“Assalamu alaykum, assalamu alaykum,” the men cried, waving their arms pleadingly. The ‘copters deliberated before firing a few rounds well off starboard and merging back into the clouds, leaving only the sound of their fleeing ship’s engines, Azhar’s sobs and something that could’ve been the wail of a dying child.
29
On August 5, 2073, the day World War Three ended, Grandma met the Grand Mufti at the Louvre to sign the Truce, insisting on a private ceremony to preserve some dignity. The Mufti had insisted on the site of the Martyrs Slaughter on the Rue de Rivoli, where National Front partisans had executed and burned more than two thousand Allah children.
They compromised on a quiet spot in the Tivoli Gardens. Just the Mufti, his mob of smiling black-robed murderers, herself, Cheng and Tomas. The terms were harsh: America and the protectorates of Canada and Mexico isolated on all sides, no foreign trade, no remilitarization, the United States could keep its nuclear stockpile, the little left after the unilateral disarmaments of the 2030s and 2040s.
The round table was populated by a tea pot and a few cups. Cheng and Tomas stood off, flanked by the Holy Warriors. Grandma moved slowly, as if hoping somehow the Atlantic and Mediterranean and Pacific Fleets would rise from the depths, captained by a zombie Navy, the sky would blacken with the Air Force and the beaches would part and Tomas’ many friends would climb out of their graves and this unthinkable loss would turn into a mere nightmare.
All she had left was the pen to sign The Truce. The Surrender. Cheng looked sick, Tomas stoic.
“Let us hope our peoples can live in peace now, Allah willing.” The fat Mufti, who looked like a rotting Jack-o-Lantern, had smiled through his blackish teeth.
Grandma scribbled her name. Her face hardened and she flung the pen aside, grinding it beneath her sturdy shoe. Tomas figured he could take out about five Warriors and hoped Cheng could handle the other two. Grandma could easily disembowel the Mufti if it came to that. A last temporary victory.
But the Mufti merely sneered with the graciousness of the victor and handed the broken bits of pen to Grandma with a chivalrous air. “Your souvenir, Grandma.”
Not since that day had Tomas seen the hatred return. He was relieved. Maybe some sense was right behind.
“Should I continue?” Tomas held up the report.
Grandma nodded sadly and curled up a little tighter on the couch in her private study, tiny with bright purple rugs and cheerful paintings of children and families.
“The Coast Guard encountered the first debris at approximately 2200 hours…”
“How long after?”
“The rendezvous with the Allahs was scheduled for 1400 hours.”
“Could there have been survivors if they’d received help immediately?”
“We couldn’t chance any official presence,” he stiffened.
Leonora pursed her wrinkled lips. “We should’ve had some ships in the area as backup.”
“That wasn’t the deal.” The twenty orphans had been released by Abdullah as a sign of good faith in the peace process.
“And this was?” she rasped.
Tomas held his breath. When you deal with the Devil, he thought carefully. She nodded for him to continue.
“The bodies of the twenty orphans were all recovered.”
She stared hard. “Were they abused?”
He shook his head. “Just murdered.”
Grandma’s eyes fluttered. “What were the ages?”
“Is that really necessary?”
Grandma’s stare cut across the top of his head, making him queasy.
“Eleven girls, nine boys,” Even though he’d memorized the report, he faked reading just to avoid her stare. “Ages six to twelve from various parts of southern ME.”
“Give me some histories,” she whispered.
He didn’t have to read these. “Deloras Villafane, seven years old. Her parents were part of the Resistance. She was given a hysterectomy to ensure she didn’t breed.” His voice broke. “All the girls were given hysterectomies.”
Tears slid down Grandma’s cheeks. “What where their names?”
“Lenora…”
“I want their names,” she said harshly.
Tomas flung aside the folder. “Read them yourself. I won’t torture you. That you can do.”
Grandma read aloud all twenty names, stumbling over pronunciations, then tossed the file into the fireplace and watched it quickly burn.
“What about the crew?” she asked over her shoulder.
“They retrieved the Captain’s body.” He paused. “But not the first mate.”
Grandma whirled. “Where is he?”
“I’m sure he’ll be found…” He paused. “Unless the Allahs took him prisoner.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they’re animals.”
“That doesn’t explain everything, Tomas. Though I wish it did. Make sure Admiral Tiridad clamps down on the Coast Guard. We can’t afford any leaks.”
“I already did.” Tomas hesitated. “Captain Lee has no family I’m aware of, but Diego Vasquez, the missing sailor, had left a contact in case of emergency.”
“No one’s to know, Tomas,” she said sternly.
“His family will worry…”
“I said no and that’s a damn order. Get word to Abdullah.”
He smiled malevolently. “How about something very simple like go fuck yourself, you filthy Camel.”
“This tragedy doesn’t change our plans. He wouldn’t have done this. There was no reason. He had nothing to gain. Nothing,” she said as if trying to convince herself. “These were rogues, people from his end who want the negotiations sabotaged.”
His mouth dropped. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Grandma slapped him hard on both cheeks. “Never forget yourself, Major. And never forget I decide the future of this nation. Take a couple days off. You’re worn out and no good to me.”
• • • •
HER APOLOGY FLASHED on his beeper during the second round when he changed from beer to whiskey: “I’m so sorry. You know I can’t do without you. Sleep well, my darling.”
Tomas had this theory about apologies. That it’s all well and good for someone to say they’re sorry, but the apology doesn’t wipe out the original blast. It wasn’t like some demon had taken hold of you. Whatever you said was inside. Maybe you regretted it. Maybe because it was wrong
