But as she reached out for the tray, a pair of hands pulled it back. Elise caught a glimpse of the shirt sleeves above those hands. They were black.
Two men began to argue. Elise recognized one voice. It belonged to the guard who’d taken her to the interrogation room and back. He was a man of few words and less intelligence, and wasn’t very fond of Major Sami Ali. Elise had deduced this based on how he’d ignored her when she’d told him she had insight into the Persian School of Dressmaking that Ali would covet. The other voice spoke lovely Arabic but there was something about its precision that struck a chord with Elise. There was just a hint of a foreign accent now and then, too. Both of these observations reminded her of her own Arabic. This man was a foreigner, she thought, though only the trained ear might realize this based on his voice alone.
A moment of silence passed between the two men, and then Elise heard the guard ask the other man a question. The guard raised his voice so Elise could hear his words clearly.
“What’s in it for me?” he said.
Elise couldn’t hear the other man’s answer, but she could have sworn it included a reference to some sort of sandwich whose recipe had originated in the country formerly known as Cuba. A further exchange on the topic of beverages ensued, followed by a loud grunt and a warning by the guard that the other man had five and only five minutes.
The sound of metal sliding onto metal repeated itself, and then the man in black sleeves reappeared bearing a second tray. This one contained a ladle of pomodoro sauce nestled on a mound of steaming linguine, topped with fresh parsley. What’s the difference between parsley and pussy? No one eats parsley, a Cardinal had once joked, after a security briefing in Christendom and two bottles of wine. A tossed salad with roasted red peppers and kalamata olives, a roll with a pat of butter, and a small dish containing tiramisu accompanied the dinner. Sealed in a bag beside the plastic utensils lay an icepack.
“Your breakfast, madam,” the man in the black sleeves said. “It was supposed to be dinner but some things in Eurabia … they take time.”
Elise snatched the tray.
The man lowered his voice. “Courtesy of Major Ali,” he said.
Elise realized she had reason to hope. Ali was an asshole. He probably didn’t care if she starved to death. He was obviously treating her to a delicious meal to soften her up for his second interview, which was exactly what she wanted. That had to be his motive, Elise thought. He certainly couldn’t have been motivated by compassion.
“I’d like to thank Major Ali in person,” she said.
“I’m sure you’ll get that opportunity soon.”
“That might not be soon enough.”
The man didn’t say anything but his black sleeves remained visible, arms folded over his chest.
“Are you someone who can get a message to Major Ali?” Elise said.
“I tend to be on the receiving end of requests from Major Ali, not vice versa.”
“Tell him this concerns the dead girl whose picture he’s carrying in his folder. Tell him this concerns the Persian School of Dressmaking.”
The man stood still, listening.
“But tell him I must see him alone immediately,” Elise said. “If he doesn’t speak to me by noon, I can’t help him.”
The man in the black sleeves didn’t answer.
“A girl’s life depends on it,” Elise said.
“I’ll do my best to get him the message,” he said.
“And please thank the chef.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Why not?”
The man’s arms fell to his sides. “You just did.”
CHAPTER 27
The killer walked into the Curry House just as Ali had hoped he would, against all odds, in a plan Ali had orchestrated straight out of the Eurabian police manual on exactly how not to conduct an operation.
Allahu akbar.
God is greatest.
The Gentleman from Prague had answered Miss Mona’s e-mail in less than an hour and agreed to meet her for lunch the next day at his favorite restaurant.
This brought into question whether the Gentleman from Prague was really from Prague, Ali thought, given how quickly he was able to meet her. A plane trip from Prague to Budapest took only ninety minutes, but the circumstances still struck Ali as being too coincidental. Once his meeting with Miss Mona was set so quickly, Ali began to operate under the assumption that the Gentleman from Prague lived in Budapest, or a town within driving distance of the Central Eurabian Caliphate’s capital.
The references he’d supplied Miss Mona had been of no help. All the men were real and powerful but the phone numbers supplied were no longer in service. Even the one belonging to the chief executive of a water purifying company who’d supposedly spoken to Miss Mona had been disconnected. Ali doubted she’d spoken to the man in question, but rather to someone who’d been paid by the Gentleman from Prague to impersonate him. Ali didn’t dare dig deeper and contact the references through another means for fear Zaman would somehow discover that he was still pursuing the case.
Securing tactical support for his noon operation was beyond problematic. Ali was effectively operating as a rogue cop without Zaman’s consent or approval, so he was almost on his own. Fortunately, he had Ismael. Eurabian crime scene investigators were also sworn police officers, which meant they carried firearms and retained the authority to stop and arrest. Ali had known Ismael long enough to know that he could trust and rely on his friend.
“My kingdom that this bastard turns out to be a dhimmi in disguise,” Ismael said, when he climbed into Ali’s car across the street from the Curry House, two hours before lunch. “If ever there was a case where you could get two for the price of one …”
Ali thought about what Ismael had just said and shook his head. “Do you really want to get rid of all of them, Ish? All of them?”
“What?”
“I said, do you really want to get rid of all the dhimmis?”
“Why, do you want to start a collection? Think it might appreciate over time?”
Ali managed a chuckle.
“First comes Saturday,” Ismael said. “Then comes Sunday.”
“And then what? You think Monday will be better if there’s no one left but us?”
“Much.”
“You won’t miss Dhimmi Town?” Ali said.
“Sure. Like the virus I had last year.”
“You don’t think life is more boring when everybody and everything’s all the same?”
Ismael scoffed. “You think it was more exciting when the dhimmis were invading our lands and waging war at will?”
“The dhimmis didn’t tax us at an increasing rate to force us to submit to their religion or leave our own country. You think the Pact of Umar is reasonable?”
“Who cares if it’s reasonable? Some dhimmi agreed to it a thousand years ago. Now they have to live with it. What’s up, A? Are we going to take this bastard down or what?”
Ali sighed. “Yeah.” He fixed his gaze on the restaurant. “That we can agree on.”
The hunchbacked woman Ali had met yesterday was working at the Curry House today. In her husband’s absence, she served as the restaurant’s manager. When she came out from the kitchen to talk to him, Ali didn’t mention that he’d forced Miss Mona to set up the lunch, merely that she and the man for whom Ali was looking were going to arrive at noon.
“I want no part of this,” the hunchbacked woman said.
“Neither would I if I were in your shoes,” Ali said. “But look at it this way. You don’t have a choice. Two people are coming to have lunch at your restaurant. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know they were coming. They would have just arrived.”
“Obviously because you set it up,” she said. “You think because I serve food for a living I’m a fool?”
“I think if you fail to cooperate with a policeman who’s trying to apprehend a killer of dhimmi girls—younger versions of your own daugh
ter—you’re much worse than a fool.”
“I don’t want any violence in my restaurant.”
“You think you’re more likely to have more violence if the police are there, or less?”
“If there’s any damage to my restaurant, you’re paying.”
“Of course I am.” Ali had been paying in one form or another since he’d taken an interest in the case. Why should this operation be any different?
“What do you need me to do?” the hunchbacked woman said.
“Exactly what you always do. Take the customers’ orders and get out of their way.”
They discussed logistics, including the selection of the table where she was to seat Miss Mona. Afterwards, Ismael volunteered to walk a one-block radius around the restaurant as a general precaution. When he returned through the rear entrance into the kitchen, he gave Ali the thumbs up. Then he planted himself at the furthest table in the back of the restaurant with a newspaper, a cup of tea, and a menu. His mobile phone rested on the table in front of him, obscured from the entrance and any customers by his paper. From his vantage point, Ismael could text Ali freely about what he was seeing without arousing suspicion.
Meanwhile, Ali exited via the rear door and returned to his car. He was parked between two sedans with a clear view of both sides of the street and the sidewalks leading to the Curry House. His unmarked vehicle appeared indistinguishable from those surrounding it. Ali watched the pedestrians walking along the sidewalk, scanning from left to right in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the killer before he got close to the restaurant. Five minutes before noon, Ali couldn’t spy anyone resembling the killer’s description on the streets.
Then a man in a hooded robe made a sharp turn toward the Curry House, whipped the door open, and powered inside. Ali had dismissed him on first sight because he appeared slightly bow-legged with a stocky build, which conflicted with the description of the average Eurabian man. But now that he’d vanished inside, Ali feared he’d been premature in his conclusion. Perhaps the man was wearing padding and feigning a limp to disguise himself.
Ali texted Ismael. Customer.
Ali’s mobile phone confirmed the text message’s delivery, and he waited for a reply.
Eyes and ears, Ismael said, meaning he could see and hear the customer.
Ali texted, table?
The mobile phone flashed speech bubbles to indicate that a response was en route, but none came. Ali waited for fifteen excruciating seconds for five words to finally come across.
Chicken curry. Extra rice. Takeout.
Ali sat back, relieved his judgment hadn’t proved faulty with the restaurant’s first customer of the day. He resumed scanning the streets, and at precisely noon, Miss Mona from the Persian School of Dressmaking came into his peripheral vision. She strolled at a slower pace than she did when she flitted around the confines of her school suggesting she was reluctant. Ali couldn’t blame her. She had no idea what would transpire once her date arrived. Neither did Ali or Ismael.
But then her eyes inadvertently found Ali sitting in his car and she froze.
Ali cursed under his breath and nodded toward the Curry House. He willed her to keep moving and keep her eyes on the street and not on him. The second nod of his head delivered the necessary message. She nodded once in return and resumed walking. This time she marched purposefully, as though seeing Ali had injected some confidence into her, or reminded her that she didn’t want a rumor floating around that she’d been jailed as a suspected accessory to murder.
She disappeared into the restaurant.
Ali quickly exchanged messages with Ismael, who verified that the hunchbacked woman had seated Miss Mona at the agreed-upon table against the wall. This location restricted the killer’s paths of escape, and left Ali and Ismael with overwhelming odds that they’d be able to corral the suspect if he tried to run.
Five minutes followed. No one else entered the Curry House. The Gentleman from Prague was late. Ali had expected him to be punctual. Any killer that took such care with his victims’ corpses had to be an exacting individual. His tardiness caused Ali concern, made him question whether Miss Mona might have deceived him.
And then he appeared. A man of average height and build, head and face covered by his black robe, marched toward the restaurant. When he turned toward the entrance, Ali texted Ismael.
Customer.
Three seconds later, Ismael’s response arrived. Eyes only, meaning he could see the new customer but he hadn’t heard him speak yet.
Ali got out of the car and hustled across the street, alternating glances from the phone to the traffic pattern to make sure he didn’t get killed as he crossed the road.
Halfway across the street his phone jingled. Another message from Ismael.
Suspect seated. Go.
Ali let a car go by, raced across the rest of the street, pulled his gun from its holster and burst into the Curry House.
The killer sat at the table with Miss Mona, his back to Ali. The co-owner of the Persian School of Dressmaking sat wide-eyed, forehead glistening.
“Police,” Ali shouted. “Hands in the air. Don’t move.”
In the far corner, Ismael drew his gun, pointed it at the killer and exploded toward the table with shocking speed and agility. He shouted the same instructions as Ali and had the killer covered before Ali arrived at the table.
Ali pulled the hood off the killer’s head from behind. He was dark-skinned with salt and pepper hair. Ali held his breath as he stepped to the side to glimpse the face of the man who murdered children. Although this killer had nothing to do with the death of the girl that persecuted him, it was her that Ali pictured at this very moment, alive with his lips pressed to hers, and dead with a rope around her neck. Arresting this man and securing his conviction might finally bring him some peace, Ali thought. Regardless of whether it soothed his conscience, his arrest would be the most satisfying achievement of Ali’s life excluding the birth of his daughter. Of that he was certain
There was just one problem, Ali realized, when he saw the man’s face.
This man was not the killer.
He was a retired cab driver from the country formerly known as Libya who wandered the streets looking for handouts during the day. He was well-known to the police, a whiner and an agitator but utterly harmless.
“Hello Dhimmi Lover,” he said, crushing the consonants to mock Ali’s nickname. “Are you buying?”
“Who sent you here?” Ali said.
The old cabbie cackled.
Ali grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and lifted him off his chair. “Tell me who sent you here, or as Allah is my witness, I’ll lock you in a cell and have one of the female officers go to work on you with a car battery and a pruning knife.”
“A man with binoculars sent me here.”
“What man?” Ali said.
“He gave me a gold dinar to put on these clothes, come to this place, and sit down with the woman who would be waiting.” The old cabbie nodded at Miss Mona. “The tired old hag who dresses like a man and doesn’t know her proper place.”
“He gave you his clothes to wear?” Ali said. “That means he took them off—”
“Did you see his face?” Ismael said. “What did he look like?”
“I didn’t see nothing,” the old cabbie said. “He made me stand in an alley, gave me my money and told me to look away. Told me to wait ten minutes and then come here.”
“Where?” Ali said, shaking him. “Where was this?”
“A block away, near the coffee shop on the corner where they give out stale pastries for free when they close.”
Ali bolted outside and ran toward the only coffee shop in sight. It occupied the corner just as the old cabbie had described. The Gentleman from Prague must have had binoculars and seen Miss Mona stop, exchange signals with a man in a car, and continue onward. There was no logical reason for Miss Mona to have purposefully drawn attention to herself and Ali. If she wanted to prevent the kill
er’s capture, she could have warned him in an e-mail that a trap awaited him.
The only other possibility was that the Gentleman from Prague was familiar with police personnel. If that were the case, the moment he saw Ali’s face through his binoculars he would have recognized the trap. In such a scenario, he could have simply left and not shown up for the rendezvous. The only reasons for him to send the old cabbie in his place were to confirm the sting, mock Ali, or distract him while he comfortably made his escape.
Some criminals liked to hang around and watch the police try to solve the crime they’d committed, whether it was burglary, arson or murder. Such was not the case this time, Ali decided. There was no sign of a man who fit the killer’s description milling about in the restaurant’s vicinity.
The killer now knew that Ali was looking for him. This would render him ultra-cautious, Ali thought, as he trudged back to the restaurant. His chances of finding the Gentleman from Prague had just plummeted.
When Ali’s phone jingled, he assumed it was a text message from Ismael, who was eager for a status report. Ali was surprised when he saw that it was Florence who’d sent him the message and even more stunned by its means of transmission and content. Florence had sent the e-mail from his personal account to Ali’s non-work related address. His friend only did that when he wanted to make sure there was no trace of his message on a police department computer server.
His message read:
Dhimmi tray delivered, prisoner wishes to discuss Persian School of Dressmaking.
Urgent.
Florence.
CHAPTER 28
After savoring her delicious dinner-turned-breakfast, Elise washed her face and brushed her teeth with the toothbrush and toothpaste she’d been provided. She repeated the same exercise regimen she’d performed the night before, this time with more vigor, grunting and groaning through her final repetitions of each set, guards be damned. When she was finished and exhausted, she tried to meditate for twenty minutes without success. Once again, images of the dead girl in Ali’s photo haunted her, and she thought of Valerie.
Girls of Yellow Page 18
