"You're about to say 'business sense'? I know that. Why do you think I'm in this predicament? With all these women, all this hell breaking loose. Listen…I had no idea Nizzar was the Namus."
"I would give that name to Sanad, but no matter. You didn't believe the Namus existed."
"Count me wrong again, is that it? All right, they were both guests in my house. But you were in my house, too, and hell if I knew what you were up to."
"I wasn't invited," said Ari.
Sadiq was not the type of man to bury his face in his hands, but he seemed on the verge of doing so now.
"Yes! I was the one who introduced Sanad to my wife. He was part of the business community! He comes to our house, all fruity with his artistic sensitivity, and sees some paintings on the wall. He knew right away they belonged in Baghdad or Cairo or Paris, but I don't think he blackmailed Nabihah into joining his smuggling operation. I think he talked her into going deeper. She saw it as a great way to finance her little project with the women, once her father's business took a downturn. Let's face it, some of the other women in the same situation…"
"Sanad had them killed."
"But Nabihah didn't have a clue, did she? Sanad didn't threaten her. He acted like Mr. Charity. And Mr. Common Sense. Why not combine the kidnapping of wives—I still call it that—with smuggling art?"
"He didn't trust Rami Nohra."
"Rami was supposed to use his store as a warehouse, a collection point. But Sanad found out he had sold off some of the paintings."
"But Nabihah was selling them off, too."
"That was part of the deal between them. Sanad asked her to hold off until he had…'arranged things'. But there were bills to pay. If she'd known how dangerous Sanad was—"
"Why do you insist upon lying to me?" Ari said, showing his annoyance. "The mansion held many artworks, and there were many more at Allah's Oriental Carpets. Yes, Sanad was the Namus, but if he had killed a wife for every painting bought by Nabihah, the slaughter would have been immense. Even the Americans would have begun to notice."
Handling insults in a civilized fashion was not in Tareq Sadiq's skill-set. He looked on the verge of throwing his glass of beer in Ari's face.
"You and your wife worked very hard on this story," Ari continued. "I am sure you could be placed in rooms a thousand miles apart and still repeat each others' alibies word for word. The art smuggling scheme had expanded long before Sanad arrived. You, your wife, Rami Nohra. I regularly saw reports coming out of Egypt of art stolen from the Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum, the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities, the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum—"
"What reports?" Sadiq snapped. "Why would the Italians be interested?"
"Oh, it really wasn't my department. But if I happened to be visiting next door…you know, the Vatican..."
"You're mad."
"Have I mentioned that I have a terrible roving eye? It's a form of astigmatism. If I can't read something clearly, I have to lean closer…"
"You wear contacts?"
"It's of no consequence. I never learned to read."
"But you just said—"
"Some of those reports included pictures. They were usually of poor quality, but I was attracted to them because…well, you've seen modern art. Some of those pictures reminded me of crime scenes. American artists are inclined the same way, I've noticed. The curious thing is that your wife had two of those artifacts in her mansion. Now, I understand that you come from a very poor district where crime is a way of life. Perhaps your ancestors robbed the pyramids. And then you steal a wife from the upper classes—"
"Is that what Nabihah told you? Listen to me…the first time between us…she wanted to. I did not force myself upon her. If she said so, she is lying. What they call 'rape' these days…." Sadiq shook his head in dismay. "She was a rare find. The upper classes don't go in for khafd. She was lucky I agreed to marry her. Most men would find her too…too hot."
Ari wondered if he should order a drink just so he could throw it in Sadiq's face. Khafd was female mutilation. Among many Sunnis the rite was optional. Ari's father had expressed loathing for the practice, as did most of his friends and acquaintances. But it was practically obligatory among the Shiite lower classes. Muhammed seemed to some readers to be queasy on the subject, and recommended that only the tip of the clitoris be snipped off—if the operation was performed at all. For all his faults, including the beheading of prostitutes, clitoridectomies had been fairly rare under Saddam Hussein's Sunni-friendly regime.
"Most of these women here have had the procedure," Sadiq continued. "They're under proper biological control. All they want are husbands, not…uh…sex mates."
The women around and inside the pool shimmered like broken globes. For many of them, disaster had lain around the corner since the age of five—the most common age chosen for genital mutilation. In Egypt it was a doctor or intern who did the job. They thought of it as lightly as American pediatricians snipped the foreskins of newborn males. In other places it could be a traditional exciseuse, an older woman or a male barber from down the road. Many of those around the pool had been attacked in their most sensitive region by grownups wielding unclean razors, knives, broken glass. Sometimes the alleged surgeons even used their fingernails. Often this was done without a local anesthetic, making the ordeal all the more traumatic.
And then they arrive in the West, where they had never heard of such a thing as it applied to females. Ari tried to put it in a good light. This was difficult to do for a man without religion. But it was hard to assign crime to an entire culture. It made one wince, squirm, deny. Above all, ignore—the skeptic's choice. If only an oaf like Sadiq wasn't defending it! If only they had a proper imam in residence! Muslim men weren't criminals. They didn't hate women. Sure, Ari had killed plenty of Islamic men, but all-in-all, they were swell guys.
His wife had never been scarred in that manner. The thought of little Rana being subjected to such an ideal made him sick.
Being a good guest to Nabihah's excellent hostess, he would not flatten her husband with an uppercut. But there were screws readily available for twisting.
"You cooked up this story about Sanad to cover up your operation. I'm sure that's what Nabihah is trying to sell to Lawson right now. Look at them! Your wife as cool as a vegetable…I forget which one…and my boss eating up every word."
"How can you tell?"
"Well, his face."
"What face?"
"The way he's nodding, then. But a hint from me, and your little enterprise will come crashing down. No more sob stories about a wicked Namus and his evil henchmen. His many evil henchmen," Ari added with a touch of exasperation. "You thought Sanad and Nizzar were typical businessmen. If you had known they were ladykillers, you wouldn't have invited them to your party. It would have been too much of a risk. All that was arranged after the fact. You and your wife are just innocent immigrants blackmailed into becoming art thieves? Forgive my mocking laughter. You were not forced into anything. Sanad found out about your sideline. He was putting the hammer to your type. And then he comes across the biggest set of thieves of all. And he was intent on punishing you in a big way. He was going to kill all these women just because Nabihah had them selling artwork to the highest bidder."
"And that's why we fell out," said Sadiq lowly. "I'm not telling you any of this, understand?"
"And if you tell more lies, you will be telling me less."
Sadiq lowered his eyes to Ari's sports jacket. "Kind of hot for that, don’t you think?"
"I do not plan to swim."
"Inta makhabal? You know what I mean."
"Am I wired? Would I tell you if I was?" But Ari lifted each side of his jacket.
"You're wearing a shirt."
"Yes?"
"You're even wearing a tie."
"From the Saks Fifth Avenue Collection. You like the medallion pattern?"
"It doesn't matter," Sadiq said curtly, downing the rest of his drink. "They've got mikes t
hat can fit in a buttonhole these days. Would it do any good if I asked you to give your word not to repeat what I say?"
"It wouldn't hurt, but it might not help. Shall we see?"
"Then here goes…. I had a good thing going. My wife knew about it from Day One."
"You speak of the smuggling?"
"I'm not running drugs or anything like that." Sadiq began to tug at the hem of his shirt before realizing he was not wearing one.
"Yes, you are very hairy," said Ari. He caught the eye of a girl carrying a tray of glasses. "My dear, may I disturb you for a whiskey?"
"Of course, sir. I'll be right back with it."
"So courteous," Ari nodded as she walked away.
"That's Nabihah's doing," said Sadiq. "She trains them well. Do you want me to talk or not?"
"You have been smuggling art for many years," Ari nodded. "You might even have been a tomb robber, as I suggested earlier. Then you progressed to various museums. You must have belonged to a gang. Let's see…the Cairo Gang was busted some years ago. Did you know they were named after a British intelligence operation? Very classy. Most of the members were caught, but not all. May I surmise?"
"How do you know—?"
"And then you married Nabihah—by what means we shall not discuss further. She gave you entrée into the best homes in Cairo. Grand homes with grand walls that needed grand art to quench their vacancy. How you operated I can only guess. Perhaps, while Nabihah chatted up her hosts with her social eloquence—after disarming the alarm system—you sneaked in and lifted Monsieur Einstein off the wall."
"Einstein?"
"That is the only artist I can think of off the cuff. Isn't he very famous? But after your initial success, your scheme fell a-shambles. The two of you were caught. Nabihah's father was naturally horrified at the prospect of his college-educated daughter landing in the Scorpion Prison. The man's very tears were worth a fortune. This all happened before those unfortunate strikes by the poor workers in the textile factories. He could still afford to send his precious Nabihah and her shithole of a husband into the American backwaters. In style, I mean. But then Mahalla happened, those lazy workers refusing to work for nougats."
"I guess you mean 'peanuts'."
"The money didn't stop coming, but there was less. Your luxury was threatened. Amazingly enough, you had saved enough to start a trucking company. You have partners? Of course…your old friends from the Cairo Gang. Those not in jail, that is. They helped you stake the business. In return for which…"
"We shipped stolen artwork in our trucks…"
"And warehoused it, too. Everything was glam. No one suspected. Sanad and Nizzar had not yet appeared on the scene. Were you rolling in the hay…? I'm not sure."
"Rolling in clover."
"I'll bear that in mind. Where was I? Oh…and then! What happens? Your wife ups and becomes a saint for unhappy women. This was truly a risk. I can imagine husbands dispatching detectives left and right to find their wives. What would happen if, in the process of their hunt, they uncovered your stolen art? It comes as no surprise that you had a falling out with your wife over it. She told me your dispute centered on her desire to sell O'Conner's. What whimsy! That is your baker's potato. She would never be so foolish. Rather than have you interfere with her shelter for buttered women, she hires a lawyer who finds a way to rob you of the company. Actually, in this country, since it was originally her money…but Americans are backward when it comes to women and business, don't you think?"
"They are," Sadiq nodded grimly.
"To proceed: then come Sanad and Nizzar. Neither you nor your wife know anything about them, except that Sanad was Lebanese."
"He worked in a museum."
"And Nizzar?" Ari quipped a raised eyebrow.
"He looked and sounded and acted like a criminal. Only Sanad could control him."
"When we had trapped Nizzar in the warehouse—where he did those unspeakable things to Nabihah, your holy wife—we overheard a conversation between him and Sanad. He said something about Sanad being a fool and that 'they would come after him'. My first thought was that Nizzar said 'they' on the assumption that some of his men would remain alive and uncaptured and would track Sanad down. But this would have made Nizzar as big a fool as Sanad. Then I thought that he could be speaking of the mysterious consortium Sanad claimed was sponsoring his hunt for stolen treasures. But people intelligent enough to form consortiums would have found a less strenuous and more profitable way to retrieve stolen masterpieces. I imagine enhanced bribery would have been in order. As a last resort, they could even apply to The Hague for redress. The Americans would have blushed with shame if word got out that they were common thieves, illicitly plucking golden treasures from the very people they said they were helping. Oil is one thing. Tutankhamun's toilet seat is something else."
"There was nothing like—" Sadiq began to sputter.
"Just as a theoretical example. Imagine the picture of the stolen masterpiece, now installed in Trump Tower. 'Here the mighty pharaoh sat', et cetera. The alleged consortium would understand the power of such an image. The members would understand that there was no need to create something like 'the Namus'."
"You considered a third possibility, then," Sadiq glowered.
"A group of thugs with no rules, no scruples and with about as much delicacy as a crocodile. Fortunately for me…and, to be honest, fortunately for you…my employers have contacts within the FBI—on good days, a marvel of efficiency. They took the fingerprints of the defunct Nizzar and submitted them to Interpol."
"They found a match?"
"Nizzar's real name was Daoud Abdel Ezz, from Cairo, who was wanted for black marketeering, money laundering, drug trafficking, fraud, corruption and murder. He was also wanted for kidnapping women in the Baltic States and selling them for sexual exploitation in Israel, which I find exceptionally disgusting. Be that as it may, Sanad found himself an ideal coworker. But who was the real boss? You can guess by now, can't you?"
"The Cairo Gang?" said Sadiq nervously.
"Your old chums-in-arms! Ezz was in contact with them…well, he was in contact with everyone, including the Ministry of the Interior. So was Sanad. Yes, we have his fingerprints, too. He was exactly as he presented himself to Nabihah: a curator of the Sursock Museum in Beirut. He was a good family man, but rumor had it that he also practiced…sexual alternatives. This made him a target for fundamentalists."
"Which fundamentalists?"
"All of them. But in truth, Sanad was let go of his job because of some missing woodcuts that had been given as gifts by the Japanese Embassy in 1966. The museum could not prove he was behind the thefts. They couldn't crucify him. They could only fire him. One of those prints showed up when a member of the Cairo Gang was arrested in Berlin last year. So as you see…"
There was a muffled creaking sound as Sadiq fell back into his beach chair, his belly rolling up in dismay.
"Ah yes, you see the light between the branches. Or the darkness of the pit. Nizzar, or rather Ezz, said 'they' would be coming after Sanad. But now that Sanad is dead, they'll be coming after…"
And then Ari made the rude gesture of pointing at Sadiq.
"Unfortunately," Ari added, "they will also be coming for Nabihah."
"I know that," Sadiq snapped.
"Fortunately, she is well-guarded. In fact, I see quite a few more guards here today."
"From your company."
"Yes, I believe she has hired these former mercenaries en masse."
"Do you realize how much they cost?"
"Do you realize your wife's safety is at stake?"
"Yes…of course."
"It is a life worth living if you want to live," Ari observed.
"And is it? Worth living?" Sadiq raised his glass to his lips, only to find it empty.
"That is for you and Nabihah to decide. No matter what your conclusion is, you are marked out for the rest of your life, wherever you go and however you decide to live. At the mo
ment, though…" He nodded at Lawson and Nabihah in deep discussion on the other side of the pool. "…I believe your fate lies in that man's hands."
"He can't even speak properly."
"But he can speak truly." Ari was going to add something to the effect that Sadiq could go fuck himself, but he was interrupted by one of his phones. Taking it out of his pocket, he squinted. The sunlight was making it difficult to read the LED screen. Tilting the phone sideways, he saw the number and winced. "Excuse me," he said to Sadiq, turning away. He punched the answer button. "Hello, my good friend."
"Hello, my most esteemed and wonderful colonel."
Ari's wince deepened. For Abu Jasim to speak like that could only mean bad news.
"You and your worthless nephew have made it back home safely, I assume?"
"We have, and my worthless nephew has sent me an itemized statement of the costs we incurred on our recent vacances."
"Your French improves disastrously."
"As well as your English. Let me just say that your bill is in the mail."
"I thought the phrase went 'the check is in the mail'."
"You may presume."
"I may assume."
"Details regarding how payment is to be made will be included with the itemized spreadsheet."
"How much?" Ari asked, taking a gulp. "And be careful what you say. These calls are monitored by this country's National Secretion Agency."
"Then I should not tell you the amount."
"The suspension is unruling my tendons. I give you permission to tell. And to any eavesdroppers…be you rotated on a camel's dick and thrown to the demons of Hell."
"All right…$62,789.59."
"Canadian?"
"We're not talking about Antigua."
Ari shot to his feet. "Sixty-two thousand, seven-hundred and eighty-nine dollars and fifty-nine cents!"
Swiveling sideways, he caught a look from Sadiq.
"These American Inland Revenue people are so…finicky." He stepped into the boxwoods to continue the conversation. "For a few fucking holes in your van? Are you out of your mind?"
"Those holes happened while me and my nephew were being shot at, which is considered Hazardous Duty Incentive Pay. You'll see it on his spreadsheet. Of course, we don't calculate this in the same way as the American military does. A hundred and fifty extra a month. Is that fair?"
The Shelter for Buttered Women Page 43