Infidels Read online

  Suddenly the General stopped, glaring at the corner for a moment, then at Nayef. “At ease.”

  Nayef spread his legs slightly, clasping his hands behind his back, thankful the display was complete. Displays like this were tiring, predictable and all too expected when dealing with the Saud family. Whenever anything bad happened to one of them there was the requisite anger at the injustice or crocodile tears at the loss. It reminded him of when Kim Jong-il had died. Those who didn’t cry “hard enough” were taken away and beaten, some killed.

  The level of grief displayed publicly became a matter of survival for those unfortunate souls.

  It wasn’t quite so bad here.

  Yet.

  He was a distant cousin in the entire scheme of things so he had many perks living in Saudi Arabia, but his relationship was so tenuous, he didn’t have the lavish lifestyle the truly direct descendants enjoyed.

  Like the man in front of him.

  “What is the latest?”

  Nayef bowed slightly. “General, survivors have confirmed that His Royal Highness was taken by force by a group of men who stormed the Al-Masjid al-Haram Mosque, killing the ceremonial guard and several of the Ulama. They then removed their clothing, revealing uniforms of the ceremonial guard underneath. They took the transport vehicle with the Black Stone and the other escort vehicles, driving out of the city unchallenged.”

  The general shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve heard the story half a dozen times already and I still can’t believe it. Are there any leads on who did this?”

  Nayef hesitated for a moment, the latest piece of reported intel so incredible, he felt the General would appreciate the dramatic pause.

  The man leaned forward expectantly.

  “One of the survivors reported that the men who kidnapped His Royal Highness and stole the Black Stone…”

  “Yes?”

  “…were speaking English.”

  Saudi Arabia, near the Yemini border

  “Put these on, quickly!”

  Josh Pullman finished toweling himself off, the unexpected bath he had been provided a shock—a welcome one, though still a shock. He had vomited all over himself the day before when he had been hauled away, his friend and colleague, Bill O’Toole, left to die in the street. He was ashamed that it wasn’t the sight of his friend that had caused him to vomit, but that of the orange jumpsuit they had handed him at their first stop.

  He had watched the videos that most Americans hadn’t, those of his fellow journalists and aid workers being beheaded by barbarians, those of Christians lined up on a beach and massacred, all because they refused to convert to the only religion on the planet that demanded all who left it die.

  There were many lively discussions among himself and his colleagues, especially when the liquor started to flow in the hotel room—finding a bar in a devoutly Islamic country difficult at the best of times, impossible when the zealots were running around with canes and guns, whipping and killing anyone who violated their strict interpretation of Islam.

  But someone always managed to sneak a bottle or two in with the camera equipment.

  About the only time they bit their tongue was when an Al Jazeera reporter was in the room, though sometimes they were the most outspoken, a refreshingly unexpected turn when it did happen.

  The consensus among his European colleagues was that Europe was already lost to the Muslims, their birth rate more than double the average and left-leaning socialist governments still bringing in hundreds of thousands more in a misguided effort to be politically correct.

  “North America is the last hope of Western civilization,” Bill had said just two nights before.

  “And Australia.”

  “True. We have to kill any notion of multiculturalism. The old melting pot philosophy is the way to go. You come to our country, you become American. None of this covering your face bullshit, trying to get bacon banned at your favorite breakfast place or segregated prayer rooms in our public schools. You come to America, be American.”

  “Or get the hell out.”

  There had been a round of cheers at his statement. Unlike most Americans, he and his fellow reporters had seen firsthand the horrors this religion was capable of, horrors unheard of from Christianity in hundreds of years. Josh and Bill had a good laugh when they heard the tired example of the Crusades trotted out to excuse the modern horrors of Islam. Didn’t they realize that the cause of the first Crusade was the Muslim slaughter of three thousand Christian pilgrims in Jerusalem? Europe didn’t send thousands of knights to the Holy Land on a whim, they sent them to protect fellow Christians from the marauding hordes that were massacring innocent people on peaceful pilgrimages to the Holy Sepulcher.

  In other words, they slaughtered thousands of Christians, then blamed Christianity for reacting, and continued to blame them for a thousand years.

  And the lie had been repeated so often, even world leaders now believed it, and a left-wing dominated press rarely challenged its poster boys when they spoke about politically correct topics.

  It was politically correct to hate America, to hate Christianity, to hate those of European descent who were responsible for everything from the oppression of Muslims and other minorities to slavery and poverty.

  There of course was no mention of the fact slavery had existed for millennia, long before Christianity had even been heard of, long before the kingdoms of Europe were more than rampaging barbarians, or that it was the Europeans who put an end to it and it was non-Christian cultures and countries that were continuing the practice to this day.

  It frustrated him, and as a reporter he had always tried to sneak in the little tidbits that the honchos back home frowned upon, but it had proven popular, so as long as he didn’t push too hard, they kept him on the air.

  And it made him wonder if that was why he had been taken, the conservative reporter about to be beheaded by the very madmen he had condemned time and time again for this very action.

  I guess it would be a fitting end.

  He grunted.

  And it would sort of prove my point.

  But what faced him now was unexpected.

  A set of business-casual clothes were sitting on a cot, his guard pointing to them. “Get yourself ready quickly. His Royal Highness is waiting.”

  His Royal Highness?

  His Arabic was pretty good, actually, damned good, his mother Lebanese, it spoken around his house for most of his youth, especially at family gatherings. He didn’t begrudge her this indulgence, though he now held the view she should have spoken English more to integrate into her new country.

  Yet it had given him a qualification few Americans had—he was a red-blooded American who fiercely loved his country and spoke the language of its greatest threat.

  Which put him in demand as a journalist.

  And was also a handy tool when dealing with Arabs who simply assumed he didn’t speak their language.

  Like those he was dealing with here.

  He had heard enough mutterings to know something big was going on and that there was a VIP awaiting their arrival, but he would never have guessed royalty.

  “His Royal Highness? Who?”

  “No questions!”

  He nodded, the barked order and glaring eyes cleaving any courage he might have had from his stomach, the pit left behind threatening the onset of another bout of dry heaves, his last meal long gone.

  As he dressed, he kept a wary eye on the guard, AK-47 slung across his back, and the bright orange jumpsuit sitting in a pile on the floor by the bath, and couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be wearing it once again when these madmen were finished with him.

  For he had zero doubt he would never be allowed to live.

  “Ready?”

  The man sounded impatient. He nodded, running his hands through his curly brown hair, wishing he had some styling products to tame what was likely an unruly mane.

  As he was led from the tent he had been kept in since his arriv
al, he was nearly blinded by the blazing early afternoon sun, its heat quickly baking him dry in his Western-style clothes, sweat beginning to trickle down his back as he was led into a large, impressive Bedouin style tent. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, it was everything he could do not to gasp.

  In the center of the tent was a perfect replica of the Black Stone he had only seen pictures of, non-Muslims forbidden from seeing it in person. And beside it stood a man in impressive traditional Arab garb, his robes flowing, his beard trimmed and his bearing regal, his chin elevated a touch, a slight curl to his upper lip as if he were above anyone else in the room.

  “Mr. Pullman, I am Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud, Governor of Mecca, fifth in line to the throne, and your host.”

  Host. Incredible.

  Josh bowed slightly. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

  Prince Khalid motioned toward a camera and two chairs, one of his men operating the equipment, Josh’s gut flipping for a moment as he pictured Bill behind the camera, a sight he had become accustomed to over the five years they had been together.

  Inseparable. Like brothers.

  Khalid sat in one of the chairs and Josh took his seat next to him, a microphone handed to him.

  “Umm, may I ask what I’m doing here?”

  “You may. You are here to report on a press conference.”

  Josh refrained from stating the obvious. With only one reporter? “And the subject matter?”

  “Immaterial to you. You are to introduce yourself, then me, just like any normal press conference, then I will make my address to the world. When I am finished speaking, I will walk off camera and you will close out the broadcast.”

  “And who will be seeing this?”

  “The world.”

  “Are we live?”

  The Prince looked at another man who was manning some computer equipment, the droning sound he had been hearing since he arrived explained—diesel generator. The man nodded. “We are livestreaming to the Internet, all major Arabic networks have agreed to broadcast us because it is you, your highness, and I am quite certain the major Western networks will quickly pick up the feed as I have notified them of this most momentous broadcast.”

  “Excellent.”

  Josh pursed his lips, reporter mode kicking in, the danger he was in momentarily forgotten. “Is this to be in English or Arabic?”

  “Arabic. This is a message to my fellow Muslims and it is of utmost importance that they understand what is being said.”

  “Then why am I here? I’m American.”

  “You are here because you are recognized around the world as a serious journalist, and I can trust that you will not, shall we say, overreact, to what I’m about to say. You are also one of the few who appears to be able to converse comfortably in Arabic.”

  Secret’s out.

  “So I should do my part in Arabic?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re ready, sire.”

  “Wait, where are we?” asked Josh.

  “Saudi Arabia of course.”

  Not much better than Yemen.

  Prince Khalid nodded and the cameraman counted down from five, the last three all fingers as a crowd gathered behind the camera, a roughshod group of thick beards and a special kind of crazy behind the eyes.

  He felt everyone was staring at him, but it took him a moment to realize they weren’t.

  They were staring at the replica of the Black Stone sitting to their right, plainly in camera view, the monitor showing the broadcast shot suggesting a wide angle was currently being used.

  He got his cue.

  “Good evening, this is Josh Pullman. We’re broadcasting today from Saudi Arabia with this breaking news story. With me today is His Royal Highness, Prince Khalid bin Abdullah Al Saud, Governor of Mecca and fifth in line to the throne of this oil rich country. His Royal Highness has a prepared statement.” He turned to his “host”. “Your Highness?”

  Prince Khalid nodded, a slight smile on his face, it clear this man was perfectly comfortable in front of the camera. “My fellow Muslims, I bring you an important message today, one that will shock most of you, but it is important that you listen to my words before passing judgment upon me or my actions. The Prophet, peace be upon him, was clear in his teachings. Is it not written, ‘God does not forgive idolatry, but He forgives lesser offenses for whomever He wills. Anyone who sets up idols beside God, has forged a horrendous offense.’?” Khalid pointed toward the Black Stone beside him. “This, my brothers and sisters, is an idol. A false idol. The prophet himself, peace be upon him, when he arrived in Mecca, found three hundred and sixty idols, all worshipped by pagans. He himself even admitted to worshipping these same idols before he received the blessed words of Allah himself through his messenger, Gabriel, and once he had been enlightened, he destroyed all but one of these idols.” Khalid leaned forward. “The question is why?”

  Josh listened in fascination, his eyes drifting between the monitor, the Prince, and the replica. The words the Prince was speaking, if spoken by anyone else, would probably lead to immediate death, the very idea of calling the most holiest of Islamic relics a false idol shocking, something he never would have imagined hearing in his lifetime from a devout Muslim.

  Is he a devout Muslim?

  He had to admit he was making an assumption, and as the words continued to pour from the man’s mouth, he started to have his doubts.

  Surely no Muslim would say these things?

  Unless they had a death wish.

  “What many don’t realize is that before the word of God spread throughout our lands, many worshipped pagan gods, and goddesses, one of whom was named Al’Lat. And her symbol?” He pointed to the stone. “This, this shattered rock, broken apart over the ages by those who knew the truth, mended together by those misled by their leaders, those who had missed the test the great Prophet, peace be upon him, had left for us to discover ourselves. He destroyed all of the three hundred and sixty idols being falsely worshipped, but one. Why?” Khalid leaned back in his chair. “For that we must look at history. We know the word of Allah is perfect, there can be no mistakes. And we know the Koran is the word of Allah, as dictated to the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him. Therefore the Koran can contain no mistakes.” Khalid paused, raising his finger at the camera, jabbing the air with each syllable. “Then why is there a mistake?”

  Josh noted the shifting of feet beyond the camera, it clear the men were uncomfortable with what was being said. Yet surely they had known what this was all about before they signed on for whatever this was? He looked at the stone, its silver casing reminding him of something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  “The mistake is clear. Is it not written that the great Al-Masjid-ul-Haram mosque in Mecca was built forty years before Al-Masjid-ul-Aqs-a in Jerusalem? This is in the Hadiths, the Prophet’s questions, peace be upon him, answered by Allah’s Apostle himself. But we know from history that the great temple in Jerusalem was built by Solomon around 950 BC, to use the infidel’s own calendar. History has recorded it as such, and it is fact. So if the Sacred Mosque in Mecca was built forty years before, and we know it is written in the blessed book that it was built by Abraham himself, then that would mean Abraham would have to have been alive a mere three thousand years ago.” Khalid again jabbed his finger at the camera. “And we all know he lived—and died!—over four thousand years ago.”

  Khalid paused, as if to let his words sink in, Josh noting a few of the men watching appeared shocked at the words, a few scared, a few angry.

  You better make your point soon, old man, or you’re going to lose your audience.

  Khalid suddenly clapped his hands together, spreading them apart quickly as if in a gesture of conciliation. “But we know Allah is perfect, and the Koran is the word of Allah, therefore it too is perfect, so how can we explain this?” He rose, stepping over to the stone and placing his hand on the silver form encasing the shattered fragments. “
Since Allah makes no mistakes, then this mistake must be intentional. And if it were intentional, then it had a purpose, and I believe I know that purpose. It is really quite simple. We worship this stone because we believed it was handed down to us by Abraham himself, but even Abraham was just a man, and men are not to be worshipped lest they themselves become idols. And we shouldn’t worship something just because it is associated with one great man. But we have excused this one transgression in our beliefs because it has been written that we should.

  “But I tell you this, the Koran is wrong; it has an intentional mistake meant to test our faith, and for far too long we have failed, all of us have failed by missing this puzzle introduced by Allah himself. All of us, all one point six billion of us, have worshipped this rock because we did not recognize the test given to us by Allah himself. And look what has happened. The infidel has flourished, he kills us in our homelands, the Jews are in our midst, and the Global Caliphate demanded of us by the Koran has failed to materialize.

  “Yet it is not too late. For today I will save us all, save Islam from itself, return us all to the right path, and once we stop praying to this false idol, and pray instead to Allah and his prophets, peace and blessings be upon them, we will rise up and shake off the yoke of our oppressors and bring about the Global Caliphate once and for all!”

  Gunfire erupted from outside the tent, the Prince spinning toward the sound, the men behind the camera hesitating for a moment before rushing out to see what was happening. Two men entered, grabbing the Prince, ushering him away as the cameraman joined them, Josh suddenly finding himself alone as the automatic weapons fire intensified, shouts and screams drifting through the thin cloth walls of the tent.

  He looked at the camera, wondering if he was still on the air, and decided to take the chance.

  “If anyone is seeing this, tell my mom and dad that I love them, and my little sister too. And Connie, I’m really sorry about Bill. He was a good friend and he loved you very much. I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.” He sucked in a deep breath. “This is probably my final broadcast. I hope somebody somewhere watched it. This is Josh Pullman, signing off.”