Dr Apostolou grinned and reached down from his place on the step above her to touch her shoulder reassuringly. “You’re a trooper, Kate,” he said. “I hope Jessie and Sarah are holding up as well as you are.”
She pressed his hand and returned his smile, and Chaudri found himself wondering if their relationship was entirely a professional one.
There was no opportunity for him to pursue the thought. The sound of sandals scuffing on stone reached him from below, and the guard who had captured him and the Senator the night before came into view as he ascended the spiral steps toward them. It was difficult to see the man clearly in the dimness of the tower, but it seemed to Chaudri that his expression was less threatening than it had been. His mouth had slackened, his eyelids drooped, his curly black hair was oily and streaked with dust, the Kalashnikov he held cradled in his arms seemed to have taken on extra weight.
He has not slept, the Pakistani realized, and he filed that knowledge away for possible future use.
“Mahsool,” the terrorist addressed him in liquid Arabic, “I must speak with you.”
Perhaps it was only the strain of the long hours of imprisonment, but Chaudri thought he could read a plea in the Arab’s penetrating gaze. A plea for what? It was the Sword of God which had the weapons, the Sword of God which controlled the situation. What could they possibly want from him, their captive?
“If you must be speaking, then I must be listening,” Chaudri replied.
The Arab glanced briefly at the two Americans. He was really no more than a boy, Chaudri saw, at most nineteen or twenty years of age. But even 80, he was old enough to carry a rifle, old enough to know how to use it. He was old enough for that.
“We must have food and water,” the boy announced suddenly, “but your government does not approach us. How are we to communicate with them and let them know our demands?”
“What’s he saying?” Nurse Hewitt whispered, and the doctor squeezed her shoulder to quiet her, afraid the guard might harm her for interfering.
But the guard ignored them both, his attention fixed on Mahboob Chaudri.
They have no plan, Chaudri recognized, and the thought astounded him. In the passion of their religious fervor, they determined to take over the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque, but they did not anticipate having to deal with hostages. Now they are holding the shrine, but they are stuck with us as well. This is the first time the Sword of God is doing anything more than writing angry letters to the press, and they have no idea how to proceed.
Interesting, he thought, most highly interesting. Does this often lie beneath the heartless exterior of terrorism – this uncertainty, this confusion, this doubt? Is this the way it was aboard the Achille Lauro, aboard Flight 847, at the American embassy in Tehran? Is it possible that the Shi’ite extremists are being as much the victims of their madness as they are being its agents?
“You ask me to help you,” said Mahboob Chaudri slowly, “but how can I be helping you when you treat me as if I am your enemy? I am not your enemy. I am your brother, and these Americans are your brother and sisters.”
“You lie,” the boy spat. “America is not my brother. America is the Great Satan, the despoiler of Islam, the—”
“I am not speaking of America. I am speaking of these innocent Americans, who came to Bahrain to heal the sick – not just their own people, but all who are in need of their skills. What have they done to deserve your anger, your threats?”
Nurse Hewitt reached for the doctor’s hand and held it tightly. A silence hung heavily in the air.
“This is wartime,” the Arab boy said at last. “And, in wartime, the innocent must suffer for the sins of their governments. This country was a model of Islamic purity until—”
Chaudri shook his head. “But this is not the answer. I am a Muslim myself, and I am agreeing with you that there are problems in the world, problems here in the Gulf, in Bahrain, problems which can and must be solved. But this—” he indicated the Kalashnikov with a gesture – “this violence, this terrorism, this fanaticism, this is not the answer. Perhaps we have been done injustice, but is it Allah’s will that we should be repaying the injustices of others with injustice of our own?” He sighed deeply. “No, that is not the way. As it is written in the Holy Quran, ‘Direct us in the right path, in the path of those to whom Thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom Thou art incensed, nor of those who go astray.’ Put down your gun, my friend, put it down. Let us find another path to peace.”
Again it was silent, and the absence of sound was a living thing which wrapped itself around them and held them for a timeless interval. The doctor, the nurse, the Pakistani, the Arab – the silence entered into each of them and touched them and told them its secrets.
Mahboob Chaudri listened to the beating of his heart, and with great serenity put out his hands to the terrorist, his brother.
The Arab boy licked dry lips and swallowed his uncertainty. “My name is Hamid,” he said.
The sun beat down fiercely from its perch in the ivory sky, sucking rivulets of perspiration from Chaudri’s forehead and armpits. The columns and archways of the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque squatted patiently in the heat, the twin minarets pointing impassive fingers at Heaven’s vastness.
Chaudri stood alone between the spires, his only companions the sun and stone, the oppressive warmth and choking dust. The wooden balconies above were empty;Yousif Falamarzi was waiting with Hamid Yacoob and the two Americans within the tower that had been Chaudri’s prison, and the remaining pair of terrorists was hidden from his view on the far side of the second minaret. His Public Security Force comrades and the Western reporters waited beyond the compound wall; although Chaudri could not see them from where he stood, he knew that they were still out there, that they would remain at their posts until the confrontation with Saifoullah wound its way to a conclusion.
The Pakistani moved slowly toward the second minaret, the olive-green material of his uniform chafing his arms and legs with every step. Hamid and Yousif had wanted to accompany him, but he had decided it would be best to go alone. If there was trouble, if there was gunfire, he must face it by himself. Uncomfortable as it might be in the summer heat, Chaudri’s uniform gave him that obligation.
The Americans had wanted him to take one of the Kalashnikovs, but again he had demurred. He would go alone, he had told them firmly, and he would go unarmed. They had tried to change his mind, had tried to convince him that he was taking too many risks, but Chaudri had been resolute. Alone, he had repeated, and unarmed. That was the way it must be.
A determined fly buzzed circles around his head as he crept closer to his destination, alighting momentarily on his ears, his nose, his lips, then flitting off to safety as he slapped at it uselessly.
He reached the stone base of the minaret and paused for a moment to listen. The heat and the silence closed in on him and made the drawing of every breath an arduous task. Chaudri was tempted just to stand there, to wait, yet he knew that there was nothing to be gained by waiting. He had waited long enough already.
Courage, Mr Chaudri, he told himself. He raised his hands in the gesture of surrender he had used the night before – and realized with clinical interest that the Arabic word for “surrender” is “Islam”.
Islam, the surrender to God’s will, the surrender to destiny.
With surrender in his heart, he stepped around the base of the minaret and gasped in sudden fear to find himself staring down the barrel of an AK-47.
An eternity passed before he recognized that the rifle was in the hands of Senator William Adam Harding, and one of the two remaining members of the Sword of God lay motionless in the dust at his feet, his thobe and ghutra in disarray.
“Well, hot damn,” the Senator roared, “it’s you!” He fl ung aside the Kalashnikov and pounded Chaudri gleefully on the back. “I shore am glad to see your ugly mug again, there, son. I’s afraid they might’ve—”
“What—?” Chaudri stammered. “How—? How did you
—?”
“Well, hell, son, there was only two of ‘em,” the Senator beamed. “It’s not like they had thesselves a damn army or nothin’. I took out this here downstairs one first, while he’s around this side of the tower and out of sight of the rest of ‘em, anen I snuck upstairs and whomped the other’n. I’s just on my way over to take care of your two when you walked into my gun and like to scare the pants offa me.” He looked Chaudri up and down with admiration. “But I guess you handled your boys okay on your own, there, din’t you? I thought you was kind of runty for a police officer, if you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so, but you done good, son. I’m right proud of you.”
Chaudri looked down at the body lying crumpled and motionless in the dust. “Is he—?”
“Dead?”The Senator chuckled.“Hell, no, he’s just takin’ hisself a li’l nap, that’s all. I din’t hardly hit him hard enough to raise a lump. And don’t you fret none about the one upstairs, neither. He’ll be back on his feet afore the ladies in there stop bawlin’.”
“They are not hurt?”
“Naw, they’re fine and dandy, son.” He jerked his head toward the entrance. “They’re inside there havin’ thesselves a good old-fashioned cry, but they ain’t been hurt none.”
Chaudri put a hand to his heart. They were all alive, then, and it was over.
He shook his head in disbelief. It could so very easily have ended in bloodshed and horror. The Senator’s solution had been unbelievably rash, had been taken without sufficient thought, had endangered all their lives.
And yet . . .
And yet the man had succeeded, praise Allah, and no one had been hurt.
They were a strange people, these Westerners, and the Americans were the strangest of them all. As strange, in their own way, as that small minority of Muslims who fervently believed that violence was the behavior God demanded of them.
And yet it seemed clear to Mahboob Chaudri that, in a world rocked with acts of senseless terrorism, it was perhaps possible after all for his culture and the Senator’s to work together toward the goal of peace. And, if it was possible to live in harmony with the Westerners, then perhaps it might be possible to live in harmony with the likes of Saifoullah as well.
Insh’Allah. If only God was willing.
And that, Chaudri decided, as he found the ring of keys in the pocket of the fallen Arab’s thobe and moved through brilliant sunshine to the gate in the wall which surrounded the Suq-al-Khamis Mosque, would be a very good thing.
Oh, dearie me, yes, that would be a very good thing indeed.
Now Let’s Talk About Laura
Andreu Martin
Down at the entrance I press a buzzer for the third floor to avoid giving Wágner advance warning. A woman with a high-pitched voice answers, and I get her to open by murmuring the first thing that comes to mind, “Mail”. I take the lift to the sixth and make for the first door, still with no idea what I’m going to do. I simply know that Wágner’s there inside.
I press the doorbell. Footsteps. The jeweller approaches whistling. He opens without any idea, in shirtsleeves, tails hanging out, tie half undone, no shoes, eyebrows raised like someone expecting to hear a great joke. There’s not even time for him to be surprised.
I press my hand to his chest and push him in. After retreating two steps, he bangs up against the wall, his face clouded with fear. I close the door. My fist is like a sledgehammer backed by my 120 kilos. The jeweller’s head bounces off the jamb, and he swivels to fall face down in the middle of the hall. Giddy with panic, he attempts to rise, turning at the same time, but the toe of my shoe strikes him right in the mouth. He collapses and begins to scramble along the narrow passage leading to the large living room. Struggling desperately to get to his feet and make a dash, he’s maybe hoping to somehow reach the phone when I grab him by the shoulders and push him headlong onto the sofa.
Drooling, sobbing, and bleeding, he’s lost several teeth, and has no idea what to do, or what’s going on.
“Now let’s talk about Laura,” I yell.
I can’t understand either what’s got into me. I remember reading somewhere that one of the feelings experienced by disaster victims is an arbitrary rage and resentment against society in general. Many who have suffered from catastrophes or who’ve lost close family in terrorist attacks say that after fate has dealt them such a heavy blow they feel entitled to do exactly as they please, to be as savage with the world as the world has been with them. So perhaps I was convinced on an unconscious level that a terrible injustice had been perpetrated, that I’d been robbed of the most valuable thing I possessed, and was allowed to erupt in fury, granted permission to enjoy watching Wágner receive the full force of that explosion.
“Now let’s talk about Laura.”
The first talk I had with Wágner was in his jewellery shop. All smart and elegant, he wrinkled his nose when he first saw me, or perhaps smelt me. His doll-house chairs were too small for my bulk, and he shuddered when I sat down on one, as if it might collapse under my weight.
“I shot in self-defence,” he said with a brittle sort of firmness. “They came upon me with guns in the parking lot, and told me to hand over the sample case. Every day I carry jewellery worth twenty-five million pesetas. I’ve already been mugged three times, hence my application for a permit, why I bought the gun. And you know if I’m carrying it, it’s not just for show. I wasn’t going to stand there and let them rob me all over again. So I handed over the case, sure enough, what with the barrel tucked under my chin. But as soon as I saw them running off, I pulled the weapon out from its harness and pulled the trigger.”
He’d killed one of the armed robbers, a certain Bernardo Parada.
“. . . The other stooped down and managed to get away, protected by the cars. To be frank, I was terrified, stunned at having killed a man, as you might imagine. I stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to move an inch, much less chase the guy running off.”
“. . . And for all the mugshots you were shown, you didn’t recognize him in any?” Wágner shook his head – no, I’m afraid not. “Nor in the ID parades afterwards?” No never, he regretted that too, deeply it seemed. “So, you killed a man and then remained on the scene, just hoping the police would turn up.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
It was the fourth time Wágner had had his case grabbed. It was hardly surprising the insurance company needed to remove all doubts, whatever conclusion the police enquiry might reach and despite the full support of Inspector Germán from Armed Robberies. They’d hired me to liaise with the cops, recover the jewellery and clear up their suspicions.
Germán, an old friend, backed Wágner’s version to the hilt.
“Arturo Wágner’s completely above board. I’ve known him for years. He’s helped us on more than one occasion, far more. Identifying missing gems, keeping tabs on fences, that sort of thing. He’s in an ideal position to receive information on goods we might be interested in, and we use him as candy.”
Candy? It had slipped out. He immediately hid behind the brandy-spiked coffee, finished his cup and asked the waiter for another. We were in the bar next to police HQ and they all knew him there.
“Again, thanks.”
So that was that. Looking as if nothing had popped out by accident, he was already smiling and asking, “What else would you like to know?” But I wasn’t going to let it pass: “Didn’t you just say ‘candy’? What do you mean?”
I don’t like narks, although they’re obviously indispensable to police work: without the stool-pigeon’s gift for being in the right place at the right time, many cases would remain unsolved. But they also form a bridge between the police and the world of crime, one that’s easy to cross in both directions, moreover. The best informers are those who occasionally break the law, establishing underworld credentials and gaining the implicit trust of authentic criminals. But you have to be indulgent with them, as that’s what makes them collaborate with law-enforcers: those little foibles
may have far-reaching benefits. Still, I don’t like them, however necessary their role.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “That he has relations with . . . ?” I meant the underworld, the criminal element, the mob.
“No, not at all!” Germán shot back, as if appalled, shocked even. “Simply that he lends a helping hand now and then, nothing more.”
I sighed heavily. They never tell you a thing. They can’t, anyway.
“And what can you tell me about the dead man? Bernardo Parada, right? Police record?”
Inspector Germán darted a glance at me. He was blinking like mad.
“No, nothing like that. Just a bit dodgy. I don’t know if he was involved with other armed robberies, but I’d say it wasn’t his style.”
“Bit dodgy?”
“Con man. One of those sharp-dressing spivs with gold rings and tie-pins complete with family crest. Seems he had a wealthy background, but went through his entire inheritance in various casinos. Was selling non-existent containers complete with imaginary goods. Took multiple orders and then disappeared, leaving creditors in a line as long as those hooded nazarenos at Easter. You know the type. I imagine he was blackmailing someone at least . . . And every last penny ploughed straight back into roulette and baccarat.”
“You’d met him before,” I said curtly.
Germán shook his head. He hardly knew which way to look.
“Just another rich kid that managed to stay one step ahead of the game.”
I breathed out again, and moved in my chair to signal impatience.
“What about the accomplice?” Germán gave another shake. “One of Parada’s friends?”
“They’ve all been checked. Not a sausage. We’re still looking, though.”
“How about a few names?”
The Mammoth Book Best International Crime Page 53