by Jeff Spence
Still, being on the business end of a firearm was not a place she had ever intended to be again.
To be under the control of another person, especially a man, triggered much deeper reactions in her psyche, both conscious and unconscious. And so she watched. Waited. Poised herself to take whatever action she deemed necessary in the tick of a moment. And she bore the strain of that readiness.
She was told to stay in the Cadillac, and was closely watched by the man with the gun. A different man walked Ben into a single-story cinderblock building. Ben had the surreal sense that he was stepping into a bunker. Sitting in the foyer, on a fold-out camping chair, was Greg Bass. Ben was led to a second chair and the pressure on his shoulder moved him firmly into the seat.
"Hello Ben."
Ben said nothing.
"I wasn't very happy to get your call, Professor — we had a deal, after all."
"The girl has nothing to do with this. Let her go."
A hero. Good. He could use that to his own advantage. “Maybe. We'll talk about that in a minute. First, we need to fix this situation. As I said, we had a deal."
"You lied to me. And I don't want to be involved in anything illegal."
"There's nothing illegal in this. This is above legal and illegal."
"The gun in my back would beg to differ."
"The gun in your back was nothing more than a quiet way to get you here. You seemed reticent to face up to your obligations over the phone. The issue of the scroll, however, is something else."
"You don't even own it."
"Who told you that?"
Ben said nothing. What could he say, a voice on the phone? Some guy named Leonard?
"I don't want to be involved in anything illegal," he said again, "and the guys with the guns tell me that I don't want to work with you."
"Everybody has guns, Ben. The government has guns. They don't want other governments to have guns, but they do too. Citizens have guns, terrorists have guns. The truth is, the world is not as stable and orderly as the government would have us believe. For most people, life is living under the protection of the nearest person with the most guns. I am not that kind of person. Nothing wrong with it, for the average guy… I just deal on the same level as a government. No more moral or immoral than that. Anything else is an illusion meant to keep the plebs in check. All we have in the end is our word, Ben. And you and I? We do have a deal. I don't break deals, and I don't like deals I've made broken against my will. I made a genuine offer. You accepted. You've been paid a retainer. You will do the work."
"And if I don't?"
"You will."
"But if I don't? You'll kill the girl, I suppose."
"I hadn't thought of that, nor would I say something so rash. Besides, the girl wasn't involved until she wouldn't leave well enough alone; her choice, really. I haven't fully considered her usefulness yet. No, I think you'll find that, even without her safety in mind, you'll be cooperative."
He paused, motioned to the man behind Ben, who stepped over to the countertop and poured a couple of cups of coffee. A little cream and sugar in each and a stir. Then he passed one to Greg and one to Ben. Ben didn't lift his hand to take it.
"If you don't accept the cup, I'll have him pour it on your crotch, Professor."
Ben's hand opened and he took it. The whole time he just stared at the floor, his anger and frustration welling up within him. Greg took a sip of his coffee.
"So, how are David and Mimi?"
"What?"
"Donna's parents, David and Mimi… I heard Mimi… let me check the time…” he glanced at his watch, "Yes, it seems she's been attacked. Mugged."
Ben leaned forward as if to stand, but the gunman pushed hard down on his shoulders, pinning him to the chair with a pressure that threatened to snap his collar bone. Hot coffee splashed on Ben's hand but he didn't seem to notice.
"You sonnova-"
"Now Ben, don't fret. She's okay. A bruise or two, a missing purse. I'm sure she'll get over it in no time."
"You can't-"
"But Ben, that's where you're wrong. Haven't you been listening? 'You can't you can't you can't.' This is what I'm trying to convey to you: I can. And I am. You are not in a position to negotiate. The negotiations are over. Done. This is the contract enforcement stage. When you deal with issues that are above legal or even national confines, you need to do your own wet-work. That's where I am, Ben. Think of this as a court ruling. Mimi is fine — for now — and so is David. So is the girl in the car, for that matter. All of that can change. It's a dangerous world, Ben, and those who want to carve out a little niche need to understand that, and act accordingly. For me that means getting behind what I want and what you agreed to. For you it might mean doing a job you love, for a lot more money than you normally make… for a guy you don't care much for. In all, Ben, that's not so bad a deal."
"If you hurt any of them…"
"If any of them get hurt, Ben, it won't be on me. I have told you exactly what keeps each of them safe, and now it's up to you."
"And what about the others?"
"What others?"
"The guy on the phone, he said that there were other parties interested, that they were dangerous."
"Oh Ben, we're all dangerous. Outside of your little university world, we're all dangerous. You keep your mind on the academics and I'll run interference between you and any of these other 'interested parties.'"
"I guess I have no choice."
"You had a choice. You made it."
The occupants of the Cadillac rode in silence. Marina sat beside Ben, tears of rage and anxiety streaming down her face. When Ben had sat down beside her, she had grabbed his hand, her shoulders shuddering with relief. She must have thought they'd brought him there to kill him, he realised. Poor girl. He leaned in a bit, pressing their shoulders together, but saying nothing. He received as much from her hand as he gave with his own. He had been terrified too. He still was.
Marina exhaled, long and slow. They wanted Ben to do something, of that she was now sure, and they had placed them together again in the SUV. That meant that they weren't there for execution. They weren't even there to be held in some bare room for other purposes. They were going home. They would stay alive that day. That was enough for the moment; later moments would take care of themselves when the time came. There would be other garbage clinging to this situation, of that she was certain, but in the grand scheme, the key thing was okay: they were going home.
Greg's final words still rang in Ben's ears, "Everyone has their own agenda, and your life is of very small consequence in the midst of it all. If you think you can trust anyone in this, government or otherwise, you're a fool. Are you a fool, Ben?"
What struck him the hardest was that Greg Bass was right. No one could be trusted. No one had Ben's needs in mind. All anyone wanted was their own 'niche' as Bass had put it, their own piece of the pie, the bigger, the better.
He looked at Marina, beautiful, tear-stained, but now almost stoic. He thought of David, of Mimi, and of what Donna would have thought of his putting her parents in any kind of danger… and that was it. He knew what he had to do, regardless of danger to himself. He wouldn't be one of these guys, only out for self-preservation and wealth. He had step above it, transcend it — all grand words for just one thing: keeping those he loved safe. Doing what he was told.
The Escalade stopped beside Ben's VW in the university parking area. The man in the front passenger seat got out and opened the door. Ben and Marina both stepped out and then the men were gone, the SUV was gone, Bass was gone. But the threat remained.
Marina stared off at the receding taillights of the Cadillac. They got into Ben’s car and he drove, the only speech between them was the minimal communication needed to direct Ben to Marina’s front door. He pulled up at last and the two of them sat silently in the car.
“You okay?” Ben asked.
She nodded. “You?”
“Yeah.”
No mo
re words came to either of them.
All that remained was the sinking feeling that they had been dropped into a lightless cave — move around at all, and one might just find out what lives in the damp and darkness. In a way, it was a comforting feeling for her… familiar, anyway. She knew what to do. Knew how to dial down her emotions, expectations, even humanity. To be ready. As they sat in the empty and quiet street, however, she thought of Ben. Innocent of any wrongdoing at the bar. Trying to keep her out of it at the university, despite being in the midst of an abduction. Pretty solid, for a regular guy. She picked up a discarded receipt from the centre console and grabbed a pen from three or four of them that rattled around in the cubby. She wrote her number down, then her name. She opened the door, stood without a word, and walked away from the car.
Ben sat a moment, watched her stride up the steps and into the security door at the front of the apartment building, then sank his face into his hands.
TEN
Gulam Thoma walked down the crowded street with an intense effort at seeming relaxed and casual, but his knees seemed reluctant to bend, and each time his feet made contact with the cobbles his whole body seemed to jar in a most obvious way. He dared not look to see who noticed; to do so would only make it worse.
His hand went to his belly as if his ample stomach were troubling him, but in reality his rounded belly was a little thicker than usual that day, as packets of hundred-dinar bills were lined around him and secured under a few layers of thick felt wrapping. This tightness added to the ungainly manner of his gait, but it was a comfort, also. He had seventy thousand dinars on his person, enough to tempt every living soul in the market to slit his throat and leave him in the dust for the mongrels to devour. A fortune to them. A fortune also to Thoma, now that his business was in such a state. Not even his brother in law or his wife knew the extent to which his fortunes had fallen.
No matter.
That was all about to change.
When this was over, he would be a national hero. People would say to Nawab Khoury 'Oh yes, I know you! You are Gulam Thoma's brother!' Even Nawab, high and mighty as he was with his family's money, might feel some pride in his brother-in-law then. Even if not, it was about time Nawab was knocked down a peg or two. Picturing the jealousy the man might feel once this was done, Thoma smiled, his knees loosened a bit, and the stones beneath his feet felt a little softer to the tread.
Turning down a side street behind the bazaar, he arrived at the kiosk where he knew men could be hired for dangerous tasks, tasks that might require avoiding the police and getting one's hands dirty. He had never been there before, despite having hired a thug or two in the past, to enforce contracts and the like. This place was for high-level tasks. Thoma guessed that they seldom came higher than this.
"What do you want?" The man behind the counter asked, though with no real movement toward getting any food or drink for him.
"I am here for business."
"We sell food."
"I am expected."
"For food?"
"If you like."
The man looked him over for a moment. "Okay, wait here." He stepped through a door cut in the plywood wall behind him, pulling the thick blue curtain back over the gap as he passed through. A moment later, Thoma felt a tap on his shoulder and turned with a jump.
"Gulam?"
"Yes."
"Family name?"
"Thoma."
"Okay, come with me."
The man led him a little farther down the street, then turned into a dark alleyway that broadened out until they stood in a sunlit courtyard, like a bright grotto among the many shadowy stalls of the backstreet spillover of the market. The man pointed for Thoma to enter a shaded opening. He did so.
The dimness slowly shifted to shadows and shapes as Thoma's eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight to the relative darkness of the room. Four men stood in the deeper depths of the space, while two strode forward and motioned for him to raise his arms out to his sides.
He did so.
They patted his arms first, then his legs, then one of them began at his armpits again and worked his way downward. When he reached the thick padding that concealed the sheaves of dinars around his waist, Thoma felt a sharp kick to his knee as the man shouted "BOMB! BOMB!" and the men in the depths of the room leapt back into the darkness. The man searching him thrust his own body over Thoma's and the two tumbled out into the light of the courtyard again.
"No, no! No bomb! Money! Money! It is money!"
His grunts and gasps distorted the words and it was difficult to know if anyone heard him over the shouts and cries of fleeing men, but after what seemed an hour of feeling the solid kick of his heartbeat under the weight of the man atop him, and the scrambling search around his wrists for any kind of detonator, Thoma finally felt the release of pressure and he took in several deep breaths of fresh air.
He felt the smooth muzzle of a gun press against his left temple and the rush of hands pulling up his shirt, yanking down the felt wrapping and pulling out handfuls of bills, now soaked in sweat and bending like wet leaves in the hands of the man who held them up for inspection.
Thoma let out his breath and opened his eyes.
He was then yanked roughly to his feet and pulled into the darkness again. Another pat-down, this one very thorough and lacking any kind of gentleness. Then he was thrust down onto the seat of a folding metal chair and told to stay still. He could feel the muzzle of the gun come to rest on the back of his neck, just below the collar of his shirt. He was acutely aware of his own spine.
He waited. It did not take long for his fear to stir up indignation. A gun at his neck, not because he had brought a weapon of any kind into the room, but because he had come with a large amount of money, and some imbecile mistook it for explosives. His dignity had been damaged. He would not forget.
In a little while, a single man walked back through the doorway. He was younger than Thoma, maybe twenty-five, and had a close cropped beard and shoulder-length black hair. His face was calm and showed no hint of embarrassment at having fled only a few minutes before — if this man had indeed been one of those waiting in the shadows. Thoma could not be sure. The man wore dark brown canvass cargo pants and a light, tan jacket, zipped up almost to the top. The man with the gun spoke from behind Thoma's back.
"He had money wrapped around him like plastique. I almost blew his head off, the fool."
The man in the tan jacket smiled, "A fool, maybe, but a fool with funds."
"I am no fool," Thoma whispered, cursing that his voice did not sound stronger.
"But you have come to buy a service?"
Thoma nodded.
"Then please," he smiled and reached both hands toward the dark doorway at the back of the shop, "Come inside. It is cooler there, and we can have refreshment and recover from our shock.
Thoma did not see that the man had any effects from the shock.
The coffee went down well and steeled his nerves. He was sitting around the table with three men as if they were about to play dominoes, but Thoma knew that the stakes were far higher than any game he had ever played. These men were killers, thieves, and whatever else a paying customer wanted them to be.
"So, Mister Thoma," the man in the tan jacket smiled, "What is your particular need this day?"
Thoma looked around at the men. He knew that they could kill him then and there and take the money he had brought. But he had prepared for such a temptation. "I brought this modest amount with me to assure you that I am a serious man."
"Of course you are," the man still wore the same, immovable smile.
"There is more where this came from… for a successful result."
"Yes. And the desired result is what?"
"There is an item recently procured by a Jew in Tel Aviv, and an American is helping him." Thoma knew that each of these terms would carry weight and elicit a desire to help him fight their mutual enemies. It might even give a sense of brotherhood. "This item i
s valuable to me and to Islam itself."
"I see. You want us to bring you the item."
"If you could, I would give you riches beyond your imagination, but this will not be possible."
"What then?"
"The item is a document of great antiquity. What it contains may be valuable information in the right hands."
"And this is where the Jew comes in?"
"No, the American."
The smile seemed to waver for a heartbeat, then resumed its motionless state.
"The American is an expert in this document. He will know its contents."
"So we are to…?"
"Bring him to me."
"Where is he?"
Thoma hesitated. He liked being a big player, but until he learned more from his hacker source, he had little more to tell these men than he already had done. He could not resist meeting with them though, any more than he could resist calling them into action under his own control.
"He is in the United States."
The men glanced one to another.
"This is a big job, and far away," Tan Jacket said, nodding as he did so, "It will take a lot of money. It is not easy for Jordanian men to provide — services — on American soil."
"Don't you have partners over there? Cells or something?"
"We are not Al Qaeda, Mister Thoma… but yes, we do have some associates in America whom we could employ. As I said, it is expensive."
"There are seventy thousand dinars in that belt. If you successfully bring the American to me, there will be as much again."
"But we cannot bring him here from America."
"Then hold him there, and I will go to him."
"There will be added expenses… a safe place to keep him, security and such matters."
"I can guarantee you the additional seventy thousand. Beyond that…"
Tan Jacket's smile faded, replaced by a stillness that made Thoma's skin feel cold down the backs of his arms, and up his neck.
"…and expenses for the safe place, of course. Beyond that I will make no guarantee. If I am happy with your results, I may see clear to offer a bonus of another," he hesitated, visualising the money pouring out of his account like a stream of papers, "forty thousand."