“Ridiculous!” Jon nearly shouted into the phone. “Don’t they know about the translation error? And it’s in Arabic, not Farsi. In fact, do you even know about the error?”
“Of course I do-the CIA also watches the evening news! But no, evidently they don’t know about that mistake in Iran. And they decided to exploit the translation error for their own purposes, even if it was in another language.”
“Do you have any idea why Al Jazeera hasn’t announced the error?” Jon assumed the CIA also knew about the Arab TV network’s silence.
“We’re working on that one even as we speak.”
“Good.”
“But first things first, Dr. Weber, and that’s security for you and your wife. We hope, of course, that the fatwa will be lifted once they finally learn the truth in Iran, but meanwhile your lives are in some danger.”
“Oh, please; this can’t really be happening, can it?”
“I am not exaggerating, sir,” the CIA director said in a credibly serious tone. “Now, we have a direct parallel in the case of Salman Rushdie and his Satanic Verses novel that earned him a fatwa some years ago. We’ve already contacted Scotland Yard to learn how the British handled security in his case with such obvious success: although his fatwa has never been lifted, the man lives on! We intend something similar in your case, although-”
Jon erupted. “Rushdie was in hiding for months after the fatwa was announced, and I just can’t spare that kind of time!”
“A fatwa?” Shannon whispered. “Jon, what’s happening?”
He covered the phone with his hand and tried to reassure her. “I’m sure it’s nothing, darling. I’ll explain in a minute.” He spoke into the phone again. “I’m sorry, Mr…?”
“Dillingham. And that’s quite all right. But we do need to take every possible precaution to protect your life and that of your wife as well. You see, all we need is for just one fanatic to take the fatwa seriously and act on it. Your death would be his passport to paradise.”
Jon was stunned into silence. One stupid error was turning his life into a grotesque nightmare. Shannon’s too. Finally he asked, again rather meekly, “What do you suggest?”
“Since the FBI covers the home front and we the international, we asked them to send over a security detail immediately. In fact, they’d probably have been there by now if your secretary had told us where you are.”
Thank you, Marylou! Jon mused. Then he replied, “No, not here. It would disrupt the peace of the neighborhood… All right, my wife and I will return to our home in Weston, and you can incarcerate us there.”
“Well, we certainly don’t intend to-”
“Strike that; bad humor on my part. But seriously now, we’re grateful for your concern.”
“We do have your home address in Weston, but we’d really prefer to have you escorted there by-”
“No, I absolutely decline that. Categorically. But thank you, Mr. Dillingham. We’ll be leaving first thing in the morning and should return to Weston by, say, early afternoon.”
“I’d feel better if you left this evening.”
“No, morning will do just fine. The fatwa hasn’t been announced over here yet, evidently.”
“Well… all right. Thanks for your cooperation, Professor Weber.”
“Yours too. Good night.”
Jon hung up and turned to Shannon, who was hovering nearby with a worried look on her face.
“What is it, Jon? A fatwa? On you? You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m afraid not, sweetheart. That was the CIA. They want us to head home so they can put us under official protection, at least until this thing blows over.”
“Jon, fatwas don’t ‘blow over.’ At least Rushdie’s didn’t. What about our trip? Our work? Oh, this is just ridiculous.”
“I know; I know. But when the truth finally sinks in at Tehran, they’ll lift it, I’m sure.”
“And if they don’t?”
Jon saw a tear or two glistening in her eyes. He tucked two fingers under her classically chiseled chin and said, “Then we’ll flee Weston and fly to Tahiti.”
Shannon made a conscious effort to shrug off the curdling climate of fear in their lives as they drove eastward to Chatham. She appreciated Jon’s attempts to cheer her up with a seafood dinner overlooking the Atlantic-one of her favorite things to do when they were staying at the beach house. It began with obligatory Lambrusco-the vintage they had shared on their wedding night-and went on to lobster for him, crab cakes for her.
Was it the edge supplied by danger? The wine at dinner? The gorgeous full moon floating over the eastern seascape? Whatever. The evening was a success as far as Shannon was concerned. By the time they returned to their hideaway, she had managed to put the fear and danger out of her mind. It was heavenly to return to their beachfront hideaway and forget, at least for the night, that anyone else existed outside the circle of their love.
They had missed the 11 p.m. news, of course. But during the morning drive back to Weston, they heard it all on the car radio. In the name of Allah, the Iranian clergy had declared an official fatwa on American professor Jonathan Weber of Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Muslim faithful were duty-bound to seek him out for apprehension, trial, judgment, and condemnation. And the penalty for insulting the Prophet, as Professor Weber had done? Death.
Jon and Shannon’s new roles as moving targets? Not a felicitous feeling. Jon was quiet, but he seemed to be checking the rearview mirror more often than usual, while Shannon found herself scanning each approaching vehicle with uncharacteristic scrutiny.
Jon finally broke the silence. “Well, it’s much too soon for anyone to try anything, sweetheart.”
“Oh, that’s some consolation,” she replied with a bite. “But in a short time, it’ll be open season on the Webers. So much for the joy you promised in our wedded life!”
“Think you made a mistake, Shannon?” His eyebrows were a pair of arches.
She put on her best imitation of a frown. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Then she whispered, “Oh, Jon, despite the crazy twists and turns life has taken since I met you, it’s a mistake I’d make again and again and again!” She reached over and squeezed his knee.
After crossing the bridge at the Cape Cod Canal, they headed northwest on I-495 toward the Boston suburbs. It was a luminous spring morning, the air nicely scrubbed from a shower the night before. But then an intrusion. Jon noticed it first in his left outer mirror: a dark green Cadillac Escalade was following their silver Buick LaCrosse, and it seemed to stay behind them, even when he slowed down to encourage passing.
He tromped on the accelerator to eighty miles per hour, and the distance between the two cars lengthened. But the Escalade suddenly sped up in order to reach its apparently chosen perch just behind their car.
Shannon knew what was happening without his saying a word. She peered back anxiously and exclaimed, “Jon! They’re wearing turbans -all four of them!”
Jon quickly looked back and saw that Shannon was right. An icy stab of terror rippled inside him. “It’s just not possible that anyone would try to act on the fatwa this soon, is it?”
“Who knows? Maybe we’ve been followed.”
“Stay cool. I have a plan.” Jon started slowing down to 50 mph, then 40 and even 35. The Escalade slowed also.
“Jon, have you lost your mind?” she wondered.
“Strategy, dear. I may even stop the car. But the moment they also stop and get out, I’ll floor it. Just hang on and keep your head down.”
His plan came to nothing. Suddenly the Escalade sped past them, four turbaned heads so busy in conversation that they didn’t even notice Jon and Shannon.
Jon broke out laughing. “We’re bloody fools, Shannon. They were Sikhs, not Muslims! It’s Sikhs who wear turbans.”