KH02 - City of Veils

by Zoë Ferraris

  A voice-over began. Katya recognized Leila speaking: Is the Quran pure? Or is it the result of editing and meddling? This question has plagued Muslim scholars for centuries, but today, the brave men and women who ask that question must fear for their lives. Even to suggest that the Quran is not pure can result in charges of apostasy, which carries a punishment of death.

  Katya groaned as a film clip came on showing the now renowned college professor Nasser Abu Zaid being led from a hotel amid a throng of paparazzi and flashing lights. The voice-over explained that he had been found guilty of apostasy in Cairo for publishing his opinion that the Quran is not the absolute Word of Allah but rather a historical and literary text that should be interpreted like any other. The charge of apostasy resulted in Abu Zaid being forced to divorce his wife on the grounds that he was no longer a Muslim and therefore could not be married to one. It caused him and his wife to flee to the Netherlands.

  There was more narration after that, but Katya wasn’t listening. She was trying to untangle her reactions. Not normally offended by discussions that questioned Islam or the Quran, she was disgusted by Mr. Mabus’s remarks, but equally disgusted by the sheikh’s pomposity and inflamed once again by the reminder of the Abu Zaid case: more proof that fundamentalists were waging their battles in the courtrooms as well as in embassy bombings and kidnappings. She had to give Leila credit for one thing: she knew how to be provocative. And maybe that was exactly what got her killed.

  “Well, we have prostitutes. We have public humiliation. It’s not as if we need another motive, exactly,” Majdi said, scratching his head.

  “No, you’re right.” Osama sat on the edge of the table in Majdi’s lab, one hand across his chest, the other covering his mouth. He was staring at the blank computer screen, having just watched all twenty minutes of Leila’s unfinished documentary Pilgrimage. But he seemed withdrawn, and Katya had the sense that his thoughts were somewhere else.

  “We don’t need another motive,” Osama said. “What we need is a good motive.”

  Majdi looked over his shoulder at Osama. “I think the prostitution angle was pretty compelling. Any one of the men involved with those prostitutes could have found out about the footage and gone after Leila. Or any one of the prostitutes, for that matter.”

  “Yes,” Osama said, “except that most of the prostitute footage was taken months ago, and I don’t think her killer planned the crime. I have the feeling that whatever triggered the killer’s rage happened just before her death.”

  At least they had learned one thing from the documentary: a quick comparison had shown that the texts on the DVD were the same ones Leila had hidden in her bedroom. So Leila had photographed the texts for use in the documentary. There was still no clue about Wahhab Nabih, but Katya guessed he might be a wealthy sponsor who funded Mabus’s work. The texts didn’t play much of a role in the documentary itself. They were mostly used for filler. The rest of the documentary showed film clips from news sources and interviews with Mabus to focus on the tension between religious hard-liners and Mabus’s work.

  “So Leila probably did hide the photos in her bedroom to prevent her brother from finding them,” Katya said.

  “Yes,” Osama replied. “I think he’s the sort who would have noticed errors in the text and become angry about it. But on the other hand, he didn’t seem to have much control over her. If he had forbidden her from working on this project, I doubt he would have enforced it.”

  “What about this Mabus?” Majdi asked.

  “What about him?” Osama said. “It looks like they were working together. And judging by the quality of the cut we’ve just seen, she was taking this seriously and probably intending to publicize this documentary somehow.”

  “Yes, it’s more professional than her previous work,” Katya said.

  “We have to assume that it was with Mabus’s consent.”

  “Then he’s a real risk-taking guy,” Majdi observed. “Personally, if I were doing the kind of research he was, I wouldn’t make a fanfare about it in this country. I certainly wouldn’t go on video and tell everyone all about it.”

  “He must have trusted Leila,” Katya said. The men looked at her. “You know I found blond hairs on her headscarf?”

  Osama regarded her with interest. “Yes, I’d heard. You think they could belong to Mabus?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “I think we have two blonds associated with this case: Apollo Mabus (we can see he’s blond from the video) and”—she turned to Majdi—“I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d save you the trouble. I got a copy of Eric Walker’s residency permit. It’s up in my office. But I can confirm that he’s blond as well.”

  “By the way,” Osama said, “I sent two men to Walker’s apartment, but they couldn’t track down the wife. You said she was there?”

  “Yes,” Katya replied, feeling anxious at the thought of the police dragging Miriam Walker into custody. “Maybe she was out shopping.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find her,” Osama said. “But back to Mabus and Walker. Do you think the two men knew each other?”

  “They’re both connected to Leila and to Mr. Nabih,” she said. “Eric Walker rented an apartment from Mr. Nabih, and Mabus was in possession of documents that we presume belonged to Mr. Nabih. I’d say the chances are good that Eric and Mabus knew each other.”

  “Well, we need to find Mabus,” Osama said. “Majdi.”

  “I’m on it.” Majdi spun back to his computer.

  “What do you think about all this?” Osama asked her.

  Katya hid her surprise behind a reflective expression. “I think Leila was the kind of person who wanted to stir up controversy. She was going after prostitutes, but then she met Mabus and his work excited her even more. So she dropped what she’d been doing on women and started focusing on this.” She motioned to the DVD. “All this footage of Mabus was taken in the month before she was killed. She was out in the desert with him, obviously. And from the video it looks like she was in his apartment in Jeddah. She was probably spending a lot of time with him.” She paused, but Osama didn’t interrupt. “My guess,” she went on, “is that someone else found out about what Leila was doing and became upset about it.”

  “Like who?” he prompted.

  “Her brother?” Katya said. “It sounds as if he’s pretty devout. But the truth is, it could have been anyone who has a strong enough feeling about the sanctity of the Quran.”

  Osama kicked himself up from the table and began to pace. “It all comes down to who would have known about the documentary. Mabus could have told someone, but let’s focus on Leila.” He stopped and faced Katya. “She probably wouldn’t have told her ex-husband; she hadn’t spoken to him in months. I haven’t verified that yet. There’s her brother Abdulrahman. But it would have offended him and gotten her into trouble. We’re thinking she was hiding the photos from him. That leaves her cousin Ra’id. She would have told Ra’id, because she trusted him. He was probably one of the only people she would discuss this with, although I think he would have kept her secret.”

  “Is he still in custody?” Majdi asked.

  “Yes,” Osama said. “He was possessive of her. The morning Leila disappeared, Ra’id was supposed to accompany her. He says he had no idea where she was going, because she didn’t tell him, but when I suggested she was going to meet Eric Walker, Ra’id lost his temper. His own alibi is flimsy. He stole Leila’s DVDs and erased her computer’s hard drive to hide evidence from us.”

  “You think he was jealous enough of Leila’s relationship with Walker to kill her?” Katya asked.

  Osama shrugged. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “And it would explain why this was a passion crime,” Katya added.

  “But religious passions can be just as strong,” Majdi put in.

  “What about her female friends?” Katya asked. “Farooha didn’t say anything about the other documentary, but that may have been to protec
t Leila. If we go to her with the information, she might open up. I think we should go back and ask…”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” Osama said. “But you don’t have to go back there. Just call her.”

  “I will,” Katya said, suppressing her excitement at being treated as part of the team.

  “I don’t think we should abandon the family entirely,” Osama said. “Abdulrahman’s alibi checks out. He was shopping at the souq, and then he had lunch with a friend. The only people who can vouch for Ra’id are the workers in the store.”

  “And the clerks say he was there?” Katya asked.

  “They don’t remember,” Osama said. “Some of them do, some of them don’t.”

  “What about in-store security cameras?” Katya asked.

  “We collected them when we were there,” Majdi put in, “but apparently the cameras had been broken for some time.”

  Osama and Majdi exchanged a look that said That’s ridiculously suspicious.

  In the hallway, one of the floaters was motioning to Osama. He turned to the door. “Majdi,” he said over his shoulder, “call me the minute you find out anything about Mabus.” Without even nodding good-bye to Katya, he left the room.

  26

  Nayir awoke to the ringing of his cell phone. He rolled out of bed and looked at the clock: 6:45. He’d slept straight through the call to prayer. Cursing at the phone, he answered it.

  “Mr. Sharqi?” It was an American woman’s voice.

  “Yes,” he said. He had never been comfortable with phone courtesies in English.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “I’ve just… I was wondering… I’m the woman you spoke with two days ago?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Walker, I remember you.”

  “Oh, good,” she said. “Actually, I’m calling because I have some information for you. That address I gave you for Mr. Nabih? Well, it’s not the right one. I checked with the neighbors and they said that he lives in Dubai now. He’s been there for a long time.”

  “Oh.” This would be a disappointment for Katya, a dead end. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “There’s one more thing,” she said quickly. “There is a property manager who takes care of the building. I have his address if you’d like it. I just got it from my neighbor this morning. This guy might know more about Mr. Nabih.”

  Nayir took down the name and address, registering the nervousness with which Miriam was giving it. He felt the impulse to warn her that the police might come back with more questions for her, but the words seemed to be tumbling together in his mind. He didn’t want to upset her.

  “Thank you again,” he finally said.

  “Sure.”

  “Mrs. Walker,” he said, “did you find your husband yet?”

  There was a silence. “No. I called the consulate again but they haven’t found him either.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Do you have everything you need? Food and —?”

  “Actually,” she said, “could I ask you a favor?”

  “Yes,” he said automatically.

  “Could I trouble you for a ride? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ve got to get somewhere—here in the city, actually—and the cab service is full out.”

  All of his impulses rose up at once to say yes, of course, I’ll help. But his stomach bottomed out at the very suggestion. Being alone in the car with Katya was one thing. Katya was… Well, what was the difference? That he cared more for Katya? That he’d known her longer? That she was a Muslim? When he’d started seeing her, she’d been engaged to another man. It occurred to him suddenly the trap he’d fallen into, letting himself think it was all right to be with Katya even though they weren’t married. If he let himself go with one person, then what was to stop him from letting go with another?

  She was still talking. “But if you’re too far away, I’ll understand…”

  “I’d be glad to give you a ride,” he found himself saying. “Are you at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said.

  The drive took less time than that, just long enough for him to have a tortured series of thoughts in which he decided that he wouldn’t call Katya, that he would call Katya (but later), that Miriam obviously needed his help, and he was meeting with her under the pretext of helping her find her husband while secretly hoping to get more information from her, which Katya couldn’t have helped with anyway, since she didn’t speak English, and finally, that he had no reason to be doing any of this because he wasn’t an investigator.

  Miriam was waiting for him in front of her building, and when she saw him, she waved. The minute he pulled to the curb, she jogged up to the car, climbed into the front seat, and thanked him breathlessly for coming. He took off at once so that he didn’t have to sit there looking shocked.

  After giving him the address, Miriam sat back against the plush seat and tried to relax. It was awkward being in the car with this tall, silent stranger who was doing her an enormous favor. So far the only thing he had said to her was “It’s no problem,” when she’d thanked him for picking her up. God knows she was used to reserve in men, but Nayir’s stony silence intimidated her, fraught as it was with implications of cultural differences so vast as to be unfathomable.

  When he’d seen her standing at the curb, his eyes had flicked quickly away from her face and landed at that mysterious point above her head that she couldn’t help thinking of as her halo, the spot where pious men rested their eyes when they didn’t want to look at a woman’s face. One of the corner-store cashiers did this to her every time she bought milk. Miriam had once complained to Sabria about it, because the gesture offended her. She thought it meant that she was ugly.

  “On the contrary, dear,” Sabria had said with a smile. “You’re so beautiful that to look at your face would be a temptation for a man.”

  Does anyone really believe that? Miriam wondered. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Nayir having lascivious thoughts about her. His halo-gaze seemed more perfunctory than that, something he did out of habit. He hadn’t seemed this way yesterday. He’d been nervous, yes, but his face had been open with sympathy. It was the main reason she’d dared to ask for a ride today.

  Now he just looked uncomfortable.

  “I didn’t have the money for a cab,” she admitted. “I’ve got to stop at a bank, or an ATM, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “And I’d be glad to pay you,” she added.

  “You shouldn’t even offer,” he said darkly. He seemed offended, so she left it at that.

  “Are you still working with the police?” she asked.

  He hesitated, then said, “No. Don’t worry about that.”

  She nodded, feeling grateful. A few minutes later, he pulled up to a bank and actually got out of the car to come with her to the ATM. “You should put your burqa down,” he said.

  “I know,” she said, “but I am by nature the clumsiest person you’ve ever met. You haven’t been injured yet, so let’s keep it that way.” She left him to determine the exact meaning of those words and went to the ATM. While she stood at the machine, he came and stood against the wall beside her and turned his eyes to the ground.

  “Where am I taking you?” he asked.

  “SynTech,” she said. “It’s where my husband works.”

  He kept his gaze on the street, but she could feel his attention zero in on her in the subtle shift of his shoulders, the sudden tension in his neck. “Is it an American company?” he asked.

  “No, but one of his bosses is American. The other one is Saudi.”

  “Do they know that you’re coming?”

  “I didn’t make an appointment,” she said. “Why?”

  He looked away as she punched in her PIN. A moment later, he said, “Have you told them about your husband’s disappearance?”

  “Yes. They weren’t very helpful. They didn’t know anything.”

  “Then w
hy are you going there?”

  She stuffed the money in her wallet and retrieved her card. “I have a feeling they know something,” she said stubbornly, heading back to the car.

  Nayir waited patiently for a break in the traffic, then pulled onto the highway. She watched the world speeding by, league upon league of generic apartment buildings, flat, ugly office towers, and sprawling factories. The overpass into the city gave a view of the skyline, an expanse of sleekly modern buildings, billboards, and a sky heavy with vehicle exhaust and industrial by-products. The smell that poured through the windows had an acrid stench that made her think of rotten rice, of things that could kill you through your bronchial tubes. A few minutes later they passed a ship graveyard and the odor intensified, greasy like a swamp. Old ships lay atop one another, splintered and decayed, the foreground colored by the marine blue of weathered sails.

  “You said your husband picked you up from the airport,” Nayir said, “and that he disappeared right after you got home.”

  “That’s right.” She kept her eyes on the window.

  “Don’t you think it’s odd? If he wanted to run away, why wouldn’t he just leave you at the airport?”

  “I don’t know.” She tried to sound sufficiently uninterested in the problem, and it seemed to work because he dropped the subject at once. But she could still feel his attention warming the side of her face like a heat lamp.

  As they drove, she lost all sense of direction. They coursed down long boulevards lined with palm and maple trees, where traffic flowed relentlessly like blood, seldom pausing for street signs or pedestrians but shuttling forward by an automatic impulse, like a beating heart. They maneuvered into side streets, cutting through capillaries to large veins beyond. Finally, on a street that was quiet and bare, Nayir pulled up to a parking lot in front of a plain brown office building. A shiny metal sign in front read SynTech Corporation in English and Arabic. She stared at the building with interest; she had never been to Eric’s office before.