"Stop talking like Lawrence of Arabia."
"I am not trying to amuse you, Deputy. Mustafa Zewail and his wife are dead."
Karen caught her breath. "You see their bodies?"
He shook his head. "There is writing on the wall."
"What, hate graffiti?"
"The holy words of the Koran. Sura 4:89."
The deputy watched him closely. "Which says...?"
"’But if they turn renegades, seize them and slay them wherever you find them.’"
"Shit." Karen began pulling out her gun.
"There's no need. If you will come here, the caulking around this window frame is imperfect."
She gave him a glance of irritation, but holstered her gun and came close to the window.
"Here," he pointed.
"It's too high."
Without warning, he grabbed her and lifted her to a small gap between wall and window. Karen began to squirm. Then she caught a whiff and squirmed harder.
"Shit! Oh shit!"
"Yes," said Ari, lowering her to the ground. "Two weeks old."
"But we have to check," she said, again taking out her gun. "That could be an old pot roast rotting on the kitchen table, but we have reasonable suspicion."
"Very well," Ari nodded, smiling. "Shall we try the back door?"
At the rear of the house was a small landing half the width of the front porch. A mini-venetian blind on the door and heavy curtains on the near windows completely blocked their view inside. Karen tested the knob.
"We’re going to have to break in," she said.
Ari grunted.
"You’re big. You’re strong. You almost killed me. You do the honors."
Ari, feeling a little thuggish, grunted again as Karen aimed the gun at the door. She was put off her stance when, instead of kicking the door in, Ari stepped off the porch and disappeared around the side of the house.
"Hey!"
He returned a minute later with a tire iron from the garage. "I did not feel like breaking my foot," he said, then whacked the small pane nearest the knob. Instead of shattering, the reinforced glass flew off in a single sheet, clattering inside on the floor. They were immediately greeted by a foul stench. Reaching through, Karen found the lock and turned it. Holding her S&W 4006 in front of her, she shoved the door open.
She stood frozen for several seconds. She then started to back away towards the edge of the porch.
"Deputy Karen?" Ari said. Glancing inside, he saw the headless corpse bound to a ladderback chair in the middle of the kitchen. He turned back to Karen, as though to say, ‘Well?’
"Close it," she said tightly, backing down the steps. She was in a half-crouch, pistol still raised in her right hand, her other hand extended as she flexed her fingers, frantically signaling Ari to pull back. "Come…come…" She was performing a nervous tattoo with her right foot, like a child needing to pee.
"We must find Mrs. Zewail," Ari protested calmly.
"I’ll call. They’ll find her."
"But what if she’s in there, still alive?" His expression said it was a useless kindness to look further, but one which must nonetheless be performed. "You can lower your weapon. I don’t think Mustafa is going to attack you."
"Just close the door and come back here." With her throat constricted, her words were no more than peeps. "Hurry! The wind…it’s blowing inside, disturbing the evidence."
"I’ll close the door," said Ari after a moment’s hesitation. With that, he stepped inside and closed the door after him.
"No!" Karen shouted. "Get out of there!"
Ari tilted the blind away from the broken window. "Do you wish to join me?"
She was shaking badly. Suddenly realizing the hazard, she lowered her gun to prevent accidentally squeezing off a round. "I’ll call it in!" she said.
"Yes."
"Don’t touch anything!"
"Certainly not," said Ari, and let the blind drop. Turning, he looked away from the body for a moment and studied the linoleum floor for feasible avenues. Blood was tracked throughout the kitchen. Ari realized there was no way to avoid adding his own footprints to the scene, but he could at least get reasonably close to the body without stepping into the pool cast out from the chair. Mustafa’s head was resting against the sink’s bottom cabinet.
He had already spotted at least one inconsistency and experienced the warm glow of revelation. A spray of blood on the far wall seemed to bear no relation to the beheading.
This was obviously intended as a warning to Arabs. The Naskh script used to quote the Koran showed there had been at least one person with knowledge of the Arabic alphabet on the scene, and Ari thought it likely that person was born in the Middle East. He would need to go into the dining room and study the graffiti, to see if he could determine if it was written right to left.
There were the tracks of three people in the blood. Ari spent a moment studying the intricate patterns left by the killers’ outsoles. The various treads overlapped like the mandalas in Islamic children’s coloring books. It was up to the forensics people to separate the Adidas from the Reeboks, but Ari noted that the tread on one pair was fairly worn and left behind little fragments of mud. Perhaps it belonged to a serious jogger, even a marathoner. Another of the killers dragged his leg, as if injured. All three pairs of athletic shoes would unquestionably find their way into a dumpster. Mustafa’s feet were bare and covered with blood. One foot was propped with the heel against the chair leg, the other slightly stretched, but there were no bloody, barefoot smears on the floor next to the chair.
I bet they cheated, Ari smiled.
The average terrorist was no expert in decapitation, and even those who attempted the trick understood the concept of leverage. A victim’s hands were bound and he would be forced down onto his knees, presenting the killer with a suitable angle of attack. Mustafa had been bound, but he had been sitting up when someone took a swing at his neck, like a major leaguer going after a fastball. Under the best of circumstances, an executioner would often have to make two or three attempts before successfully separating the head from the body. There were specialists who could manage a sitting cut, like the Japanese with their shin guntō swords. But this was a royal mess, skin and gristle spattered on Mustafa’s shoulders and numerous cut marks around what remained of the neck.
The enthusiasm of novices, Ari thought.
And pretty sick bastards, at that. A series of serrations just visible beneath the bloodstains told Ari how the job, after the first few swings, was finished. The killers had used everything but the kitchen sink. And in fact, that was where they had left their instruments of torture, piled shamelessly in the sink like dishes left for the maid. Knives, a meat cleaver, even a goddamn wood cutting hand saw, probably from the garage. Ari imagined them chipping and slashing away at Mustafa’s neck like a bunch of maniacal beavers. It began to unsettle even his strong stomach. He looked at Mustafa’s bare feet again and decided there was one question that needed immediate answering. Stepping carefully across the linoleum, he found his way to the head. Mustafa might or might not have been fair-skinned, but even in his current condition it was obvious he had been no Omar Sharif. The jagged cuts on the body were repeated here, around the sagging remains of the jugular. But there were no wounds around the ears or chin, which he would have expected on a struggling man. He looked towards the door. The deputy was still outside. This was good, because in the mood she was in now she would probably shoot him if she saw what he did next. Which was to tip the head over with his foot.
A gunshot wound to the temple. Excellent. Mustafa had died before the hatchet job began. Having investigated—or helped the Americans investigate—numerous beheadings in Anbar Province, he was aware that there was not enough blood here to match the atrocity. The arterial gush was limited. Relocating the incongruous splatter pattern on the wall, Ari concluded Mustafa had been shot by someone standing near the sink. Tiptoeing close to the body, he studied the zip-tied hands. It did not appear any
fingers were broken. Aside from the obvious, there had been no inordinate torture. He probably surrendered whatever information they wanted from him within the first sixty seconds of the home invasion.
What did Samir Salman tell you?
Oh, this and that and this and that, Mustafa readily told them, never having suspected that his knowing even this little bit was a death sentence.
Did he tell you the name of the customer buying the Lamborghini?
No! No! Yes! Yes!
There was no way of knowing, although Ari thought Samir Salman was too cagey to give away unnecessary information. But the killers had already gone too far, just by showing up at Mustafa’s house. It was only a guess, but he thought it a good one.
When he first entered the kitchen, Ari’s attention had naturally focused on the headless man. The second thing to catch his eye sat on the side counter. He took a couple of steps across the kitchen and looked down at the bundle of money. Without lifting it off the counter, he pressed the top of the bundle with his index finger and ran his thumb across the edge. There was at least $10,000 here. It was not unusual for that much cash to be in the house. Like many foreigners, Mustafa had not placed much trust in American banks. Poor Mustafa, trying to buy his life. And it should have worked. But the killers had rebuffed him and his bribe. That was part of the message.
Still...who could afford to snub that much cash?
Someone who can afford a Lamborghini....
Next to the bundle lay a trifold wallet. Ari took a pencil from a cup next to the phone and used its eraser to flip the wallet open. A glance in the driver license window revealed a valid Virginia permit. "No IDP, Mustafa? How did you manage that?" The answer came when he began turning over the clear center pockets. There was an assortment of credit cards. "An AMEX Gold! Mustafa, you have done well for yourself." Then came two car registrations, one for a Nissan Sentra, one for a BMW Gran Turismo. And then he came to the reason why Mustafa had a state license instead of an Egyptian one: a reduced copy of an American Citizenship certificate. "What! Why not a permanent resident card?" He turned to the headless Mustafa and waggled the pencil at him. "You have some explaining to do. Have you lived here five years? Akila isn’t a citizen, is she? So…you’re a real American now." He paused. "Who was the first President of the United States?" Another silent pause. "Ha! I didn’t think you knew…" The last clear pocket in the center fold held an insurance agency business card. Under the name of the agency was printed ‘Benjy Cosmos: Here to Serve You.’ On the back of the card was a handwritten note: ‘Claim #36MZ234. Nissan Sentra. Candy Red.’
He used the eraser to close the wallet and put the pencil in his coat pocket. Then he stared again at the $10,000.
In any event, robbery wasn't the motive, he thought, pocketing the bundle. Until now.
He wondered if the killers had argued about the money. It seemed likely. Couldn't they just take it once the job was done? Mustafa certainly wouldn't be needing it, anymore. At least, that was Ari's own justification for taking it. But there was a strong man among them, someone giving the orders, someone the other two were afraid of. Could it be the same man who had written the Sura on the wall?
He went to the edge of the kitchen and looked down at the runner leading off to the dining room. No bloody footprints. The killers had left as soon as they finished in here. But the graffiti proved they had gone through other parts of the house, beforehand.
And then there was Akila to consider.
While he had managed to stay on thin patches of blood already dried, Ari was not about to risk trailing microscopic flakes into the other rooms. He took off his shoes and entered the dining room. He studied the graffiti. Right to left, he was certain. Jews and Arabs wrote in the same direction. Backwards, according to Western pundits. Funny world.
He found Mustafa's wife in the upstairs bedroom. The killers had been merciful to her. She had, after a moment's startled confusion and fear, been shot in the forehead—probably in front of Mustafa. Not very nice, Ari conceded.
He paused outside what appeared to be a home office. Seeing a computer, he stepped over to the desk and gave the mouse a tap. The screen came up with a request for a password. Ari’s scalp gave a little flip when he saw an Aegis plugged in the USB port. But it was a common enough memory stick. And Ari could not recall a single week where the U.S. Marshals had not checked on his status, one way or another. Mustafa had been missing for two weeks. Besides, wouldn’t Karen have done everything in her power to stop him from coming out here if Mustafa was one of her protected witnesses?
Unless it no longer mattered.
A doubt was planted. Perhaps the agency’s attention slackened when the witness’s services were no longer needed.
He thought of taking the Aegis. But the flash drive was encrypted. And if it was government property, its absence would be noted.
There was no sign of the hate letters. On the wall was a picture of Mustafa (which confirmed his homeliness) and an Indian. He leaned forward to read the scribble at the bottom: ‘Be the Best, Old Man! - Ramesh Balasubramium.’
Ari looked for signs of pets, but saw none. He returned to the kitchen and pulled on his shoes. He again glanced at the smudges that betrayed the killers’ use of gloves. Then his eye fell on an open bag of Alibaba roasted corn near the toaster. He sighed. He would take the money, but he did not have the heart to steal food from a dead man. He turned to the corpse and gave a small wave.
"Peace be upon—"
Wait. Mustafa had not been a Muslim. What would a Christian say?
"Have a blessed day," Ari said, then went out the door.
"What the fuck have you been doing in there?" Karen demanded when he emerged. "You have to get out of here!"
Ari strolled down to the lawn, where she was waiting. She charged towards him, ready to strike. Then she caught a whiff of the stench of death caught in the folds of his coat and backed away.
Is my coat ruined? Ari wondered with dismay.
It looked to Ari as if Deputy Karen had been crying. He hoped for her sake that she had maintained her self-control while calling the police. It would not help her career if it got back to her boss that she had blubbered an official call.
"Did you find his wife?"
"Upstairs. Shot."
Tears welled in Karen's eyes. Ari lost patience. Without really thinking, he said, "You’re a soldier! Command yourself to stop, if you don‘t want me to."
Instantly, the tears stopped. She stared at him. "What did you say?"
"You need to pull yourself together."
"You talked like an army officer. Is that what you were? I thought you were some kind of Iraqi cop."
"I was that, also. Nepotism was commonplace in that regime. It taught the leaders to be remarkably flexible in some ways, even when those promoted weren't related. Uday Hussein was in jail one day and Defense Minister the next. In my case, I could be in the Army, I could be in the Security Service, I could be operating overseas. What most interested your generals, however, was that I was also a lowly clerk."
"But when—?"
"You said I needed to go?" Ari interrupted.
She nodded as she drew in a calming breath. "Right. You've had enough dealings with the Richmond cops. We don't need to add the Henrico police to the list. They might start comparing notes." She began working on her key ring. "I called Fred. He's coming. Take the Civic. Here are the keys. Leave them under the driver seat. I've got the remote. Park at the Pony Pasture and walk home."
She was giving orders. Ari considered this a very good sign. He wondered if this was her first murder scene, but decided not to ask.
"Welcome to Babylon, Deputy Karen Sylvester."
"So you're saying—"
But he was already walking towards the driveway.
On the way home he stopped at the Mediterranean Bakery and bought five bags of Alibaba roasted corn. He paid with a hundred dollar bill.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ari was pleased by the Am
erican concept of multitasking, but for reasons beyond his comprehension he found it difficult to apply to everyday tasks. If he worked on his computer while cooking couscous, the result might be something with the look and consistency of oil spill residue. One evening, he had hurriedly tossed some clothes in his washing machine before rushing off to a party at the Mackenzies. The next morning, he found all of his whites magically converted to pink.
Talking on a cell phone he had purchased the day before should have been simple. Everywhere he looked, he saw people yakking away blithely while negotiating traffic. A red flag should have been raised when he learned that speaking on a cell phone while behind the wheel had been outlawed in some states, as well as in other countries.
He would not have done badly, however, had the signal been clearer.
He was able to reach the insurance agent’s office on two rings, and Benjy Cosmos with the first transfer, but when Ari said, "I wish to discuss Claim 36MZ234," a long silence was followed by, "Hello? Is anyone there?"
"I would like to discuss Claim 36MZ234."
"What? Is this Mr.Zewail? We already—"
A horn blared. Ari was at the three-way intersection of Forest Hill Avenue, Semmes Avenue and Dundee Street. Cars were swerving and honking around him. Nothing out of the ordinary. Ari turned his Scion up Semmes.
"Yes?" he said. "Mr. Cosmos? Are you there? I wanted to find out if Mustafa’s Nissan is still undergoing repairs."
"This isn't Mr. Zewail?"
"No, I am an associate of his. Gamal Abdel Nasser."
"You're an architect?"
Ari smiled. "That's what they say I am."
"Sorry?"
"Yes, I'm an architect. I'm working on the new baseball field in Shockoe Bottom."
"Is that still happening?" Benjy said. "Anyway, Mr. Nasser...are you driving at the moment?"
"Yes indeed. Would that be causing this electrical interference? Hello? Hello?"
"—shouldn't be driving while on the cell phone. You can get—"
Ari did not hear the rest of the sentence. A van ahead of him had stopped to make a left turn. Going 55 in a 35 zone, Ari came up on him quite suddenly.
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