“He was kind to me,” I say. “He did not deserve to be treated like I treated him. I was obsessed with getting back home. I had a feeling. I had to get home before something happened to Mama.” Then I add, “And I could not be sure, or take the risk, that he would allow me to leave if I asked.”
“I’ve been debating whether I should tell you this,” he says, “but I think this is as good a time as any to bring something up. It is people like Al Barmaka that grease the wheels of Ayvazian’s operation. They create the high-end demand for what Ayvazian sells, and they have the money to spend. I will keep an open mind about him because you do not seem to hold a grudge. But I want you to know that without people like him, the Ayvazians of this world would not find this business so worthwhile. You do see that, don’t you?”
His words hit hard. Which Ahmed should I think about? The one I knew personally or the broader role he plays in the sex trade?
“I cannot think of him as the same as Ayvazian,” I say, aware that my voice is shaking. “There is no similarity between how those two men have treated me.”
Edik does not push the issue, even though I have not responded to his comment. Then I find myself volunteering more about Al Barmaka’s estate, my villa, Sumaya, the other girls. I talk about how he used to treat me, I describe both his moments of extreme kindness, and his desert-hardened, dispassionate behavior that sometimes abruptly reminded me where I was and who I was, and who he was. And then, how it would start all over again, how just when I would be very clear as to my role in his house, he’d spring such an incredibly touching surprise, that I’d start wondering again. I tell Edik about the night he brought the CDs of an Armenian singer with the deepest, most velvety voice, who had an Arabic song followed by an Armenian song on the CD, and how moved I was that night, because Mama used to sing that Armenian song. And then, of course, the wake-up call would follow about who he really is and what my role is.
“Sounds like he was hiding behind ambiguity in dealing with you as well,” says Edik when I finally stop talking. “He couldn’t decide about you, so he wanted all options open, at all times.”
I had never thought of that. I always assumed that Ahmed knew exactly who he was and what he wanted, since he owned everything around him, and that the duality in his treatment of me was very much part of him, something that came naturally to him, and to which he did not give a second thought. I was the one suffering from the ambiguity created by it, no one else.
“You think so?” I wonder how much of my soul Edik is actually seeing through this conversation.
“It’s the best explanation, given what you told me earlier,” he says casually.
“And now?” I ask, hoping that he’d be able to shed some light on the latest events. “Does this mean he’s seeking clarity? Is that why he sent Manoj?”
“Hard to tell. You disappeared suddenly. Maybe he wants to know what happened.”
“He sends Manoj all the way here because he wants to know what happened?” I sound disappointed.
“Obviously, he cares about you, otherwise he wouldn’t bother to find out anything.” He has noticed my disappointed look. “But I wouldn’t jump to the conclusion that he is ready to make a clear choice. Have you thought about the possibility that maybe he enjoyed the old ambiguity so much that he wants it back?”
“No, I have not thought about that or any other possibility yet.”
“You see, assuming that he had no reason to rush into anything, the ambiguity that you describe was perfect for him. He could be as romantic with you as his mood called for, and then he could create the distance, giving himself whatever protection he felt he had to have. He had everything. And then one day, when he’s looking the other way,”—and here Edik gives me one his devious smiles—“you run away. So why wouldn’t he want all that back, exactly as it was?”
“Because he cannot have it all back,” I say. “It can never be the same again; he can never buy me again, can he? So how can it ever all go back to the way it used to be?”
Edik gives me a frustrated look. I know that’s not what he’s talking about. It is not whether it is possible or impossible. It is whether that’s what’s he’s after. I know. But I still have to say it out loud, more than once if necessary, as much for my benefit as for anyone else’s, that things can never go back to the way they were.
“Just keep an open mind, Lara,” he says after a long silence. “Don’t rush to second guess his motives, don’t overthink it. Let it come to you, at its own pace, and take it as it comes. He’ll call you soon enough.”
That’s good advice, even if it is much easier for him to give than for me to take. It is also a good way to end the conversation about Ahmed. I’ve spoken about him much more than I intended to anyway. Edik is right; there are too many imponderables in this story to allow meaningful speculation.
It’s time to revert to where we had left things in Ashtarak, which is why we have agreed to meet tonight.
“We had a good start in Ashtarak,” he says. “It didn’t take much to bring Avo and Gagik into the loop.”
“We still need to find a plausible story. I cannot tell you how exciting it is to plan this.”
“One thing that we don’t control in this process is the timing. They cannot keep Anastasia here indefinitely. They’re losing money by her not being with her clients in Moscow. They’ll increase the pressure on her.”
“Oh, she’ll probably start working here,” I laugh. “I know Anastasia.”
“Regardless, we don’t have very long.”
“We need a good villain. The right villain.”
“Then we’re in luck,” laughs Edik. “No shortage of villains in Armenia these days.”
Edik drops me at my apartment. We agree to meet at noon on Republic Square. Anna has managed to get permission to take her lunch break outside the store, and will join us. After that, he has to rush back to Vardahovit. This two-day excursion has been ill-timed for him, considering his forthcoming trip overseas.
Chapter Fourteen
Jawad Ghanem is in his early fifties, heavyset, balding, with bright white hair around his temples, and an equally white pencil-thin mustache, which almost glows over his dark skin. He arrives at the hotel accompanied by a man around twenty years his junior. Yuri watches them as they approach the pre-agreed location in the lobby.
“Mr. Yuri?” says Ghanem extending his hand. “This is my assistant Ramsey. He is fluent in Russian, in case we need a translator.”
“Zdravstvuyte Yuriy” says Ramsey. His Russian is formal, with a heavy Arabic accent.
Ghanem’s precaution of bringing Ramsey along is not baseless. When Yuri had called, he could barely understand his broken and heavily accented English. But he made out enough of what Yuri was saying to understand that it involved the property of Viktor Ayvazian at The Palm.
Ghanem is aware of the type of business that Viktor was in. Even though it has been four years, he remembers the transaction. Payment in full, all cash. It smelled of money laundering like nothing else. It was rare that someone would pay in full for a real estate project that was still a concept. The investor could only stare at the waters of the Gulf and visualize the development, based on an architect’s rendition. This was one of the larger villas. Ghanem remembers Viktor well. He did not negotiate on the price. He was quite eager to conclude the transaction and make payment.
“I represent the Ayvazian family interests,” starts Yuri once they are seated and have ordered coffee. He starts in English, but finds the effort too tedious, and asks if he could shift to Russian. Both Ramsey and Ghanem eagerly agree.
“You may, or may not, know that Mr. Viktor Ayvazian was in an unfortunate automobile accident, and passed away around six months ago,” continues Yuri in Russian, and waits for Ramsey to translate.
Ghanem looks like he did not know about Viktor’s death. He has not seen or heard from the man since the transaction. Investors usually call to ask about progress and to check if everything is s
till on schedule. Not Viktor.
“I am very sorry to hear that,” says Ghanem in Arabic. “May God be merciful toward him.” Ramsey translates into Russian.
“Thank you, Mr. Ghanem. As you can imagine, his family would like to have his assets transferred to a family trust.” Yuri waits for the translation, and continues. “Viktor was not married, and his parents are also deceased. His only family is that of his uncle, Sergei Ayvazian, who unfortunately died in the same automobile accident, but is survived by his wife and daughter.”
There is an important lie in Yuri’s account. Viktor was married. He and his wife no longer lived together, as their relationship had gone sour soon after their wedding, and she had returned home to Leningrad in less than a year. But they had not bothered to formally divorce. So, legally, they were still married. This could complicate matters if it ever came out. Yuri is confident that they can produce adequate documentation that would show that Viktor was single when he died.
Ghanem listens, his face showing nothing but the gravity called for by the news of the deaths. But he knows that Yuri is out of his league in Dubai. No one will buy this story. If Viktor is dead, and has no immediate family, then the property could be tied up in courts for a long time.
“There should be no problem,” he says, with a very kind and sympathetic smile. “The inheritance rules in Dubai are clear. If there is no legally binding will, then the property goes to the next of kin, in a specific order, and specific shares to wife, children, parents, etc. Since Mr. Ayvazian did not have a wife nor children nor parents, we shall seek legal counsel and determine what needs to be done in this particular case.”
The unintended advantage of having a translator in situations like this is that it gives each side time to think. A direct one-to-one dialogue, by its very nature, requires that one is more spontaneous. Both Ghanem and Yuri are grateful for the extra time.
Yuri is flustered by Ghanem’s statement, but does his best to show relief instead of anxiety. The process sounds complicated. Without the proper support to grease the wheels of the bureaucracy, this could take years to sort out. He can imagine that a similar situation in Russia would probably take decades.
“Mr. Ghanem, I am relieved that the law is clear and that the rightful heirs will be protected. And I am thankful that we are facing this unfortunate situation in Dubai, rather than in some other country where it would not necessarily be the law that determines the outcome. But how can we expedite the process of settlement? I mean, a widow and an orphaned daughter have no other recourse than to claim their rightful inheritance.”
Ghanem is amused. Yuri is out of his league in more ways being a fish out of water in Dubai. He probably believes that he is being sophisticated and diplomatic in his approach, but Ghanem has seen the best of them in action, and is not impressed. The poor widow and orphaned daughter of a pimp and money launderer? He looks at Yuri’s hair, greased and combed back, his unusual face, that of a gigolo, and smiles sympathetically again.
“Mr. Yuri,” he says, standing up. “I assure you that we’ll take the plight of the widow and daughter into consideration. Family matters most. But before we can start anything, the courts in Dubai will need the death certificate of Mr. Viktor Ayvazian, his marital status, proof of the legal identity of the heirs, and formal documentation that you represent them. You understand of course that this is meant to protect the interests of the legal heirs.”
Yuri’s first attempt to start ‘extra-judicial negotiations’ has failed. Ghanem is leaving. He stands up also, in an awkward manner, having been taken by surprise by Ghanem’s sudden and abrupt way of bringing the meeting to an end.
“Thank you for meeting me here,” he says, “but what are the next steps?”
“No problem, Mr. Yuri,” says Ghanem. “My office is next door,” and he points at the second of the Emirates Towers twin buildings. “As for the next steps, please secure the documents I mentioned. Only then can we talk about concrete actions.”
With that, Ghanem walks out, not waiting for Ramsey to finish translating his last sentence.
Manoj’s office is inside the walled compound that houses Al Barmaka’s mansion, the villa guesthouses, one of which used to be occupied by Lara, and the staff quarters. It is only a five-minute walk from the mansion, but Manoj drives there. It is already too hot and humid to walk.
Al Barmaka receives him in his private study, off the first floor living room.
“The mission was largely accomplished,” starts Manoj. “I saw two of the businessmen, the third had left the country on a last minute trip, and I saw Ms. Leila and her village. Where do you want me to start?”
“Tell me about Leila.”
Manoj recounts the story of his visit to Saralandj, describing the roads, the village, the Galian house, and the meeting and conversation with Lara. He hands him her phone number and shows him some of the pictures that he snapped of the village.
“This is where she lives?” asks Al Barmaka in amazement.
“Yes Sir. Well, that’s where she’s from. She now lives in Yerevan and is enrolled at the University. She was home for the weekend. Unfortunately, I could not take any pictures of their house. It would have been too awkward.”
“Did you meet any of her family?”
“A brother, two sisters, and a couple of family friends. One of them joined our conversation. He is not from Armenia, but he speaks Armenian.”
“Who is he?” asks Al Barmaka, wondering what someone ‘not from Armenia’ would be doing in that village.
“I’m not sure, Sir. His name is Edward Laurian. That’s all I know. He attended the meeting, but was quiet. I guess they did not want to leave me alone with Ms. Leila.”
Al Barmaka stares at the pictures of the village for a long time.
“Why would she leave this place to go there?” he asks, half to himself, half to Manoj. Manoj is not sure whether he should answer.
“Did you get any clues?” asks Al Barmaka after a few minutes.
“No Sir, sorry. Our conversation was short. She said to give her regards to His Excellency, and that she would not mind if you called her. She also asked me to call her by her ‘real’ name.” That briefly gets Al Barmaka’s attention, but he does not say anything.
“Anything worthwhile to discuss regarding your other meetings?”
“It’s an interesting country. Good development potential. It is around fifty years behind Switzerland in terms of development, but has the same potential. Three hours from Dubai, and you can be on snow covered mountains.”
“Any industry worth considering?” Al Barmaka’s interest in the conversation has already waned.
“Some mining, but the real potential is in the service sector, possibly tourism. The place is landlocked, with some unfriendly neighbors. Trade is not easy.”
“Have some initial due diligence done on the country, political risk, investment potential, etc. We’ll revisit later. Anything else worth reporting?”
“Just one more thing, Sir. Ms. Leila asked that you call her during the week, when she is in Yerevan. I’m not sure why she prefers it that way.”
“Thank you. Keep a close eye on the people who used to run Lara here. Report to me any new activity, no matter how insignificant.”
“Yes Sir,” says Manoj. He already has arranged round the clock surveillance of Ano.
Back in his office, Jawad Ghanem goes through the dusty files of Viktor Ayvazian. Aside from the cash payment in full, there is nothing unusual surrounding the transaction, and even that is not entirely unheard of in Dubai. Nevertheless, he calls in his legal counsel and asks him to do a quick background check on Ayvazian with the immigration authorities and with the courts handling expatriate affairs.
Within two hours his legal counsel returns with interesting information. It turns out that Viktor Ayvazian was deported from Dubai around two-and-a-half years ago. Aside from a few legal violations, he had offended the system with his loud and careless behavior and had argued wi
th his local protection, and even refused to make payment on time on at least one occasion. But a couple of months later he returns with a new passport, under the new name Viktor Arakelian. The authorities know that Ayvazian and Arakelian are the same person, but they let him get away with it. By then, through Ano, he has already paid off all his debts and reestablished his old protections.
But the legal counsel’s attention is quickly drawn to the fact that, a few months after that, Viktor Arakelian enters Dubai again, this time with a wife—a young woman called Lara Galianova, who, according to her Russian passport, is twenty-one years old at the time. After that, Viktor Ayvazian’s status is restored, even though he continues to enter Dubai with his fake passport.
Yuri does not know about Lara Galianova, because he was kept out of the loop. When Viktor was getting ready to bring Lara to Dubai, she was only sixteen, and Dubai laws did not allow single women under thirty-one years old to be issued entry visas. Viktor knew that a fake passport showing her to be thirty-one would not be believable. So he had a passport forged that showed her to be twenty-one, and also produced papers showing that Viktor Arakelian was married to Lara Galianova. That is how Lara entered Dubai, accompanied by her legal husband, Viktor Arakelian.
Jawad Ghanem ponders the situation for a long time. The legal owner of the villa in the Palm has been deported once from Dubai, has returned under an assumed name, has a wife under the assumed name, but is supposed to be single under his real name, and now he is deceased and his uncle’s family wants the villa.
Ano has given Manoj most of the details involving Lara, including both her real and fake names and ages. She has also mentioned that, as a pure formality to secure her entry visa into Dubai, Viktor had forged marriage papers for her.
When Manoj gets his informant’s report that Jawad Ghanem was seen meeting a man who had been also seen with Ano earlier, he gives him a call. Al Barmaka’s family owns Ghanem’s real estate firm, and Manoj handles their accounts, and represents Al Barmaka on the board of the firm.
The Doves of Ohanavank Page 12