Girls of Yellow

by Orest Stelmach

  Hours passed. Lunch wasn’t provided. Perhaps the jail only served two meals a day, Elise thought. Her dream that Ali would arrive to interrogate her by noon gradually disintegrated. She fought off moments of hopelessness as she imagined Valerie arriving at their rendezvous point and discovering Elise was a no-show. The meeting wasn’t until four o’clock, Elise kept reminding herself. Her dream wasn’t dead until then.

  Some time between one and two o’clock, or so she guessed, her door clanged. Lying in her bed, Elise peered at the slot through which her food was delivered, expecting it to slide open. But this time the jangle of keys followed, and the door to the cell swung out instead.

  Elise jumped to her feet.

  The guard who’d extorted a bribe to allow the cook to deliver her a special meal walked into her cell.

  Elise retreated to a corner, never turning her back on him.

  The guard glared at a spot on the floor directly in front of her feet as though she were too putrid a sight for him to take in. He had no tray in his hands, nor did he say anything. He just stood there, two meters away from her.

  A wave of fear washed over Elise as she wondered why the guard was in her cell. But the door was open behind him, she reminded herself. As long as the door to the cell was open, Elise thought, the guard wouldn’t dare –

  Major Sami Ali marched into her cell. The sight of the man who’d slapped her face conjured fantasies of violent payback, but that’s all they were—fantasies. They lasted no more than a nanosecond. Her exercise sessions, the meditation and the fine meal supplied by the asshole himself had restored her perspective.

  The guard left and closed the door behind him. Elise could see Ali’s eyes drift toward her cheeks, and she knew that he was checking how much damage he’d done when he’d struck her. She was curious herself because there was no mirror in the cell or any other substance upon which she could see her reflection. She’d iced the tender spots three times this morning. Ali showed no sign of emotion, nor did he come bearing any additional treats from the country formerly known as Italy.

  They stood facing each other. Elise realized her hands were folded over chest, though she didn’t remember placing them there.

  “You wanted to speak to me again?” Ali said.

  “Thank you for dinner last night. And the icepack.”

  Ali’s lips parted but no sound came out. He appeared stunned by her tone and choice of words, just as she’d hoped. She was no longer the bitch from Christendom. Oh, no, Elise thought. She was sweet syrup, raisins and coconut flakes.

  “I heard they had some extra pasta left over from the guards’ dinner,” Ali said, shrugging. “So I told the cook to send you some. You wanted to discuss something?”

  “Have you called the delegation from Christendom on my behalf?”

  “Did you give me a reason to call them yesterday?” Ali said.

  “What if I give you a reason to do something for me today?”

  Ali considered her proposition. “That depends on the reason you give me, doesn’t it?”

  Elise didn’t respond.

  “I’d give you my word as a gentleman that if you help me you’ll be rewarded. But then, I’m no gentleman, am I? So you’re going to have to trust me, or not. It’s up to you. But I’m giving you no guarantees about anything except to tell you that Christendom has not called worrying about your whereabouts, and it doesn’t look like anyone cares about you at all.”

  “I need to get out of here and the only way that happens is if I have a lawyer from Christendom here within the hour.”

  “That will never happen.”

  “Forget it then,” she said. Elise retreated to the corner of her cell. “If you don’t want any insight into the Persian School of Dressmaking, the woman who runs the place, or Imam Salim’s slave training school … If you don’t want information that might help you solve that girl’s murder, then I’ll just rest until Christendom comes looking for me. And they will come looking for me.”

  Ali looked at her stone-faced but Elise guessed that he had to be dying with curiosity. To her shock, he wouldn’t agree to her terms.

  “Fine,” he said. “So be it. Enjoy your exercise.”

  He banged on the door. The guard came and opened it, and Ali left.

  Elise swore at herself. Perhaps she’d overestimated his professionalism and commitment to his job. Maybe solving the girl’s murder didn’t matter that much to him. Had her instincts failed her? Elise wondered. Had her obsession with Valerie clouded her judgment?

  She got her answer less than a minute later.

  Ali returned, face red and carriage stiff, carrying a small folding ladder. He stood still for a moment, alternately staring at Elise and the floor. Then he shouted to the guard to turn off the camera. When the light on the camera stopped blinking and turned solid red, Ali pulled a black muslin cloth from his pocket, stepped on the ladder, and draped it over the lens.

  “Belt and suspenders,” he said. “The camera’s off but just in case you don’t believe me, it’s covered up. And the camera controls the recording of sound, too. If you don’t believe me, then don’t. But I’m going to proceed as though there are only two people involved in this conversation. If you want to strike a bargain, I suggest you do the same. This is our one and only chance. ”

  Elise took three steps toward him until she was only a meter away. She had no choice but to trust him and if she was going to do so she needed to project confidence. Worst case, she’d remain stuck in jail. Best case, she’d actually get a chance to see Valerie. There was no advantage, however, in speaking first.

  “You wanted to see me,” she said.

  Ali studied her. “What is it you think you know?”

  “I don’t think I know anything. I know what I know.”

  “And what is that?” Ali said.

  “I know there’s something suspicious going on with the girls in Imam Salim’s slave training school, and I know it has something to do with the Persian School of Dressmaking.”

  Ali sounded incredulous. “How can a translator from Christendom in town for two weeks possibly know things like this?”

  “I have my ways and my reasons for knowing.”

  “You’ve got to give me more than that. You saw the picture of a girl who was murdered and another one of the school building. I understand that. But for you to be aware that she was enrolled with Imam Salim and taking classes at the Persian School of Dressmaking …”

  “Actually,” Elise said. “I didn’t know that …”

  “… makes your knowledge of all this highly suspicious.”

  “Like I said, I didn’t know the dead girl was part of the slave training school, though the thought had crossed my mind when you dropped her picture on the floor.”

  “Why? Why did that thought cross your mind?”

  Elise realized they’d arrived at the crossroads of trust, risk, and the possibility of reward. There could be none of the latter without a disturbingly large quotient of the former.

  “I want you to let me out of jail tonight,” Elise said. “Just for an hour. Then I’ll come right back and the Eurabian justice system can do with me as it pleases.”

  Ali stared at her for a beat. “Did we just really hit a language barrier this time?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m a translator, remember?”

  “That is ridiculous and you know it.”

  “This is personal,” Elise said. “Not business.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “I know something, and I know someone who knows a lot more. I have a meeting set with this person for four o’clock. You can come with me. You can ask her some questions. Whatever you like. Then I get to speak with her for a minute. After that, you can bring me right back here yourself.”

  “Who is this woman?” Ali said.

  “I don’t need a phone call. I don’t need to speak with anyone from Christendom. All I want is one minute alone with my sister.”

  “Your sister?”
/>
  Elise took a deep breath. She was being honest. Well, almost honest. She wasn’t going to tell him that Darby’s men would be waiting to snatch Valerie off the street after their meeting and whisk her out of Eurabia.

  “We were separated,” Elise said. “Her mother sold her to the Office of Slave Procurement right after her birth. I traced her here. Met her at the dressmaking school. That’s where she told me she’s frightened. And I mean, very frightened.”

  “Maybe she’s just scared of what it means to become a slave,” Ali said.

  “No. It’s something more than that. She’s known she was going to be a slave since birth. She was owned by a different family before. Her reality isn’t a new concept to her. I don’t think it’s any kind of abuse.”

  “I agree. There’s no chance of that. None. There are grooming schools for sexual exploitation—horrible places. I’m sure every theocracy has to deal with such scum. And then there are Arabian training schools for slaves. And then there’s Imam Salim’s training school, which would be held to the absolute highest ethical standards.”

  Elise nodded. “So I’ve heard. I didn’t get a chance to ask her why she’s so scared, but now that you tell me another girl was killed … it’s like my sister knew all the girls were in danger … or something like that.”

  “How did you find out she was with Salim?”

  Elise shrugged.

  “And how did you find out he sends his pupils to that school in the first place? You didn’t just waltz in there one day and find her.”

  “I did some research.”

  “I’m sure you did. Does she know you’re related?”

  Elise shook her head.

  “Was it your plan to tell her that tonight, before you tried to sneak her out of Budapest?’

  Elise kept a straight face to hide her dismay. It was a logical conclusion, but she’d hoped it would somehow evade him.

  “Will you have men there?” Ali said. “Because I can’t be party to an extraction. It wouldn’t be the first time it happened in Eurabia, that someone came to retrieve a long lost relative. A father tried something similar last year. It didn’t end well for him or his son.”

  “I don’t have any men. Like I said. This is personal. I’m on my own.”

  An admission that Darby’s men would be there would put them at risk of capture and eliminate Elise’s chance of having Valerie extracted, a hope that was becoming more fleeting with each minute.

  “So,” Elise said. “Do we have a deal?”

  Ali looked her over one more time. “I’ll let you know.”

  He removed the muslin cloth from the camera, took his ladder, and left.

  CHAPTER 29

  Ali tried to imagine sneaking Elise De Jong out of jail for an hour, surviving the rendezvous with her sister without some sort of duplicity on their part, and returning her to prison without experiencing an unpleasant surprise in the interim, the kind that could permanently ruin his career and prevent him from solving Greta Gaspar’s murder.

  It really was a crazy idea, no matter how desperately he wanted to believe otherwise. At least that’s what he thought until Zaman called him into his office with urgent news.

  “Christendom is demanding to see her,” Zaman said. “Their officials arrived at the Caliph’s offices an hour ago. They’re demanding to see her and they’re demanding her immediate release.”

  “How do they even know we have her?” Ali said.

  “Who knows? Our own people may have confirmed their suspicions. It’s among the diplomats, beyond our pay grade. All that matters is that we’re going to have to let her go tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Look, we’re not savages here. We’re a nation of laws. If there were any evidence she was spying … if she were a suspect in the murder of the man in the wheelchair … but there isn’t and she isn’t.”

  At first Ali was crestfallen. The moment she learned of her impending release, Elise De Jong wouldn’t need him anymore. Any hope of gaining a lead from her sister would vanish. But then Ali told himself to think harder, even pretend to be Zaman. What might a devious man do in this situation?

  And then Ali saw an opportunity.

  You’re right,” Ali said. “We have to follow the law, especially given the purpose of the Intertheocratic Conference.”

  Zaman nodded. “Religions need to co-exist or eventually there won’t be a world left for them to go to war in. And that starts with diplomacy. The Caliph has made it clear to the General, and the General has made it clear to me. We can hold the woman for twenty-four hours in accordance with intertheocratic law because she committed a crime at the scene of a murder. But after twenty-four hours …”

  “She gets counsel—”

  “She’s gone,” Zaman said.

  “The opportunity in all this,” Ali said, pretending the thought was just dawning on him, “is that she doesn’t know that, does she?”

  Zaman raised his eyebrows. “No. She doesn’t, does she?”

  Ali sat quietly.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I’m thinking that until those twenty-four hours are up,” Ali said, “we’re still entitled to try to squeeze out the name of her local contact. There must be one. Someone had to be on hand to help her get the lay of our land.”

  “And how would you go about doing that? Take another run at her? You can’t try anything rough. Not with the stakes what they are and the order coming down from the Caliph. So what good would it do?”

  “We’ll get nothing out of her in an interview,” Ali said. “No, no. I was thinking of something more intimate. After all, an interrogator has a better chance of learning something from his prisoner by forging a bond with her as opposed to hitting her.”

  “Relationships take time to build.”

  “It depends on the people involved.”

  Zaman chuckled. “What are you saying, Ali? You’re going to seduce her with your charm?”

  Ali remembered what Elise De Jong had called a Muslim gentleman. “That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it? Ali’s great charm?”

  Zaman laughed out loud. “What then?”

  “When a man has little charm and even less time, he needs to humble himself and seek assistance.”

  “What kind of assistance?”

  “Narcotics.”

  “A chemical inducement to speak? After I told you what the Caliph has decided, are you insane?”

  “Not torture.” Ali said. “Pleasure. There’s no telling what a person will reveal when he or she is under the influence of the golden weed.”

  “Ah,” Zaman said, brightening. Then he frowned just as quickly. “You can’t bring cannabis into our jails.”

  “Of course not. And the ambience would be all wrong. But I can bring her to the hookah bar.”

  Zaman narrowed his eyes, but then he eased back in his seat and turned reflective.

  “We have to let her go anyways,” Ali said. “I’m certain I can get her to go with me voluntarily.”

  “Voluntarily?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why on Earth would she go with you voluntarily?” Zaman said.

  “Leave it to me. It may be better for you if you don’t know everything. That way I’ll be accountable if anything goes wrong.”

  “Ali, the politician. I may have to watch out for you yet. Get her clothes out of storage. Take them to Tech and have them sew a GPS unit into her jihab. They’ve done it before. She’ll never find it. If anyone asks, tell them she’s due to be released. Under no circumstances does anyone know about your plan.”

  “Understood,” Ali said. The operative phrase was your plan.

  “That means if you run into any trouble out there, you’re on your own. No calls for back-up, no calls to me for help. Because what you’ll be doing is the kind of thing that can’t be done. So it won’t really be happening.”

  “No, sir. It won’t.”

  “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” Zaman studied
Ali with a blank face. “You know, Ali, there’s no such thing as a brilliant detective. That’s a myth created by the entertainment business. Unless there’s a witness and an obvious solution within twenty-four hours, murders are rarely solved. But when they are solved, it’s not because some new clue was discovered by the guy with the big brain. No, it’s almost always a function of persistence and luck. The guy that never gives up ends up being at the right place at the right time. That’s why I’ll take the persistent guy over the smart guy any day of the week.”

  Ali wasn’t sure but he thought he detected a compliment in there. “Thank you, sir,” he said, face flushing.

  “Carry on,” Zaman said.

  Ali spent the early part of the afternoon filing overdue reports and contemplating his strategy for later. He was completely on his own. Circumstances had created a chance for him to find out what Elise De Jong’s sister knew. He had no intention of trying to convince the translator from Christendom to go to the hookah bar where they’d first seen each other. That was just misdirection to keep Zaman from meddling.

  Ali took a break at three o’clock and drove home to tell Sabida that he’d be working through the evening on an undercover mission for Zaman. She would love that, he knew, as such an assignment confirmed that he was back in the police hierarchy’s good graces. In addition, the General had seen him go nose-to-nose with a defiant diplomat. The General was probably pleased that Ali had stood his ground, and not displeased that he’d had the audacity to strike her. Ali wouldn’t have been surprised to step into his house and get some extra love from his wife.

  Instead he found two suitcases waiting for him in the foyer. They knocked the wind and all the joy out of him.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Ali said.

  “No,” Sabida said. Her eyes looked puffy, as though she’d been crying. “You are.”

  Ali stood speechless.

  “Did you meet a Christian woman at your hookah bar?”

  Ali assumed she’d learned about tonight’s plan. “No—”

  Sabida screamed. “Don’t lie to me. I smell that disgusting smoke on you when you come home late and I don’t say anything because I understand. I understand that a man needs a release of some kind. But today Father told me that you frequent the same place as some Christian translator who turns out to be a criminal and is now in your jail. Who is this woman to you?”