The Disciple

Ghasem stared at his grandfather with his jaw agape. One didn’t hear blasphemy very often in Iran these days.

“Of course,” Dr. Murad continued, “hardly anyone ever reads the old one. If they did, they’d discover how little theology is really in it.”

They were sitting in the garden outside his grandfather’s house, where the old man was feeding the birds, a pastime that consisted of tossing birdseed on the ground and seeing how close the birds would come to his feet to get it. Since the professor had been doing this for years, the answer was, very close.

“God spoke to Muhammad, may he rest in peace, and he gave us the Koran,” Ghasem said. “He was the last prophet.”

“God could speak to someone else. You or me, for instance. Anyone.”

“Why did He choose Muhammad?”

“Aah, a very good question. My students are afraid to ask questions, afraid of being accused of blaspheming. The fear of being unorthodox is one of the major problems facing Muslims.”

“All religions control their adherents, to a greater or lesser degree,” Ghasem retorted.

“Indeed. Social and political control is one of religion’s major functions. Without control, religions would not have proven so popular through the ages.” The old man dropped more seed just beyond his shoes. The birds went for it fearlessly.

“Why Muhammad?” Ghasem repeated.

“He had the standing in society, the charisma, the ego, to found an empire, to make people follow him, to lead them to military victory. Yet no one would have followed him unless he claimed he had a mandate from God.”

“God spoke to him,” the young man replied, “and he obeyed.”

“Megalomaniacs and the mentally ill often tell us they hear God’s voice,” the professor shot back. “Muhammad could have been either.” He shrugged. “Or both.”

Ghasem waited for lightning to strike the old man dead. When he realized it wasn’t going to happen right there and then, he exhaled.

The manuscript was heavy in his hands. It was wrapped in paper, tied with a string, and was several inches thick.

“Islam is a fundamental religion,” Israr Murad mused as he watched the bravest bird peck tiny seeds near his right shoe. “It was a tool to create a nation. All who didn’t follow Muhammad were the enemy. For many Muslims, that distinction is quite real even today. They see the world as us versus them. Nor can they imagine a legitimate secular government to which they owe obedience. Muhammad ruled by divine right; he was God’s anointed. Baldly, the Muslims are stuck in the seventh century while the rest of the world has evolved, has grown tolerant of different people, different religions and different ways of life. Only through tolerance can different people live under a secular government that rises and falls based on political issues that have nothing to do with religion. Islam is the most intolerant major religion on the planet.”

“All religions have problems,” Ghasem said thoughtfully. “At the core, each must be accepted by faith.”

“Yes. Faith.”

“One must surrender to God.”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe, Grandfather?”

“In what? In the Koran? In the Christian Bible? Judaism? Hinduism? Buddhism? What?”

“In God.”

The old man thought about that. After a lifetime of scholarship and contemplation, Ghasem thought, he has to think about the most basic question. With a jolt he recalled his grandfather once remarking that by trying to learn everything, a scholar risked knowing nothing at all.

“I don’t know,” the old man confessed, his voice barely audible. He thought about that for a moment more, then tried to straighten up in his chair. He couldn’t. Age had bent him like a twig. “All religions today share a common problem,” he whispered. The professor gestured toward the manuscript, which caused much fluttering among the birds near his feet. “Read,” he said. “It’s all in there. A lifetime of work and thought. I put it all down.”

Ghasem was young-he couldn’t help himself. “What is the common problem?”

“The god that they worship is too small.”

Hyman Fineberg met General Darma at a small estate well outside Jakarta. The general’s limo had picked him up in town, and the driver, the general’s son, let him off in front of the house. He wandered around back and found the general sitting alone by a swimming pool, in a swimming suit and short-sleeve shirt, drinking beer.

The general offered Fineberg one, and he accepted.

“I think your day is next Thursday,” Darma said. “He will arrive on Wednesday, meet with the president that afternoon and evening, then attend a state banquet. On Thursday morning at eleven he has a meeting scheduled with a group of religious leaders. It was scheduled then to give him a few hours to rest and recover from the banquet.”

“Thursday afternoon?”

“Another audience with the president, then a press conference.”

“But the morning?”

“The limo will be waiting in front of the hotel. I can pull the security people away, so when he and his bodyguards come down in the elevator, they will be alone.”

Hyman Fineberg took a sip of cold beer and considered. He had spent the last two weeks as a guest in that hotel and knew every inch of it. Darma knew that, of course. What Darma didn’t know, Fineberg hoped, was that two other Mossad agents had also been in the hotel, watching his back.

They drank beer and talked about how it would be. “You ca

“I understand.” Indeed Fineberg did. He had his instructions from Tel Aviv; they wanted Ahmadinejad dead, but no i

“This… incident… will not cause you too much grief, will it?” Fineberg asked.

General Syafi’i Darma considered his answer. When he spoke, Fineberg watched his eyes. “There will be questions-after all, I am the director of Indonesian security. I will be contrite. The Mossad’s reputation is well known. It is possible, however, that for political reasons the president may ask me for my resignation. If so, I will go quietly. I have had a long military career, and whatever happens, I will have a comfortable retirement. Due to your generosity, very comfortable.” Darma smiled.

Fineberg smiled back. Unfortunately only one side of his mouth worked as it should.

Yes indeed, the Israeli thought. The little fat bastard might be contemplating a double-cross.

“Please keep in mind,” Hyman Fineberg said pleasantly, “that if my government gets the slightest suspicion that you took our money and betrayed us, your future will become problematic.”

“Don’t threaten me,” Darma snapped.

“I beg your pardon, General. I do not mean to demean or insult you. I merely mentioned a fact of life, one of which I am sure you are well aware. A faux pas on my part, no doubt. Accept my apology, please.”

“I keep my promises.”

Fineberg smiled broadly, which made his face look even more lopsided. “And I keep mine.”

That evening Ghasem went to his uncle’s home to visit with his cousin Davar in her room in the attic. She spent her time here doing mathematics, playing with her computer, and calculating costs and materials for her father. Stacks of his blueprints and specifications were neatly arranged on a table in one corner.

“Why don’t you go out?” Ghasem asked her for the thousandth time. “Go to the university? Meet your old friends? Why don’t you get a life?”

She eyed him, then ignored his comments, also as usual. The truth was she did go out, and often, and talked to a wide variety of people. Some of them were giving her material to pass on to Azari in America, some were just people she liked being around, and some were people she thought had something important to say about where Iran was and where it should go in the future. These people were men and women. Ahmadinejad and the mullahs didn’t understand the power of women. They forced them back into chadors and manteaus, but the women were the impetus that was going to someday overthrow the mullahs, or so Davar hoped.