Jihada: The Lost Scriptures Page 2
The big worry for us all James, particularly the members of the better Gentlemen’s clubs, is that there seems to be almost as many Muslim MPs as Christians in the House of Commons these days, and if those buggers had their way, there would be a total ban on all alcohol sales in the country. Can you believe it James, this week they are debating the introduction of Sharia law to apply to all Muslims in the country? England, - Bloody England, - with two sets of laws: One law for the English, what few of us thoroughbreds are left that is, and one law for the bloody Muslims. It isn’t even safe to walk down our own streets now without some bloody foreigner trying to stab you or blow you up. Mark my words James, we will soon have a Muslim parliament and a Muslim Prime Minister; it is a well known fact that many of the more recent intake of MP’s lean in an Easterly direction towards Mecca’.
‘Yes I am fully aware of what you mean Rupert’, McNaught pursed his lips and shook his head as he spoke, ‘the situation in the capital seems to be deteriorating on a daily basis; I was almost stopped and searched twice as I walked to the club, fortunately both the policemen recognized me and saluted as I passed’.
‘It’s that bloody beard of yours James, I have told you about it on numerous occasions; no self respecting Englishman sports a beard any longer, beards are for Muslims; when a man with a beard walks towards you, you cross over to the other side of the road, or you risk being stabbed or blown to pieces’. With that, Sir Rupert nodded at the bartender, and two large brandies appeared almost immediately.
‘Cigar Sir Rupert’? Inquired the bar tender.
‘Maybe later Stuart’, he replied, ‘oh and can you ask the magician to delay until I am ready’?
‘Certainly Sir’.
‘Why are you looking at me like that James, was it something I said’? Sir Rupert knew he had been rumbled; what a stupid thing to say in front of a man like Sir James McNaught. Little did Sir Rupert know, that to McNaught, his mind was always an open book.
‘How long Rupert’?
Sir Rupert knew that lying was of no use; he knew that many of the thoughts inside his head were read by Sir James, well, probably by his body language rather than actual mind reading, he simply was not aware that every thought was shared: many people thought of McNaught as being telepathic,-a mind reader,- magic almost. ‘My family founded the club well over 150 years ago James; it was me that changed the name to the Aspin Club, and of course it’s modus operandi; you have to realize that it is all about profit nowadays’.
‘What about standards Rupert’?
‘Bugger standards James; standards and profit don’t always sleep well together’.
‘Prostitution springs to mind Rupert; no standards, yet a bloody good profit to be made out of a nice pair of legs; they do sleep well together though’.
‘Steady on old chap, I do hope that this doesn’t go any further’.
Sir James McNaught smiled a superior knowing smile; breeding now had little relevance in their relationship; he now held the full deck of cards, and everyone knew what magic he could perform with a deck of cards; after all, wasn’t he the world’s greatest magician? His deck of cards now contained considerably more than 4 aces.
Sir Rupert squirmed uncomfortably in his chair as McNaught spoke, a big grin crossing his large, bearded face ‘Your little secret is safe with me Rupert, now what was it that the little shit of a defense secretary wanted’?
‘Well James, can you recall Admiral Beatty’s famous quote during the battle of Jutland’?
‘Wasn’t it about there being something wrong with our bloody ships, as HMS Hood exploded and disappeared in a ball of flames; that quote Rupert’?
‘Exactly James, well there seems to be something wrong with our bloody planes; they keep disappearing. Not literally disappearing, but moving around in the sky, or at least that is what appears to be happening on the flight control screens’.
‘If they didn’t move around Rupert, they would fall out of the sky; I thought the whole idea of a plane was to move around’. McNaught laughed as he spoke.
‘Not bloody sideways James, and certainly not several hundred miles in only a few seconds. Something is going very wrong in the world of aviation, not just in this country, but America as well. So far everything has been kept very hush-hush for obvious reasons, but it is only a matter of time before word gets out and the conspiracy theories start; people will simply be too afraid to fly and world commerce will suffer. It is already going through a bad time, what with those idiotic Frenchies selling their missiles to anyone with the money to buy them; every damn terrorist organization in the world now has the ability to bring down an airliner with only a few minutes training’.
McNaught closed his eyes for a few seconds, a broad smile appearing on his face before he spoke. ‘Rupert, I have told you on countless occasions that there is no such thing as magic. A plane cannot disappear and reappear somewhere else. I don’t profess to be an expert on aero dynamics, but I would think it highly unlikely that one could fly sideways: I therefore don’t understand why that little shit of a defense secretary wants to involve me. It is quite apparent that there is a systems failure. Newton’s laws of motion tells you that unless the plane is subjected to an outside force, it will continue flying in a straight line, and not sideways; and as for appearing somewhere else, absolutely preposterous. There are only 3 options that can explain what you say has happened. One,-- the system of monitoring is wrong, two,-- the machinery doing the monitoring is wrong, and three,-- there is an external force that is altering the flight path, which of course brings us back to dear old Newton. The laws of Physics are the one and only true constants in the universe; I may appear to disprove them on stage Rupert, that is part of my act; never the less, the only thing that I can manipulate is the mind,- nothing else,-only the mind’.
Sir Rupert shook his head and smiled almost condescendingly at McNaught. ‘It is option three that has everyone worried James; do you think that both the other options haven’t been checked a thousand times? This has been going on for months now, the Americans are going frantic. One of their civilian aircraft with over 200 passengers on board found itself over the Pacific Ocean last week; the only problem being that it set off due East for Europe from New York 30 minutes earlier. It had travelled over 3000 miles in the opposite direction in less than half an hour’s flying, in fact the blessed thing moved from the Atlantic to the Pacific in the blink of an eye’.
‘Not possible Rupert, someone is pulling your plonker, now we either have another brandy or we go in to see your magician, and you can tell your defense secretary that he every bit as stupid as he is ignorant, and I may well thump him the next time that I meet him. Alcohol is no excuse for bad manners, especially to my wife; Mary was quite upset all evening’.
Sir Rupert raised a single finger at the bartender who responded immediately with two more brandies and a fat Cuban cigar. ‘Thank you Stuart, you read my mind perfectly; sometimes I think that you have more psychic powers than Sir James’.
‘Nothing quite so exotic sir’ Stuart replied, at the same time flashing a sneaky wink at McNaught, ‘it’s to do with the look in your eyes and the angle of your finger’.
‘Well said Stuart’, Sir James McNaught laughed, ‘THAT my dear Rupert is what magic is all about; not bloody great airplanes flying sideways over the Pacific; -- it is in the eyes, the body posture, the mannerisms, the shifty little glance that you threw when you realized that I might discover your not very well concealed little secret about the Aspin club; you might just as well have written it down on a piece of paper, it was written all over your face’.
‘It’s a bloody good job that I don’t tell lies then James, well, certainly not in your company; in the house of course I always tell lies; that’s my job, I’m a politician’.
Both men laughed out loud, and as they did so, a young man with what appeared to be a tanned slightly Middle Eastern face walked across the room and disappeared through an old wooden door marked ‘staff only’.
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‘What did you say Rupert’? McNaught enquired.
‘I didn’t speak James, why’?
‘Sorry Rupert, I could have sworn that you said good afternoon’.
‘No James, not a word, no one said anything’.
‘Someone spoke Rupert, and you are the only other person close to me’.
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After finishing their second brandy, Sir Rupert nodded at Stuart, the bartender, and both men got up to leave the room and watch the young magician’s show. They entered into a large, dimly lit room, at the center of which was a small stage containing an equally small table, and nothing else. No more than 20 chairs were positioned around the stage, and all bar the two front centre ones were filled. Stuart had done his masters bidding well.
McNaught looked around and recognized several of the faces, at least 5 of whom were MP’s, each one of them in turn acknowledging both himself and Sir Rupert. All the faces were the normal white middle aged ones usually associated with London Gentlemen’s clubs, with the exception of 2 darker skinned men with Middle Eastern features. The larger of the 2 men was clean shaven with the smaller man sporting a bushy black beard. With the exception of McNaught, who was Sir Rupert’s guest, bearded men were forbidden entry to the club. Bearded men were forbidden entry to any of London’s clubs and pubs.
McNaught wondered how the smaller of the two men had gained admittance despite having what obviously seemed to be a very Islamic beard. He felt a little uncomfortable as he caught the eye of the larger of the two men. There was just something about his demeanor that did not look right,- his eyes were cold and dark and he was fidgeting, always a sign that a person’s mind did not want to be where his body was. He was also sweating profusely.
The bearded Arabic man was much more calm and friendly, and smiled openly with his eyes as they met the eyes of McNaught; he then resumed his fixed stare across the room towards the larger, slightly more intimidating Arabic man.
Having worked audiences for well over 20 years, it was always McNaught’s policy to carefully view and evaluate, perhaps even to psycho analyze each person both before and during his act. He instinctively knew which member of the audience to bring onto the stage; get it right, and the magic was in the eye of the beholder;- get it wrong however, and his carefully cultivated reputation could be undone in minutes if the event was being recorded.
McNaught never got it wrong, that was why he was the world’s greatest magician: that was why he was Sir James McNaught, and not simply James McNaught. That was also why the presence of the large Arabic man seated behind him and to his right concerned him.
‘This used to be a sort of games room James’, Sir Rupert interrupted his thoughts, ‘contained 4 full sized snooker tables; I used to be pretty good at it myself’.
‘Both the symptom and the product of a miss spent youth then Rupert, I could never stand the game’, McNaught replied, ‘the damned balls never did what I wanted or willed them to do; give me people every time, people do not obey nor are they subject to the laws of physics; people can usually be pointed in any direction that I want them to point’.
‘Not all of us James’.
‘Oh I think that you will point pretty much where I ask you to Rupert, especially now that I know why the much loved Colonial club has been turned into this Aspin club monstrosity; and, who was responsible for it’.
‘That is called blackmail James’.
‘Yes, that is exactly what it is Rupert. Don’t you just love being in control’?
Sir James McNaught sat a little uncomfortably in his chair. He hated telling lies, yet he had just told one to Sir Rupert. He could make snooker balls deviate from the straight and narrow if he so wished; all he needed to do was to stare and think. The balls would go where ever he wanted them to go. He quickly dismissed the thought; it was probably some explainable magnetic force that he was capable of. It most certainly was not magic – there was no magic.
A hush descended on the room as the young magician entered and took his place on the stage. McNaught experienced a strange feeling of tranquility. ‘Good afternoon Sir James’, came the same voice that he had heard a little earlier.
‘Was that you ’? He asked, turning to his left and facing Sir Rupert, ‘Did you just say something’?
‘No James, not a word; I think that perhaps the brandy is starting to affect you; maybe the 100 years that it spent maturing in the cask has made it a little too sophisticated for the more working class palate’. Sir Rupert spoke softly.
McNaught looked up at the stage and saw that the young magician was looking directly at him and smiling. He was perhaps 16 or 17 years old, lighter skinned than the average Arabic youth, but most definitely of Middle Eastern stock. His eyes were his most striking feature; dark, almost soulless, yet with a penetrative power that made him feel that they were looking deep into his very soul. Strangely, there was no malice in them; soulless maybe, but one look and a feeling of calm descended.
Sir James looked away; he understood the power of hypnosis, and in an instant he was sure that he knew why Sir Rupert had been so enthralled with his act. Everyone in the audience was now in his power; this was mass hypnosis on an industrial scale, and all it had taken was one glance.
McNaught looked around him; it was as if he was surrounded by Zombies, the living dead, only the two Arabic men were not affected; they had closed their eyes. A feeling of panic started to engulf him. He was still in full control, but for how long would it last? He dare not look at the young magician: those eyes, they had the power to immobilize, to control. He could not stand not being in control.
The mysterious voice returned, ‘It is ok now Sir James’, and with that the young magician began his act.
McNaught looked firstly at Sir Rupert, and then at the rest of the audience. Everything had returned to normal. The larger of the two Arabic men was still a worrying presence; he had the same soulless eyes as the young magician without the calming presence. The bearded man was now staring at the larger man with a look of menace in his eyes. McNaught felt suddenly intimidated, fearful; the calming influence that he had felt as the young magician had entered the room had now deserted him.
Allahu Akbar came the scream as the flash from the exploding bomb temporarily blinded McNaught. He then felt hands taking hold of him, escorting him away from the carnage yet to come. As his eyes began to focus he saw the magic---magic that did not exist---magic that did not conform to Newton’s laws; magic that did not conform to any laws on earth. Magic that only conformed to the Laws of the Universe.
Time was frozen, the blast was somehow suspended. The head of the larger of the two Arabic men was no longer attached to his body. It was suspended in mid air,- the eyes still wide open. As in all suicide bombings, the head is always separated from the torso as the rest of the body starts to disintegrate and fly off in different directions.
‘Hurry’, came the voice of the young magician, ‘I cannot hold it for much longer’.
The smaller of the two Arabic men had a hold of Sir McNaught’s arm, and was pulling him towards the steps that led out of the club. Up the steps they ran, and on reaching the main road, continued running for some 20 or so yards before the sound of the explosion hit them together with the shock wave.
Sir Rupert and his old family money had finally been parted; he hadn’t had the time to take it with him.
CHAPTER 3
Michael
The two police officers wrapped the child carefully in a blanket and drove him away from the Catskill log cabin into the nearest town, leaving him in the hands of the town’s doctor, before returning to the cabin and collecting whatever identity papers that they could find. The cabin’s owner had by now arrived and was busy cleaning up the blood and the afterbirth off the floor, retching as he did so. He was standing in the pool of blood wearing a pair of blood stained trainers that had started the day as white ones, and like a man shoveling coal into a furnace, was shoveling blood and afterbirth into a
couple of large bin liners, spraying blood all around the room as he did so.
The two officers positioned themselves carefully in order to be out of the line of fire, the odd drop still splashing around before settling on their pristine uniforms.
‘Poor girl’, remarked one of the officers, a middle aged, grossly overweight man; his stomach looking as if it was desperate to break free from his uniform at any time , ‘Her husband looks as if he just drowned, and she had to give birth all on her own, poor girl, she must have gone through hell. I suppose that the ambulance has taken the body down to the morgue’?
The cabin owner simply nodded a couple of times before he spoke, ‘Neither of the two men looked like locals to me; they simply loaded her up like a piece of meat and drove away. They didn’t even stop to ask about the child; they were gone before I had time to speak to them’.
‘Can you let me have the address and any other details of the couple so that I can get in touch with the next of kin? I will check the girl’s body out at the morgue when we get back into town, and see what the hell the ambulance men were up to’. The younger of the two officers asked, taking out his handkerchief and dabbing at a couple of blood spots that had evaded the bag and landed on his shiny black regulation shoes.
‘Sure’, the man looked up as he stopped his cleaning, ‘damndest thing I’ve ever seen though; the girl barely looked pregnant when I saw her a few days ago; she told me that the kid was still a couple of months away, also, I know I’m no doctor, but this mess looks more like the afterbirth from two kids, not one’.
The two police officers looked at each other in surprise before the overweight officer remarked, ‘I sure as hell don’t know where she was hiding it then, the kid looked full size to me’.
The other officer laughed as he spoke, ‘hung like a little donkey as well’.
‘That was his umbilical cord you prick’, the first officer replied.