Caliphate

she thought.

There's no doubt about it, Mahmoud thought. The Old Testament God is a petty, petulant, vindictive, homicidal maniac. Allah, early on, is little different. The destruction of Sodom; the swallowing of Ubar by the Earth and the desert sands . . . what's to choose from? They are clearly the same God, even if the message and the law may differ in details.

Yet is the Koran an improvement over the Old Testament? Just as clearly, yes it is, in many ways. In the Old Testament God is for the Jews and the Jews alone. In the Koran, He is for all mankind. This alone would be reason enough to prefer the Koran.

And yet, in the New Testament, God—whether Jesus is a prophet or his son makes no difference to this; he still speaks for God—is not only for all mankind, he's not a maniac.

Gabi hurried her hand and pencil to catch it—the slight curving smile, the eyes lifted up, even while they squinted slightly—that gave her lover's face an almost beatific look. Quickly she drew in slight lines of compression around the eyes. She could polish those lines later; for now it was important to catch their feel.

And then, too, there's the whole question of people. If I am a Christian, and I become a Moslem, what happens? Nothing. People yawn, even devout Christians. If I am a Moslem and become a Christian, what happens? Devout Moslems want my head. Even reasonable, responsible, kind and sane Moslems want me dead. It speaks well of no religion that it is so weak and fragile it must kill to keep people from making individual choices.

Freedom? That's an interesting question, too. Under the Koran, and even in the Old Testament, there is little freedom. And yet God permits great evil, evil He could easily prevent. Why should this be so except that He wants his creations free, that even great evil is preferable to the destruction of personal freedom?

God, he's so beautiful when he looks like that, Gabi thought. But what if he's serious? What if he becomes a devout Christian? How do I deal with that?

As a 'bad' Moslem, Mahmoud could accept me as a 'bad' Christian, which is the way he thinks of me. And I suppose I do drop expressions like 'God,' 'My God,' or 'God damn it' into conversations. But that's just an unconscious reflex. I don't believe. I can't believe. It just isn't in me. But I'm a good person, a kind and caring person, despite that . . . or maybe because of it.

What does a 'bad' Christian do living with a 'good' one'? And I have no doubt that, if he converts, he will be a good one.

* * *

Mahmoud turned his face back to the books. He wasn't reading, though; he was thinking. Moreover, his thoughts closely paralleled those of Gabi, seated opposite.

What if I do convert? Life with Gabi will be harder.

Never mind that, he decided suddenly. 'Render unto Caesar.' She will still be my woman and queen of my heart. If she does not believe, I will make up for it.

Chapter Eight

Any realistic assessment of any possible scenario will inevitably conclude that nothing that al Qaeda can do can cause the collapse of America and the capitalist system. The worse eventuality in the long run would be that America would be forced to break its hallowed ideal of universal tolerance, in order to make an exception of those who fit the racial profiling of an al Qaeda terrorist. It is ridiculous to think that if al Qaeda continued to attack us such measures would not be taken. They would be forced upon the government by the people (and anyone who thinks that the supposed cultural hegemony of the left might stop this populist fury is deluded).

—Lee Harris, 'The Intellectual Origins of America Bashing'

HQ, Office of Strategic Intelligence, 25 May, 2112

A hologram of a castle hovered above the table at which sat Caruthers and the deputy director of OSI for Direct Action. The picture was fuzzy, out of focus, as if the taker either had a very poor lens or was moving rapidly at the time the picture was taken.

'I think we should nuke the place right now,' said Caruthers.

'The President has said no,' answered the deputy director, shaking his head, 'not until we've tried everything else. I asked. I insisted. He still said no. The secretary is still trying to convince him otherwise.'

'Fuck. Send a battalion of Rangers?'

Again the DDDA said, 'No. And you yourself know better. The preparations for any such operation will only guarantee that, instead of a company of security troops being around the place, there would be a division. That; and that if they haven't dispersed their research, they would quickly.'

'I don't know that that's true,' Caruthers said, 'but even accepting that it is—'

'We might get them in, but we'd never get them out. Moreover, the Han insist on being in on this. They don't trust us with having what's in that castle any more than we would trust them. And we need their assistance, since they're the only ones with anyone on site.'

'A small special ops team?' Caruthers asked. 'Maybe one of the private outfits?'

'We thought about those,' the DDDA answered. 'And they might be doable. But a spec ops team would be too big to infiltrate through any of the ingresses we have. And a private contractor simply can't be trusted with something of this magnitude. The Swiss have already told us to fuck off: Neutrality uber alles. We think we'd have a better chance with a two- or three-man team of our own.'

'Well,' Caruthers admitted with a shrug, 'Old Bongo is about due to be pulled out of South Africa. And I've got another kid with the right background for the mission.'

'Your baby, then,' the deputy director said. 'I'll see if I can't get the Han to get us some better pictures.'

Castle Noisvastei, Province of Baya, 28 Rajab, 1536 AH (25 May, 2112)

Ling and Petra sat on the walkway around a tower on the side of the castle facing the other one, far below. There was a chainlink fence around the walkway, as there was for all the other towers and battlements of the castle. Girls in fits of depression, and houris were endemically depressed, had been known to throw themselves off in the past, before the fencing had gone up. This was, of course, bad for business.

The lower castle was a bustle of activity. Not only was a new wall and fence being put around it, but concrete was being poured around the outside for additional rooms, workmen—all apparently Nazrani—were installing cameras, and the place swarmed with black- clad janissaries. Above, a new chimney arose.

'A better whorehouse to compete with us, do you think?' Petra asked.

Ling didn't take her gaze from the place even when she answered, 'No.'

Ling seemed strangely uncommunicative. Since she was Petra's only real friend among the houris, this bothered the younger girl. Still trying to make conversation, she said, 'They're doing an amazing amount of work.'

'Yes,' Ling agreed, 'and apparently doing it well.'