The Blasphemer Page 11

  The wheelbarrow rolled closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Aishah strained to see. Leaning left. Leaning right. The muttering got louder. The uneasiness grew. And that’s when she saw it. The wheelbarrow was filled with—she inhaled and gagged—copies of the Koran soaked in sweet-smelling petrol. And in that moment of moments, she flinched. As if someone had just scraped an ice-cold razor across her stomach.

  No. Dear God. No.

  The skinhead set the wheelbarrow down and got out a box of matches.

  A phalanx of policemen broke away from the cordon and zeroed in, shouting at him to cease and desist. But his comrades converged like dominoes, goose-stepping to block their path, and there was pushing and heaving and clamouring.

  Aishah rushed forward, flattening herself against a police shield. ‘Stop that man! You need to stop that man! Don’t let him burn our holy book! Don’t let him burn it!’

  The skinhead drew a match. Struck it.

  Aishah shouted, ‘Don’t!’

  The skinhead giggled, raised one hand in a thumbs-up and dropped the match into the wheelbarrow. There was a hiss. A puff. And the Korans went up in flames and smoke, their pages curling, wrinkling, vaporising. And the Anglo Front clapped and roared with laughter.

  It was desecration.

  Sacrilege.

  And everything went to hell.

  All around Aishah, the Rainbow Coalition surged, thundering against the police line, howling threats and obscenities, and on the other side, the Anglo Front rose to the challenge, wielding baseball bats, jeering and giggling, and cops strained to hold both groups at bay, locking their shields tight, digging in their heels, and the crush got fiercer, wilder, pinballing Aishah this way and that way, her head swimming, her ears buzzing, and that’s when she spotted a couple of hippies pouncing on a steel mailbox at the sidewalk, rocking it back and forth, tearing it loose from its mooring, raising it like a battering ram, and she gasped and cried out, urging them not to do it, but her words were lost amidst all the proclamations of rage and vengeance, and with a scream, they charged the police line, exploding through, sending cops tumbling, and hippies and skinheads poured through the breach, throwing themselves at each other, clubbing and punching and kicking and trampling, sweat and blood speckling the air, and it was madness, absolute madness, and Aishah scrambled to get away from the violence, pushing against the human current, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst, and the cops let loose with tear gas and rubber bullets, and to her left and to her right, demonstrators went down, groaning, convulsing, but others surged and picked up the slack, hurling cans and bottles and rocks, shattering a shopfront’s glass display, its security alarm going off in a mournful wail, and the cops rallied and stormed into the fray, slashing with their batons, knocking demonstrators down, whipping them into submission, and Aishah staggered through the stinging gas, coughing, choking, eyes watering, wishing she was out of this nightmare, wishing she was safe at home with her child—

  That’s when something smashed into her head, and she lurched, falling, scraping her knees. Glass. Petrol. Fire. And red-hot pain washed over her, a thousand pinpricks that swelled and swelled, and her face felt like it was bubbling, bursting, melting. Smelling like the oiliest barbecue.

  Aishah gasped.

  In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful…

  She swatted at her head, her hair coming off in clumps, and suddenly, it felt as if the flames were inside her, scorching her lungs, sealing her throat shut. Her hands felt like claws, numb and swollen, and her muscles seized up, and she collapsed and shivered and wheezed. Her mouth was dry. Oh so dry. And the last thing she thought about before the blackness overtook her was the horrible, all-consuming thirst.

  CHAPTER 34

  Maya watched the woman burn on the television. It was the most gut-wrenching, soul-destroying sight. And the knowledge that came with it was worse. Knowing that it was all happening in real time, but not being able to do a damn thing about it.

  Sweet Jesus.

  All she could do was watch.

  People were scrambling to help the woman. Whipping her with their jackets. Splashing her with bottled water. Trying to smother the flames. But their efforts only made things worse. The blaze danced and sizzled like a living beast, growing, blooming, exploding, forcing everyone to stumble back.

  Maya winced, her stomach cramping up.

  And that’s when the news network decided to cut to a commercial break. It was sudden. Jarring. And incredibly dumb. Of all the adverts they could have chosen to play out, they went with one for dog food, featuring a bouncing golden retriever, a laughing family and a cheerful jingle.

  Damn it.

  Maya raised the remote. Aimed it at the television. Killed the broadcast. She shook her head. Felt rage and sorrow pooling behind her eyes like a burning itch. That woman was someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. Someone’s child…

  Damn it.

  Blinking hard, she turned and studied the Khans as they sat on the sofa behind her. Belinda was cupping her mouth and trembling, her face bleached of colour. Abraham, though, looked remarkably placid. Hands on his belly. Fingers braided. Near expressionless except for a minor twitch at the side of his mouth.

  The contrast between husband and wife was stark.

  Not just physical, but psychic.

  Maya hesitated before setting the remote down on the coffee table.

  The weight of the moment stretched. Marked by the ticking of the clock on the wall. The ebb and flow of their collective breaths. The wailing of sirens on the street below. The buzzing of a chopper overhead.

  Eventually, Abraham cleared his throat and straightened, his hand clutching the sofa’s armrest, squeezing. ‘Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer. Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere, the ceremony of innocence is drowned. The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity...’

  Maya stared at him. His delivery of the poem was strong. Earthy. Passionate. And the allusions and parallels were unmistakable. As was his intent. He was reaching back into the past, evoking a narrative, a parable, in order to make sense of the present and the future.

  That was his moral compass, and Maya needed to play along. So she nodded, choosing to go with positive reinforcement. ‘William Butler Yeats. The Second Coming.’

  Abraham sighed, his eyes dithering on the television even though there was nothing on the screen. ‘I must admit, I have never quite fathomed Yeats’ pathos until now.’

  ‘He couldn’t help it. He wrote it in the year after the First World War. A time of great sorrow and grief.’

  ‘And foreboding. Frightful foreboding. He knew that the conclusion of that conflict was simply setting the stage for another one. He foresaw it with such apocalyptic clarity, yet he could do nothing but lament.’

  ‘You feel like Yeats.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘But you’re not Yeats, sir. You’re you. And you have choices. Options.’

  Abraham blinked and looked at Maya for the first time. And she knew that she had planted the seed of self-reflection in his mind. Self-awareness. A visceral injection of reality. He needed to understand that nothing was inevitable here. Nothing. And if he would only soften his stance on the book tour, more collateral damage could be avoided…

  Belinda snivelled, hugging herself as if chilled. ‘Is she…? Is that poor woman going to be all right?’

  Maya inhaled slowly, then exhaled through her teeth. Her first instinct as a woman was to lie. To comfort. To dilute the trauma. It would be so easy. But, no, she needed to apply psychological pressure here, and only the ugliness of truth would cement that.

  So she folded her arms. Kept her voice measured and calm. ‘I’m not going to lie to you. The smoke that was coming off that woman was thick and black and twis
ting. That means she’s been doused in a Molotov cocktail mix—it not only contains fuel, but oil. It’ll stick stubbornly to her skin. Burn long and burn deep. Burn until there was nothing left to burn. I don’t think the prognosis is going to be very good. It never is with third- or fourth-degree burns.’

  Belinda swayed back and forth, her teary eyes pleading. ‘But they poured water on her…’

  ‘Yes, they did, but water only makes an oil-based fire worse. Splashes it about. Causes it to accelerate. The only way to stop it is to blanket it completely. Starve it of oxygen. And to do that, you need a foam or powder-based extinguisher.’

  ‘So she’s a goner? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Even if the fire service gets here right now, I don’t think she’s going to survive. I’m so sorry.’

  Silence.

  Uneasy silence.

  A part of Maya was sorry that she had said what she had said. It felt… cruel. Unbearably cruel. But another part of her—the harder part of her—knew that it was necessary.

  Sure, the hotel was locked down. Every point of ingress and egress covered. All the contingencies planned for. But allowing the Khans to get too cosy in a protective bubble would be misguided. In the long run, it would only impair their situational awareness. Blindside them to the risks and hazards. Disconnect them from reality.

  Maya needed to puncture any misconceptions. Deliver a dose of gritty truth. Make the Khans understand—truly understand—what was at stake. And she had done it in the way that Mama had taught her. By profiling the vulnerabilities of husband and wife. Matching them up with the requisite trauma. Embedding it into their subconscious. Allowing it to fester.

  Now she could only hope that the payoff was worth it.

  Abraham and Belinda traded a strained glance, unspoken understanding rippling between them. Then, slowly, very slowly, he reached out, brushing away her tears and took her hands in his. The icy mask he had put up before had well and truly crumbled. In its place was something Maya had never seen before—humility.

  Abraham twisted his lips and swallowed, his head dipping. ‘This is… a tragedy. A terrible tragedy. And I cannot continue like this. I simply cannot.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘I think… public events are now off the agenda. I will talk to my publicist. Instruct her to scale back my tour. Concentrate solely on closed-door events. It’s the right thing to do.’

  CHAPTER 35

  The riot was over.

  Deirdre watched the police round up the agitators. Hammer them into submission. Regain control of the street. Finally allowing firefighters to move in and extinguish the burning woman, her body charred beyond belief.

  Deirdre slipped off her glasses and gave her touch screen a hard tap, terminating the drone’s feed. She leaned back against her chair, rubbing her eyes. Crisis had been averted. Operational security had been restored. But, hell, the damage was already done.

  She exhaled, her nostrils flaring.

  Tactically, they had just lost the initiative. And she had to act decisively if they had any chance of regaining it. That meant widening the cordon. Locking down the entire block. Making it a complete no-go zone. Repelling the press and the public in preparation for the bait-and-switch.

  CHAPTER 36

  Devlin awoke from a dreamless sleep. He blinked once, twice, before sitting up straight, knife in hand. His nap had been a shallow one. He never allowed himself to drift too deep. Especially not in strange motel rooms. There was nothing worse than an intruder crashing through your door and not being able to react because your mind was cobwebbed and your limbs were frozen.

  Devlin shuddered as he remembered Jakarta. It was years ago, true. Back when he was young and smug and stupid. But he didn’t want a repeat.

  Never again.

  Slipping out of bed, he padded over to the window and parted the curtains ever so slightly. He scanned the parking lot, saw nothing dubious, then turned away and made for the bathroom.

  Leaving the door ajar so no one could surprise him, he stripped down and entered the shower stall. Placing his knife within easy reach, he cranked the tap open and stepped under the water without waiting for it to heat up. The cold blast made him gasp and double over. But he endured it, jaw firmly set. He didn’t want to be in here longer than he had to be. Being boxed into a teeny space with no room to manoeuvre made him uneasy.

  Just as the water began to get lusciously warm, he twisted the tap off. He exhaled. A shame. But he didn’t want himself getting too comfortable. Comfort and complacency often went hand-in-hand.

  Stepping out, Devlin towelled off and retrieved a roll of duct tape from his suitcase. Tearing off two strips, he secured his knife to his left forearm. Nice and snug. Only then did he get dressed in fresh clothes.

  CHAPTER 37

  Devlin left his room with icy steel under his sleeve.

  He had just reached the parking lot when Tim stumbled out from the reception building, his face pale and beaded with sweat. ‘Hey. Hey! You’re not going into the city centre, are you?’

  Devlin frowned. ‘I’m sorry. What…?’

  ‘My God. Haven’t you heard the news?’

  ‘News?’

  Tim backed up against the reception’s door, bell jingling, and beckoned him with an anxious hand. ‘Shit. You need to see this. Come on.’

  Devlin hesitated, then stepped inside, smoothly moving into an isosceles stance, ready to go for his knife…

  But then he saw the television playing in the corner.

  And he stared at the news coverage.

  Fuck.

  He had half-expected this to happen. The client had hinted as much. But to actually see it unleashed for real was… vulgar. Disturbing. He wanted to say something, anything, but he just couldn’t find the words.

  Tim fidgeted, rubbing his bald head. ‘It’s all going to hell in a hand basket.’ He moved behind the counter, fumbling with the phone, his voice trailing off. ‘Whatever you do, don’t go into the city centre, you hear? It’s madness down there. Oh God. I need to check on my daughter. I hope she’s all right…’

  Devlin pursed his lips and stepped outside. He just stood there for a moment. Rubbing his fingertips. Feeling the breeze on his check. Taking slow breaths. Then he shook his head and departed the motel.

  Focus.

  He had to focus.

  Things were in motion now, and he needed to stick to the schedule.

  CHAPTER 38

  Devlin kept his route oblique, random, unpredictable. He’d walk down different streets, sometimes on the left, sometimes on the right, sometimes detouring, sometimes doubling back.

  Occasionally, he’d circle the block, checking his peripheral vision and the reflection on passing windows. The glare from the mid-afternoon sun made it difficult to take in everything, but he managed as best he could.

  Was anyone staring at him? Was anyone keeping pace with him? Devlin switched up the tempo of his movements. Sometimes he sped up. Sometimes he slowed down.

  He spent a good twenty minutes looking for unusual behaviour. Anything that came across as being too smooth or too forced. He was particularly wary of people who wore hats and sunglasses. Hats could conceal miniature cameras relaying information to other participants, while sunglasses hid their eyes, making it difficult to tell if they were staring at him or not.

  But so far, so good. Nothing unnerved him. So Devlin closed in on his destination—a bus stop in front of a school. As he did, he spotted yellow chalk marks smudging the left side of the canopy. Two vertical slashes. Just below waist level.

  Emmerich.

  Averting his gaze, Devlin pulled a blue chalk from his pocket. With his arm dangling, he scratched the right side of the canopy as he glided past. His wrist jerked, but only for a second, his motion precise. The tip of the chalk snapped and crumbled, but he maintained his composure, willing himself not to flinch.

  All done.

  Devlin carried on and turned a corner, never looking back. Pocketing his chalk, he felt his st
omach grumble and squelch. His hunger was slight, but as he had learned in the army, you should never pass up the chance to feed yourself.

  Eat when you can; sleep when you can.

  That was the mantra.

  Orbiting a row of shops, Devlin came across a takeaway. He regarded it for a moment before stepping inside, breathing in the oily, salty smell of stir-fry. The menu was a large one, stretching across an entire wall. Asian and Western. But in the end, he went with the tried and true—fish and chips.

  CHAPTER 39

  Now all Devlin could do was wait. He returned to his room, switched on the television and unwrapped his meal. Eating as he cruised the news channels, he gave CNN, BBC and Fox a miss and settled on TVNZ, curious for a local perspective.

  Interestingly, they were interviewing a former intelligence officer from the SIS, the country’s equivalent of the CIA or MI6. His face was shrouded in shadow, his voice electronically distorted. All for dramatic effect, Devlin thought. In all likelihood, it was just an actor standing in for the real person—no spook worth his salt would ever appear in front of a camera, anonymous or not.

  Still, what he had to say was intriguing. The prime minister, it seemed, was caught between a rock and a hard place. Her approval ratings were in freefall and the general elections were due soon. She desperately needed to bounce back, and the economic summit in Wellington was meant to be her springboard. She needed to show her constituents that, yes, despite being in power for three terms, she deserved a fourth.

  But now, with the Abraham Khan situation stewing, her best-laid plans were slowly but surely being derailed. Do too little to protect Abraham Khan and she would lose the respect of her hawkish Western peers. Do too much and she risked alienating conservatives in the Muslim arena. Problem was, she had to deal with both kinds of delegates at the summit. Which was worse? Being labelled an appeaser? Or being labelled anti-Muslim?