“Shall we go back to the hotel?” Azhar glanced into the rear view mirror. Abdullah sat in stony silence.
Azhar eased through London, past the shattered half of Big Ben and the shell of their Parliament, the crescent moon and star waving over the aged buildings which looked like decrepit, once proud old women. Animals grazed on the lawn of Buckingham Palace. Just like the pictures, Azhar thought wonderingly. Jalak and the boys would love a souvenir. He sighed and drove along the Thames, London Bridge brimming with tourists snapping photos.
The Son shoved a flask over Azhar’s shoulder.
“No thank you, my lord.”
Abdullah grunted and noisily swigged. “Is vodka not to your liking?”
“I’m driving, sire. I wouldn’t want to get into an accident.”
A displeased grunt was followed by another noisy sip. “You’ve never been to London?”
“I’ve never been outside the Caliphate of North Africa until now, other than on water.”
“Haven’t you been curious?”
“No, my lord. My family provides enough wonders for me.”
Abdullah laughed heartily. “What are your impressions so far of the great world beyond your dining room table?”
Azhar hesitated. “A triumph.”
Abdullah’s drunken breath laced his ear. “Of what?”
Allah, please find me in this wretched place. “God’s will.”
“All Allah’s doing.”
“As is everything.”
“Which you believe?”
Azhar nervously gripped the wheel. “Yes.”
“All this,” the Son banged on the window, “is because we are devoted to Allah?”
“Yes.” He prayed at a red light.
“If the Crusaders believe in God, and many of them were fervent, then why did we win?”
He should’ve listened more to Omar’s bleating at dinner. “Our faith is stronger. Our religion stronger.”
“Our God stronger. Only there is just one God. Unless you believe in polytheism?”
Azhar wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
“Many Gods,” Abdullah helped. “It was the Jews who first said, one God. To which we agreed.”
“Yes,” he mumbled uneasily.
“Then the Jews had something to offer? If they did, why did we eliminate them? Oh, don’t worry.” He clasped Azhar’s shoulder, “I won’t ask for any explanation.”
“Thank you.”
The Son smiled. “Life is much simpler when we don’t think, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“When we accept. Stop.”
Abdullah staggered out while the car was still slowing. He weaved toward the gleaming mosque as Azhar sloppily parked at an angle and followed.
“Do you know what that was?” Abdullah pointed to the tall building. “St. Paul’s Cathedral. More than four hundred years old. Holiest of holy, Azhar. Their great Crusaders are buried there. Were buried. We dug them up and dumped them in the river. The Thames. Come Azhar.” Abdullah dragged him by the wrist, but he stiffened, afraid.
“Come Azhar,” the Son hissed. “Come see what we did. What we extinguished. What we remade according to our law for there is only one law and it is Allah’s. That is what I believe. That is what you believe. But if we believe that, then what does Allah say to Jesus? Isn’t he in Heaven? No, course not.”
The Son smashed the flask on the floor. “Only true believers. I’m a true believer. You’re a true believer. Believe in what we believe, Azhar. This is what we believe.”
Azhar gasped, aware of the heresy, the sacrilege, puzzled by the riddles. Allah would strike them down. He closed his eyes, waited to be extinguished, briefly regretting not touching the young blonde’s breasts before he died. Abdullah burst out laughing at this sorry statue of fear.
“Nothing happened,” the Son said softly.
Allah is wise. He will wait for the best time when my guard is down.
“Nothing will happen.” Abdullah took Azhar’s sweating hand. “Come inside and see. Take a picture to someday show your family. For someday we will return this church to its rightful owners.”
Azhar knew whatever he did would be wrong.
• • • •
ZELDA FINALLY RAN out of conference rooms to hide in. She had started in 102A, which smelled a little stinky from all the fish samples curling up on a plate from the night before. The eight-thirty meeting almost left as soon as they arrived, thinking she’d booked the space, but Zelda made a big pretense of acting distracted, up late working, must be the wrong room, don’t we have someone to clean up?
That worked for a while in 106B, where she dully studied a power point on sales plans for the Southern region. Knoxville seemed an especially big market along with Little Rock. On page five of the plan, she noticed one of her salmon characters, Diego.
“Catch me if you can.” One of his big brown eyes winked and her heart sank before off she went, apologizing to another group.
In 110C, she forced down some almost tasty SC fruit, pocketing half a blueberry muffin as she nodded knowingly to the nine-thirty meeting colleagues carrying their power points and pads and pens and gossiping about where they went last night and all the fun they had.
She threw up around nine forty-five, an excuse to hang out in the coffee alcove, waiting for the earlier meetings to bring their leftover food to share. Two sesame bagels later, she summoned the courage or, really, just ran out of hiding places, and headed toward Katrina’s office.
Get it over with, Zelda told herself. She tugged down her white blouse and rounded the corner.
“Here she is.” Boar Face snatched Zelda by the elbow and into the office. “You must’ve heard us talking. Thinking about you. That’s the way a business runs. Zelda Jones, please meet Saul.”
Wizened Saul Ribe politely tipped his white-haired head. “A pleasure, young lady. There’s nice things being said in your direction.”
“Thank you.” Zelda flashed a grateful smile at Boar Face.
“She was the key in the lock, Saul,” Katrina explained.
“Salmon could be a mystery to some. The whole concept of fish. Who are they? What do they want? What do we want from them?”
“To eat ‘em,” Zelda cracked.
Saul roared. “But to do it in a nice way so the salmon aren’t upset.”
“Nor the customers,” she added. “Eating living things is disgusting
