Baal

FROM HIS ROOM Virga telephoned the hotel in which Naughton had stayed. A man there explained to him basically what he'd already learned from Judith. Naughton had simply left his belongings and vanished. No word, no trace. Perhaps, the man inquired, if he were a friend of Mr. Naughton he would care to pay the remainder of his bill and pick up his suitcases? Virga said he would be in touch again and hung up the receiver.



He tried to rest to alleviate his jet lag but he couldn't fall asleep. Instead he tossed in bed and finally lay staring fixedly up at the ornate ceiling. Through the open windows that looked out on a small balcony the waves of heat were stubborn and brutal, but to close the windows would mean no air circulation. The air conditioning wasn't working. So he lay on the bed, the sweat slowly gathering under his arms and at his temples, and he listened to the raucous noise in the streets below: the honking of automobile horns, the screech of tires, the cursing and shouting, the occasional blast that might have been either a backfire or the report of a gun. He watched the noise swirl up at the ceiling, there among the ornate gilt-edged scrollwork the Arabs use to excess. It hung there like cobwebs.



He rolled over and unfolded the magazine photograph. The figure was thin and tall; the features were only a shapeless blur. Virga wondered what this man who called himself Baal looked like. He found himself mentally piecing together fragments of faces, though none of them seemed quite right. Whatever he looked like, whoever he was, his presence had thrown this land crazily off balance. And, Virga realized, this man's strength was now stretching across the land's boundaries infecting, as the Kuwaiti had told him, those in other countries as well. The idea of one man wielding the power to throw people into savagery, like the god he had named himself after, was as unsettling and frightening as a nightmare in which one must run but is trapped in an invisible mire.



And another thing disturbed him. He could see no good in this movement whatsoever. Behind the facade of its promise of "individual power" was the extreme of violence and rule by mob. All order in this land was on the verge of being overthrown.



He rose up from the bed. He had loosened his tie earlier, and now he took it off. He stripped off his shirt and walked into the bathroom to draw bathwater. After he had turned on the taps he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: almost completely bald, dark circles of age under his eyes, the mouth slack and tired. Age had crept upon him line by line, night by night, year by year. He didn't remember growing old. Around his neck hung the small golden crucifix, a gift from Katherine.



Katherine.



He took the crucifix off and laid it carefully on a table on the other room. When he returned to the bathroom he saw a residue of sand at the bottom of the tub.



When he had dressed in a cool blue suit and reapplied the sunburn balm to his face he locked the door and took the elevator down to the lobby. The pool of blood was still there.



Outside the hotel he stood in the heat and watched the erratic flow of traffic while waiting for a taxi.



The cabdriver had a ragged gray beard and wore a dirty white cap pulled low. Virga slipped into the rear seat and showed him the magazine photograph. "Do you recognize this place?"



"I recognize it," the man said.



"Can you take me there?"



He re-entered the stream of traffic. He drove for a while without speaking, sometimes detouring streets that had been closed off by police officers. Here and there Virga saw groups of uniformed soldiers on patrol; once they passed the body of a soldier, sprawled and bloated on the sidewalk. Once the cab was waved away from a street of ravaged, bullet-torn shops by three soldiers who appeared to be fresh from battle; one of them had a bandage wrapped around his head and another supported himself weakly on his rifle.



They drove on through narrow deserted side streets and alleys.



The driver said, "Everyone wants to go out there. Why do you wish to see him?"



"I'm very curious," Virga said.



"You won't get in."



"Why not?"



"He sees no one."



"Have you taken many others there?" Virga asked.



"And brought them back when they were turned away. You're no different. I'll be bringing you back as well."



"Perhaps."



The driver grunted. "No perhaps. You're an American? A journalist?"



"Yes, an American. But not a journalist."



"Then what do you want to see him for?"



"I'm a professor of theology," Virga said. "I've heard a great deal about him."



"No one," the driver said, "sees him."



Virga decided there was no point in arguing. Something caught his eye, a white-painted slogan, in Arabic, on the wall of an empty building: KILL THE JEWS.



They passed the jumble of beggars' shanties and continued out toward the city's edge. Then they were in the older part of the city where the stone walls twisted like serpents and the stones of the road were rough and broken. Beyond the square, flat dwellings Virga could see high walls surrounding a structure with imposing, time-worn turrets. As they neared he saw a cluster of automobiles and vans and a swarm of men with cameras and microphones. Around the walls people, in all manner of clothing, either milled about or sat on the ground with their foreheads pressed against the stone. An iron gate was closed across a driveway through the wall and Virga saw it was guarded by two Bedouins in white dishdashahs. He also saw they carried submachine guns.



The driver stopped the cab along the wall and said without looking back, "I'll leave the meter running."



Virga looked at him disdainfully and walked the fifteen yards or so along the wall to where the main body of journalists packed around the barred gate. He was able to see the turreted structure beyond; he had the immediate impression of great wealth and grandeur. The driveway continued on, split around an island of carefully manicured shrubs, then became a short stairway of stone leading up to a massive canopy-shaded doorway. The structure was more tall than it was broad; windows in the turrets gave no sign of life and Virga noted that much of the glass had been broken out. On all sides the lawn was green and immaculate and there was even a small pond. Beyond the landscaped shrubbery there was a metal-walled hangar and a hint of heat waves rolling across tarmac.



Someone jostled into him. Someone dropped a camera; Virga heard it shatter on the stones. There were curses and shouts and suddenly he realized he was in the midst of a group of journalists, none of them appearing to be American. Someone started shouting in French at the Bedouin guards and Virga saw, with an alarm bordering on panic, one of the men swing his submachine gun up, smoothly and coldly, with the air of a seasoned killer. The angrily shouting Frenchman continued his verbal abuse. One of the guards stepped forward and grabbed at a man in a loud green jacket. Another man said something sharply in a language Virga didn't recognize, and a scuffle began between two or three men at the front of the group. Fists were flying. The Bedouin guard staggered back away from the gate and at that moment the crowd of journalists saw their opportunity and surged forward with their cameras ready, moving toward the gate in hopes of getting through. The other guard backed away.



Virga struggled against them. He was carried forward and almost went down. Someone beside him was shrieking in Arabic, "One picture! One picture!" A man ahead of Virga fell down and Virga tripped over his legs. He reached out a hand for support and found himself grasping the bars of the gate, his face pressed against the scorching iron.



He caught his breath and tried to pull away but there were others behind him, pressed forward by the group of wild journalists.



Something growled, low and with utter menace.



Virga was looking into the bared maw of a Doberman pinscher on the other side of the gate. Its eyes were wide with a fury that signaled attack; the gleaming white teeth, stake-sharp, were only inches from Virga's face. The animal strained on a chain leash.



"My God," Virga said.



Behind him the journalists were snapping pictures one after another. They pressed against the gate, their cameras whirring.



The man holding the Doberman let his grip go slack on the chain.



Virga jerked his head away just as the animal charged the gate. It sprang up on its hind legs, snapping and snarling at the men, who cringed but still kept taking pictures even as they backed away. Another Doberman sprang from nowhere. It remained crouched, growling, with eyes that watched for any new threat.



The Bedouin guards tore into the journalists, pushing them back with their weapons. One of them fired his gun over their heads by only a few inches and spent shells clattered to the ground. Another Bedouin reached down and roughly grabbed Virga around the collar, dragging him back away from the gate.



"No," said a man standing on the other side, the man whose fingers had released the dog chain. "Not him."



The Bedouin looked up. He immediately let Virga go and turned to push the other men back with the butt of his gun.



The man behind the gate grabbed hold of the dangling chain and drew the dog toward him. Someone else, another man, retrieved his animal as well.



Virga shook his head. He had bumped it on the gate and he felt dizzy. He slowly brushed himself off and got to his feet. He looked through the bars at a tall blond man whose flesh was the color of paste. His eyes seemed dead; they stared through Virga. Beside him stood a darker man with curly hair and broad shoulders. Both of them shared the same incurious expression, the same air of superiority. And both of them, Virga saw, had some sort of mark on their foreheads. He couldn't tell what it was.



The blond man said in English, "I heard you say something. You're an American."



"Yes," Virga said, his head beginning to ache. "I am."



"You're a journalist?" the man asked. At his side the eyes of the Doberman yearned for Virga.



"No." He thought for a moment of what he was but the ache in his head prevented him from remembering.



"Your name?"



"Virga," he said. "My name is James Virga."



The man nodded. He glanced over at the darker man, who turned without a word and walked up the drive toward the structure beyond.



And suddenly he remembered. "I'm a professor of theology," he said.



"I know," the man replied. He threw a bolt on the gate, then another, and finally he swung it open.



Behind Virga the crowd surged forward again toward the opened gate. The blond man grasped Virga's shoulder and pulled him through, then let the Doberman stand guard while he unhurriedly rebolted the gate. The Bedouins were knocked aside, cursing. Men crushed up against the iron bars, shouting and pleading.



Over the noise of the journalists, the man said, "Rashid. Kill three of them."



The words took effect. The journalists scrambled away from the gate, clawing at each other so as to get someone in front of them in the line of fire. Several of them fell to the ground and were trampled senseless.



But already one of the guards had stepped forward, satisfaction and pleasure on his face. His weapon came up with an excruciating delicacy. In the next moment it rattled in an arc across the front line of the terrified men. Shell casings hissed in all directions.



The blond man drew the Doberman close and began walking up the drive. When he saw that Virga wasn't following he turned and said softly, "Are you coming?"



Virga was staring at the dead men on the other side of the bars. The crowd of journalists had scattered; some were still taking pictures as they ran. One of the Bedouins kicked a corpse squarely in the face. Virga turned away. "Yes," he said. "I'm coming."