"And when it comes?" I asked him.
He was carrying a gun, some kind of small semiautomatic machine pistol with a long Russian name. He took it out and laid it on the table between us. "When it comes," he said, "they can kill each other all they want, but they damn well better leave the Quarter alone, or they'll have us to deal with. We've already given the Nur a few lessons. Every time they kill a joker, we kill five of them. You'd think they'd get the idea, but the Nur's a slow learner."
I told him that Senator Hartmann was hoping to set up a meeting with the Nur al-Allah to begin discussions that might lead to a peaceful solution to this areas problems. He laughed.
We talked for a long time, about jokers and aces and nats, and violence and nonviolence and war and peace, about brotherhood and revenge and turning the other cheek and taking care of your own, and in the end we settled nothing. "Why did you come?" I finally asked him.
"I thought we should meet. We could use your help. Your knowledge of Jokertown, your contacts in nat society, the money you could raise."
"You won't get my help," I told him. "I've seen where your road leads. Tom Miller walked that road ten years ago."
"Gimli?" He shrugged. "First, Gimli was crazy as a bedbug. I'm not. Gimli wants the world to kiss it and make it all better. I just fight to protect my own. To protect you, Des. Pray that your Jokertown never needs the Twisted Fists, but if you do, we'll be there. I read Time's cover story on Leo Barnett. Could be the Nur isn't the only slow learner. If that's how it is, maybe the Black Dog will go home and find that tree that grows in Brooklyn, right? I haven't been to a Dodger game since I was eight."
My heart stopped in my throat as I looked at the gun on the table, but I reached out and put my hand on the phone. "I could call down to our security right now and make certain that won't happen, that you won't kill any more innocent people."
"But you won't," the Hound said. "Because we have so much in common."
I told him we had nothing in common.
"We're both jokers," he said. "What else matters?" Then he holstered his gun, adjusted his mask, and walked calmly from my room.
And God help me, I sat there alone for several endless minutes, until I heard the elevator doors open down the hall-and finally took my hand off the phone.
THE TINT OF HATRED
Part Five
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1987, THE SYRIAN DESERT:
Najib struck her down with one quick blow, but Misha persisted. "He's coming," Misha said. "Allah's dreams tell me that I must go to Damascus to meet him."
In the darkness of the mosque Najib glowed like a green beacon from near the mihrab, the jeweled prayer niche. It was at night that Nur al-Allah was the most impressive, a fiery vision of a prophet, gleaming with Allah's own fury. He said nothing to Misha's pronouncement, looking first at Sayyid, resting his great bulk against one of the tiled pillars.
"No," Sayyid grumbled. "No, Nur al-Allah." He looked at Misha, kneeling in supplication before her brother, and his eyes were full of a smoldering rage because she would not submit to her brother's will or Sayyid's suggestions. "You've often said that the abominations are to be killed. You've said that the only way to negotiate with the unbeliever is with the edge of a sword. Let me fulfill those words for you. The entire Ba'th government can do nothing to stop us; al-Assad trembles when Nur al-Allah speaks. I'll take some of the faithful to Damascus. We'll cleanse the abominations and those who bring them with purifying fire."
Najib's skin flared for a moment, as if Sayyid's advice had excited him. His lips had pulled back in a fierce grimace. Misha shook her head. "Brother," she implored. "Listen also to Kahina. I've had the same dream for three nights. I see the two of us with the Americans. I see the gifts. I see a new, untrodden path."
"Also tell Nur al-Allah that you woke screaming from the dream, that you felt the gifts were dangerous, that this Hartmann had more than one face in your dreams."
Misha looked back at her husband. "A new way is always dangerous. Gifts always obligate the one who receives them. Will you tell the Nur al-Allah that there's no danger in your way, the way of violence? Is Nur al-Allah so strong already that he can defeat the entire West? The Soviets wont help in this; they'll want their hands to be clean."
"Jihad is struggle," Sayyid grated out.
Najib nodded his head. He raised a brilliant hand before his face, turning it as if marveling at the soft light it radiated. "Allah smote the unbelievers with His hand," he agreed. "Why shouldn't I do the same?"
"Because of Allah's dream," Misha insisted.
"Allah's dream or yours, woman?" Sayyid asked. "What will the infidels do if Nur al-Allah does as I've asked? The West has done nothing about the hostages Islam has taken, they've done nothing about other killings. Will they complain to Damascus and al-Assad? Nur al-Allah rules Syria in all but title; Nur al-Allah has united half of all Islam behind him. They'll complain, they'll bluster. They'll cry and moan, but they won't interfere. What will they do-refuse to trade with us? Ptah!" Sayyid spat on the intricate tiles at his feet. "They will hear Allah's laughter in the wind."
"These Americans have their own guards," Misha countered. "They have the ones they call aces."
"We have Allah. His strength is all we need. Any of my people would be honored to become shahid, a martyr for Allah."
Misha turned to Najib, still looking at his hand as Sayyid and Misha argued. "Brother, what Sayyid asks ignores the gifts that Allah has given us. His way ignores the gift of dreams, and it ignores kuwwa nuriyah, the power of light."
"What do you mean?" Najib's hand fell.
"Allah's power is in your voice, your presence. If you meet with these people, they would be swayed the way the faithful are swayed when you speak. Any of Allah's people could kill them, but only Nur al-Allah can actually bring the infidels to the faith of Allah. Which of the two is the greater honor to Allah?"
Najib didn't answer. She could see his luminescent face furrowed in a deep frown, and he turned to walk away a few paces. She knew then that she had won. Praise Allah! Sayyid will beat me again for this, but it's worth it. Her cheek throbbed where Najib had struck her, but she ignored the pain.
"Sayyid?" Najib asked. He looked from a slitted window to the village. Faint voices hailed the glowing visage.
"It is Nur al-Allah's decision. He knows my counsel;" Sayyid said. "I'm not a kahin. My foresight is limited to war. Nur al-Allah is strong-I think we should demonstrate that strength."
Najib came back to the mihrab. "Sayyid, will you allow the Kahina to go to Damascus and meet with the Americans?"
"If that's what Nur al-Allah wishes," Sayyid answered stiffly.
"It is," Najib said. "Misha, go back to your husband's house and make yourself ready to travel. You'll meet this delegation, and you'll tell me of them. Then Nur al-Allah will decide how to deal with them."
Misha bowed, her head to the cool tiles. She kept her eyes down, feeling the heat of Sayyid's gaze as she passed him.
When she had gone, Najib shook his head at Sayyid's sullen posture. "You think I ignore you for yur wife, my friend? Are you insulted?"