John Schettler - Nexus Point

Jabr looked at him, a bit wide eyed, and then slowly translated what he had been saying. The Kadi kept looking from Jabr to Paul, clearly annoyed, yet determined. His brows drooped and returned a flash of the same anger Paul had postured, resolving more to a stern indignation. He spoke again, his voice clear and loud.

“Then you claim to serve no order? You are not a sergeant, or even a squire? Do you speak truly?”

They were going to hold to this drivel about knights and squires, and Paul shrugged. “No,” he said disconsolately. “I am not a knight, or a sergeant or a squire or anything else. I was simply here on an archeological dig to recover a fossil. Now, if you must know, the find was very valuable, and yes, we were removing it without papers. I can’t imagine that is very much of a crime, and we can offer any compensation that may be asked—along with the return of the Ammonite, if that matters. Now I want to be put in contact with the American embassy in Amman. Is that clear?”

While Paul had hoped his directness would bring this matter to a quick conclusion, Jabr looked more and more bemused as he went on. He began speaking to the Kadi, but Paul realized that he was not making a simple translation. The two men were speaking to one another now, clearly animated, as though trying to reach some mutual conclusion on what to do next. The Kadi waved his arms, giving Jabr a clear instruction until he turned to Paul and spoke, his voice low and controlled.

“The Kadi does not understand— we do not understand the things you speak of. Yet, he must reach discernment here. This is very important Do-Rahlan. You must speak truly, and open yourself. Otherwise the judgment here could be harsh.”

There was a cold scrape of metal and the echo of hard footsteps. All eyes turned to see a man striding from the shadow of an alcove behind the dais. He was dressed in white robes, hooded, with a sable sash tying off his garments at the waist. Paul saw that his hand rested on the hilt of a sheathed weapon, and wondered if this was a captain of this little troop of Arabian guards. All the men in the room seemed to defer to him as he emerged, the guards stooping to a kneeling position as they caught sight of the man. Even Jabr averted his eyes and lowered his head. Only the Kadi sat straight, chin high, an indignant fire in his eyes as he watched the extraordinary figure approach. Paul sensed the edge of tension between the two men, and realized that the audience had taken a strange turn, spiraling into some unpredictable level of danger that he now sensed quite clearly in the room. The guards were not merely deferring with respect, they were afraid. Jabr bowed low and Paul saw that his hand was shaking as he did so.

The man’s tread slowed, and softened on the thick carpeting as he drew near. Paul was drawn to him, catching the glint of his eyes from beneath the hood of his garment. He cut an ominous and threatening figure, and seemed very intent upon Paul. Then the Kadi spoke, as though to draw the attention of the man, pulling at the interloper, who turned from Paul to heed him.

The two men exchanged words, and the tone seemed quite unfriendly. Then the Kadi pointed at Jabr, and called his name. The translator quavered a bit, bowing first and then whispering in Paul’s ear. “I am instructed to interpret for you now, and I advise you to be cautious in all you say here. The third pillow has arrived, and the time of your judgment is now at hand.”

Paul glanced at the empty cushion to his left. Good cop, bad cop, he thought. This must be the real interrogator, or perhaps the ringleader of this little group. They’re terrified of the man—except for the Kadi. Those two stand on equal footing, and there’s some enmity between them, that much is clear.

“This is Sami Abdul-Basir of Massiaf, Servant of the All Seeing. He will question you now, and the Kadi will listen. You must speak truly, and may Allah guide you in all you say.”

The Sami pointed at Paul and spoke, his voice quiet and almost melodious, his eyes catching and magnifying the wavering light of torches, though his face remained shrouded in shadow.

“The Sami has heard all that was spoken before,” said Jabr. “He asks you now to chant your oath, and reveal the Order you serve.”

Paul looked from the Sami to Jabr, and then made up his mind. “Tell him I serve no order, and I take no oath.”

“Ana Laa Afham. The Sami does not understand how this can be so, for all Walkers are sworn. He asks if this is taqiyya— forgive me,” Jabr explained. “He does not believe you. He suggests that you deny your true faith and position out of fear, or to conceal your real motives.”

“You mean he thinks I’m a liar.” Paul did not mince words. “Well, he can think whatever he wishes, but I hold to no order, as he suggests. This is nonsense!”

“Then how is it you have come to this place at the appointed time. The Kadi has said your coming was written. You were expected. Explain this.”

“I have no idea what the Kadi means,” said Paul, holding his ground in spite of the hostile tone in the Sami’s voice. “My arrival here was an accident, nothing more.”

“Then you had no Dawa? You were not prepared?”

“They have tried to explain that to me, but I don’t understand. I am not in the employ of any government, if that is what you mean. I wasn’t briefed or cajoled or bribed. I simply fell! I had an accident! Look, I am a free citizen, if that is not something you people have difficulty comprehending. I go where I please and, right now, the only thing on my mind is getting home. I demand to make a phone call to the embassy of the United States in Amman.”

The Sami spoke sharply in reply, though Jabr softened the words in translation. “Who is this emissary you wish to call upon? Is he your contact here? Is he a Templar?”

“Embassy,” Paul’s frustration was apparent. “Look here, either you are the gracious people you first appeared to be, or you are a band of Islamic radicals—I don’t know which. Quite frankly, I don’t care. Just make up your mind here and get on with this. Either grant me my rights under international law, or, if you refuse—”

The Sami shouted.

“Be silent, Do-Rahlan!” Jabr seemed terrified.

The white robed figure had drawn his weapon, and he strode boldly up to Paul, a long dagger gleaming in his hand as he came. But, as he drew near, his hand seemed to freeze, and Paul caught the sibilant intake of the man’s breath, as though he was physically shocked. He stopped short, and Paul could see his hand tremble ever so slightly where he held out the knife. He obviously meant to threaten, if not to do Paul serious harm, yet something had taken hold of him, like an unseen hand restraining him. He stepped away, as a man might back away from a ghost. His left hand moved to grasp his right where he held the dagger, stilling the tremor.

What was going on here?

The Sami was clearly shaken by his approach to Paul, and began engaging the Kadi in a heated exchange. Paul looked at Jabr, and saw that his eyes were pressed tightly closed, his head low. Something was clearly amiss, but Paul could not guess what it was. He only knew that his fate was somehow teetering in the balance, and wished he could think of what to say or do. Finally, the Kadi stood up, his eyes set with bright determination; his arm pointing sternly at the Sami’s drawn dagger. The Sami said something more, his voice low and threatening. Then he turned and strode away as he had come, disappearing into the shadows behind the dais. No one moved until he was gone.

Paul was watching the Kadi very closely now, and he could see that the man was shaken, as though the confrontation with the Sami had been a trial that drained his strength and energy. His fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose, and then, as though suddenly aware of Paul’s regard, he glanced up, his hand returning to stroke his beard. He spoke to Jabr again, who whispered quietly in Paul’s ear.