Stan Mason - Stopping World War Three

A waiter came over to take our order and we fell silent until he had departed.

‘I sympathise with you, Jason,’ continued Musaphia with candour. ‘I respect your honesty and your resolve. However, we fight against an imminent Jihad… a religious war… in the same way we have fought against tyrants and despots in previous world wars. This is a replay of the first Crusades. The difference is translated by the technology of war and weaponry. We certainly need those plans of the laser gun.’

‘Well from my point of view, I’m taking all the risks and getting nothing in return. You’re going to have to do something better if you want my co-operation.’

‘Agreed. Your file clearly states that you’re a man seeking a cause to occupy your time and your mind. A man who searches for constant change and challenge. We have something in mind to solve your problem. Let’s say you’re serving a probationary period. But don’t worry… we’ll soon find your wife.’

The waiter brought our starter and we paused until he left.

‘You’re still offering me nothing, Musaphia,’ I returned bluntly.

‘It’s already been given to you,’ came the response. His lips pressed even tighter on his cigar. ‘In the year 732 a.d. Charles Martel led the Franks to Tours where he defeated the Muslim army. If he had not been successful, the interpretation of the Quran would now be taught at Oxford and Cambridge, while the pulpits of the City of Gleaming Spires might demonstrate the sanctity and truth of the revelations of Mohammed. The benefit has already been conferred upon you by others nearly thirteen hundred years ago who didn’t hesitate to act in the face of adversity when they were called to arms. We are all indebted to them.’

I was appalled that he would thrust past history as an excuse for my involvement in his cause. ‘That argument doesn’t wash with me,’ I spat rudely. ‘History’s in the past… we’re here at present. As far as it goes, I don’t owe you or the world anything. I’m sure others would lay down their lives to prevent what you say will happen but I’m too selfish, too cautious, too suspicious of predictions about the future. Okay, Primar caught me with my pants down concerning the photographs of me and Miss Smith, and he blackmailed me by saying he had arranged for proof that I had mishandled the company’s funds. But there are limits to which I’m not prepared to go beyond.’

Another waiter returned to pour wine into our glasses and he fussed around the table momentarily until he placed the bottle into an ice bucket.

‘Very well,’ retuned my host sagely. ‘You’ve made your feelings clear but I’m going to presume there will be a turning point in your mind. When that happens we shall talk again. In the meantime, I ask you not to worry about your wife.’ He paused for a moment to think. ‘Look… I offer you a deal. If you co-operate, I’ll arrange for you to play for your country’s international bridge team for a whole season.’

Silence reigned between us for a few moments as I allowed the information to sink into my brain. ‘How can you possibly arrange something like that? It’s not possible!’

‘You’ll be surprised what I can do. If you’re willing to help us, you’ll be in the British team for a whole season. You can play for your country in Istanbul tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow!’ I echoed, realising that I would be on the move once again. ‘Okay… I agree!’ I consented immediately completely astonished that he was able to pull such powerful strings. There was far more to this old man than I imagined.

‘But first there’s a small task I want you to perform whilst you’re out there.’

I sat back in my chair with a rueful smile on my face. ‘I knew there’d be a catch in there somewhere.’

‘You’ll be free to do as you wish when you’re not playing bridge,’ he went on. He placed his hand to his inside pocket and produced an envelope and a passport. ‘I want you to visit a man called Mustapha Ozal at this address. Once in Turkey, apart from the bridge congress, you will go under the name of Mushtaq Hussein. This is the passport that bears your photograph and that name. You’re the editor of a new Islam magazine in Britain similar to Hurriyet, a popular Turkish journal.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Ask him how he feels to be a Mahdi… the man ready to assemble all of Islam as a Messiah, to rise up against the infidels in the West. Tell him you want to write about him in your magazine so that every Muslim in Britain will learn about his coming.’

‘But how do you know the man is the Mahdi… a God-guided deliverer? Most religious sects grew popular after such ‘Mahdis’ were dead.’

Musaphia drew deeply on his unlit cigar again before replying. ‘In the modern world one cannot leave such matters to divine intervention. If the oil ran out and no deliverer appeared, the people of Islam might lose momentum without a strong leader. Then we could be faced with ambitious tribal leaders forming separate militant factions. Terrorism would increase substantially on a wide scale. As such, Islam is identifying characteristic people to train to become Mahdis so that someone will lead. To our knowledge, there are fourteen people in this category at the present time. All of them outstanding personalities with leadership qualities awaiting selection when the time comes.’

‘That’s crazy!’ I exploded. ‘If what you say is true it’s like having fourteen Jesus Christs… all at the same time! Surely you can’t have so many people in the field doing the same thing!’

‘I’ll tell you how you can,’ he continued, flicking the imaginary white ash off the end of his cigar. ‘Firstly none of these men know of the existence of the others. Secondly, they all train in private so they’re not known to the general public. You’ll understand a lot more when you meet Ozal. After that, we’ll arrange for a debriefing. It helps to know what goes on in the mind of a God-guided deliverer.’

I started to become concerned for I seemed to be getting in deeper despite the fact that I kept saying I was not for sale. ‘What happens if something goes wrong? What sort of back-up will I get?’

He looked at me strangely. ‘What could go wrong? You’re the editor of a new magazine on Islam in Britain.’

‘That’s far too simplistic,’ I rattled feeling my blood pressure rising as I realised the implications. ‘What do I know about Islam? You can put it in a thimble and still lose it. He’ll talk of religious matters of which I’m totally ignorant. He’ll twig I’m an imposter in no time.’

‘You’re a man of originality seeking challenges, Jason,’ he responded coolly. ‘Go to a reference library and learn all you can about Islam. But as you’ll be leaving by the eight o’clock plane tomorrow morning, I fear that the opportunity is lost. You’ll need to find a book on the subject at the airport. As far as your background goes, you’re a British subject born of parents who emigrated to Britain from Beirut. Don’t worry… you won’t be expected to know everything about Islam.’ He passed the envelope and the passport over to me. ‘This envelope contains a fair amount of Turkish lira and your airline ticket… you leave at eight o’clock in the morning. Good luck at the tournament!’

My mind was in a whirl. I hadn’t played bridge for nearly three weeks which didn’t bode well. A lapse of that time could cause a high-class player to lose his edge almost like a concert pianist who hadn’t played the piano for a while. In addition, I had no idea who might partner might be in the international team. It was essential to have an excellent understanding between us if we were to be successful at that level. There was also another matter which would have to wait if I went to Turkey. I couldn’t meet Penny at our usual restaurant. I wanted to hear her explanation about the incident with Tomar Duran in Crete but it would have to wait.