To the Death

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. Death to the infidel. And right here she, Shakira, was, sitting with one of them, the matriarch of the family of the man most feared by the Middle East’s jihadists — Admiral Arnold Morgan.

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. Allah is great.

She glanced at her watch. It was time for prayers. Which way was Mecca? To the east, out across the river. And Shakira turned toward the window, feeling, unaccountably, the deep comradeship and belief of the Muslim world holding her within its cocoon. Allah, she knew, would forgive her for failing to pray this morning, sitting here with this infidel, so long as she was carrying out His work.

“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 will give you one little piece.” Future conditional.

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 “I give you one little piece” was not the diction of a proper American national.

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.

The Ritz Hotel, check-in Tuesday morning July 31, until Thursday morning August 2. Admiral and Mrs. Arnold Morgan. No problem.

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—

Allahu akbar…Ash hadu an la ilaha Allah…Ash hadu an-an Muhammadar rasulul-lah…La ilaha ill Allah…

No one could hear. Except for Charlie. And even he did not understand that.

It was, of course, the 1,400-year-old prayer of devotion from the Koran: