Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,11

time wandering the crooked lanes of the Peshawar bazaar, staring at gold jewelry to die for and reams of cloth embroidered with a river of color.

If he were Gabriel and in love with a girl with amazing sapphire eyes, would he buy her that one gold necklace with wreaths of fairy-tale leaves and bottomless blue stones? Alejo blinked at the shop window, realizing he had no idea what he would do. During high school back in Bolivia, the girls were more interested in his whiter, richer friends. Since then he’d been too busy trying to save the world.

Stalin found him sweltering under the sun in front of the jewelry shop, clapped him on the shoulder and steered him towards a coffee shop, one of the few modern one in this city.

“Don’t tell me, I can already see it in your eyes,” Stalin said when they’d taken a seat on the sleek red benches. “You’ve been reading that book again. And that means questions, big life and death questions. Go ahead. Ask them all. I am an expert on the document in question, after all.”

Alejo glanced behind them, checking that they were still alone here in the corner. A young couple sat at the opposite extreme of the coffee shop, he wearing jeans and she a short white kameez top, wide-bottom black pants, and a leopard print veil. They both giggled at each other and sipped something fruity from glasses with paper-maiche umbrellas. The drinks Stalin had ordered for them arrived, something with a ridiculous amount of whipped cream and caramel on top.

“Does this even have coffee?” Alejo frowned at the stuff suspiciously.

“You don’t like caramel mochas?” Stalin grinned.

Whatever. Couldn’t be worse than that luke-warm fermented mare’s milk he’d choked down on assignment in Uzbekistan a few years ago. “I don’t think I do have more questions,” Alejo narrowed his eyes at Stalin. “And that’s the scary part. We both know you love to be right, and I’m giving this one to you. Your arguments convinced me: the texts are authentic. He really said it. And if I believe that, I can’t be Muslim anymore.”

Alejo felt his brow lower saying it out loud.

Stalin swore under his breath across the table. “You seriously believe it?” A bead of sweat popped out of his forehead and he slurped caramel and cream. “This time, I’m not sure if I should have allowed my extreme intellect to be so convincing.”

“I do,” Alejo crossed his legs and leaned back. “I can’t help it, I just do. I believe Jesus is the son of God.”

“And that means you can’t be a Muslim anymore,” Stalin conceded glumly. “It’s just not possible. Allah has no son. If Gabriel finds out, he’s going to have a cow.”

Yeah, Gabriel was really religious, more than anyone else on Alejo’s team. But the one Alejo really dreaded telling was Ishmael Khan. The Khan loved Alejo like a son, and in the Pashto culture that kind of love should never be broken. He was going to take it hard that Alejo had to leave Islam…and the Prism, besides.

“But it’s just not right for me to stay where I am,” Alejo told Stalin, “if I’m not a Muslim. I’ll have to tell them.”

Alejo felt relieved it was all decided. But Stalin’s eyes had gone all buggy behind his tiny round glasses. He chewed on one chapped lip and stirred the mess of coffee and cream left in his cup with the straw. “Alejo, I don’t think you can just tell them,” he said worriedly. Stalin licked a film of whipped cream off his upper lip and sighed. “Don’t you remember what happened to Marco?”

Marco, until a year ago, was the Prism leader for Colombia and Venezuela. The poor guy was murdered in a horrible break-in, along with his sister and some young nieces; the whole thing had been really hard for Alejo and his team.

Stalin was watching the memory cross Alejo’s face and he nodded grimly. “It happened right after he retired. Didn’t it? I mean, Alejo, you are the best of us, always busy exercising, studying other languages. But the lazier of us have time to sit around and listen to rumors. Marco leaves the Prism to take up agriculture. Or pottery. Or something, I don’t know. Then weeks later, he’s murdered, along with his entire family. The scary thing is, the 964 didn’t seem the least bit surprised.”

The 964 was the group of incredibly wealthy people who financed the Prism. And why wouldn’t