I swung across the center line. A taxi honked, veering off. A van swayed and skidded.
Speeding ahead, I scanned for the killer. Nothing showed in the windows. Distant sirens wailed.
Suddenly a hand grasped my hair—he was reaching down through the gap. Hauling back my head, he exposed my unguarded throat.
The dagger flared above me. I heard him shout to stop.
If he kills me now, I thought, he knows he’ll kill us both.
At the corner of the roof I saw a release lever for the canvas top. I reached out and pulled it. The corner popped loose and vibrated in the wind. I reached for the lever on the passenger side, but he grabbed my wrist and held it back. Straining against him, I hit the gas. The sudden jolt broke his grip. I flipped the second lever.
The top flew up and caught the wind. Blowing back like a canvas catapult, it tossed him into the air. Something like a scream bellowed out of him. For a moment he completely disappeared.
Horns wailed. Tires screeched. I turned to see him crash and roll, headlights swerving to miss him.
Exhilarated, triumphant, I shook my fist at the wind.
Then quickly drew it back. In the opposite lane ahead of me, sirens whining, lights flashing, police cars barreled toward me.
For a moment I debated whether to run for it.
9.
Polizia
THERE ARE MORE COPS in Italy than in any other country in Europe. In fact, hundreds of thousands, in no less than eight separate police forces. One of these is a branch of the military known as the Carabinieri, and it was an officer from these ranks who pulled alongside me in his blue-gumball-flashing Fiat. With a hand gesture like a Pope’s blessing, he directed me to the curb.
Other branches of law enforcement soon arrived on the scene. Within minutes I was surrounded by a phalanx of policemen of every stripe and color. Questions and commands came in rapid barrages, and amid much manic gesticulation, I watched as a feud broke out. The cops seemed more concerned to prove who was in charge than to find out what had actually happened.
By the time they finally came around to looking for the killer, the cannon-balled madman had managed to slip away. We could find no trace of him on the rainy road behind us, and apparently none of the drivers who saw him had bothered to stick around. So with the cops all standing there, staring at me in the rain, I tried to explain what had happened—the Indian woman, the stabbings, the lotus plant, the chase—all of it spilling out of me in a torrent of garbled Italian. My nightmarish story began to sound absurd, even to myself. The men threw loaded glances at one another, or squinted at me incredulously, as if they had misheard. Lotus plant? Daggers?
Their initial assumption was gradually being confirmed: I was just another confabulating, reckless-driving drunk.
A Municipale officer administered the breathalyzer. When the results showed I was under the half-milligram limit, they decided I must be on drugs. I was hauled to the local police station and ordered to take a blood test. When that proved negativo, too, the cops seemed disappointed.
“Three people were just killed in my apartment,” I repeated. “Take me there, I’ll show you. We’re wasting time with this.”
“You drove without a license.”
“Without a license? I nearly drove without my head!”
Just after dawn, a patrolman from the Polizia Municipale shuttled me to a branch of the Polizia di Stato. A night-duty officer there took down my story, drowsily filling out some form on his computer. Despite the murder and mayhem I described, he seemed more concerned that my Permesso di Soggiorno (Permit to Stay) had expired six months previous and hadn’t been renewed. I told him I’d been planning to head back to the States and simply hadn’t bothered. He asked if I had ever had contact with the ‘Ndrangheta, the southern Italian crime syndicate that in recent decades had taken over the illicit drug market in Rome. I replied by asking if he thought I looked insane. He then asked how I made my living in Rome without a worker’s permit. I lied and told him my parents had died and left me a hefty inheritance.
The man scowled. I assumed he felt pity for my loss, or perhaps contempt for my gain. But then he swiveled his computer screen, revealing my Jack’s Tours of Rome website, complete with its “safari” snap of the dashing young American guide.
After that they hustled me off to yet another police station, the Foreigner’s Branch of the main Headquarters off Via Nazionale, where I was led into what appeared to be an interrogation room. Here I was asked to wait for a man being sent by the American embassy, a Special Agent in something called the DSS, the U.S. Diplomatic Security Service. They said he wanted to resolve certain questions regarding my history and background.
I had little doubt what that meant. Someone must have come across the incident in Greece and uncovered Dan’s wide-ranging rap sheet. They probably figured we were smuggling Asian heroin into Rome, that ‘Ndrangheta gang turf was consequently being defended, and that I’d been shaken down by one of their knife-happy goons. Given that I was small fry in the country that spawned the Mob, they must have decided to dump me off on the U.S. State Department.
I pleaded for release from this bureaucratic limbo, but instead they locked me in the horrid little room, and I waited, fuming under the bright fluorescent glare for what stretched into two interminable hours.
ABOVE THE RED DOOR, the windows of the apartment stared down darkly. Presumably the Italian had gone to the police—or squirreled off to hole up with his harlots. I limped to the Mercedes and climbed behind the wheel. My clothes sopped the seat, and for the first time I noticed my knees were bleeding. I drove off into the rain.
Though I still felt suffused with the presence of Allah, the night outside seemed tinged with evil. The wipers whispered, the tires hissed, and in the streets and alleyways I sensed an eerie silence. Fountains gleamed amid graffiti. Litter clung to temple steps. The wet city, bright black, seemed a sort of glinting hell—den of Western deviltry, yet touched and blessed by heaven. But whose heaven? Their pagan glories lay in ruins. Their churches echoed, empty. Why should God show mercy to a people who forgot Him? Their hearts will find no rest without submission to Allah.
I’d failed to kill the American, yet suffered no remorse. Only an abiding certitude. As if Duran’s death had been divinely preordained, an unturned page of history, with vengeance for my brother’s murder written there in blood.
WEARING AN FBI LOOK-ALIKE SUIT, the dark, sleekly groomed American blew briskly into the room, saying “Good morning” and “How are you?” and “I’m Harry Grant” as he plopped a leather valise on the table and foraged through its contents. A woman sauntered in after him, a short-skirted, long-legged, dark-haired Italian I assumed must be the lucky man’s assistant. She wore a pearl-colored blouse and a jade green choker that accentuated the color of her eyes. Grant introduced her simply as “Oriana.”
I started to my feet.
“Please, don’t get up,” he said. He unpeeled his Eliot Ness jacket, revealing a shoulder-holstered pistol. Draping the jacket over the back of his chair, he asked me if I’d like more coffee, and began disgorging various articles from his bag: a crumpled dress shirt, a laptop, a yellow pad of paper and a clutch of manila files.
At this point I had soaked up so much espresso I could no longer stop my hands from shaking or still my bouncing knees. “No more coffee,” I said.
My tone provoked a sudden scrutiny. “No, of course not.” He eyed the soiled sleeve of my blazer, badly frayed at the elbow. “Your arm—is it all right?”
I had actually forgotten about the fall I had taken. “Yes.”
“And…?” He stretched his neck and touched his throat.
“It’s fine.”
“Good. I’m sorry we kept you waiting. I’ve gone over the police report, but we have some questions I’d like—”
“No.”
The woman lifted her gaze.
“Pardon me?” the Agent asked.
“No more questions,” I said.
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“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s been a long—”
“No more questions until you take me to my apartment.”
He glanced at Oriana. “Your apartment.”
“Yeah. There’s a woman there. A former model, from India. I’d very much like you to meet her.”
Oriana threw him a glance, but Grant held steady on me. I noticed a sort of slightly jaded sparkle in his eye. He looked to Oriana.
In an intrinsically Italian version of the universal gesture, the lady shrugged, Why not?
10.
The Sayyid
THE MORNING SUN broke through the clouds, spreading its gloss on the wet cobblestones where the ebony Mercedes had been parked the night before. We stood on the spot and stared up at the roof as I recounted the moment when the driver caught sight of me. Then I led them around the corner to where I had tossed the lotus plant. The narrow street was devoid of pedestrians, but a stopped train of parked cars stood crammed along the curb.
I got down on all fours and searched beneath the vehicles. There was not a shred of the plant to be found. “Maybe it’s under a wheel,” I said. “Or maybe it landed on top of a car, and the car has driven away.”
Harry Grant glanced up the street. “It’s possible,” he shrugged. Meaning that it was unlikely.
Oriana bent to peer in the window of a raindrop-dappled Fiat. Her hand rose toward her face as her mouth stretched wide in shock. For a second I thought she had discovered some horror, but she was merely using the tip of her finger to trim the edge of her lipstick.
We walked back around to the entrance.
Grant examined where the bolt had been shimmied. “This mortise lock is ancient.”
“The landlord says replacing it would only advertise for thieves. I never worried about it. Nothing I own is worth stealing.”
Oriana was perusing the graffiti. “These days the scum will waste you for nothing.”
It was the first time I had heard her speak. Her Italian slang had the inflection of the street; she sounded like a mafia moll. “You can say that again,” I replied. “They nearly cut my throat for a flower!”
We climbed the creaking stairs. The clip-clop of Oriana’s heels made me think of Maya, the panther—her sandals had been nearly soundless. The house seemed ghostly quiet now. I dreaded confronting her corpse.
But first, the corpse in my apartment—the black street peddler-cum-murdering thief. We paused outside my door. A twinge caressed the cut on my throat. I nodded to the Agent. He gently nudged the door open and led us into the room.
I came to a stop and stared, dumbfounded.
The ransacked apartment had been neatly reassembled. The drawers had been shut, the table uprighted, the wood floor scrubbed to a sheen. I staggered to the place where the bodies had fallen. “Impossible,” I whispered.
The street peddler’s corpse had vanished. There wasn’t a drop of blood.
“What is it?” Grant asked. They were watching me with curiosity.
“He’s gone,” I said. Staring down at the bare oak floor, I realized something else was gone, too. “The rug. He died right here on the Oriental rug. It was soaked with blood.” I looked at the upright end table. “And the porcelain lamp—it’s gone, too. Maya and I heard it crash—”
A frightening realization came over me. I turned and raced out of the room.
Taking three steps at a time, I barreled up the stairwell to the roof. The door stood ajar, the lock still broken. I burst out into the garden.
“Maya—”
Her corpse was gone. Vanished. Along with the corpse of the man she shot.
THE DISPOSABLE PULSED in my pocket. Had I not turned it off? I pulled it out and saw that it was Arshan’s cell, not mine. I had plucked the phone out of his lifeless hand, along with the Hindi’s passport.
Bloody thumbprints fogged its glass. The ID showed no name.
“Alo, salam aleikom.”
Silence. A ghostly presence on the other end of the line. Then: “You answer for your brother.”
The voice elicited a shiver. It was the voice I had long imagined but never actually heard. Gentle, and elderly, yet sonorous and strong, its tone conveying experience and an intimidating intelligence. His formal Persian called to mind the fact he was a Sayyid, a black turban, a direct descendant of Mohammed, in whose pulsing veins coursed the holy blood of the Prophet.
Ordinarily I’d have felt too diffident to speak. But nothing seemed ordinary now. Everything that was happening had the blessing of Allah. I had nothing to fear.
“I am not worthy to answer for him. My brother is a martyr,” I said.
Once more, a silence. Even deeper than the last.
Had Mahbood not told him what happened? Afraid of incurring his wrath? Had I incurred it now? I waited, wondering what questions he’d ask, how harshly he’d reprimand me. But no such reprimand occurred. The Old Man was only just absorbing his own grief. He said, “Please accept my deepest condolences for this most grievous loss.”
“Forgive me,” I replied. “I am unworthy, and you are too kind. Your loss is far greater than mine.”
“We are all brothers in faith,” he said. “But a brother in blood is twice a brother.”
“He loved you like a father,” I said. “And a son’s love for his father is the strongest love of all.”
“A love that will be sorely missed. The Prophet himself lost his three sons, and freely wept for each. But we as well shall follow them. Every soul must taste death. The life of this world is nothing but the enjoyment of illusion. Arshan fought as a warrior of God and drank the sweet syrup of martyrdom. He is a shahid now, and will rest in the Highest Gardens of Paradise.”
“The most excellent recompense,” I said. “It is the will of Allah.”
“Indeed. It also appears that the will of Allah is for you to remain here, with us.”
I swallowed my guilt. I had lived. My brother had died. Surely I could have done something to save him.
All that was left for me now was revenge. “I am always ready to offer myself in sacrifice for Islam.”
“Such a sacrifice at present I’m afraid would be too dear. The loss of your brother claws at my heart, and though I hunger for justice, I will not risk your life for it.”
The words took me aback. “You may have reason to doubt my skills. But I have been trained by your finest warrior. With his death, God’s desire for justice burns in me like a fire. And I am His obedient servant, just as I am yours.”
“Your words bring honor to your brother’s sacrifice. But I am given to understand your deeds proved less successful.”
How had he found out so quickly? I had not reported to Mahbood. Interpol may have been alerted, I thought, and his contacts in intelligence picked up the dispatch. I knew the Old Man had eyes and ears everywhere. My brother always said he knew things about you before you knew about them yourself.
I knew only one thing: the American had to die. “May the Exceedingly Merciful grant me the chance to earn His forgiveness.”
“Your repentance is unwarranted; your failure was no sin. Nothing happens to us except what God has decreed for us.”
“The drug-dealing murderer of my brother still lives. Has that been decreed by God?”
The reckless words escaped my mouth before I could pull them back. Anger now darkened the Ayatollah’s voice. “God brought us out from the wombs of our mothers; He will take us back when it pleases Him. Presently He requires that you finish your training. To kill the American is more lawful than rainwater, and you will be given your chance in time. For the moment, however, serious questions remain unresolved. Our very survival is threatened.”
“Forgive me, I am your obedient servant, always. And you are so near to Allah. So tell me what is more urgent to God than the killing of this unbeliever.”
A silence again. “The lotus,” he said simply. “The lotus must be found.”
Our plants had failed to propagate. Reserves of the pure drink we
re quickly running out. We had to find the source. “It’s what my brother died for,” I said. “Tell me what I must do.”
“You must follow my instructions—and my instructions only. Trust no one but me.”
The tone of his voice sparked a shiver. “No one?” I asked. “Not even Mahbood?” Mahbood was second in command to my brother. Only these two were allowed to speak directly with the Old Man.
“Especially Mahbood,” he said.
I thought of my call from the car. “But why?”
“Why?” the Ayatollah roared. I’d finally awakened the much-feared anger Arshan had warned me about. “Who was this Hindi?! Who was this African?! Why do you think your brother was killed?!”
I had no answer.
“We have been betrayed,” he said. “An enemy of God lives among us.”
11.
Queen of Hearts
THE EMPTY MIRROR OF WATER in the green-glazed pot darkened with Harry Grant’s shadow. “Maybe I could ask you those questions now?”
I lifted my gaze. His face eclipsed the rising sun, so I couldn’t make out his expression. But the tone of his voice sounded vaguely sympathetic, as if, having caught me out in a lie, there was little he could do but pity me. Suddenly I realized why he’d agreed to bring me here. “You knew,” I said.
“A patrol car was sent by early this morning. They found exactly what you see now.”
Oriana, wandering the garden behind him, bent to sniff a scentless orchid. They both seemed to take my guilt for granted.
“You don’t believe anything I’ve said.”
The Agent frowned. “I believe someone chased you. The police confirmed it from the testimony of your friends.”
“What about the people I saw killed here? You think I’m lying about that?”
“The police think you’re lying.”
On the deck where the killer had bled to death, there was nothing but puddles of water. “Somebody must have hosed off all the blood,” I said.
“Or perhaps the rain just washed it away.” His sympathy was slipping into sarcasm. “If what you say is true, why didn’t you go directly to the police? Why did you hide at your friend’s house?”
The Assassin Lotus Page 4