Russian Roulette

by Austin Camacho

  Hannibal’s day would start with phone calls. Once he was dressed, he went across the hall to make them. There was nothing wrong with his home phone. He just liked to make business calls from his desk. His first important call was to Rissik’s office. He pushed the speed dial button, set the phone on speaker, and reached for the coffee beans overhead.

  “You’re up early,” was Rissik’s first comment.

  “Just couldn’t wait to hear your voice, Chief. Now, what’s this about Barek’s mother?”

  “She wants to see you,” Rissik said. “Maryland law couldn’t answer her questions, so they put her on to me. I didn’t want to disappoint an important citizen of one of our allies, so naturally I told her I knew the ace detective who had been following her son’s movements.”

  “Thanks,” Hannibal said, pouring water from a carafe into the coffeepot. “That will probably get me killed.”

  “Actually, she’d like to find out all she can about her little Hamed’s American adventures, and she’ll be stuck in the Moroccan embassy all day waiting for the murder victim formerly known as Dani Gana to be driven down to Washington from Baltimore. When I didn’t hear from you last night I took the liberty of making you an appointment. What the hell is that noise?”

  “Sorry,” Hannibal said. “Grinding the beans. Someday you’re going to have to come over here and get a decent cup of coffee. Now, you were saying about an appointment?”

  “You are to meet with Mrs. Fatima Barek at the Moroccan embassy at ten a.m. And don’t be late. She’s pretty important people over there.”

  “Fatima? Really? Like the seven veils?”

  “Hey, do I make fun of your name?” Rissik asked. “I could, you know.”

  “Good point,” Hannibal said, filling a mug and pausing to inhale the sweet, rich aroma he loved. “I’ll be there.”

  After chatting with Rissik, Hannibal carried his mug around to his desk where he settled back into his chair. He wasn’t sure why the black leather felt different that day; softer, somehow. Then he realized what was different. It was really his again. Smiling, he punched buttons to ring the number left in his other message.

  “Dr. Van Buren? This is Hannibal Jones. Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Fine,” Van Buren answered. “But it’s just Professor Van Buren for now, or better yet, Eric. In a couple months I’ll finish my doctorate and you can talk to me like I’m an old man.”

  “Noted,” Hannibal said, pulling out a note pad and pen. “Eric, then. I appreciate you getting back to me.”

  “I had to, after hearing from an old colleague,” Van Buren said. “Dr. Krada said he knows you too.”

  “Krada?” Hannibal sipped again, savoring the taste as he organized his thoughts. “Interesting. Why was he in contact with you?”

  “Oh, he called about a student we had in common. You guessed it—Hamed Barek, who apparently went to Howard under a different name.”

  “Yes,” Hannibal said, thinking Krada wanted to warn his pupil about the crowd of people searching for him. “Did you have something to tell me about him?”

  “Actually, we discussed the boy’s history somewhat. That got me looking at his file and remembering old conversations. I know you were trying to trace him back to his roots, as it were, and they are indeed in Algeria.”

  “Hold on,” Hannibal said, jotting notes. “I have information that he really is from Morocco.”

  “I meant his family,” Eric said. “Barek’s grandfather was an educated, well-to-do businessman in Algeria. He had position and status, things that mean a lot in that part of the world. But his business interests apparently took him to Morocco where he ultimately went broke.”

  “I see,” Hannibal said, “But I’m sure Dr. Krada was more interested in where his old student is now. I’m rather surprised he found you.”

  Eric’s laughter crackled through the static of a bad connection. “Nothing mysterious there, Jones. I knew Dr. Krada when he was here at UVA. In fact, I was one of his students.”

  This news came as an unexpected treat, cheering Hannibal like the welcoming aroma of his coffee. “You don’t say. Tell me, did he have parties for his students down there like he does up here?”

  “You bet. And after he moved to Howard I used to drive up there for them. In fact, I was there the night Hamed Barek was introduced to the Russian girl, Vicki Petrova. He fell for her that first night. Everybody could see that.”

  “You don’t say.” Hannibal snugged back into the warm leather, notebook in hand. “And what made Krada move up to Howard? I doubt it was more money, since it’s kind of a smaller school.”

  “Hardly for the money.” Eric paused and Hannibal waited through the silence. Interruptions were bad for people’s memories. Finally, Eric asked, “Have you met Mrs. Krada?”

  Hannibal took his time savoring a mouthful of coffee before he answered. “Nina? Sure. Nice girl. Seems a little young for him.”

  “Yeah, well she was his student too. The faculty didn’t take too kindly to it when Dr. Krada took up with her. Then when Nina came down with a bad case of pregnant, Krada had to leave in disgrace.”

  “Fascinating, but a little off the topic,” Hannibal said, checking his watch. “I do appreciate the background on Barek, though. I’m actually meeting with his mother today. If nothing else I can tell her that he had loved the woman he married for years. Now, I’ve got to get myself to Embassy Row.”

  -33-

  Comparisons between Embassy Row and his own neighborhood in Southeast seemed unavoidable. The buildings were old and crammed together too closely for comfort. Many of the streets were too narrow for two cars to pass, let alone for cars to park on them. And like Hannibal’s neighborhood, city police did their best not to go into the area.

  Fortunately, his destination was not clustered with the other embassies on or beside Massachusetts Avenue. Officially “The Chancery of the Embassy of the Kingdom of Morocco,” the building was just outside the area generally thought of as Embassy Row, on 21st Street off Q Street, just a couple of blocks from Dupont Circle. He found a parking garage to store his Volvo in, and walked past the bored looking protesters and beggars to the massive stone edifice that could hold clues to the answers he needed.

  He could hear a team of bongo and conga drummers in the outer circle of a fountain, sending their energy out from Dupont Circle. Like so many of the buildings in this part of the city, the embassy had round towers at its corners, like pointed-roofed minarets. It must have appealed to the Moroccans who chose it, most of whom were Sunni Muslims.

  Inside, the décor was quite contemporary and more Americanized than he expected. Hannibal walked up to the receptionist, who looked like a teenage Tyra Banks.

  “Hello. My name is Hannibal Jones, and I have an appointment with Mrs. Barek.”

  “Of course, sir,” the girl said with a smile. “We have been expecting you. You may have a seat in our waiting room but before you do, I am afraid I have to ask you if you are carrying anything that you might need to leave with me before going further into the building. This is simply for security reasons, you understand.”

  “Of course.” Hannibal presented his private investigator’s badge. “I show you this, so you will know that I carry this legally.” He then showed her his pistol.

  “Thank you sir,” the receptionist said, betraying no reaction at all. “Please leave that with me while you are in the embassy.”

  Hannibal was happy to comply. After stowing his pistol in a safe behind her, the receptionist showed him to a comfortable chair in the adjacent bright and airy waiting room. He was on time, but he knew he would have to wait. This was how important people let you know they were more important than you. He didn’t mind. Like the quarters he had to toss at gates on the Dulles Toll Road, waiting was part of the cost of getting to where he needed to be.

  After Hannibal demonstrated his patience for twenty minutes, the receptionist ushered him into a cozy sitting room and seated him at a small tab
le. A dark and alluring young woman appeared from an alcove, poured tea from a flowered pot, and left. Then the door opened again and a mature yet striking woman entered the room. Hannibal snapped to his feet.

  “Mr. Hannibal Jones? I am Mrs. Fatima Barek.”

  He was struck by her perfect posture and elegant bearing as she floated across the tiles toward him. He had expected traditional Muslim garb, but she wore a very American black evening gown that covered her feet without quite touching the floor. Only the click of her heels told him that she wore shoes at all. White kid gloves covered her hands and reached to her upper arm. It was a canny way to keep her entire body covered while giving the appearance of Westernization.

  She presented her right hand, at arm’s length, and raised it to shoulder height. Hannibal took just her fingertips between his black-gloved first finger and thumb, gave them a gentle jiggle, and released them. She sat. He sat opposite her. He reached for the pot but she waved his hand away and filled her own cup. He supposed that even when she was the important person in the room, the woman was supposed to pour. She sipped and smiled. He followed suit. She looked at him. He waited.

  “Mr. Jones, this is awkward for me. I am still mourning a great loss, and yet I will only be in your country for one day and I need to learn all I can. I understand that you may be able to help me.”

  She was heavy, but not fat. Her round face was kindly and loving. Hannibal saw that her son had inherited her obsidian eyes and dark wavy hair. Her skin was maybe a half tone darker than Hannibal’s, but to a casual observer this could be the result of beach time rather than genetics. In some way he could not define, she reminded him of his own mother. It may have been the smile.

  “Ma’am, I am very sorry for your loss,” he said, using the words he learned in the Secret Service. “I don’t know what you want to know most, but I will gladly share all I do know. I hope you won’t blame our nation for your son’s misfortune.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Barek said. “Our two governments have a long history and this certainly won’t affect it. Did you know, Mr. Jones, that the Kingdom of Morocco was the very first country to recognize the new United States in 1777?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s good to know. It’s good to have old friends. I wish I had known your son better than I did.”

  He fell silent again, and Mrs. Barek stared at his face for a time. He wondered if her formality, and the ice breaker history lesson, were all avoidance behavior for her. She sipped from her teacup, then said, “Mr. Jones. Would you please honor me by removing your sunglasses so that I can see your eyes more clearly as you speak?”

  Had he been rude? As Hannibal thought about it, it seemed obvious that he had, but wearing his shades was a habit. He apologized, pulled his glasses off, and tucked them into an inside jacket pocket. Mrs. Barek noted his eyes and nodded.

  “I see you are not entirely a son of Africa yourself,” she said.

  “No, ma’am. My father was African American but my mother was German”

  “You speak of both in the past tense,” Mrs. Barek said. “You too have known loss.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But to survive one’s parents, while painful, is natural. We are not meant to survive our children.”

  This time he was certain that her smile was just like his mother’s used to be. “You are very kind,” she said. “Now, please tell me about my son’s death.”

  Hannibal examined the portrait of some Moroccan ruler in a military uniform while he gathered his thoughts. He was grateful that this woman was patient. He wanted to get the story right the first time and there were other people’s feelings to consider in addition to hers.

  “Here’s what I know,” he said, placing his palms together on the table with his fingers pointing toward her. “Your son apparently entered the country some years ago illegally. Using some very well forged papers and an apparent gift for storytelling, he enrolled in the University of Virginia.”

  “I had such plans for Hamed,” Mrs. Barek said. “But he did not want to attend the private school I wanted to send him to, and he wanted to see the world. So, he ran away from home, ran away to America.”

  “From all reports he did well academically,” Hannibal said, wanting to say something positive. “But perhaps he was concerned that he would be found out if he stayed in one place too long. He transferred to Howard University. His transfer kept him in touch with a professor he met at UVA who had befriended him. The professor was also an African native. Algerian in fact.”

  “This is Dr. Jamal Krada,” Mrs. Barek said.

  “Yes ma’am. I didn’t realize you knew of him. Anyway, your son changed his name then, and claimed Liberian citizenship to deepen his cover. Later, when he returned to the States he changed his name again and, I think with Dr. Krada’s help, passed himself off as Algerian. But I’m getting ahead of myself. A couple of important things happened while he was a student at Howard. First, he met and fell in love with a Russian girl named Viktoriya Petrova. When she dropped out of college he got a part-time job at the Russia House here in the city, where her family socialized. There he met a money launderer for the Red Mafiya named Boris Tolstaya.”

  Mrs. Barek made a dismissive noise by puffing air through her lips. “This is an evil man. I cautioned Hamed when he came home. But a woman cannot choose her son’s friends.”

  “Well, Mr. Tolstaya involved your son in his schemes, which involved moving cash out of the U.S. and effectively making it disappear through the use of foreign banks.”

  Mrs. Barek slapped a palm on the table. “This is when Hamed came home. He was a new man, ambitious and smart. Mr. Jones, I would not normally reveal so much to a stranger, but I feel that the more you know, the more likely I am to get to the truth. So you should know tht I used what influence I had to move Hamed into a diplomatic position. But then, on a scheduled trip back to the United States he disappeared again.”

  “Right,” Hannibal said. “I figure he must have purchased false documents in advance. He left home as Hamid Barek headed for this building, but he arrived as Dani Gana from Algeria. He also arrived with a quarter million dollars. Someone killed him for that money, but I don’t know who.”

  “Did he suffer?”

  “Ma’am, the murderer shot him twice with a small-caliber handgun.”

  “But was it quick at least?”

  Hannibal felt he owed her the truth. “I’m sorry, but it was not quick. It was mean and amateurish. After being shot once, your son left the house he was in, apparently to lead the killer away from his wife and the money, which he had withdrawn from the bank. This was money that Boris Tolstaya had given him to launder. It appears that his only reason for returning to the United States was to win this girl he was in love with. The girl, Viktoriya, would not marry him without her mother’s blessing. He stole the money from Tolstaya to show his prospective mother-in-law how prosperous and successful he was. I believe now that he intended to take his new wife home with him.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Barek said. “I appreciate your frankness. However, I’m afraid you are wrong on one point. My son is not a thief.” Her face was set in stone. It was like staring into the visage of the sphinx.

  “I’m sorry ma’am, but where do you think he got such a sum?”

  Her black eyes burrowed into Hannibal’s. This was what he felt when he faced her son days ago. When she spoke, it was clear that it was to be the final declaration on the subject.

  “I do not know. He is gone now, and cannot defend himself or explain his actions. But I know the money was not stolen because my son was not a thief.”

  Hannibal thought maybe he understood. There was the truth and there was the truth. Whatever was said about Hamed Barek after this conversation would become the truth. She was now the childless woman of a childless son. His reputation would live as his only legacy forever and would represent his family forever. Hannibal sat back and sipped his tea. Her eyes were hard but they were also pleading. He had to stand his own obsessive
dedication to the truth against her obsessive dedication to her family’s public image. Plus, he knew that offending her would end his chances of getting any further information from her. When he spoke, it was with unusual delicacy, stepping through a minefield of words, looking for safe footing.

  “It could be,” he said, “that matters have become confused. After all, Hamed Barek was an honored member of your foreign service. It could be that in fact an Algerian named Dani Gana stole money from the Russian mob. But somehow your son was killed for that money. If the funds were recovered, this mystery could be put to rest.”

  Mrs. Barek nodded and smiled, the sphinx transformed to Mona Lisa. “You are unusually wise for such a young man. But still, you don’t know all. Hamed was not killed for this money. This money is not lost.”

  It took Hannibal a moment to wrap his brain around her words. “You?”

  She smiled again.

  “How?”

  “A large package arrived at my home, delivered by diplomatic courier. American bills, one hundred dollar denominations, totaling more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Hamed sent the money home through the embassy.”

  “Yes, but Viktoriya…” Hannibal cut himself off. Viktoriya had implied that Hamed/Dani left with the money after he was shot or that the killer took the money. But did she ever actually see a suitcase full of cash? A few thousand on top of a duffel bag full of clothes would have looked the same to her. Hamed may have kept that much for show money, and simply led her to believe that he had all of it with him, rather than tell his new bride that he had sent his fortune home to mama.

  “Yes, Viktoriya, that tramp,” Mrs. Barek said.

  “He told you about her?” Hannibal said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

  “I know little,” Mrs. Barek said, her pain and sorrow temporarily morphing into anger and resentment. “Hamed loved her, and said he needed to take her away from the bad influences here in America. Bad influences. This girl was not good enough for my son.”