The Regime: Evil Advances (25 page)

Hors d’oeuvres, which Abdullah called Mazza, began the meal and consisted of a variety of hot and cold treats that could have served as a meal in themselves. Then came salads and mounds of bread to be eaten dry or dipped in one of many sauces. The aroma alone intoxicated Rayford, but Abdullah assured him they had just begun.

When it came time for the main dish, Rayford had never seen so much rice. It was delivered in heaping, steaming bowls. The
mansaf
proved to be lamb seasoned with herbs and light spices, cooked in yogurt and eaten with the rice. Rayford had wondered if he would find the cuisine too exotic. This he would never forget.

The bread alone would have filled him, and the rice proved overkill. Still there were dessert pastries to come,

and when he finally finished with those—including
bak
lava and
katayeff
--the heavy scent of coffee wafted from the kitchen.

“There is another smell I don’t detect in American coffee,” Rayford said.

Abdullah smiled. “Cardamom seeds. You will enjoy.”

The coffee was poured from long-handled copper pots, and Rayford was struck that only a few drops went into each cup. He made the mistake of slugging it down as if it were a sample. The men laughed when it hit his system and woke him. His cup was refilled every time he took a sip, but he soon noticed that when the others had had enough, they tipped their empty cups from side to side. Once he had done that, the repouring stopped. Rayford didn’t know whether it was the cardamom or caffeine, but something had brought his senses to life.

Rayford found himself in delightful pain and knew his hosts had to feel the same. They all sat back and patted their bellies as they chatted. All save for Abdullah. The shortest and lithest of them, he had eaten a lot, but nowhere near the quantities Rayford and the others had packed away.

As the table was being cleared, a high-whining cry came from loudspeakers around the base, and the men quickly sat up. “It is time for the midday
Salaah
,” Abdullah said. “You are not expected to participate, of course, and I have been given permission to merely explain it to you.”

“The
Salaah
?” Rayford said.

“Our Muslim ritual of prayer. We do it five times a

day, and when we can, we are to first bathe and then get to a mosque. People in unusual occupations—like ours—who are not able to get to the mosque are free to perform the ritual wherever they can.”

The other men hurried off to the washroom, then returned and pulled mats from a corner and knelt before a window, facing Mecca.

“What you just heard, Captain Steele, was the
ezan
, which is called out by the
muezzin
, commanding us to pray.”

“It sounds like a long song,” Rayford said. “What is he saying?”

“He says four times, ‘Allah is most great.’ Then twice, ‘I bear witness that there is no god but Allah.’ Then twice, ‘I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.’ Then twice, ‘Come to prayer.’ And twice more, ‘Come to the good.’ Finally, twice, ‘Allah is most great.’

“During the predawn call the muezzin adds twice, ‘Prayer is better than sleep.’” Abdullah whispered, “Frankly, Captain, there are mornings when I am not so sure.”

As Rayford watched, the men stood on their mats with their hands to their ears; then they folded their hands right over left on their chests. They bowed and placed their hands on their knees, then stood upright again. They then prostrated themselves fully on the ground, sitting up and then repeating the ritual. All during this the men murmured phrases in praise of Allah. Finally, sitting again, each passed a greeting to one another.

Abdullah interpreted this, “‘Peace on you and the

mercy of Allah.’ Some say the worshiper is greeting fellow Muslims, but others say he is speaking to an angel on each shoulder who records his good and bad deeds.”

Rayford did not know why, but this all hit him as terribly ritualistic and depressing. In many ways it reminded him of his own feeble attempts at religion: the obligation to go to church when he could and guilt when he found excuses not to.

Abdullah confirmed Rayford’s suspicion. “This fixed ritual is so rigid that in our religion there is no departure from it. The devout practitioner performs it five times a day, cleansing himself and getting to the mosque whenever possible to do it with the rest of the congregation.”

“And they bathe before each time?”

Abdullah nodded. “It is called ablution, and when possible it includes washing face, hands, feet, and sometimes the whole body.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. If you are in a state of ceremonial impurity, the holy book requires you to fully bathe.”

“What if you do not have access to water?”

“Then you are to use sand and earth.”

“And this is five times a day?”

Abdullah nodded. “And that is not all. There are many other prayers and rituals, but the five per day are the minimum requirement. There is the early morning prayer, which may be offered anytime between dawn and two hours later. The noon prayer may be offered anytime after the sun begins to decline. The third prayer begins soon after the middle of the afternoon. Calendars

tell the time of each prayer, but otherwise one must resort to his best judgment.

“The sunset prayer begins after sunset and extends till the glow in the horizon disappears. The evening prayer time then continues till before the dawn.”

“What is the point of all this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Abdullah shrugged. “The devout Muslim believes he is making his entire day spiritual, from beginning to end and in between. He combines his religion with his life and believes he is building his morals on strong foundations. He believes he is making his whole life a spiritual exercise.”

“What about you, Abdullah? Do you have to make up for missing this one?”

“Please. I prefer Smith or Smitty. And yes, if I were pious, I would be owing a double prayer now.” He whispered, “I am ashamed to say I am not so pious. The ablution alone is filled with many requirements and also many ways in which it can be nullified. If you are wondering whether I fear for my mortal soul … yes. I was raised Muslim and am steeped in the tradition. But an impersonal, demanding god holds less and less appeal as I get older.”

This, Rayford decided, was something he and Abdullah were going to have to discuss. It was far afield from the mission of his trip, but these were universal issues with which he could identify. To him it didn’t matter what your religion was, but too many demands took all the joy out of it.

THIRTY-THREE

Cameron Williams sat in the academic dean’s office at Princeton, feeling sheepish and telling himself it would be the last time in his life. He had felt sheepish when he had been rejected by the girl he hoped to fall in love with. And he had felt sheepish when scolded for arriving just in time for his own mother’s funeral.

But Dirk Burton had been working on him, bucking him up, reminding him who he was and what he had to offer. “Hold your head high, man. You’re somebody already. You need confidence to do what you do and do it so well. Believe me, when I’m on the Exchange, I’ll be hanged if I care what the Brits think of Welshmen. I know as much as they do and I’m going to compete at their level. You can show deference to the veterans at the
Globe
, but go in there with confidence.”

That wasn’t Cameron’s problem now. He had brought

this crisis on himself by letting his schoolwork slide. He could graduate if he did nothing more, but his
GPA
would roll off the table, and he would not be able—as Dirk had urged him—to hold his head high.

“I will not be recommending you for all the awards and prizes due you at graduation, Mr. Williams,” the dean said, “if you rest on your laurels and your outside activities. All your professors are concerned that you are behind in your final self-study projects. No, it won’t cost you your hotshot new job—congratulations, by the way—and it may not amount to a hill of beans once you’re a celebrated journalist. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll be back here as Alumnus of the Year, speaking at graduation, winning an honorary doctorate. How will you feel if you have to admit you coasted through your last lap here?”

“Not well.”

“Of course not. Not to belabor this, I say as I belabor it a bit more, but imagine yourself at the
Globe
in a few years and your prodigious talent wins you some plum job somewhere else. Do you just drop everything at the
Globe
? Do you give them notice and mail in your assignments until you move on? Of course you don’t. Have some pride, Mr. Williams. Make me proud. Make this institution proud. Do yourself proud. Will you do that?”

Fortunately for Rayford, Abdullah had been kidding about aerial acrobatics so soon after the noon meal.

Rayford enjoyed watching the younger man in and around the multimillion-dollar flying machines. Abdullah opened and closed hatches and flipped switches and checked settings as if he had manufactured the craft himself. Here was a man who seemed born to fly these machines.

There were no loops, dives, or rolls, but Abdullah did seem to enjoy making a two-seater F-16 scream as he showed Rayford his country from the air. For a quiet man he carried on a surprisingly constant stream of chatter as he pointed out the eastern plains by the Jordan River, the Great Rift Valley to the west, and Lake Tiberius, “which you know as the Sea of Galilee.” He pointed out an area he said was seven hundred feet below sea level, and “of course, the Dead Sea, thirteen hundred feet below sea level and the lowest point on Earth.”

Abdullah also overflew the King Hussein Air College in Mafraq and the Muwaffaq Salti Air Base, “so you don’t have to say you came all this way and didn’t at least see them from above.”

After they landed and spent time in the pilots’ lounge talking about anything and everything other than what Rayford had been sent to talk about, the tinny clarion call again blared from the loudspeakers, calling the faithful to prayer.

Abdullah pointedly ignored it. “What do you suppose Jordan is known for?” he said.

“Sand, heat, olive oil, and petroleum products,” Rayford said. “But I’m just guessing.”

“You guess what everyone from the West guesses.

They assume we are all Bedouins, wearing sandals and living in tents. Would it surprise you to know that we also export soap, cigarettes, cement, phosphate, food, paper, glass, drugs, and even textiles?”

“Yes, it would.”

“I knew it would. I love America, but I am jealous for the reputation of my own country.”

“Admirable. But talk to me about the Muslim thing, Smitty. You are Muslim, but you are not, what did you call it? Devout?”

“Pious.”

“Does that mean you don’t believe? Or don’t accept the requirements?”

“I suppose,” Abdullah said. “I know myself too well. I do too many things that disqualify me from being known as a true Muslim. There is too high a cost to come out and renounce, so I let people believe what they want to believe about me. If I am around during prayers, I bow to Mecca. I don’t make an issue of it.”

“But when you can get out of it…?”

“I get out of it.”

“You sound like me.” Rayford didn’t know why he felt so free to talk about such personal matters with a perfect stranger, but here he was, thousands of miles from home, spilling his guts.

Abdullah said, “There is also the matter of how I-- what is your word for it?--supplement my income.”

“And how is that?”

“First, we are not here to report on each other to our superiors, are we?”

“Not on this subject,” Rayford said. “Hardly.”

“I buy and sell, shall we say, outside normal trade routes.”

Rayford raised an eyebrow. “You’re a black marketer?”

Abdullah crossed his arms and smiled shyly. “That makes it sound romantic. It is actually quite labor intensive and dangerous.”

“Illegal.”

“Obviously,” Abdullah said. “But for a member of the air force, doubly so. Despite that many of my customers are colleagues. Is there anything you need or want, by the way?”

“Maybe. What do you have?”

“Did you wonder, Captain, why I was able to so quickly rattle off the many goods produced here?”

Rayford nodded. “As a matter of fact…”

“I have not seen you smoke since you arrived. Are you not a smoker?”

Rayford shook his head.

“Neither am I,” Abdullah said. “But I used to be, and I have tried cigarettes from all over the world. None compare with ours. They would make excellent gifts for your smoking friends.”

“How much?”

“About triple what you would pay in the States, but of course you can’t get ours there.”

“Will I have trouble getting them into my country?”

“They are contraband. Will you be searched upon boarding or deplaning?”

“I wasn’t on the way.”

“Then you are unlikely to be on the way back. If you are, you may tell them these were given to you as gifts, but you would protect me by not saying it was I who gave the gift.”

Rayford decided lying was no worse than buying contraband on the black market. And who knew what other exotic gifts he might find through this source? Once he started flying to Europe, Jordan wasn’t so awfully far away. Abdullah Smith could prove a valuable contact.

Meanwhile, they had better talk business and make this trip worthwhile.

Not only was Nicolae Carpathia never officially considered a suspect in the assassination of Emil Tismaneanu, but he also became the object of public sympathy over the loss of his dear friend. Small pockets of suspicion were obliterated when he made good on his pledge to withdraw from the race, going so far as paying the fees and filing the paperwork to make it legal.

Nicolae seeded the murder investigation with a huge infusion of funds, so that the force empowered to look into the matter became known as the Carpathia Commission. Despite the stony stare from Tismaneanu’s daughter and the look of apprehension on the face of her fiancé, Carpathia not only attended the funeral, but he also spoke briefly—”brilliantly,” according to the press—eulogizing his former opponent to the point that