"But Truck 21 belongs to your company…as does Truck 7. It has the name of your company on the cab door."
"Are you saying my driver picked up someone?" From her tone she might have been asking if her driver had allowed lice onto her truck. Her face became determined. "I have heard from the hospital about our men from the depot. The guard is fine…but the driver is unconscious. I spoke to the doctor on the phone. He does not recommend visiting him tonight."
"I am saddened," said Ari.
"If the Namus was a hitchhiker, he wouldn't be one of my people."
"Unless the driver was someone working for the Namus. You must admit this person knows your truck schedule very well. He knew those women—"
"Yes," Nabihah said. To Ari's amazement, she rocked her chair backwards and pressed her feet on the table, the soles of her soft shoes facing him. It was a very precarious position. She might easily fall back and crack her head. It was also insulting. You weren't supposed to expose the bottom of your feet to someone, not even an unwanted guest. Ari had never seen this before, from man or woman. He shifted sideways, as though dodging a ray gun.
"A cargo of women is not something you would place on a manifest," Ari said. "How many people know about it?"
"Badawi Bahrani, the driver and myself."
"And the women. How do they know about this endeavor?"
"Word spreads," said Nabihah, rocking gently back and forth on the rear legs of the chair.
"Indeed? How? By word of mouth? The internet? By phone? By letter?"
"This has nothing to do with the hijackings," she snapped. At that point, she sounded nothing like Rana. But Ari had no idea how his wife would react to an importunate male.
"Are you so sure of that? I see a feast of coincidences. How long have you been importing these women in the back of your trucks? And why?"
Nabihah rocked even harder. Ari braced himself to leap forward, although he doubted he could reach her before she hit the floor.
"As you know, I took over O'Connor's."
"Yes."
"It was not easy or simple. Yes, my husband put the company in my name to qualify for SWAM status. But even then, I could not just stand in front of him and say, 'this is mine, now get out'. It took lawyers and many fees and…"
"Bribes."
"Fees," she insisted. "I only wish I could bribe a state official, but such individuals are difficult to find in this country."
"You didn't have the right connections," Ari smiled.
"As you say. In any event, I had no money. Tareq controlled everything. How was I to proceed? And then Allah offered me a miracle in the form of one of my aunts. She had a friend from the Fayoum Governorate—I can't imagine how she knew her."
Ari knew she meant that she could not comprehend how someone from a posh district could know someone from such a poor area.
"The friend was in her late twenties, not ugly, but she could not find a husband. That was because when she was eleven her parents had arranged a muta. You know what that is?"
"I've heard." Common in Egypt, there were variations throughout the Middle East. In order to bypass Islamic restrictions against pre-marital sex, girls from poor families were consigned to a 'pleasure marriage' with foreign visitors. This way, the visitor could legally check into a hotel with his 'wife' without raising eyebrows. 'Misyar' was the extended version, for visitors who planned on staying through the summer. Both entailed legally binding contracts. Ari had heard that you could buy a muta for 800 gineih (Egyptian Pounds). The equivalent of $90 in the U.S. Depending on the comeliness of the girl and the strength of the visitor's lust, a misyar could go for much, much more.
"Somehow, what happened to my aunt's friend became common knowledge. No man wanted her. She asked me if I would sponsor this friend."
"To come here?"
"Not only that, but if I could find a good Muslim husband for her, preferably an immigrant from Egypt."
"Why not Lebanese?" Ari asked. "Or Iraqi…?"
"I thought of Lebanese. In fact, I know two men from Lebanon, both of them quite cultured. Unfortunately, they are from the Beqaa."
"Shiites," Ari nodded.
"Your knowledge of geography is commendable. You attended university?"
"The Università degli Studi di Catania, the oldest university in Sicily."
"Oh? What department?"
"I have a degree in philosophy. My specialty is Frank Drebin, a very famous American scholar."
"I wouldn't know," said Nabihah, shifting her feet along the edge of the table. Ari again shifted away. "But I'm impressed. And you're married?"
"Why do you ask? Have you become a marriage broker?"
"My aunt paid for her friend's passage and I helped to arrange her visa. I searched for someone on the internet, but there are so many charlatans. I didn't want this poor woman to end up in a worse position than she had come from. And then one day, Allah willed that I should find the right man. I arranged a meeting—"
"For a fee?"
"A reasonable fee. And when the two hit it off and the man proposed, they were both so pleased with my service that they offered me a much more substantial gift of appreciation."
"Many businesses are born this way," Ari said. "Not all of them are so profitable."
Nabihah pursed her lips and looked away. "I don't think of it as a business, but there are those…including my husband…who think of it that way. But as you see, many of my guests are very poor. They pay me by performing services…"
"Such as?"
She avoided the question. "As for the mansion, that was paid for in cash. Not through my 'brokerage'. Think of it as my Gehaz. You are confused, I see. The Gehaz is the property the bride brings to the marriage, including whatever she has earned herself. My father insisted that I work, so I earned a little money in the cosmetics field."
"But Sharia law—"
"Speaks of the Mahr paid by the groom to the bride. But my prospective husband was a poor man and could not afford a dowry. So my father made up the sum, plus much more. My father made me work, but he loved me very much and would not see me in want. Tareq tried to take control of my Mahr…legally, it was his, but my father had attached some strings. My husband is not stupid. He realized if things went against him he would be…"
"At your mercy?"
"He assumed the income from the trucking company would supply all his luxuries."
"But then you took that, too."
"Don't feel sorry for him."
"It's hard not to."
"When you yourself accused him of raping me?" Nabihah lowered her feet and steadied the chair on the floor. "He contacted my father and told him his version of what was going on. I think Tareq scared him with some idea that all his assets in the United States will be frozen if the state decides we are operating illegally."
"Your father owns businesses here?" Ari asked.
"When the property values began to drop, he saw some good opportunities. He joined a group that owns stock in Winthrop, Anworth, Redwood and some other real estate companies. They operate out of Canada so I don't think my father is at risk. But you never know what kind of nonsense will get into the heads at Treasury. They're the ones who watch the forex markets for signs of money laundering and other…" She drifted off, looking curiously abashed.
"But he has nothing to worry about, am I right. Your business is strictly legal?"
"Doesn't that depend on you?"
"Me?"
"Well…you saw," Nabihah said, looking out the side of her eye.
"It is illegal to transport unwed women in this country?" Then Ari realized the truth, and how stupid what he had just said must sound. He grinned, as if he had been making a joke. "It is illegal to transport people in the back of a tractor trailer."
"I did everything to make them safe and comfortable! You saw that their seats were bolted? And did you notice each was equipped with a seat belt? And I had a chemical toiled installed at the front of the container, walled off for priva
cy."
"And if I tell my supervisor at CVG your insurance will be cancelled and the incident reported to the authorities," Ari nodded, feeling empowered. He now had a solid weight to hold over Nabihah's head. Most useful.
"Are you going to report me?"
"It's a possibility, but I would hate to have a nightmare about Sirdar Singh beheading me with his scimitar and waking up to find it real."
"He would never do such a thing," said Nabihah, though her tone said the thought was appealing.
"In any event, I have some sympathy for your endeavors. I gather from your confusing story with multiple loopholes that your father has drawn your purse string shut until the lawsuit with your husband is resolved. Hence the need for income from your charming avocation." Ari reached across to the thermos and held it up. Nabihah shook her head. He poured himself another cup. "You are in competition with other matchmaking agencies?"
"In America? Of course, but there are few of quality, and most of those are for Indian Muslims. There are many online agencies for people living in this country, but I would die before finding a man there. Someone could claim he is a good Muslim…then we come to find out he eats pork by the pound."
Ari gave a small cough. He loved pork. But he wasn't Muslim…not really. It was in his blood, but not his brain.
"Some of the women here come from the Hamdard Center for Health and Human Services in Chicago. They were beaten severely by their husbands almost every day, and it was either run for the shelter or die. They do the best they can. They don't serve pork, they provide prayer rugs—"
"But these women are married?" said Ari, feeling queasy.
"I understand your disapproval. Everything is legal. You have heard of the ADAMS Center in Dulles, Virginia? They try to reconcile Muslim couples, but if divorce is unavoidable—"
"'Of all the lawful acts, the most detestable to Allah is divorce'," Ari quoted.
"You think these women don't know that? There is not one of them who wants a divorce. They tear themselves apart over it. It is almost easier for them…perhaps…when it is the husband pushing for separation. At least then they can feel a sense of inevitability, of absolution. But when an abusive husband fights against it…that is when ADAMS and other agencies step in with legal assistance. Think of that quote: of all the lawful acts. Prophet Muhammed, peace and blessings be upon him, does not outlaw divorce, however distasteful it might be. Don't forget, he had a very happy marriage. Not everyone else is so lucky."
Ari's faith in the bonds of marriage bordered on the absolute. He recalled the chaotic sexual antics that had surrounded the Imperial Palace of Saddam Hussein. There had been a large element of sadism in that world, which had put him off any sympathy for the secular concepts of free love and unadorned animalism. God might be nixed in his mind, but really, you had to have rules.
"It's true," Nabihah continued. "As soon as Muslims come here, the divorce rate shoots up. You can't avoid the social change."
Having seen Nabihah waltz around in a bikini in front of a strange man, Ari could only concur. He also thought of Ahmad, Abu Jasim's idiot nephew, who was so American he reeked of computer garbage and had a most distasteful addiction to oxygen bars. The boy lived in Chicago and was in the process of forcing himself down the throat of a well-respected university. Could he bestir the loafing cretin into action? He would like to know more about this Hamdard Center.
"The Namus might frown upon your behavior," Ari said.
"I have no doubt about it."
"And you think we encountered him at the depot."
"Probably," Nabihah sighed.
"The Namus knows who you are, where you are, and what you are up to. This is very precarious from the actuarial point of view."
"What is life without risk?"
"Avoidance can be tedious," said Ari. "And more hazardous than the risk."
"Let me think about that…"
"What do you think about Madame Mumford?" he asked. "She seems to hold you in high regard."
"That's good to hear, and it's mutual." Nabihah propped a single foot on the table edge. Indelicate, but far safer than both feet. "And what do you think of her?"
"She is a wonder to behold. For a chef of France to be so versed in the cuisine of the Levant borders on the unheard-of. And she seems to be a stout-hearted woman, like yourself."
She was pleased by this, and showed it with a broad smile.
"But the Namus," Ari persisted. "Don't you think it possible you have met him? He has intruded himself upon your propriety."
"I'm sorry? Very well, I meet many people in my line of work. Shippers, contractors, drivers…but I can't imagine that the Namus would be among my employees."
"But you can't be certain."
She skirted her foot along the table. Ari took this as a 'no'.
"I would like to see your husband, again."
Nabihah dropped her foot and glared at him. "Why?"
"There are aspects of the company that you might not be aware of."
"There is nothing you can learn from him that you can't learn from me."
"Be that as it may," said Ari, sitting straight like a stern schoolmarm.
Nabihah saw the inferred threat. Accommodate his wishes, or deal with the legal consequences. Shipping women across state lines for ignoble designations. Just the thought! It wasn't true, but that was face the law would put on it.
"He lives in an apartment in Glen Allen." She told him the address. "Do you want it in writing?"
"That's not necessary. Please, don't be flustered. He might be able to supply me with some particulars—"
Inside her abaya a phone rang. She took it out and listened to the caller. She looked up at Ari.
"Sirdar Singh says there is car parked at the end of the block with two people sitting inside. He doesn't recognize it as one of the neighbor's cars."
"They could be visiting," said Ari.
"He says they've been there for half an hour. A man and a woman in a Civic."
"Are they kissing?"
Nabihah's face twisted into a smirk and she spoke into the phone. "Are they making out?" She listened to the answer and shook her head. "They appear to be watching my driveway. I'll send him out to chase them away, or kill them. Which would be best?"
"There is no need for either." Ari rubbed his forehead. "They are pesky coworkers."
"From the Central Virginia Group?" asked Nabihah in alarm. She lifted the phone. "Leave them be for now. And let Yilmaz know they aren't to be harmed." She hung up.
"They are young and insufficient," Ari shrugged.
"How 'insufficient'?" Nabihah said. "Do they know about my cargo?"
"Be at ease. They came here to pry after me. They think that is part of their job. They will follow me when I leave."
After a silent moment, she said, "Mr. Ciminon?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever trust there was between us has suddenly fled the room."
A door in the back of the house shut and they heard a car engine start.
"Madame Mumford is leaving. Will they harass her?"
"They will answer with their blood if they do."
Nabihah summoned a smile. "The trust is regained…a little."
"Your husband knows of your matchmaking, and yet he has not used it as a weapon against you," Ari observed.
"No," Nabihah answered slowly.
"Then he is not entirely wicked."
"I realize that."
There was another loud thump overhead, followed by a muffled shout.
"Perhaps you should see to your guests," said Ari.
"Perhaps I should," Nabihah said dismally.
CHAPTER 9
Sindabad – Baghdad – Iraq
June 8, 2006 - 0045 hours
"Cut those fucking lights off!"
"Turn off the jammer," Gates told Ropp. He stepped out of the Hilux and approached the captain who had climbed out of the Bradley. "'Pussy Hunt', with emphasis on the 'P'."
"That was
last night, Mr. Gates," said the captain. "Tonight it's 'I have to piss'. I don't care to know who came up with that one."
"Charming. I'm glad you recognize me. Can you tell me the new countersign?"
"What the fuck do I care?"
"I would rather not be blown up by you blokes," said Gates, offended.
"No, that's the countersign: 'What the fuck do I care'."
"That doesn't sound like proper military etiquette," said Gates.
"May I ask what you and your men are doing roaming around here this time of night?" The captain felt slightly safer as his men fanned out to either side, scanning the area for insurgents. He wore the stern yet almost pleasant 'I know what I'm doing' expression of commissioned officers around the world.
"Company business."
"Are you escorting an exceptionally important VIP?"
"Well, no."
"Are you protecting a convoy?"
"Just ourselves."
"Are you delivering cutlery to the Baghdad Hilton?"
Gates stiffened. Blackwater might be the competition, but even mercenaries required a certain amount of respect. "This isn't Fallujah, and that was uncalled for."
Ghaith noticed that the mercenary's diction became distinctly less parochial when confronting dangerous authority.
"I apologize, Mr. Gates. You're right. But be advised, this might become a Fallujah-type situation. There have been some Q-36 hits in this neighborhood. It would be best if you returned to Rusty, pronto."
"I will, as soon as I accomplish my mission."
"'Company business'," the captain frowned. He looked towards Gates' comm vehicle. Ropp and Hutton squeezed down as far as they could to avoid being seen. "But right now, this area is under my jurisdiction."
"I will gladly comply with your request as soon as I have finished my job."
"I don't—" The captain raised his eyes. "Is that Haji in your truck?"
The Shelter for Buttered Women Page 20