?" He sighed deeply. "No, that is not the way. As it is written in the Holy Quran, 'Direct us in the right path, in the path of those to whom Thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom Thou art incensed, nor of those who go astray.' Put down your gun, my friend, put it down. Let us find another path to peace."
Again it was silent, and the absence of sound was a living thing which wrapped itself around them and held them for a timeless interval. The doctor, the nurse, the Pakistani, the Arab — the silence entered into each of them and touched them and told them its secrets.
Mahboob Chaudri listened to the beating of his heart, and with great serenity put out his hands to the terrorist, his brother.
The Arab boy licked dry lips and swallowed his uncertainty. "My name is Hamid," he said.
* * *
The sun beat down fiercely from its perch in the ivory sky, sucking rivulets of perspiration from Chaudri's forehead and armpits. The columns and archways of the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque squatted patiently in the heat, the twin minarets pointing impassive fingers at Heaven's vastness.
Chaudri stood alone between the spires, his only companions the sun and stone, the oppressive warmth and choking dust. The wooden balconies above were empty; Yousif Falamarzi was waiting with Hamid Yacoob and the two Americans within the tower that had been Chaudri's prison, and the remaining pair of terrorists was hidden from his view on the far side of the second minaret. His Public Security Force comrades and the Western reporters waited beyond the compound wall; although Chaudri could not see them from where he stood, he knew that they were still out there, that they would remain at their posts until the confrontation with Saifoullah wound its way to a conclusion.
The Pakistani moved slowly toward the second minaret, the olive-green material of his uniform chafing his arms and legs with every step. Hamid and Yousif had wanted to accompany him, but he had decided it would be best to go alone. If there was trouble, if there was gunfire, he must face it by himself. Uncomfortable as it might be in the summer heat, Chaudri's uniform gave him that obligation, that duty.
The Americans had wanted him to take one of the Kalashnikovs, but again he had demurred. He would go alone, he had told them firmly, and he would go unarmed. They had tried to change his mind, had tried to convince him that he was taking too many risks, but Chaudri had been resolute. Alone, he had repeated, and unarmed. That was the way it must be.
A determined fly buzzed circles around his head as he crept closer to his destination, alighting momentarily on his ears, his nose, his lips, then flitting off to safety as he slapped at it irritably, uselessly.
He reached the stone base of the minaret and paused for a moment to listen. The heat and the silence closed in on him and made the drawing of every breath an arduous task. Chaudri was tempted just to stand there, to wait, yet he knew that there was nothing to be gained by waiting. He had waited long enough already.
Courage, Mr. Chaudri, he told himself. He raised his hands in the gesture of surrender he had used the night before — and realized with clinical interest that the Arabic word for "surrender" is "Islam."
Islam, the surrender to God's will, the surrender to destiny.
With surrender in his heart, he stepped around the base of the minaret and gasped in sudden fear to find himself staring down the barrel of an AK-47.
An eternity passed before he recognized that the rifle was in the hands of Senator William Adam Harding, and one of the two remaining members of the Sword of God lay motionless in the dust at his feet, his thobe and ghutra in disarray.
"Well, hot damn," the Senator roared, "it's you!" He flung aside the Kalashnikov and pounded Chaudri gleefully on the back. "I shore am glad to see your ugly mug again, there, son. I's afraid they might've — "
"What — ?" Chaudri stammered. "How — ? How did you — ?"
"Well, hell, son, there was only two of 'em," the Senator beamed. "It's not like they had thesselves a damn army or nothin'. I took out this here downstairs one first, while he's around this side of the tower and out of sight of the rest of 'em, anen I snuck upstairs and whomped the other'n. I's just on my way over to take care of your two when you walked into my gun and like to scare the pants offa me." He looked Chaudri up and down with admiration. "But I guess you handled your boys okay on your own, there, din't you? I thought you was kind of runty for a police officer, if you'll excuse me for sayin' so, but you done good, son. I'm right proud of you."
Chaudri looked down at the body lying crumpled and motionless in the dust. "Is he — ?"
"Dead?" The Senator chuckled. "Hell, no, he's just takin' hisself a little nap, that's all. I didn't hardly hit him hard enough to raise a lump. And don't you fret none about the one upstairs, neither. He'll be back on his feet afore the ladies in there stop bawlin'."
"They are not hurt?"
"Naw, they're fine and dandy, son." He jerked his head toward the entrance. "They're inside there havin' thesselves a good old-fashioned cry, but they ain't been hurt none."
Chaudri put a hand to his heart. They were all alive, then, and it was over.
He shook his head in disbelief. It could so very easily have ended in bloodshed and horror. The Senator's solution had been unbelievably rash, had been taken without sufficient thought, had endangered all their lives.
And yet. . . .
And yet the man had succeeded, praise Allah, and no one had been hurt.
They were a strange people, these Westerners, and the Americans were the strangest of them all. As strange, in their own way, as that small minority of Muslims who fervently believed that violence was the behavior God demanded of them.
And yet it seemed clear to Mahboob Chaudri that, in a world rocked with acts of senseless terrorism, it was perhaps possible for his culture and the Senator's to work together toward the goal of peace. And, if it was possible to live in harmony with the Westerners, then perhaps it might be possible to live in harmony with the likes of Saifoullah as well.
Insh'Allah. If only God was willing.
And that, Chaudri decided, as he found the ring of keys in the pocket of the fallen Arab's thobe and moved through brilliant sunshine to the gate in the wall which surrounded the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque, would be a very good thing.
Oh, dearie me, yes, that would be a very good thing indeed.
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