The Aisha Prophecy by John R. Maxim Read Free Book Online Page A

women back the most. The Saudis seem to be the primary target, but some think she’ll hit us all at once.”
    “Good,” said the mullah. “Let her knock herself out. Let’s not waste any more of our time on this.”
    Abbas Mansur was no doctrinaire zealot. He was known to have an open and inquisitive mind, respected even by the reformists. A former diplomat, a scholar, widely traveled and an athlete. He coached soccer and basketball, he skied and he fenced. His eyes, blue and piercing, were his dominant feature. They suggested wry wit and intelligence. But for all his intelligence, he had grossly underrated the impact that this prophecy would have.
    What began as a trickle some three months before had turned into a flood, a tsunami. It had not only swept across all of Iran, it now seemed the talk of the whole Muslim world. Women, all over, were spreading the word that the day of “Hislam” was coming to an end and having a grand old time doing so. The Council of Guardians, which he currently chaired, was demanding that action be taken.
    He’d asked, “What sort of action? We need only to debunk it. It’s a spurious prophecy. No one’s coming.”
    “And yet it keeps spreading. It must be stopped.”
    “Stopped how? Mass arrests? Let’s try not to go crazy. It will stop soon enough when she fails to appear. It’s a fad. A passing fancy. Nothing more.”
    First Danish cartoons and now this, thought Mansur. An under-reaction would be nice for a change. So would a president of Iran, for a change, who doesn’t antagonize the whole western world every time he steps up to a microphone. Calm down. Give this time to blow over.
    But the fancy didn’t seem to be passing. If anything, it was picking up momentum every day and not only among the young and restless. Groups of women, all ages, gathering in public. Not really demonstrating. Simply waiting and praying. In doing so, defying their husbands and fathers. Enduring taunts from the crowds that they attract. All those women risking being pelted or worse. Crowds egged on, in some cases, by demagogue clerics, but most often by reporters with video cameras. Reporters start more riots than clerics.
    He’d placed a call to Colonel Aram Jalil inviting him over to shoot a few baskets in the schoolyard down the street from his office. Jalil was with Savama, the secret police, but a fair man, a thoughtful man, not a zealot like some. The colonel knew that when Mansur said, “Let’s go shoot some hoops,” it really meant “Let’s talk in private.” Both knew that it was almost impossible to eavesdrop past the sound of a ball being dribbled.
    Mansur got there first, wearing sneakers and sweats with the ball that he kept in his office. Four young men were using the opposite court. They nodded their respect, but kept their distance. Jalil arrived wearing street clothes, a gym bag in hand. Mansur dribbled as the colonel laced up his sneakers. He asked him, “This prophecy. How serious?”
    “The coming of Aisha?” Jalil let out a breath. “It’s grown far beyond what I’d thought possible,” he answered. “I would say it’s very serious indeed.”
    “And they’re actually starting to believe that she is coming?”
    “Not starting,” said Jalil. “Tens of thousands already. And not coming; they think that’s she’s already come. They believe that the prophecy has been fulfilled. Some, through anonymous postings on the web, have claimed that they have seen her, spoken to her, described her and now have flocked to her banner.”
    The mullah grunted. “One-upmanship. That’s how stories grow. There’s always someone who’s ready to embellish them.”
    “All the same, some believe them,” said Jalil.
    “Some always do, but what of the rest? Are they actually convinced that she’s reborn as their champion? Or do they only wish it to be so?”
    “If you ask how many wish it,” said the colonel from Savama, “the number must be tens of millions. I judge this