Legends

“The thought of the angel Gabriel whispering the verses of the Holy Koran into the ear of the Prophet inspires me,” the imam was saying. “Muhammad’s description, in what you call The Book of the Ladder and we call The Miraj, of his ascent to the nine circles of heaven and his descent into hell, guided by the angel Gabriel, keeps me up nights. The Creator, the Maker, the All-Merciful, the All-Compassionate, the All-Sublime, the All-Mighty inspires me. The one true God inspires me. Allah inspires me. The thought of spreading His word to the infidel, and killing those who do not accept it, inspires me.” He held his cigarette parallel to his lips and studied it. “And what is it that inspires you, Mr. Pippen?”

Dante grinned. “The money your organization deposited in my account in the Cayman Islands inspires me, Dr. al-Karim. The prospect of monthly installments, paid in exchange for services rendered, inspires me. No need to shake your head in disapproval. It comes as no surprise to me that you find our several inspirations discordant, yours, of course, being the nobler of the two, and mine, by far the more decadent. Since I don’t believe in your God, or any God, for that matter—I am what you would call a very lapsed Catholic—I think that your particular inspiration is as ephemeral as the contrails I saw on my drive down from Beirut. One moment they were there, sharp and precise, each with a silver Israeli jet fighter streaking through the crystal Lebanese sky at the cusp, the next they were thickening and drifting and eventually dissipating in the high winds.”

The imam considered this. “I can see you are not a timid man, Mr. Pippen. You speak your mind. A Muslim who permitted himself to say what you have said would be putting his limbs, perhaps even his life, in jeopardy. But we must make allowances for a very lapsed Catholic, especially one who has come all this way to teach our fedayeen how to devise bombs to blow up the Isra’ili occupiers of Lebanon and Palestine.” He leaned toward Dante. “Our representative in Paris who recruited you said you were born in an Irish town with the curious name of Castletownbere.”

Dante nodded. “It’s a smudge on the map on the southern coast of the Beara Peninsula in County Cork. Fishing port. I worked on one of the salmon trawlers before I went off to seek my fortune where the streets are paved with gold.”

“And were they paved with gold, Mr. Pippen?”

Dante laughed under his breath. “At least they were paved, which is more than you can say for some parts of the Beara Peninsula. Or the Bekaa Valley, for that matter.”

“Am I correct in thinking there was an expensive restaurant in Castletownbere called The Warehouse?”

“There was a pricy restaurant for the occasional tourist, but it wasn’t named The Warehouse. It was called The Bank because it was in the old bank, one flight up on Main Street. Still had the bank vault in the back when I was there. I seem to remember a Mary McCullagh ran it in the sixties. I went to school with one of her daughters, a pretty little thing we called Deidre of the Sorrows because she made so many of us sorry when we discovered we couldn’t sweet talk her into bed.”

“You were arrested by Scotland Yard following the explosion of a bomb on a bus near Bush House, the BBC building in London.”

“Is that a question or a statement of fact?”

“A statement of fact that I’d like you to corroborate, Mr. Pippen.”

“I was killing time in London when the bus blew,” Dante said, his eyes blinking innocently. “The coppers barged into a licensed tabernacle and more or less picked up anyone who spoke the King’s English with an Irish accent. They were obliged to release me after forty-eight hours for want of evidence. Bloody bastards never even apologized.”

“Did you blow up the bus, Mr. Pippen?”

“I did not. But the two who did learned which side was up from yours truly.”

The imam smiled thinly. Glancing at a wall clock with a silhouette of Ayatollah Khomeini on its face, he pushed himself to his feet and started to leave. At the door, he turned back. “I seldom have the chance to speak with an Occidental nonbeliever, Mr. Pippen, especially one who is not in awe of me. Talking with you is going to be an enlightening experience. One must know the enemy before one can defeat him. I invite you to visit me in my study after your afternoon classes, every day of the week except Friday. I will offer you mint tea and honey cakes, you can reciprocate by offering me insights into the secular mentality.”

“The pleasure will—” Dante started to say but the imam had already vanished through the latticed door, which squeaked back and forth on its hinges, evidence of his passage.