Infidels (4 page)

The
consensus among his European colleagues was that Europe was already lost to the
Muslims, their birth rate more than double the average and left-leaning
socialist governments still bringing in hundreds of thousands more in a misguided
effort to be politically correct.

“North
America is the last hope of Western civilization,” Bill had said just two
nights before.

“And
Australia.”

“True.
We have to kill any notion of multiculturalism. The old melting pot philosophy
is the way to go. You come to our country, you become American. None of this
covering your face bullshit, trying to get bacon banned at your favorite
breakfast place or segregated prayer rooms in our public schools. You come to
America, be American.”

“Or get
the hell out.”

There
had been a round of cheers at his statement. Unlike most Americans, he and his
fellow reporters had seen firsthand the horrors this religion was capable of,
horrors unheard of from Christianity in hundreds of years. Josh and Bill had a
good laugh when they heard the tired example of the Crusades trotted out to
excuse the modern horrors of Islam. Didn’t they realize that the cause of the
first Crusade was the Muslim slaughter of three thousand Christian pilgrims in
Jerusalem? Europe didn’t send thousands of knights to the Holy Land on a whim,
they sent them to protect fellow Christians from the marauding hordes that were
massacring innocent people on peaceful pilgrimages to the Holy Sepulcher.

In other
words, they slaughtered thousands of Christians, then blamed Christianity for
reacting, and continued to blame them for a thousand years.

And the
lie had been repeated so often, even world leaders now believed it, and a
left-wing dominated press rarely challenged its poster boys when they spoke
about politically correct topics.

It was
politically correct to hate America, to hate Christianity, to hate those of
European descent who were responsible for everything from the oppression of
Muslims and other minorities to slavery and poverty.

There of
course was no mention of the fact slavery had existed for millennia, long
before Christianity had even been heard of, long before the kingdoms of Europe
were more than rampaging barbarians, or that it was the Europeans who put an
end to it and it was non-Christian cultures and countries that were continuing
the practice to this day.

It
frustrated him, and as a reporter he had always tried to sneak in the little
tidbits that the honchos back home frowned upon, but it had proven popular, so
as long as he didn’t push too hard, they kept him on the air.

And it
made him wonder if that was why he had been taken, the conservative reporter
about to be beheaded by the very madmen he had condemned time and time again
for this very action.

I
guess it would be a fitting end.

He grunted.

And
it would sort of prove my point.

But what
faced him now was unexpected.

A set of
business-casual clothes were sitting on a cot, his guard pointing to them. “Get
yourself ready quickly. His Royal Highness is waiting.”

His
Royal Highness?

His Arabic
was pretty good, actually, damned good, his mother Lebanese, it spoken around
his house for most of his youth, especially at family gatherings. He didn’t
begrudge her this indulgence, though he now held the view she should have
spoken English more to integrate into her new country.

Yet it
had given him a qualification few Americans had—he was a red-blooded American
who fiercely loved his country and spoke the language of its greatest threat.

Which
put him in demand as a journalist.

And was
also a handy tool when dealing with Arabs who simply assumed he didn’t speak
their language.

Like
those he was dealing with here.

He had
heard enough mutterings to know something big was going on and that there was a
VIP awaiting their arrival, but he would never have guessed royalty.

“His
Royal Highness? Who?”

“No
questions!”

He
nodded, the barked order and glaring eyes cleaving any courage he might have
had from his stomach, the pit left behind threatening the onset of another bout
of dry heaves, his last meal long gone.

As he
dressed, he kept a wary eye on the guard, AK-47 slung across his back, and the
bright orange jumpsuit sitting in a pile on the floor by the bath, and couldn’t
help but wonder if he’d be wearing it once again when these madmen were
finished with him.

For he
had zero doubt he would never be allowed to live.

“Ready?”

The man
sounded impatient. He nodded, running his hands through his curly brown hair,
wishing he had some styling products to tame what was likely an unruly mane.

As he
was led from the tent he had been kept in since his arrival, he was nearly
blinded by the blazing early afternoon sun, its heat quickly baking him dry in
his Western-style clothes, sweat beginning to trickle down his back as he was
led into a large, impressive Bedouin style tent. It took a moment for his eyes
to adjust, but when they did, it was everything he could do not to gasp.

In the
center of the tent was a perfect replica of the Black Stone he had only seen
pictures of, non-Muslims forbidden from seeing it in person. And beside it
stood a man in impressive traditional Arab garb, his robes flowing, his beard
trimmed and his bearing regal, his chin elevated a touch, a slight curl to his
upper lip as if he were above anyone else in the room.

“Mr.
Pullman, I am Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud, Governor of Mecca, fifth in
line to the throne, and your host.”

Host.
Incredible.

Josh
bowed slightly. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

Prince
Khalid motioned toward a camera and two chairs, one of his men operating the
equipment, Josh’s gut flipping for a moment as he pictured Bill behind the
camera, a sight he had become accustomed to over the five years they had been
together.

Inseparable.
Like brothers.

Khalid
sat in one of the chairs and Josh took his seat next to him, a microphone
handed to him.

“Umm,
may I ask what I’m doing here?”

“You
may. You are here to report on a press conference.”

Josh
refrained from stating the obvious.
With only one reporter?
“And the
subject matter?”

“Immaterial
to you. You are to introduce yourself, then me, just like any normal press
conference, then I will make my address to the world. When I am finished
speaking, I will walk off camera and you will close out the broadcast.”

“And who
will be seeing this?”

“The
world.”

“Are we
live?”

The Prince
looked at another man who was manning some computer equipment, the droning
sound he had been hearing since he arrived explained—diesel generator. The man
nodded. “We are livestreaming to the Internet, all major Arabic networks have
agreed to broadcast us because it is you, your highness, and I am quite certain
the major Western networks will quickly pick up the feed as I have notified
them of this most momentous broadcast.”

“Excellent.”

Josh
pursed his lips, reporter mode kicking in, the danger he was in momentarily
forgotten. “Is this to be in English or Arabic?”

“Arabic.
This is a message to my fellow Muslims and it is of utmost importance that they
understand what is being said.”

“Then
why am I here? I’m American.”

“You are
here because you are recognized around the world as a serious journalist, and I
can trust that you will not, shall we say, overreact, to what I’m about to say.
You are also one of the few who appears to be able to converse comfortably in
Arabic.”

Secret’s
out.

“So I
should do my part in Arabic?”

“Yes.”

“We’re
ready, sire.”

“Wait,
where are we?” asked Josh.

“Saudi
Arabia of course.”

Not
much better than Yemen.

Prince
Khalid nodded and the cameraman counted down from five, the last three all
fingers as a crowd gathered behind the camera, a roughshod group of thick
beards and a special kind of crazy behind the eyes.

He felt
everyone was staring at him, but it took him a moment to realize they weren’t.

They
were staring at the replica of the Black Stone sitting to their right, plainly
in camera view, the monitor showing the broadcast shot suggesting a wide angle
was currently being used.

He got
his cue.

“Good
evening, this is Josh Pullman. We’re broadcasting today from Saudi Arabia with
this breaking news story. With me today is His Royal Highness, Prince Khalid
bin Abdullah Al Saud, Governor of Mecca and fifth in line to the throne of this
oil rich country. His Royal Highness has a prepared statement.” He turned to his
“host”. “Your Highness?”

Prince
Khalid nodded, a slight smile on his face, it clear this man was perfectly
comfortable in front of the camera. “My fellow Muslims, I bring you an
important message today, one that will shock most of you, but it is important
that you listen to my words before passing judgment upon me or my actions. The
Prophet, peace be upon him, was clear in his teachings. Is it not written, ‘God
does not forgive idolatry, but He forgives lesser offenses for whomever He
wills. Anyone who sets up idols beside God, has forged a horrendous offense.’?”
Khalid pointed toward the Black Stone beside him. “
This,
my brothers and
sisters, is an idol. A
false
idol. The prophet himself, peace be upon
him, when he arrived in Mecca, found three hundred and sixty idols, all
worshipped by pagans. He himself even admitted to worshipping these same idols
before he received the blessed words of Allah himself through his messenger,
Gabriel, and once he had been enlightened, he destroyed all but one of these
idols.” Khalid leaned forward. “The question is why?”

Josh
listened in fascination, his eyes drifting between the monitor, the Prince, and
the replica. The words the Prince was speaking, if spoken by anyone else, would
probably lead to immediate death, the very idea of calling the most holiest of
Islamic relics a false idol shocking, something he never would have imagined
hearing in his lifetime from a devout Muslim.

Is
he
a devout Muslim?

He had
to admit he was making an assumption, and as the words continued to pour from
the man’s mouth, he started to have his doubts.

Surely
no Muslim would say these things?

Unless
they had a death wish.

“What
many don’t realize is that before the word of God spread throughout our lands,
many worshipped pagan gods, and goddesses, one of whom was named Al’Lat. And
her symbol?” He pointed to the stone. “This, this shattered rock, broken apart
over the ages by those who knew the truth, mended together by those misled by
their leaders, those who had missed the test the great Prophet, peace be upon
him, had left for us to discover ourselves. He destroyed all of the three
hundred and sixty idols being falsely worshipped, but one. Why?” Khalid leaned
back in his chair. “For that we must look at history. We know the word of Allah
is perfect, there can be no mistakes. And we know the Koran is the word of Allah,
as dictated to the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. Therefore the Koran can
contain no mistakes.” Khalid paused, raising his finger at the camera, jabbing
the air with each syllable. “Then why is there a mistake?”

Josh
noted the shifting of feet beyond the camera, it clear the men were
uncomfortable with what was being said. Yet surely they had known what this was
all about before they signed on for whatever this was? He looked at the stone,
its silver casing reminding him of something he couldn’t put his finger on.

“The
mistake is clear. Is it not written that the great Al-Masjid-ul-Haram mosque in
Mecca was built forty years before Al-Masjid-ul-Aqs-a in Jerusalem? This is in
the Hadiths, the Prophet’s questions, peace be upon him, answered by Allah’s
Apostle himself. But we know from history that the great temple in Jerusalem
was built by Solomon around 950 BC, to use the infidel’s own calendar. History
has recorded it as such, and it is fact. So if the Sacred Mosque in Mecca was
built forty years before, and we know it is written in the blessed book that it
was built by Abraham himself, then that would mean Abraham would have to have
been alive a mere three thousand years ago.” Khalid again jabbed his finger at
the camera. “And we
all
know he lived—and died!—over four thousand years
ago.”

Khalid
paused, as if to let his words sink in, Josh noting a few of the men watching
appeared shocked at the words, a few scared, a few angry.

You
better make your point soon, old man, or you’re going to lose your audience.

Khalid
suddenly clapped his hands together, spreading them apart quickly as if in a
gesture of conciliation. “But we know Allah is perfect, and the Koran is the
word of Allah, therefore it too is perfect, so how can we explain this?” He
rose, stepping over to the stone and placing his hand on the silver form
encasing the shattered fragments. “Since Allah makes no mistakes, then this
mistake
must be intentional. And if it were intentional, then it had a purpose, and I
believe I know that purpose. It is really quite simple. We worship this stone
because we believed it was handed down to us by Abraham himself, but even
Abraham was just a man, and men are not to be worshipped lest they themselves
become idols. And we shouldn’t worship something just because it is associated
with one great man. But we have excused this one transgression in our beliefs
because it has been written that we should.

“But I
tell you this, the Koran is wrong; it has an intentional mistake meant to test
our faith, and for far too long we have failed,
all
of us have failed by
missing this puzzle introduced by Allah himself. All of us, all one point six
billion of us, have worshipped this rock because we did not recognize the test
given to us by Allah himself. And look what has happened. The infidel has
flourished, he kills us in our homelands, the Jews are in our midst, and the Global
Caliphate demanded of us by the Koran has failed to materialize.