by Zoë Ferraris
Osama answered it and listened for a moment, grunting “Yes” and “All right.” His face betrayed anxiety. When he was finished, he pulled quickly back into traffic and took off with a rush.
“There’s an emergency,” he said. “It’s close to here.”
“What kind of emergency?” Nayir asked.
“Domestic dispute,” Osama grunted, skidding into a sharp left that left tire marks on the road. They merged onto a broad open boulevard, and Osama sped up. “Some guys’ wives are trying to kill each other.”
“Oh.”
“Technically,” Osama said, “it’s haraam to send in a man to break up a women’s fight. We have female cops who are trained to handle domestic problems.”
“So why are we going?” Nayir said.
“None of the women are on duty right now. Hopefully, by the time we get there, there won’t be another bunch of bodies for my squad.”
Nayir was quietly surprised. “If it’s haraam, why did they call you?” he asked.
“I gave orders to the emergency services to notify me when situations like this come up. They want to do something about it, too, but there aren’t many cops who are willing to get involved. Only me and a few others.”
“But clearly, you have the husband’s permission,” Nayir said, “if he’s the one who made the call.”
Osama nodded. “But it’s still haraam and illegal, and I could lose my job.”
They pulled into a parking lot facing a tall apartment building. Just before Osama leapt out of the car, he turned to Nayir and said, “I might need your help, if you’re willing to give it.”
Nayir got out at once, anxiety, remorse, and stubbornness assailing him in equal measure. He followed Osama into the building as the inspector said over his shoulder, “Just stay behind me, and do what I say.”
He wanted to ask Osama if he had a gun, and if so, why he wasn’t brandishing it. Nayir’s heart was racing despite a feeling that this could all turn out to be very foolish. The next scene put this feeling to rest. Osama pounded on the door, and a man answered immediately, looking frantic and terrified, and quickly ushering six crying children into the hallway. Agonized, Nayir watched them pass; they looked terrified. The man, obviously the husband, was just as scared. “They’re in there,” he said needlessly, pointing into the apartment, where the sounds of screaming burst forth at intervals. They heard the crash of a plate, the horrible wail of a baby, and women yelling at one another, one of them crying, shouting raggedly through tears, then another shrieking so viciously that Nayir wanted to clap his hands to his ears.
Everything happened at once. Osama shot through the house and entered the kitchen. Nayir was right behind him, no longer afraid, only anxious that one of the women would attack Osama first, the shorter of the two men. Once through the kitchen door, Nayir moved to one side. He caught sight of blood spatter on the wall, the fridge. A woman was lying on the floor, unmoving, facedown, her back covered in blood. Another two were standing on opposite sides of the room, a kitchen table between them. Both were holding knives. On the counter, apparently forgotten, was an infant in a bassinet, screeching at the top of its lungs.
Nayir thought for a moment that the husband had been pathetic to let things get this far out of control. But even the presence of police did nothing to stop the fracas. The woman closest to the sink hurled a knife at the other one, who just as quickly hurled a breadboard back, and the two objects clattered against the opposite walls as the women ducked to avoid them. The woman nearest the sink was panting with fury, her eyes terrifying in their wildness. She picked up another steak knife. There was blood on her hand.
“Put it down!” Nayir and Osama both boomed at once.
The woman hurled it at her rival. Osama seized the opportunity to close in and grab the woman, gripping her wrists and lashing on the handcuffs he’d loosed from his belt. Nayir had no choice but to block the other woman. The minute Osama had subdued the first one, the second had come bolting around the table, knife in hand. She thudded into Nayir’s chest, and he managed to grab her just seconds before the knife would have plunged into his arm. He twisted her wrist, and the knife fell. She shrieked and pounded his chest with her free arm until he seized that hand, too, and somehow found himself pinning her to the wall, her face pressed into the tacky flowered wallpaper.
Osama was pushing him aside and slipping handcuffs on the second woman. “Ambulance is on its way,” he said. Then he knelt beside the woman on the floor, who stirred and groaned. “Don’t move,” he told her, resting a hand on her back. “Help is coming.”
“Bism’allah ar-rahman, ar-rahim.” The prayer flew from Nayir’s mouth in small muttered phrases. Time fractured, and images clicked oddly around him like the shutter of an old-fashioned camera. Osama lifting the baby from the bassinet and shushing it. One of the women falling to her knees in tears. Another officer coming in. Nayir came to and saw that he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding one woman’s upper arm in a vise grip and keeping her antagonist directly in his line of sight. She had been dragged up from her knees and was now standing next to the fridge, hands cuffed behind her back, staring blindly at his face. There was blood in her hair, and one of her eyes was swollen shut.
Fifteen minutes later they were loading the women into the back of two ambulances. Osama returned to his car, nursing a cut on the back of his hand that was bleeding profusely. Nayir followed him.
Fishing a towel from the trunk, Osama pressed it into the wound. Nayir noticed that the officer’s hands were shaking, but this was probably caused by leftover adrenaline. Osama eyed him sharply. “It may be haraam to break up a women’s dispute, but I think it’s more haraam to let people kill each other, don’t you?”
After a hesitation, Nayir said, “Yes, I do.”
Osama nodded, the fury rising off him in waves. He lifted the towel and saw that the cut was still bleeding. “Now, about Mrs. Walker?”
“I’ll show you how to get there,” said Nayir.
33
Miriam sat at the computer. Samir was in the shower; she could hear the water running upstairs. She had spent most of the morning trying to guess the username and password on the memory card, but she’d had no luck. Nayir had said he’d be there at eight o’clock, but it was nearly noon, and he still hadn’t showed. She’d tried calling his cell phone a dozen times. He wasn’t answering, and that, combined with the computer frustration, was enough to make her scream.
When her cell phone finally rang, she answered it promptly. “Where are you?” she demanded. But it wasn’t Nayir, it was Jacob.
“Miriam,” he said, sounding more nervous than she’d ever heard him. “Where are you?”
“Jacob?”
“Are you at home?”
“No. Jacob, what’s wrong?”
“Miriam, goddammit, just tell me where you are.”
“I’m at a friend’s house,” she said impatiently.
“An American friend?”
“No, an Arab.”
“All right, you have to get out of there.”
“What? Why?”
“Did you see the paper this morning?” he asked.
“I…” She stood up and went into the kitchen, then the living room. Apparently, Samir didn’t get a daily paper. Her heart was pounding in her throat, and she had trouble getting the words out: “What’s in the paper?”
“There’s an article about a dead girl named Leila,” Jacob said. “They’re suggesting that Eric may have had something to do with it.”
“What?” she shrieked. “This is in the paper?”
“Yes. Now listen, you’ve got to get to the consulate immediately. If the police are convinced enough of Eric’s guilt to leak it to the press, then there’s no way you’re going to be able to tell them otherwise. By the end of the day, this whole country is going to be frothing at the mouth to kill the American son of a bitch who slaughtered some young Arab girl. And if they can’t find Eric, they’ll be glad to
settle for you. You have to get to the consulate.”
“Oh God, Jacob, you don’t think he had anything to do with this, do you?”
Jacob was quiet a second too long.
“What the hell is going on?” she snapped. “You knew this girl. You both knew this girl.” She felt tears sting her eyes. “They said Eric was married to her.” Her voice cracked, and she stamped her foot.
“Miriam,” Jacob said with a tenderness so uncharacteristic that it stopped her crying. “We both know that Eric had nothing to do with this. I’m going to check something out. You just get yourself to the —”
“What?” she interrupted. “What are you going to check out?”
“I’ll explain later. What’s important right now is —”
“This is my husband!” she screeched. “Now, what the hell are you hiding? Goddammit, Jacob! I know about Mabus, all right? I know you’re in on it!”
“Mabus? What are you talking about, Miriam?” He sounded genuinely perplexed.
“I know you’re doing something illegal. The police shouldn’t be after Eric. They should be after you and Mabus.”
Jacob seemed stunned. “What do you mean?”
“I know that Mabus slipped a memory card into my purse on the plane.”
“What? He was on the plane with you?” Jacob sounded alarmed. “What’s on this memory card?”
“I don’t know. I can’t break the password.”
There was a long pause before Jacob said, “Miriam, destroy the card.”
“What? Why?”
“Just destroy it. I don’t know what’s on it either, but I have a very bad feeling that that memory card can get you into more trouble than you’re already in. Just trust me.”
“How can I trust you when you won’t tell me anything?”
“I’m going to the desert,” he said shortly. “I’m going to check something out. I might be gone for a few days, but once I figure out what’s going on, I’ll let you know.”
“Jacob, tell me what’s happening!”
“Just get yourself to the consulate immediately.” He hung up. She tried calling back, but she was shuttled straight to voice mail. So angry that she couldn’t breathe, she had to sit on a chair and put her head between her legs.
34
It was almost one by the time Nayir and Osama arrived at Samir’s house. Miriam was gone. Samir was lounging on the patio, enjoying the unusually crisp air. Seeing Nayir and Osama come barreling in, he stood up with some alarm and reported that she had left half an hour before. Because Samir couldn’t drive, Miriam had had to call for a taxi. When Nayir pressed his uncle about where she had gone, Samir could say only that she had spoken to a friend on the phone before leaving, so he’d been under the impression that she’d gone to see her friend. He hadn’t thought it was a problem. He had tried calling Nayir twice, but he hadn’t answered his phone. Apparently Miriam had tried calling him as well. Since Nayir had not bothered to keep his appointment with her, Samir couldn’t be expected to keep her prisoner in the house.
Nayir realized that he hadn’t switched on his cell phone all morning. Cursing himself inwardly, and cursing cell phones in general, he followed Osama back to the car.
“Do you think she’ll come back here?” Osama asked.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “She’s impulsive.”
Osama motioned him into the car. While he was driving, he called the station and requested that they pull Miriam’s cell phone activity from that morning. Nayir imagined banks of sleek computers tended by men in crisp suits, but the minute Osama got off the phone he announced, “That may take a couple of hours, so until then, let’s try to figure it out. Did she tell you anything about her friends?”
Nayir explained that she didn’t have many friends—at least no one she trusted enough to stay with, and that that was why she had been staying with his uncle. The only people she had mentioned were her downstairs neighbors and an American friend who lived on a compound. He couldn’t remember the woman’s name, but her husband, Jacob, was a friend of Eric’s. Miriam seemed to have trusted her neighbor more, but she didn’t want to stay there because she feared the police would find her and arrest her.
Osama didn’t contradict the statement, didn’t leap to defend himself. Instead, he drove straight to Miriam’s apartment.
“I was there yesterday, hoping to find her,” he explained. “We had the forensics team out there, too.”
“Did they find anything?”
“They found plenty, but I’m not sure any of it will be useful.”
Having climbed the stairs to Miriam’s apartment, Nayir was surprised to see crime scene tape blocking the door. Osama went inside and did a quick scan of the apartment, then came back looking annoyed. “She’s not here. Let’s check the neighbors.”
Fortunately, Mr. Assad was home. He let them into the apartment and obligingly produced his daughter Sabria for questioning. The session turned out to be brief. She had seen Miriam the morning before, but hadn’t heard from her since. She explained that she’d given Miriam the landlord’s address in Dubai and the address of the property manager as well. Mr. Assad confirmed the story. No one could remember Miriam having any friends on an American compound. She had gone there once or twice, but had never mentioned any names. Sabria said she was worried about Miriam and had tried calling her home phone, but Sabria was preparing for her wedding and had been too busy to track her friend down.
The Assads kindly let them walk through the house, the ridiculous pretense being that they needed to see how it would be possible to go from their apartment to the access stairs that led either to the roof or to a hallway that led to Miriam’s kitchen door. In reality they were making sure that Miriam was not hiding there.
As they headed back to the car, Osama’s cell phone rang. He listened grimly, cursed, and hung up. “Bad news,” he said, looking as if he’d swallowed a cactus. “There was an article in the paper this morning about the Nawar case. And they mention Eric Walker as a possible suspect.”
Nayir felt as if he’d been punched. “How did they—did you —?”
“I have no idea who leaked the story to the press,” he cut in. “But believe me, no one at the station wanted anyone to know. We’re floundering on this one. Fuck!” He slammed the steering wheel with his fist, a gesture Nayir found vaguely comforting. “All right, we have to find her.”
“I have an idea,” Nayir said, aware that once he said it, he was going to have a lot of explaining to do. “She might have gone in search of Apollo Mabus.”
Osama looked surprised.
“I gave the address to Katya last night,” Nayir said. “Didn’t she…?”
“No. How did you get it?”
“Miriam gave it to me. She got it from her neighbors. Apollo Mabus is the property manager of her building.”
“We know that Eric and Leila met at the mall,” Osama said. “Eric probably introduced Leila to Mabus. Then she got involved in Mabus’s project.”
“What project?”
Osama explained the contents of Leila’s documentary Pilgrimage. Nayir was disturbed. “There’s one more thing,” Nayir said. “At some point Mabus left the country, because he was on the plane with Miriam coming back to Jeddah. She didn’t know who he was at the time, but they were seated next to each other on the flight. He didn’t tell her he knew her husband. She believes he slipped something into her purse.”
Osama looked alarmed. “What?”
“A memory card.”
“Where is it now?”
Nayir cringed. He had forgotten to ask his uncle. A quick phone call revealed that the memory card was still in the converter.
“It’s back at the house,” he said.
“And there was nothing on it?” Osama asked.
“I’m sure there was something on it, we just couldn’t break the password.”
Osama nodded, looking grave. “Tell your uncle we’re coming to pick it up.”
Nayir did
so while Osama spun a U-turn. On the phone with the station, Osama spent a long time explaining what Nayir had told him. Nayir listened, alternately hoping that he hadn’t been an idiot for sharing this information and that he hadn’t been an idiot for not sharing it sooner.
35
The taxi took a left down a narrow alley and came to a halt in front of an immense cedar door. It was only one o’clock, but the sky was darkening ominously, and the smell in the air indicated—unbelievably—rain.
Before getting out, Miriam asked the driver, “You’re sure this is number fifty-six?”
He nodded approvingly. “Go ahead. Is right one.”
“You’re going to wait?”
“Yes.”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze or even turn in her direction, which made her nervous, but she got out anyway and approached the door. The building was luxurious, some remnant of the Turkish occupation. The exterior was white stucco and brown wooden beams, and decorative wooden grillwork hung from the eaves. There were no windows onto the street.
She rang the bell. Deep inside she heard a faint trill. The taxi drove down the alley to let another car pass. She waited for the car to go by, and watched to see that the taxi’s taillights hadn’t disappeared at the end of the block.
She checked the slip of paper for the tenth time. Number 56. Mabus’s address, which Sabria had given her what felt like a million years ago.
She rang again. This time she heard something like a ball falling off a chair and rolling a bit before hitting a wall. She strained to hear clearly, but a passing car broke the silence. She rang the bell yet again, then banged an old metal knocker that echoed loudly in the entrance hall.
She pushed on the door firmly, and it cracked open.
“Hello?” she said. She glanced up and down the street. The taxi’s taillights were just visible at the end of the block, but otherwise no one was around. She scanned the nearby buildings for signs of curious neighbors. The windows were all shuttered tight. Certain that no one was watching, she swung the door open.
