Garage Sale Diamonds (Garage Sale Mystery)

by Suzi Weinert

  He heard the men leave. He tried to get out of the wardrobe but found it locked. He leaned back and pushed with his feet to open the doors. When he reached back to pull Khadija out with him, she was gone. Instead she lay on the bed, covered in blood, her legs sticking out from her twisted skirt. He ran to her and shook her. Her eyes fluttered open. They were green, not hazel. He leaned close to hear her whisper, “Seek truth, use your mind, think for yourself and listen to your heart.” As her dead body slid to the floor he realized next to her lay the still, small body of their baby. How could they have a child on their wedding day without consummating their love? Yet there lay their tiny infant in a pool of her own blood, eyes staring.

  Horror, confusion and agony of ripped-away love formed an anguished cry that rose in his chest and erupted from his mouth. “NO!” he heard himself scream.

  Jerking him from this tormented sleep, the loud rapping on the door was real this time. Ahmed blinked as he rose onto his elbows. His body felt clammy. Mahmud’s voice called from the hallway. “Ahmed, are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he groaned. “Another bad dream, that’s all. Sorry.”

  After a moment, he heard his host move down the hall. He sat up to look at his watch: 9:30. Still haunted by the dream, he picked up Khadija’s book. He would finish it tonight.

  30

  Friday, 9:41 pm

  After rapping on Ahmed’s door in response to his guest’s outcries, described as another night-mare, Mahmud walked further down the hall to his daughter’s room and knocked on her door.

  She had just pushed her lesson plan aside, leaned back in her desk chair and rubbed her eyes when she heard the knock.

  “Khadija?” Her father’s stern voice caused her to sigh. What would he belittle her about this time? “I must talk with you. Now, Khadija!”

  Could she stall him until morning? No, he’d pound on the door until she let him in, getting angrier by the second. And when angry, he could turn mean.

  “All right.” With resignation she unlocked her door.

  Mahmud stepped inside, closed the door and spoke in a low, forceful voice. “Khadija, I want you to stay away from Ahmed. This is a direct order. This is my house and he is my guest. He is here on important business and not to be distracted. You are five years past your eighteenth birthday. I fulfilled this country’s legal requirement to provide for you until then, although you disappoint me every day. I let you stay on here out of charity but need only an excuse to throw you out of my house, so don’t even think of disobeying this order. Stay away from Ahmed. Is this clear?”

  For years she’d wanted to leave this house to share an apartment with a girlfriend, but the fear on her mother’s face when she spoke of moving stalled that plan. To her father she said, “I have shown your visitor good manners. How long is he staying?”

  “That is none of your business. He is my guest and he will stay as long as I want him to stay. A lot longer than you’ll stay if you dare disobey me. Do you understand what I want?”

  “Yes, I know what you want,” she answered. But was it what she wanted?

  ”Good. And you understand the consequences if you fail to obey me?”

  “I hear you.” Unblinking, she returned his intimidating stare. Grinding his teeth with rage, he stormed from her room. She closed and locked the door after him before sinking onto her bed.

  No tears flowed; her emotional wounds had long since scabbed over. Their failed relationship began way before she ignored his demands to wear the hijab, use no makeup and wear loose-fitting, body-disguising clothes. He’d already stopped caring about her by the time she’d started first grade. Devastating as this rejection felt to a little girl yearning for her father’s affection and approval, at least her mother’s love had never wavered. For this she owed her allegiance.

  Khadija remembered being rocked on her mother’s lap. “It’s not our fault,” she soothed her child. “Your father…he doesn’t know how to show his love for us. You are precious and intelligent and beautiful. Let’s try to forgive him because he can’t seem to help himself.”

  Seven years later, thirteen-year-old Khadija showed her father her straight-A eighth grade report card. Rather than praise, his words cut hard. “What an insult! This shows you obey your school but not me. In my house my word must be law, but you argue, pretending to ask reasonable questions. You defy me. You’re lost to Islam. You’re…you’re a filthy American.” He spat out the last word. “Legally, I must allow you in my house now, but unless you respect my wishes, that will end one day. And look at you,” his lip curled in disgust. “You even look like your mother.”

  When 9/11 stunned America in 2001, Khadija and her mother gasped in horror at the TV scenes unfolding, but her father seemed delighted. He exulted in the planes exploding the skyscrapers. When the smoking buildings pancaked to the ground, he jumped to his feet with a grin and a triumphant fist in the air. Khadija and her mother exchanged startled looks at this display.

  Khadija understood how a naturalized American citizen might feel dual loyalties to his native country and his adopted one, but her father’s reaction showed no affection at all for the U.S.A.

  She forgot his anti-American behavior until another incident ten years later. After the stunning news of Bin Laden’s death on May 1, 2011, her father moped for days, becoming more irritable than ever. Only little Safia escaped his verbal wrath. Khadija shared her country’s post 9/11 concern about safety from terrorists, foreign or domestic, but clearly her father did not. Was her father’s distaste for the U.S.A. and his family merely that of a discontented Middle-Eastern ex-pat—or something else?

  She knew passion for a foreign cause had compelled Irish-Americans to donate funds to the IRA. Jews in America helped those in Israel. Was her father’s loyalty similar? Yet those other causes didn’t wreak havoc on American soil while Islamic radical extremists did. Was her father aiding such terrorists? Circumstantial evidence pointed in that direction. But if so, was it for terrorism in the Middle-East or here in the United States?

  Why couldn’t he be more like Ahmed? she wondered. Both men sprang from Middle-Eastern roots, but their guest liked her even though her father did not. Ahmed listened attentively to her ideas and asked questions about American culture. This built confidence that she could appeal to a Middle-Eastern man after all, just not to her father.

  She wanted to punish her father for wounding her with his rejection. Withholding her affection didn’t get his attention since he didn’t love her anyway. Defying him did. Even such negative attention felt better than no attention at all. Would Ahmed defy and punish her father?

  A plan formed in her mind. She’d return Ahmed’s obvious interest in her. If trust developed between them, perhaps she could ask him to find out if her father covertly aided terrorists.

  Khadija sat upright as a daring new idea struck her. What if she married Ahmed? She smiled at the satisfying slap-in-the-face this would deliver to her heartless father.

  DAY THREE

  Saturday

  31

  Saturday, 6:32 AM

  After his chilling dream the night before, Ahmed realized how cherished this beautiful creature had become. So real was his nightmare—from the happiness of marriage to Khadija to the ghastly home invasion and her sickening murder—that he arose early on Saturday morning needing assurance she still existed. He dressed to appear by 7:00 at the breakfast table in order not to miss her, but as he put on shoes a rustling noise caused him to turn as a note slid under his bedroom door. He retrieved and opened it.

  Ahmed,

  My father tells me not to talk to you again but I think we have more ideas to discuss. If you agree, let us meet at the McLean Library today. You can walk there in 20 minutes. I enclose a map, but if you get lost, ask anyone for directions. Since you attend to business during the day, I suggest 4:00 this afternoon. Please hide your “yes” or “no” answer under the blue flowerpot on the table at the end of this upstairs hall. Thank you.
<
br />   Your friend, Khadija

  He inhaled sharply, realizing he’d held his breath as he read the note. She was alive and he’d see her again—today! A smile of relief crossed his face, followed by a quick frown. Had this occurred in his homeland, honor directed him to give the note to the girl’s father for proper reprimand of her immodest behavior. But not here, not now…

  Hurrying to his desk he tore a sheet of paper in half, wrote “yes” and folded the note into a small square. Opening the door, he looked both ways before easing into the empty hall. The table stood near the top of the stairs. He paused, tucked the note under the flowerpot, made sure it didn’t show under the edge and continued down the stairs.

  He joined Mahmud at the dining room table as Heba brought breakfast. Zayneb and Safia entered a short time later, but to his great disappointment, Khadija did not appear. In a foul mood, Mahmud criticized everyone except his guest for real or imagined demerits and particularly Heba’s breakfast—the coffee too strong, the eggs too dry, the fruit not ripe, the pancakes under-cooked. The food tasted fine to the rest, but no one contradicted him to alleviate the servant’s shame at this verbal lashing.

  When Mahmud threw his napkin into his syrupy plate and stalked from the room, awkward silence enveloped the table. Then Ahmed cleared his throat and said to Heba in front of Zayneb and Safia, “Your breakfast tasted very good. Thank you.” Did he see a tiny flicker of appreciation before she disappeared into the kitchen? Hard to tell since she always averted her face.

  Certain Mahmud couldn’t hear, Zayneb whispered, “Bless you for that kindness. She’s worked twenty-four years for our family.” She wanted to add how, during those years, she’d discovered and engaged Heba’s bright mind. But such knowledge would infuriate her husband and this stranger, Mahmud’s kinsman, might reveal her secret if he knew.

  Ahmed excused himself from the table and found his host in the garage. “Shall we leave in twenty minutes, Mahmud ?”

  Still testy, the man asked, “Where do we go today and what time is our meeting?”

  “Nine o’clock in a church parking lot in Arlington. I’ll enter their car, which will leave immediately. You wait three minutes then drive around until I call you with my pickup location.”

  “You are our leader. We can’t control your safety once you’re in their car. Is this wise?”

  “Today’s meeting is important but with little risk. The next meeting is more serious because we strike the deal and the third meeting perhaps dangerous when we make the trade. I will remind them any failure to cooperate as agreed earns deadly consequences.” Ahmed left to go upstairs.

  On the way to his room he looked under the blue flowerpot. His note was gone. In his room he took the envelope from his desk, assured himself the packet of ten diamonds lay inside and strapped to his leg the leather-sheathed knife bought the day before. He stood, smoothing his pant leg over the weapon to conceal this protection.

  Downstairs he climbed into Mahmud’s vehicle. As the men drove away at 8:00 they passed neighborhood front yards strewn with sale items. Shoppers spilled from cars coursing through the subdivision. Ahmed couldn’t believe the transformation from yesterday’s quiet residential streets to today’s purposeful lines of cars clogging their streets. Strangers roamed sidewalks and crossed lawns to shop the community sale’s merchandise.

  “What’s this?” Ahmed asked in surprise.

  Already in a bad mood, Mahmud ranted. “This idiotic American custom disgraces our home. Look—our once dignified neighborhood streams with traffic and herds of strangers roaming like camels across our lawns. At least in the Middle-East we have the sense to create market places.”

  They stopped for gas at Old Dominion and Chain Bridge before driving into North Arlington to re-con the meeting site. Parking nearby to study the situation, they agreed the small church’s parking lot seemed surveillance-free. “Those we meet don’t want attention any more than we do.”

  Troubled, Mahmud asked, “Should I know who they are if…in case something goes wrong?”

  Ahmed thought this over. “They are Russian. Record their license number, but I expect no trouble at this meeting. I don’t know where they intend to drop me after we talk or how long this will take; probably thirty minutes or less. I will call your cell phone with that location.”

  “If it is not a place I know, with an exact address my GPS will find you. Shall we drive the neighborhood until it’s time for the meeting?” At Ahmed’s nod, Mahmud started the car.

  32

  Saturday, 8:00 AM

  Zayneb stood at the window as the car disappeared from view before hurrying into action. She’d check the house one last time for saleable items, for this opportunity to make money was rare. In each room she looked under beds, through drawers and in closets, collecting items in a plastic bag. She hesitated at Ahmed’s closed door, then opened it resolutely to continue her search.

  Yesterday Heba had removed the toy box from this closet. No stray playthings lay under the bed. Curiosity prompted her to open several drawers and touch the contents to better assess what threat their mysterious guest posed. Uncertain about the man’s visit or what to expect from him next, she looked under the pillow and mattress for a weapon but found none.

  High in the closet, a doll’s foot stuck out from behind the guest’s suitcase. She pulled over the desk chair and climbed up to nudge his valise forward, extracted Safia’s old doll, and repositioned the case. Examining the dressed doll, she thought it saleable and added it to her bag. Ten minutes later the doll joined her other for-sale items on a blanket spread in Roshan’s yard.

  Doubting Zayneb had money to take her daughters to other sales, Roshan pressed cash into her god-daughter’s hand. “Here, take this. If you must, pay me back later from your earnings here.”

  Zayneb wanted to protest, but this cash advance seemed a blessing. She hugged Roshan and thanked her before hurrying home with a big smile.

  “Guess what,” she said to her daughters, “let’s walk around to see the sales. Maybe we’ll find a little surprise for each of you.”

  Safia giggled her delight but Khadija asked, “Would Baba approve?”

  Zayneb hid the nervousness in her laugh, “Let me deal with your father. You two do not need to upset him with this information. Do we agree about that, girls?”

  “Yes,” they chorused.

  Zayneb clutched at this chance for harmless fun with her daughters. If Mahmud found out, she knew he’d give the girls a tongue lashing.

  Her punishment would be far worse.

  33

  Saturday, 9:05 AM

  At the exact meeting time Mahmud’s car drove into the church parking lot where a car waited. “May Allah bless you, praised is His name,” Mahmud said as Ahmed walked to the other vehicle.

  That car’s window lowered as he approached. “Are you here to look at a ring?” Ahmed asked.

  “Yes, a diamond ring.” The code words matched. The driver spoke with a heavy Russian accent. “Get in the back.”

  Mahmud watched Ahmed enter the car and saw it glide away. He counted three minutes and left the lot, deciding to stop en route for coffee and a snack while he awaited Ahmed’s call.

  Inside the Russian’s vehicle, a male driver and another man sat in the front seat, but to Ahmed’s surprise, a woman waited for him in the rear. “Hello,” she said in unaccented English. “You may call me…Natasha.”

  She offered her hand, which he shook. “And you are…?”

  “You may call me…Mustafa,” Ahmed invented, noting her slight body, expensive clothes and European features.

  “Good. Have you something to show me, Mustafa?”

  He passed her the envelope from his shirt pocket. She eased it open, spread the jewelry paper and glanced at the diamonds. Pulling a jeweler’s loupe from her purse, she held it to her eye to examine several stones. “Boris, can you park where I’ll get direct sunlight?”

  As Boris obliged, she made no small talk. A few minu
tes later the car maneuvered so sunshine streamed in her window. She studied each gem with her loupe. “How many?”

  “Three hundred, similar size, same quality as promised in advance. Guaranteed.”

  “And you want…?”

  “Three million American dollars.” Ahmed read no reaction in her face or body language. “You were sent our list: part cash plus certain explosives and weapons. I have a copy of that list with me if you’d like to see it again. We understand such armaments present no problem for you.”

  She matched this new list against the original and locked eyes with Ahmed. “Three million?”

  “We know and you know these diamonds are more valuable than this amount. A bargain for you. I’m told you recognize a special deal when you see one. We can approach other buyers, but we talk to you first for three reasons: First, our organizations have made mutually satisfactory deals together before so a good record exists between us. Second, you are a good fit for our interest in a combination payment, part cash and part military ordnance. Third, we share mutual common enemies: the United States and Israel.”

  Natasha gave him a disarming smile. “When?”

  “Immediately.”

  “You have my attention, Mustafa, but someone else makes this decision. We must test these diamonds in our lab to be sure. In twenty-four hours we will use the phone contact already established to speak further about ‘the ring.’”

  “Thank you, Natasha.”

  “Boris,” she instructed the driver, “our meeting is over. Find a comfortable place for Mustafa to wait for his ride.”

  Fifteen minutes later Mahmud found Ahmed sitting on a bench in Cherrydale.

  “Where to next?”

  “To make our videos for American TV with the other cell members at Abdul’s.”

  34

  Saturday, 10:01 AM