“You see, there is so much to consider, Scott. Your Mr. Depp, aka the late Lt. Cooper and his friend may have me in their sights. So I might as well enjoy my cigar now.”
Roarke nodded.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like one?” Taylor asked again.
He reconsidered and reached for the smoke.
“Good,” Taylor said lighting him up. “Now sit down and let me tell you about a mission Vincent D’Angelo’s on. I’m sure the two of you will want to chat when he’s back.
Chapter 57
Rateb Samin spotted the man. He looked nervous. His eyes darted from side to side as he recited the Zhuhr (noon) prayer.
Samin, dressed in a classic gray embroidered dishadasha, took a place near him in the spacious prayer hall. He knelt on a hand-woven Asian rug, one of many that completely blanketed the floor. He joined in the Salah, or ritual prayers. Islamic law decreed it must be said in Arabic, which was not a problem for the Dutch businessman on holiday. Samin covered his head, but keep the left side open to peer out. As he chanted, he took in the remarkable mosaics and the shrine erected in tribute to the Prophet. D’Angelo was fully engaged — in the job, the people around him, and the magnificent architecture.
He casually glanced to his left. The man, barely ten feet away, fit the description he’d gotten from the Mossad. Approximately 70 years old. Pock-marked, olive skin. Full beard, thick moustache. Round, black-rimmed glasses framing his face. He wore a brown salwarkameez with quarter-inch thick black piping. A dark star-shaped bruise or birthmark under his right thumbnail seemed to confirm Jamil Laham’s identity. To be certain, D’Angelo employed a pre-arranged signal. He cleared his throat once, then twice, then once again. It would be unmistakable to Laham, yet an insignificant act to others within earshot at the Omayyad Mosque.
The man replied by raising his left hand to his nose and scratching. He followed the initial reply by reaching his left hand behind his back to satisfy another itch.
D’Angelo cleared his throat two more times. The man scratched his right ear.
That was all either of them needed to do except find the opportunity to talk. After twenty minutes they converged from two different directions into the immense courtyard. Both had put their sandals back on. D’Angelo was admiring the beauty of the arches with their inlaid mosaics when he heard “Marhuba Al salaam a’alaykum.” Peace be with you.
Without turning to the voice behind him he replied, “Wa alaykum as-salaam.” And with you peace.
“It is a fine day to take in the beauty of such a holy site,” D’Angelo continued. “It’s a wonder to behold.”
“Yes, but we must remember that the beauty exists only to remind us of the goodness of the Prophet. It’s a gift for all time,” the older man said.
“Resplendent.” D’Angelo’s comment came from his heart. He said it in Arabic without even thinking. His command of the language was that good.
“This is your first visit here?”
“Yes. But I am a student of architecture. The marvels of the Omayyad Mosque have long been part of my dreams. Seeing it exceeds all expectations.”
“Come then, I will describe what I know,” Laham offered. “My name is Jamil Laham.”
“And I am Rateb Samin,” D’Angelo said.
They started through the courtyard. Laham walked with a limp. D’Angelo had to compensate with his own stride. They passed under the al Arous Minaret, which sharply stood out against the blue sky.
“I detect a hint of British in your words.”
“You have a very good ear, my friend. I am from Lebanon, but I now live in Amsterdam. The English accent you hear is from Oxford: my old school ties.”
Of course, it was a fabrication. But Laham didn’t need to know the truth. He just had to speak it himself.
“Perhaps you can point out the history/seek,” the CIA agent asked. “They say knowledge is its own reward.”
Laham noted the comment, but continued to lead him back inside. “There,” he whispered as they approached another part of the vast building. “You have read that the Omayyad Mosque is the fourth holiest site of Islam?”
“Yes.”
“First Mecca, then Medina, and the Dome of the Rock. The fourth is Omayyad. Well, this is one of the reasons.” He pointed to a shrine. “There, within, is the head of al Hussein, grandson of the Prophet Mohammad. He was killed in a revolt that split our people in 680 A.D.” The way he explained it seemed to devalue D’Angelo’s cover. But he didn’t question the visitor, he simply continued. “There were those who believed that only someone directly descended from Mohammad has the divine right to act as caliph, the leader of all Islam. Al Hussein did. And he was killed for his bloodline. His followers became the Shi’ites. The Sunnis, the followers of the well-trodden path, the sunnah, remain the majority. They banned descendants of Mohammad from the caliphate for all time. It is the rift that still divides us. It is why we fight amongst ourselves. It is why the West fails to understand us. It is why they don’t know whom to support. And yet, the religion that the Prophet founded will become the most powerful force in the world.”
D’Angelo felt humbled by the explanation. This was not a weak man. He was here because he had lived through much and believed that helping the West might make them better understand the Arab world. He dropped all pretensions.
“You understand why I am here?”
“I do. And you understand the danger in my speaking to you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“We shall continue to walk.” Laham ordered.
The former government worker further described the history of the Mosque, even recalling the days of the god Hadad. Finally, in a garden by a striking blue arch gate, Laham got to the point of their meeting.
“I could die a thousand horrible deaths by talking with you.”
“I believe you seek to save millions,” D’Angelo guessed.
“You are right. And perhaps I take too much credit. Perhaps what I keep in my head has no importance to my government today. Perhaps I am just an old man with delusions.”
D’Angelo now understood the man. He was well-read. He saw what was happening to his country and the world. It was no accident that Laham took him to see the head of al Hussein. There was a real message there. He didn’t want to lose his.
Roarke was midway through an evening workout when he felt his cell phone vibrate.
“Hello, love.” Katie’s caller ID gave her away.
She heard the pounding music in the background and quickly figured out she wouldn’t get the personal time she craved. “You’re exercising.”
“Yeah, but it’s okay.” He stepped off the treadmill and grabbed a towel. “We can talk.”
“Not about everything.”
“No, you’re right. Not about everything. Because I’m wearing gym shorts and just your voice can set me off.”
Everything also included all of Roarke’s work, so their phone conversations were typically limited to small talk and Katie’s research.
“We can talk later,” she proposed.
It was already close to midnight. It would be another hour before he was home. “How about a little now and a little later. We’ll get the business stuff out of the way. So later….” He left the rest of the sentence unsaid. “How’s your progress?”
“Mind boggling,” she said. “I’ve come to the conclusion that change is long overdue. A number of key congressmen have already floated their idea of what it should look like. But nothing’s happened. I guess even after 9/11, succession is too hot for most legislators to touch. I think I’m going to have a helluva time when I hit the Hill.”