She caught sight of Ari out the side of her eye and yelped, jumping sideways and flapping one arm...the other arm being attached to the fingernail still imbedded between her teeth.
"Kawn ah…" She pulled out the fingernail. "Can I help you?"
"Am I allowed to browse your spacious domain?"
There was a muffled thump below Ari's feet. The girl jerked a glance back at the basement door.
"I'm just a secretary," said the girl holding one hand down with the other, as though straining to keep her thumbnail away from her teeth. Her sorrowful eyes were like commentaries on the patches of acne blotching her cheeks. She did not look capable of writing 'YOU WILL DIE FOR THIS', but was undoubtedly proficient at collapsing under overbearing authority. "Our salesmen are busy at the moment, but if you come back in an hour I'm sure there will be someone here to help you."
"You are most gracious, but time presses against me in a most irritating fashion."
"I can help you," said a young man, entering the front door behind Ari. He wore a T-shirt that accentuated his bulging arms, as well as his willingness to use them, if the way he flexed his biceps was any indication. Sweat had surfaced under the arms and on the chest of the gray cotton. He must have seen Ari crossing the road through the window of the van as he prepared to unload another painting.
"Wonderful," said Ari. "I happened to notice that you have some very nice paintings decorating the walls here."
"Copies," said the young man. "Copies of copies."
"But aren't some of them famous paintings from the Middle East?"
"Copies of copies of famous paintings from the Middle East."
"In any event, they are very charming. I was wondering, do you deal in paintings as well as Persian rugs?"
For a moment, the two men matched complexions, one against the other. Ari's dark shade belied his assertion that he carried a wealth of Assyrian blood in his veins. The young man's much fairer skin did not hide his essential Arab-ness. Then the two men compared their ability to inflict harm on the other. Something about Ari caused the young man to stop flexing. Ari's torso was hidden under a sports jacket. Muscle or flab? It was impossible to say, but the way Ari carried himself told the young man he would get the short end if he tried to physically evict this customer. Ari, who already knew this, maintained his courteous smile.
The young man unclipped a phone from his belt and hit the dial button. They heard a phone ringing in the basement. When it stopped, the young man said, "Mr. Nohra, there is a gentleman here who needs information." He listened for a moment before hanging up. "The owner will be right with you."
"I apologize for the inconvenience," said Ari. "I can see you are in the middle of arduous labor."
The young man looked down at himself. "Carpets are heavy."
"Heavy enough to keep you very fit," Ari nodded admiringly.
Ari turned when he heard someone huffing to the top of the basement steps. When Rami Nohra turned into the corridor, he stopped dead upon seeing him.
"I know you…?" he said half-doubtfully.
"We met at Mr. Sadiq's party. I was present when the oafish Nizzar dumped his plate on you. I am Ari Ciminon."
"Yes…of course…forgive me." He walked—almost staggered—to a grand desk next to the corridor entrance and slumped into an executive office chair. He was wearing a white shirt and a tie loosened so far that the knot rested on his stomach. His sweat was not the sweat of a fit man, but of someone straining to the edge of his feeble ability. "Let me catch my breath…"
"You should leave hard labor to the young, Mr. Nohra," said Ari, nodding at the man standing behind him.
"I'm not that old," Nohra scowled. "I can't fritter away my day at the gym."
"Truly. May I…?"
Rami Nohra nodded and Ari sat in a plush chair across from him.
"We just received a new shipment," Nohra explained between hard-earned lungfuls of scented air. "These rugs weigh a ton."
"Yes, your young man told me." Ari made a show of settling into his plush cushion, as though suggesting that the upcoming conversation would be long and boring. The young man did not take the hint, but remained in place. The girl whisked herself away down the corridor.
"He's interested in your paintings," said the young man. Nohra looked alarmed until the young man added, "On the showroom walls."
"You could have told me that, first, Fahd," he said grumpily. He took another couple of deep breaths, then relaxed and smiled. "They're decorations, of course, but I would be more than willing to let them go. Did you have a price range in mind?"
"I prefer negotiating in private," said Ari.
Nohra flicked his eyes at the young man. He flicked them at Ari. Then he flicked them downwards at the top of the desk. A gun in the drawer? Ari had done his best to appear quaintly reasonable. It was not enough.
"I trust Fahd completely."
"But I do not know Fahd at all," Ari said. "I cannot say I trust him, good man though he might be. Pecuniary matters should be veiled with discretion."
The rug dealer had good instincts. He wasn't buying into Ari's façade. But there was more to it.
"At the party, I overheard Teraq Sadiq talking to Abbas Al Jallawi about freight rates before poor Abbas thought of his late wife and broke down in front of us," Nohra said with a trace of disapproval. Apparently, he did not think a good Arab man should cry over his wife, even if she had immolated herself. "In the course of their conversation, Teraq mentioned certain losses incurred by O'Connor's. Due to hijackings, no less. O'Connor's insurance carrier was investigating, naturally. Among the investigators were a maimed black man, a feckless white man and a mysterious Italian named Ari Ciminon."
Ari wondered who the feckless man was. Probably a young kid who did not have the sense to pull out the earplugs to his IPod while interviewing Mrs. Sadiq.
"I ask myself…" Nohra began, then stopped. He unclipped his phone. A moment later there was ringing downstairs. "Asma. Bring everyone up here."
He had not asked them to rush, so it took a full minute before the heavy trundling of young men not entirely willing to lift their feet to subside. When it did, Ari was confronted by six young Arabs, including Fahd. The newcomers stared at Ari in curiosity, though not menacingly. They did not know what was going on.
"I ask myself," Nohra again began, "why would an insurance detective be showing up in my place of business. Certainly, you can't believe I would be involved in these unpleasant thefts. Teraq is my friend."
"But the company is no longer under his control."
"His ownership will be reinstated, God willing," said Nohra. "His wife will meet her reward for such disobedience to her husband."
"Would that reward entail death?" Ari asked.
"Of course not," said Nohra, struggling to pull up his tie in a show of respectability. "Nabihah Sadiq will be cast off. That will be punishment enough."
"Is that so? And what moral crime did Abbas's wife commit to deserve death?"
"She killed herself," Nohra snapped. "Mr. Ciminon, you have not asked any questions about hijackings."
"You Hezbollah smugglers are always good for a laugh," said Ari. "But you hit bottom when you deal with the Kurds. The Americans have great fondness for the Kurds. The Mukhabarat, however, was of a different opinion. As I recall, there was an export company based in El Mina operated by someone with the name of Nohra. He shipped arms through Syria to the Kurds."
"That was my father," Nohra breathed heavily, then pulled himself straight. "The Mukhabarat no longer exists. The Coalition put it out of existence. What would you know about the Saddam's 'CIA'? Or is this Italian business a joke?"
"Enough," said Ari standing.
"What do you think you're doing?" Nohra demanded. "I won't let you leave before you explain yourself."
"I wasn't leaving," said Ari. "I am merely preparing to clear the room of these unwanted witnesses. Do not worry. I will merely beat them all senseless. They will recover soon enough."
"Be still." When Fahd took a step forward, he barked, "I said be still! So far the Namus has only killed women. I would hate for his next victim to be my own nephew."
Ari frowned. Another nephew. Such a plague.
"This is an annoyance," said Ari fretfully. "I was under the opposite assumption."
The sight of the gun aimed at his forehead did not please Nohra, yet there was no fear. He had shown more dread when he thought he might die of a heart attack after trudging up the stairs. Now a glint sifted through the surface of his businessman's eyes. A smile turned his whole face upwards.
"You think I am the Namus?" He pushed the drawer back in and laughed. "Then you have come to the wrong place. Be gone with you. But first…where did you hear about him? And why would he concern you? You're looking for…" The smile faded and a touch of dread returned. "Stolen cigarette cargos and such…"
"A couple of days ago you would have been right," Ari said. "I only learned about the paintings…well, never whatever no mind that notion…" He clamped his lips shut before making a fool of himself. For some reason, 'never no mind' did not come easily, as was often the case with colloquialisms neglected by the University of Baghdad English Department. He glanced at the young men shifting uneasily at his flank. "I am perfectly satisfied with the situation as it stands, but if something goes wrong for me and I fail to leave your building in a single piece, the observers across the road will take note."
Nohra worked his lips.
"I mean those chaps in the white Transit bulging with cameras aimed at your business. You didn't see them? Quite a jolly group. They were laughing their heads off when I noticed them. Perhaps they were amused by someone who would so foolishly unload stolen artwork in broad sunlight. I have wondered about that, myself. Did you think you would look more suspicious at night? That is possible. An alert policemen might have shown a spotlight on your shadowy fingers…"
"Fahd!" said Nohra. "Go out and see—"
"He will be seen looking for them," Ari advised. "In fact, he will be photographed and videotaped. If these people, whoever they are, feel they have been broken to pieces…busted…never no mind. If they know you are aware of them, they might move directly on your premises. You will be flying into the coop."
"Fahd…go out back into the truck and search through the window."
"The back of the truck has no windows," said Fahd.
"Then the van! The rear window is tinted. They will not see you looking."
"Since you've already been seen going in and out of the building, your picture has already been taken," Ari said amiably, lowering his gun. "Now, let us discuss your smuggling operation. Are the Sadiqs aware that you are using their trucks to ship stolen paintings?"
Nohra pressed his face into his hands. Ari noted his silver Allah ring. It looked expensive.
When he raised his head and saw Fahd still standing near Ari, he went purple. "You didn't hear me? Or you didn't understand me? Which half of you is too stupid to obey?"
"But uncle…he has a gun."
"So maybe he'll put me out of my misery!" Nohra bellowed. "Go!" He turned to the others. "All of you, go! Get back to the basement! You know how things are arranged."
They fumbled out of the room. Ari resumed his seat.
"Ah," Ari sighed contentedly. "We could have started out this way and skipped the fuss."
"Would I have learned that my business is under surveillance?"
"Possibly not. Now, my question about the Sadiqs…"
"Of course they know about the paintings. How could they not? They started the whole thing. I was willing to go along with it. I mean, it's for a good cause, isn't it?"
"Is it?"
It seemed to dawn on Rami Nohra that his usual shrewdness had slipped off like an ill-fitting wig. He busied himself in his chair, looking like a man who had lost his fob, his phone, his wallet and even his contact lenses.
"Was it Teraq's idea to smuggle art into this country?" Ari pried.
"I seem to have misplaced my—"
"Your dick fell off at the bottom of the stairs," said Ari, leaning forward.
The menacing tone, coming so naturally, brought Nohra's head up. "You…you mentioned the Mukhabarat."
"I did, didn't I? And I'm sure you've heard stories about their methods."
"But…you're Italian…"
"Yes, and also impatient. Don't think of bringing up those boys again. Fahd might spend his idle time bench-pressing weights, but those others have no sense of the fight in them. Nor does Fahd, who understands this and will probably remain in the van as long as he can."
"But you're alone!" Nohra protested.
"Let me put it to you this way…" Lightning quick, Ari reached out and snagged Nohra's hand, pressing it to the blotter. Giving a shout, Nohra tried to jerk away, grunting with surprise when he couldn't budge. He tried again. Intertwining a finger with Nohra's pinkie, Ari lifted it up, drawing a hiss of pain from his captive. "You don't need your fingers, do you? You have a secretary who can type for you. Someone who can send messages like 'YOU WILL DIE FOR THIS'."
"I don't know—" He gasped as Ari increased the pressure.
"All right! Let go! If the government has us under surveillance, it's all over, anyway."
Ari let go and eased back into his chair.
"I don't know anything about death threats," Nohra said, massaging his hand. "We got this email that she said was an obvious attempt to hack into our computer. I just told her to do something to scare whoever it was away."
"She is a geek?" Ari asked.
"You can tell just by looking at her."
"Ah, yes," Ari nodded.
"'Stupid smart', is what I call it. There are a lot of kids like that these days. She told me there was a better way to answer than to hit 'Reply'. A way to make the sender crap in his pants. I told her to go ahead, just make sure they don't know where the trick is coming from…"
"It was very effective," Ari acknowledged. "My own geek felt the devils of hell gnawing at his American jeans."
Nohra smiled wanly. "You know, I'd hate to see the Sadiqs go to prison for all of this. Teraq had sense enough to see the risk when his wife started bringing in all those women. He tried to back out. That's when Nabihah pulled the rug out from under him."
"You mean she stole the company," said Ari, glancing at the Persian rugs scattered across the showroom floor.
"Not that part of it. But I admire the other part. Okay, it's stupid, a woman thing. So far as I'm concerned, all those women she has should be shipped back home on the first boat. But they're pretty amazing, for all that."
"The women in her mansion? Are they not seeking good Muslim husbands? What is so amazing about that?"
"The husbands are secondary…for those who aren't already married. Nabihah wants them to learn to make a living in America."
"I have seen that," Ari nodded. "They sell cosmetics and little plastic containers in which to squish vegetables."
"That's the cover. Their real job is to sell the paintings."
Ari tried not to laugh.
"Nabihah is a smart cookie. She has a degree from Cairo University. Very respectable."
"Yes, that's where Saddam Hussein graduated."
"I didn't know that," said Nohra uneasily. "Nabihah gives these women a crash course in world art. Ask them anything from Khamsa of Nizami to Jaber Alwan. They'll give you everything about them. Western art, too, since their customers are bound to ask, just to test them."
"And she has met with success?"
"You've seen the mansion?"
"Yes," said Ari. "I assumed she purchased it with profits from O'Connor's, and with her father's beneficence."
"Such as hauling an open tank of fuel while smoking," Ari offered rather lamely.
"The penalty for that would be self-inflicted," said Nohra. "For the women alone the Sadiqs are looking at years in a Federal prison. Not for kidnapping, although some husbands might make that claim. Nabihah's women all came voluntarily. Maybe the code violations would involve no more than a fine. But tag on the paintings…"
"National art treasures," said Ari, who understood the concept of treasure even if he didn't know a thing about art.
"It was a big thing on the news here a few years ago…all those paintings and sculptures looted from the Baghdad Museum."
"You have them here?"
"There's some of that mixed in. Most of it was bought from private owners. Another civil war breaks out in the Middle East, the bourgeoisies run out of bread, and next thing you know money becomes more important than Picasso. Yes, we've got the European masters, too—from Lebanese Christians who wanted to look more European than the Pope. The problem is…"
"Some of those paintings had been stolen in the first place?"
"People know. In their hearts, they know. A genuine Assyrian ivory from Nimrud for $5,000? If it's not fake, it's obviously stolen. The Sadiqs have agents throughout the Middle East gobbling up the panic sales. They're good at screening out the phonies. I wouldn't know Samarra from Shalmaneser…or Picasso from Rembrandt, for that matter. I'm just a warehouse."
"Why combine the women with the paintings?" Ari asked.
"You've been out to O'Connor's. The Sadiqs trust their dockworkers, but only so far. If someone found out there were valuable paintings hidden in the trailer walls, he might not be able to resist temptation. Fill those trailers with forbidden women, and it's like they're hauling the plague. Even if one of the workers found out about the paintings, as soon as he opened the doors and saw the women he would run away."
The Shelter for Buttered Women Page 31