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course. This Bernice would want to send her a card of birthday greetings. Possibly even a gift.
    Mulazim could barely contain his excitement. He stood up from the laptop and stepped to Bernice. Leaning close, he shouted into her ear. “Liar,” he snapped. “I wish you were still living. I’d show you what you get for lying to me. But see? You didn’t fool me. I am Mulazim the Greek. No woman fools Mulazim the Greek.”
    Bernice dead, however, presents problems.
    First things first. What to do with her body? With luck, she won’t be missed until Monday morning when she fails to arrive at her desk.
    She had one closet that was large enough to accommodate her and the chair. He could drag her. When eventually found, it would be clear that she’d been tortured. By whom? By thieves. Maybe looking for drugs. From what he had heard about the blacks in America, the police, when one is murdered, always think in terms of drugs. He would spend a little time ransacking her house. He would take whatever jewels and money she had and whatever else a robber would take.
    And of course her car because he needs a car, but also so it looks like she’s away. Wait for dark, get off this island, put some distance between us. Her car was a small SUV painted silver. Made by Ford, it was called a Ford Escape. He’d seen others much like it. It was probably quite common. There would be no urgent need to find another.
    Along the way, he would stop at some large shopping center that has many cars in its lot. There, he would steal a new license plate and scrape the tennis school’s sticker from her windshield. He would shop for new clothing, American clothing, after noting what other men who shopped there were wearing. Also for binoculars and, of course, for a weapon. A more suitable weapon than is found in a kitchen. Then he would find a motel for the night where he could go through her laptop at his leisure.
    Mulazim felt sure that he would find what he needed. He was doing God’s work; God would help him. His sheik had said, “You must also use your head.” Well he has. Look what he’s found. In just one afternoon. And once again, he will be leaving no trail.
    But first he would finish his sandwich.
     

FOUR 
    The Saudi, Mulazim, had not been alone in dismissing the talk of this prophecy. Most Muslims, men and women, shrugged it off at first hearing. Abbas Mansur, a senior mullah in Iran, had certainly been among them. Now what, he’d wondered? An Islamic Joan of Arc? And she’s supposed to show up any day now?
    Yes, a young woman. More than that, a quite beautiful and radiant young woman. They never seem to be homely, thought Mansur. But that aside, what is her purpose? Why is she coming? Is she to be the promised Mahdi who’ll bring peace to the world by converting all its people to Islam? No, her mission is considerably more specific.
    But first, the best part. Who is she, exactly? It’s seems that it’s none other than Aisha herself. It’s the Prophet’s favorite wife, his warrior wife, the one who went into battle at his side. The one who led an army, well after his death, against the break-away Shiites. She led it while dressed in white head to toe and perched high on the back of a camel. Called “The Lady of the Camel” ever since.
    And now she’s back. Reborn. Flesh and blood, or so we’re told. And with a whole new agenda. It isn’t just Sunni versus Shiite this time. Nor is it merely to correct any other departures from the teachings that Allah made known through her husband. No, it seems that she’s gone feminist on us. Aggressively feminist. According to the bloggers who’ve been spreading the word, she intends to box the ears of all Muslim men who have failed to give our women their due.
    Well, if so, she’ll have her hands full, thought the mullah.
    And coming where? Right here. To the Republic of Iran. Specifically, to its capital, Tehran. Or at least that seemed to be the consensus as to where she planned to