The Iraqi’s lips parted in a semblance of a smile. “The American goods you arrange to have shipped here are much in demand. I don’t ask how you avoid the government and its red tape, but you obviously have your ways.”
“My years with the infidels were not wasted. My degree is in business, the American way of doing business, cheat and lie, make your fortunes on the backs of the workers, and abandon them when it is time.” Rihnai laughed. “I was a good student, huh?”
“Very good, Ghaleb. Very, very good.”
Rihnai looked out over the stream that ran fast and deep from recent rains. He said as though addressing the water, “You say the plan is ready to be put into action. When?”
“I do not know for certain, but soon. That is what my brother has told me.”
Still without looking at his friend, Rihnai said, “It will shake the Americans to their core.”
“It is time. Too much time has passed since the towers came down. It is time to strike again.”
“Yes. The time is here.”
They returned to Rihnai’s apartment, where the Iraqi fell asleep on the couch while Rihnai answered e-mail messages on his laptop. At eight, they went to one of Amman’s most expensive restaurants and feasted on mensef, roast lamb stuffed with rice and spiced with cinnamon, pine nuts, and almonds; makheedh, beaten yogurt combined with the fat of mutton; salata bi tahini dressed with sesame oil paste; and finished their celebratory meal with many cups of qahwa, bitter, thin coffee flavored with cardamom seed, and rich, sticky pastries. Sated, they returned to Rihnai’s apartment, where he broke out bottles of red wine that had been included in one of his illegal shipments from the United States. Drunk and happy, they hugged, and the Iraqi eventually stumbled down the stairs and into the cool, damp night.
Rihnai placed a call as soon as the Iraqi was gone. He was on the phone for only a few seconds. He played a DVD containing episodes of The Sopranos on his laptop, constantly checking his watch as he did. Two hours later, he shut off the computer and carried his bicycle down the stairs. After ensuring that his Iraqi friend hadn’t decided to linger in a restaurant across the street, or hadn’t fallen asleep on the sidewalk, he mounted the bike and pedaled fast down the King’s Highway, until reaching a small village twelve miles to the east. He pulled behind a one-story gray stone cottage. A yellow light inside slithered through a crack in the drapes covering the windows. Rihnai went to the rear door and knocked—three times, a pause, then two sets of two raps each.
“Rihnai?” a male voice asked from behind the heavy, rough-hewn door.
“Yes.”
A dead bolt was activated and the door opened slowly and noisily. Facing Rihnai was a large man wearing tan cargo shorts with multiple pockets, sandals, and a T-shirt without markings. He had a round, ruddy face. His hair was blond, bordering on orange. His moustache was gray and in need of trimming. Rihnai knew him only as M.T.
Rihnai stepped inside and the door was closed behind him, the bolt slid into the locked position. The room was small and square, with little furniture. A table and two rail-back chairs stood in the middle. The only light was a faux Tiffany lamp hanging over the table. A digital tape recorder the size of a pack of cigarettes was in the center of the table; a tiny microphone with cables leading to the recorder sat in front of each chair.
“Sit down,” M.T. said, indicating one of the seats. “Wine? Whiskey?”
“Whiskey. Scotch if you have it.”
“I always have Scotch,” M.T. said, his British accent now evident. He poured from a bottle into two tumblers, placed the glasses and bottle on the table, and took the second seat. “So, you finally have something of value, Ghaleb,” he said, his elbows resting on the tabletop, his hands folded beneath his chin.
“Yes,” Rihnai responded, tasting his drink. He pulled a package of four Hoyo de Monterrey cigars from his pocket and offered one to the Brit.
“Thank you, no,” M.T. said. “Nasty habit. You should give it up for your health, Ghaleb.”
“Cuban,” Rihnai said, lighting the cigar. “The best. I get them in the Canadian shipments.”
M.T. laughed. “I’ve always enjoyed the story about President Kennedy, who enjoyed Cuban cigars. When he knew he’d be signing into law a ban on importing all things Cuban, including cigars, he dispatched his press secretary—Salinger, I think it was—to buy every Cuban cigar he could find. Delivered five hundred or so to the president.”
If Rihnai found humor in the anecdote, he didn’t display it. He drew on his cigar, sending a plume of blue smoke in his handler’s direction, and drank more Scotch.
“I always find it interesting,” M.T. said, “that even the most devout Muslims enjoy whiskey under the right circumstances.”
Rihnai ignored the comment and finished what was in his glass. He slid the empty glass in front of the Brit, who refilled it.
“So, tell me what you’ve heard, Ghaleb. I assume it comes from your newfound Iraqi chum.”
“Yes.”
“Glad to hear it. It’s costing us a bloody fortune providing you with cover. The pencil-pushers have been complaining. Frankly, Ghaleb, they’re close to shutting down your operation.”
“That would be a mistake,” Rihnai said.
“I’m afraid that’s not for you, or me, to decide. So, tell me why we meet here at this ungodly hour.” He pushed a button on the recorder.
Rihnai spent the next half hour telling the Englishman what he’d learned from the Iraqi. M.T. said nothing during the monologue. When Rihnai was finished, he was asked, “You have faith in your friend’s account of things?”
“Of course. He met with his brother only days ago in Baghdad. His brother has worked himself up in the organization there. He now holds an important position in the insurgency. He is close to the top.”
“Hmmm,” M.T. said, pushing his chair back on the planked floor and crossing his legs. He smiled. “If what you tell me bears fruit, Ghaleb, I’d bloody well say the money has been well spent. Anything else?”
“I need to leave Jordan.”
“Oh?”
“I believe I have exhausted my effectiveness here.”
“I’d say your effectiveness, as you call it, is just beginning. Having this link to your informant’s brother in Baghdad can be of continuing importance.”
Rihnai shook his head. “It is over,” he said. “I want to go back to the States.”
M.T. sighed deeply and extended his hands in a gesture of futility. “It’s not my call, Ghaleb.”
“Then speak with someone who can arrange it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’ll need extra money.”
M.T. nodded.
After a final refill, Rihnai announced that he was leaving.
“Stay in touch, Ghaleb,” M.T. said, walking him to the door. “Here.” He handed Rihnai an envelope. “A small bonus for you. Good work.”
Rihnai exited the building, got on his bike, and headed for home on the dark, lonely road. It had started to drizzle; he cursed getting wet, his shirt beginning to stick to his back. Had the road not consisted of myriad turns, many of them hairpins, he might have become aware of the small, black European sedan that had fallen in behind him, its lights off, the two men in the front seat saying nothing to each other as they maintained a respectable distance from the bike rider. Rihnai, bone-tired, remained oblivious to their presence all the way to the street on which his apartment was located. By the time he’d dismounted the bike, he was soaked to the skin, rivulets running from his hair down his cheeks and over his nose.
He’d pulled keys from his pocket and was opening the downstairs door when he first became aware of the car, which moved slowly and quietly over the rutted concrete road. It took him a few seconds to react to the vehicle’s lights not being on. By the time he did, the car had pulled to within a few feet of him, and the man in the passenger seat opened fire, four shots in all, each striking their intended target, Ghaleb Rihnai—three in the abdome
n and one in the right eye, taking off the side of his head and sending him spinning down, face-first, into a puddle.
FOURTEEN
Ray Pawkins watched the six o’clock news on his fifty-two-inch TV. Like most Washingtonians, the Secretary of Homeland Security’s announcement that the terrorist alert level had been raised caught his attention. Not that it mattered, he knew. Nothing would change. People would go about their daily routines whether the Homeland Security popsicle was green, yellow, or orange. Sure, people would be a little more alert, eyeing dark-skinned men or women wearing winter coats in the heat of summer, or knapsacks on the floor outside a phone booth while its owner made a call. But in real terms, it would be life as usual. As far as Pawkins was concerned, the terrorists needn’t bother with ever again physically attacking America to accomplish their goal of bringing it to its knees. Each time the alert level went up, millions of dollars were consumed responding to the rumor. They could bankrupt the country without lifting a finger again except to occasionally “chat” among themselves.
But one thing the secretary said had piqued Pawkins’ interest. The elevated alert was restricted to Washington. This latest threat, real or imagined, had focused on D.C., which surprised Pawkins. No city in the country was more secure these days than the nation’s capital. There were concrete barriers everywhere, and streets that were even remotely proximate to the White House had been closed. Fly a mile off course in a Piper Cub and on your wingtips you had two F-16s with orders to shoot you down if you didn’t tune to the right radio frequency and set down pronto. Sure, you could always knock off a congressman or senator. They were everywhere. Get one to come to dinner at a marginal restaurant with faded color photos of its dishes in the window, and food poisoning would do the trick. Wait until an elected official crossed the street and gun it. Not hard to knock off a member of Congress, or thousands of other government workers who represented the country. But that would be small potatoes for any self-respecting terrorist. You had to get more yield, which meant multiple deaths, or an attack upon someone of real importance. The president? Fat chance. He had more security surrounding him than a hip-hop star.
Thinking of the president brought a smile to Pawkins’ lips. The last president to attend a Washington National Opera performance at the Kennedy Center prior to the current one had been Ronald Reagan. Detractors claimed he went only because he enjoyed dressing up in a tuxedo, but that was only partisan conjecture.
To the surprise of many, the man occupying the White House these days, Arthur Montgomery, was a regular at performances when he was in town. Whether he, like Reagan, truly enjoyed those evenings was anyone’s guess. The first lady, Pamela Montgomery, had enthusiastically supported the Lyric Opera of Chicago when her husband was mayor of that city, and later governor of the state, and she’d championed the Washington National Opera shortly after they’d settled in the White House. Did the president revel in the magnificent productions on the Kennedy Center stage, or did he have to fight to stay awake? It didn’t matter. He showed up on his resplendent wife’s arm, and that was good enough. They would, according to an announcement from the White House, attend the opening night of Tosca.
Pawkins looked at his watch. He was due for the seven o’clock rehearsal.
He’d spent part of the afternoon there chatting with an old friend, who escorted him back up to where Charise Lee’s body had been found.
“Who ever comes up here?” he’d asked, examining the perimeter of the space far above where the audience would sit during a performance.
“Damn near no one” was the response.
“Which means that whoever killed her knew of this space,” Pawkins murmured, “and how to get up here.”
“Or maybe somebody showed him,” his friend offered.
Two people involved? Unlikely. But it could be. Pawkins looked up from where the body had been. “Somebody who worked here at the Center?”
“Don’t look at me, man.”
Pawkins straightened. “Who else would know about this place except for someone who worked here backstage?”
His friend shrugged. “You done here?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m done. Thanks for bringing me.”
“Gives me the creeps,” said his friend as they began their descent to the stage. “Pretty young kid like that, her whole life ahead of her.”
“Maybe she should have picked her friends better,” Pawkins said.
“You figure it was somebody she knew?”
“It usually is. But in this case? I don’t know. Could have been some horny grip or lighting tech who found her too attractive.”
“You really think that’s what happened?”
“No, but you rule out nothing. A stranger would have strangled her, not stabbed in her chest and then have had the wherewithal to plug the wound.”
“Jesus.”
“He wouldn’t have approved,” Pawkins said as they reached the stage and stood near the computer where the lighting director plied her trade during performances. “I owe you.”
“Anytime, Ray. Hey, you’re in the show coming up, right?”
“Tosca. Tell me something, you work with all the shows that come in here, right?”
“Right.”
“Not just the Washington Opera.”
“Right again. Road shows of musicals, ballet, concerts, whatever comes along.”
“What about the people from the Opera?”
“What about ’em?”
“Are they more difficult to work with than others?”
His friend laughed. “Funny you should ask that. I was telling my wife the other night that the opera people are just about the easiest to get along with, a lot easier than traveling celebrities. Some of them give me a royal pain in the keister.”
Pawkins also laughed. “That goes for directors like Anthony Zambrano, too?”
“Well, he’s another story. See you around, Ray. How’s retirement?”
“Tiring.”
While Pawkins readied to head out for a quick dinner and the rehearsal, theatrical agent Philip Melincamp waited impatiently for his partner, Zöe Baltsa, to show up at A.V. Ristorante Italiano on New York Avenue. Besides serving well-cooked Italian food since 1949, it was the only restaurant in the District with an all-opera jukebox. Melincamp plugged in coins and the voice of soprano Galina Vishnevskaya singing an aria from Mussorgsky’s Boris Godunov wheezed from the old box. Listening to Vishnevskaya reminded him of when she and her husband, Rostropovitch, had left the Soviet Union and blasted the Communist government in her autobiography, naming names of snitches in high places, including the famous mezzo Obratzsova. All of opera’s drama wasn’t on the stage.
The music helped soothe his frazzled nerves, and his anger at his partner’s lateness. She was always late, it seemed, bursting onto the scene full of flowery excuses and affected charm.
He looked at his glass of house red and checked his watch. At times like this he wished he hadn’t taken Zöe as a partner. When he had put aside his qualms, it was because he didn’t see any viable choice. He was low on funds, rent was due, his wardrobe had slid into shabby, and his credit cards were at their limits. Along came Zöe, fresh from a divorce from a wealthy titan of Canadian industry who’d paid whatever it took to get rid of her. This slight disagreement had made her rich, and in search of something to do with her newfound wealth and freedom.
He’d been introduced to her at a Canadian Opera Company’s production of Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro at Toronto’s Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts. He was sipping white wine during intermission, bought for him by an opera critic for the Toronto Globe and Mail, when a mutual friend waltzed her over to him.
“You’re an agent, I understand,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“Representing opera singers.”
“Among others. I also have musicians and—”
“I was an opera singer,” she said.
Oh, God, he thought, what does sh
e want from me, to resurrect her career, which was probably a dismal failure because she—
“I studied in the States and lived in Germany for three years. I studied there, too.”
“You sang there?” he asked.
“A few small roles. I went there because all the good roles here were going to European singers—Gawd, talk about outsourcing—and supposedly the German companies welcomed American sopranos, but it wasn’t so welcoming for me. Well, with one exception. I met my former husband there. He saved me from the trials and tribulations of being an unwanted opera singer.”
His mood brightened. “What was your husband doing in Germany?” he asked, not interested in the answer but looking to keep the conversation going until the ringing of the little bells, announcing that the second act was about to start, could save him.
“He owns companies there, and elsewhere.”
“Really. What sort of companies?”
“Big ones.” She smiled and batted her long, fake lashes at him. Her dress was cut low, exposing an ample amount of freckled bosom, and hemmed high enough to showcase a nice set of legs.
“Big ones?” he said with a wry smile, the double entendre not going over her head.
“Yes. Have you ever considered taking on a partner?” she asked.
“No. Well, it’s crossed my mind on occasion but I’ve never given it any serious thought.”
The bells sounded. She placed a well-manicured set of fingers tipped with crimson talons on his sleeve and said, “I’m looking for an investment that will bring me back into the opera world. Call me.”
“Your name is Baltsa?” he said. “Zöe Baltsa? Any relation to Agnes Baltsa, the soprano?”
“No. It’s my married name. My maiden name was Nagle. I’m keeping my married name—and his money. I’m in the book. No, I’ll call you. Melincamp? That’s the name of your agency?”
“Right.”
“You’ll hear from me. Enjoy the rest of the opera. The sextet at the end of Act Three never fails to delight me.”
Murder at the Opera: A Capital Crimes Novel Page 9
