The War After Armageddon

The emir-general approached with open arms, as if to embrace Montfort. But just when al-Mahdi’s heels stopped clacking on the tile floor, he shifted to the posture for a handshake. The Arab’s grip was firm, distinctly unlike the pudgy Saudi paws Montfort recalled from an earlier war. Al-Mahdi’s robes accented, rather than concealed, his slump-shouldered build. He had the eyes of a successful pawnbroker.

“I hope your immediate journey was not too difficult?” the Arab said. He released his grip on Montfort and swept his right hand toward a wall. “This house is very dear to me. It belonged to my grandfather, you know. The Royal Jordanian general. I loved to visit in my youth. The water here is very sweet, the people respectful. But please! Sit down, General Montfort.”

Al-Mahdi gestured toward a low table laden with plates of fruit and ceramic carafes. Tea steamed, delivered just as Montfort’s he li — cop ter throbbed in for a landing. Montfort faced a choice of a cushioned divan, less plush than al-Mahdi’s own, or a chair with gilt arms and a striped satin seat, a knockoff of a reject from Versailles.

Montfort took the chair. The emir-general dropped back onto his throne of cushions. A black grape fell onto the tabletop, an extravaganza of mother-of-pearl inlay. The Sunni Arabs Montfort had encountered over the years presented themselves as Islam’s Calvinists, but their appetite for florid interiors hinted at private indiscipline.

Veering east from the Jordan Valley, the flight up the Wadi al Tayyibah had been difficult for the pilots, who had to scrape the neglected fields below the wadi’s walls to evade the MOBIC’s own radar coverage. But Montfort had felt nothing resembling worry. He had no fear of death, although his dismissal of it had more to do with pride than with his faith.

“You look weary, my friend,” al-Mahdi told him. The emir-general leaned toward the table and lifted a bowl of dates. “Please. Let me offer you nourishment. You are my guest, after all. In my grandfather’s house, we cannot be enemies. And I had these dates brought in just for your pleasure. They come from the finest grove between the Tigris and Euphrates, not far from Baghdad. Where, I’m told, you acquired a taste for them, when you were a young warrior.”

Montfort shook his head. No, thank you. Al-Mahdi smiled. Amused. After setting down the bowl, he brought a glistening date to his lips, bit into its flesh, and sucked away half of the dense, brown pulp. After swallowing, he said, “You see, General Montfort? They are not poisoned. Neither my duty as a host nor my judgment would permit such a thing. And, truth be told, assassinations have never brought my faith lasting successes. They were our version of what your military used to call ‘surgical strikes.’ Or ‘decapitation strikes,’ to be still more precise. Just as such shortcuts did not work for you, they also failed us. Although we quite liked to dance about and celebrate the death of this fellow or that.” He smiled again, finished the date, then said, “No, the easy solutions never work. Do they? We must grip our problems in their entirety and act boldly if we want results that endure. But you do look weary — some tea, at least?”

Montfort reached for his cooling glass of tea. “I need to confirm that everything’s on track.”

“But do try a date. They’re wondrous. On track? You rather exceeded our agreement regarding Jerusalem. But I ascribe that to uncontrollable enthusiasm. In the future, however, I will expect our agreement to be honored ‘to the letter,’ as your diplomats like to say.”

“Jerusalem was always to be ours. To administer as we see fit.”

“Well, then, you’ve simplified your task, I suppose. You haven’t left a great deal to administer. But done is done.”

“Since we’re on the subject of things not going quite as planned,” Montfort said, “I have to tell you that there’ll be a slight delay in Nazareth. In eliminating your target group. General Harris is being obstinate.”

“You told me he would not last. That he would be removed.”

“Some things take time.”

“Do you have the time? Do we?”

Montfort tasted the tea. Too sweet. Like mint syrup. “I’ll take care of Nazareth. And General Harris.”

Al-Mahdi finished his own remaining tea in a gulp. And he sighed. “I allowed for difficulties in Nazareth, given the tender sentiments of General Harris. We’ve taken certain measures of our own. To simplify your task. But I wonder about this ‘Flintlock’ Harris. He seems a clever fellow. Moreso than I was led to expect.”

“He’s not. Astute, perhaps. But certainly not clever.”

“But isn’t that a more dangerous quality? To be astute? Doesn’t Aristotle tell us that cleverness precludes depth? In The Poetics, I think. Although I hope you will not pin me down. A clever man will outwit himself in the end. But an astute fellow?”

“I’ve never read Aristotle.”