“Has he been here before?”
“Oh, yes. Lots of times. He’s really quite charming, nothing like so boisterous as Charlie, nor so greedy. Of course, he’s considerably smaller.”
“Emily, I don’t think you should be let loose on the public road with two dogs in hand. Especially since one of them’s Charlie.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s true. And I was almost afraid to ask you, but do you think you could help? I’d pay you to do this.”
“Of course I will. When do we expect Kipper to make his appearance?”
“Four weeks from today. That would be Monday, July 30, the day Kathy and her husband are leaving. She’s delivering Kipper, then taking the evening flight to London.”
“So you enter this two-dog frenzy the next day?” Shakira had learned everything she knew about humor from Ravi, and he learned it at Harrow. For an Arab, she really could be quite droll.
“Well, yes,” said Emily. “By that Tuesday morning, I will probably be at my wits’ end. Could you possibly be here early that morning? Just to help me get them under control.”
“Of course,” replied Shakira. “I usually come at eleven. While you have both dogs, I’ll be here at ten, starting July 31.” She produced her little leather-bound notebook and wrote in the dates. On the previous page were the words:
Shakira sat back and sipped her coffee, glancing up just once at a framed photograph she had seen before. “Is that your daughter there, in the photograph?” she asked.
Mrs. Gallagher picked up the picture and smiled. “Yes, that’s Kathy,” she said.
“Gosh, she’s pretty,” said Shakira, looking at the wedding-day picture, which showed Arnold and Kathy standing outside the offices of the justice of the peace who had married them in Washington.
“When was this?”
“Oh, just five years ago,” said Emily.
“Then it must have been a second marriage,” smiled Shakira. “No girl can be that pretty and remain single for that long.”
“You’re correct. Kathy was married before. He was rich but a frightful, selfish man. I’m just so glad she’s found real happiness now. Her husband is not everyone’s type, but he makes her happy. And I like him very much.”
“Are they going somewhere wonderful after Kipper gets dropped off?” said Shakira.
“Well, I never really know where they are,” replied Emily. “He’s some kind of very high-powered diplomat. All Kathy said was they were flying to London, staying at the Ritz Hotel for a few days, and then going to Scotland.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad,” said Shakira.
“Indeed it doesn’t. The Ritz! It always reminds me of that English war-time song ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’—that line,
Shakira looked thoughtful. Mrs. Gallagher really was the most charming lady, kind, generous, and so proper. For a split second, she wondered how she could possibly be sitting here in this lovely house, subversively planning to have Emily’s son-in-law murdered.
But again she forced herself back to The Cause, to remember the terrible plight of the Palestinians. The poverty, the suffering, the lack of medical supplies, the cruel arrogance of the Israelis, and above all the hatred, the hatred of the Great Satan, and her husband’s unflinching view that the West must be driven out of the Middle East forever and that Israel must be destroyed.
Of course, Mrs. Gallagher had nothing to do with any of this. But she was part of America, that monstrous nation that had somehow crushed her own and now stood smiling with its great white teeth, basking in its inestimable wealth, sucking the underground wealth of the Arab nations dry, while her own people lived and died on the precipice of destitution.
Ravi had been definite. America must be attacked, because they will take notice of nothing else. Americans react badly to loss of life, and they really hate loss of assets and loss of money. They are not true warriors, though they have highly efficient armed services and a truly devastating arsenal of high-tech weaponry.
But they will be brought down: perhaps not defeated, but forced to retreat behind their own borders, leaving the Muslims to create a new empire stretching from the Horn of Africa to the Atlantic. That remained Ravi’s dream and the dream of the ayatollahs, and the imams, and all the holy men.
That is the will of Allah, and that is the stated opinion throughout the Koran.
Yes, she would carry out her mission. She would inform Ravi of precisely where he could locate the admiral. And although she would not wish personal harm to Emily Gallagher, neither would she forget her purpose in this life. Which was to carry out the will of Allah.
She glanced at her watch. It was time for prayers.
“A penny for your thoughts, Carla,” said Emily. “What about some more coffee, and one of these cookies?”
“Oh, gosh, thank you,” she replied. “I think I was daydreaming. This is such a comfortable house.”
No sooner had the word “cookie” been uttered than Charlie came thundering toward them from four rooms away.
Shakira took charge. She stood up and said, “CHARLIE. SIT DOWN.” Charlie sat. “I give you one little piece, if you behave.” Charlie wagged his tail in anticipation. “But if you jump on me, or your mistress, and spill coffee, you’re not getting anything.”
Charlie, who plainly understood English, looked inordinately sad, cocking his head to one side in that timeless stricken pose of the retriever, which suggested that he had been given nothing to eat for at least a year. Shakira’s heart melted. And she gave him a cookie. Charlie crunched it instantly, swallowed the lot, and readopted the stricken pose.
“I’d better take you out,” said Carla, who then turned to Emily and said, “It looks a little like rain. Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll just take him to the river? Back in forty-five minutes.”
As she gathered up the dog leash and clipped it on, Mrs. Gallagher looked at her quizzically. She had noticed, as educated people often will, one tiny slip in Carla’s diction; the mistake of a foreign person. She had said, “I give you one little piece, if you behave.” Not, correctly, “I
It was not much, but Mrs. Gallagher could not help wondering if Carla had perhaps had one foreign parent, or had been brought up somewhere else with English as her second language. One thing she did know, however, was that
It was, of course, in the great scheme of things, completely irrelevant. Shakira Rashood had already accomplished her mission on behalf of the fanatical warriors of Hamas. And she had completed it right here in Brockhurst, courtesy of Emily Gallagher.
Outside on the street, Shakira walked briskly, all the way along to the bend in the river, where she entered the little park that Charlie loved and stared across to the far bank, easterly.
The park was deserted, and she began to whisper—
