City of Veils (32 page)

Then the picture cut to a different sort of man. He was tall and blond and deeply browned by the sun. The tag on the screen identified him as
Apollo Mabus, Quranic scholar.
He wore a pair of khaki pants and a safari jacket with bulging pockets. He was standing in the desert as if he belonged there, dust caking his neck and face, big brown eyes squinting against the overbright sun. A strong wind kicked up clouds of sand, giving the scene a certain urgency.

Speaking less formal Arabic, and with no trace of an accent, he said, “Most modern scholars agree that the Quran is not pure. It’s not the perfect embodiment of the words of Allah, because I tell you”—here he chuckled —“if so, then Allah is a terrible writer. The truth is, the Quran contains factual errors, grammatical errors. Fully one-fourth of the book makes no sense at all. It has been rewritten and abrogated and abridged. It’s so full of contradictions and mistakes that it’s embarrassing to most intelligent Muslims.”

His voice contained that particular sense of pity that intellectuals often have for the irrational world around them.
You poor things will never understand logic
. It was the kind of all-knowing superiority that stemmed, perversely, from an ignorance of the power of tradition and faith. And it provoked an even greater contempt in her.

A recitation came over the computer speakers while images of Quranic documents filled the screen. Katya recognized them—they were similar to the ones Majdi had been looking at in the lab. They scrolled elegantly from right to left, while faded images of minarets and city skylines lit up the blank spaces.

A voice-over began. Katya recognized Leila speaking:
Is the Quran pure? Or is it the result of editing and meddling? This question has plagued Muslim scholars for centuries, but today, the brave men and women who ask that question must fear for their lives. Even to suggest that the Quran is not pure can result in charges of apostasy, which carries a punishment of death.

Katya groaned as a film clip came on showing the now renowned college professor Nasser Abu Zaid being led from a hotel amid a throng of paparazzi and flashing lights. The voice-over explained that he had been found guilty of apostasy in Cairo for publishing his opinion that the Quran is not the absolute Word of Allah but rather a historical and literary text that should be interpreted like any other. The charge of apostasy resulted in Abu Zaid being forced to divorce his wife on the grounds that he was no longer a Muslim and therefore could not be married to one. It caused him and his wife to flee to the Netherlands.

There was more narration after that, but Katya wasn’t listening. She was trying to untangle her reactions. Not normally offended by discussions that questioned Islam or the Quran, she was disgusted by Mr. Mabus’s remarks, but equally disgusted by the sheikh’s pomposity and inflamed once again by the reminder of the Abu Zaid case: more proof that fundamentalists were waging their battles in the courtrooms as well as in embassy bombings and kidnappings. She had to give Leila credit for one thing: she knew how to be provocative. And maybe that was exactly what got her killed.

“W
ell, we have prostitutes. We have public humiliation. It’s not as if we need another motive, exactly,” Majdi said, scratching his head.

“No, you’re right.” Osama sat on the edge of the table in Majdi’s lab, one hand across his chest, the other covering his mouth. He was staring at the blank computer screen, having just watched all twenty minutes of Leila’s unfinished documentary
Pilgrimage
. But he seemed withdrawn, and Katya had the sense that his thoughts were somewhere else.

“We don’t need another motive,” Osama said. “What we need is a
good
motive.”

Majdi looked over his shoulder at Osama. “I think the prostitution angle was pretty compelling. Any one of the men involved with those prostitutes could have found out about the footage and gone after Leila. Or any one of the prostitutes, for that matter.”

“Yes,” Osama said, “except that most of the prostitute footage was taken months ago, and I don’t think her killer planned the crime. I have the feeling that whatever triggered the killer’s rage happened just before her death.”

At least they had learned one thing from the documentary: a quick comparison had shown that the texts on the DVD were the same ones Leila had hidden in her bedroom. So Leila had photographed the texts for use in the documentary. There was still no clue about Wahhab Nabih, but Katya guessed he might be a wealthy sponsor who funded Mabus’s work. The texts didn’t play much of a role in the documentary itself. They were mostly used for filler. The rest of the documentary showed film clips from news sources and interviews with Mabus to focus on the tension between religious hard-liners and Mabus’s work.

“So Leila probably did hide the photos in her bedroom to prevent her brother from finding them,” Katya said.

“Yes,” Osama replied. “I think he’s the sort who would have noticed errors in the text and become angry about it. But on the other hand, he didn’t seem to have much control over her. If he had forbidden her from working on this project, I doubt he would have enforced it.”

“What about this Mabus?” Majdi asked.

“What about him?” Osama said. “It looks like they were working together. And judging by the quality of the cut we’ve just seen, she was taking this seriously and probably intending to publicize this documentary somehow.”

“Yes, it’s more professional than her previous work,” Katya said.

“We have to assume that it was with Mabus’s consent.”

“Then he’s a real risk-taking guy,” Majdi observed. “Personally, if I were doing the kind of research he was, I wouldn’t make a fanfare about it in this country. I certainly wouldn’t go on video and tell everyone all about it.”

“He must have trusted Leila,” Katya said. The men looked at her. “You know I found blond hairs on her headscarf?”

Osama regarded her with interest. “Yes, I’d heard. You think they could belong to Mabus?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I think we have two blonds associated with this case: Apollo Mabus (we can see he’s blond from the video) and”—she turned to Majdi—“I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d save you the trouble. I got a copy of Eric Walker’s residency permit. It’s up in my office. But I can confirm that he’s blond as well.”

“By the way,” Osama said, “I sent two men to Walker’s apartment, but they couldn’t track down the wife. You said she was there?”

“Yes,” Katya replied, feeling anxious at the thought of the police dragging Miriam Walker into custody. “Maybe she was out shopping.”

“I’m sure we’ll find her,” Osama said. “But back to Mabus and Walker. Do you think the two men knew each other?”

“They’re both connected to Leila and to Mr. Nabih,” she said. “Eric Walker rented an apartment from Mr. Nabih, and Mabus was in possession of documents that we presume belonged to Mr. Nabih. I’d say the chances are good that Eric and Mabus knew each other.”

“Well, we need to find Mabus,” Osama said. “Majdi.”

“I’m on it.” Majdi spun back to his computer.

“What do you think about all this?” Osama asked her.

Katya hid her surprise behind a reflective expression. “I think Leila was the kind of person who wanted to stir up controversy. She was going after prostitutes, but then she met Mabus and his work excited her even more. So she dropped what she’d been doing on women and started focusing on this.” She motioned to the DVD. “All this footage of Mabus was taken in the month before she was killed. She was out in the desert with him, obviously. And from the video it looks like she was in his apartment in Jeddah. She was probably spending a lot of time with him.” She paused, but Osama didn’t interrupt. “My guess,” she went on, “is that someone else found out about what Leila was doing and became upset about it.”

“Like who?” he prompted.

“Her brother?” Katya said. “It sounds as if he’s pretty devout. But the truth is, it could have been anyone who has a strong enough feeling about the sanctity of the Quran.”

Osama kicked himself up from the table and began to pace. “It all comes down to who would have known about the documentary. Mabus could have told someone, but let’s focus on Leila.” He stopped and faced Katya. “She probably wouldn’t have told her ex-husband; she hadn’t spoken to him in months. I haven’t verified that yet. There’s her brother Abdulrahman. But it would have offended him and gotten her into trouble. We’re thinking she was hiding the photos from him. That leaves her cousin Ra’id. She would have told Ra’id, because she trusted him. He was probably one of the only people she would discuss this with, although I think he would have kept her secret.”

“Is he still in custody?” Majdi asked.

“Yes,” Osama said. “He was possessive of her. The morning Leila disappeared, Ra’id was supposed to accompany her. He says he had no idea where she was going, because she didn’t tell him, but when I suggested she was going to meet Eric Walker, Ra’id lost his temper. His own alibi is flimsy. He stole Leila’s DVDs and erased her computer’s hard drive to hide evidence from us.”

“You think he was jealous enough of Leila’s relationship with Walker to kill her?” Katya asked.

Osama shrugged. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“And it would explain why this was a passion crime,” Katya added.

“But religious passions can be just as strong,” Majdi put in.

“What about her female friends?” Katya asked. “Farooha didn’t say anything about the other documentary, but that may have been to protect Leila. If we go to her with the information, she might open up. I think we should go back and ask…”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Osama said. “But you don’t have to go back there. Just call her.”

“I will,” Katya said, suppressing her excitement at being treated as part of the team.

“I don’t think we should abandon the family entirely,” Osama said. “Abdulrahman’s alibi checks out. He was shopping at the souq, and then he had lunch with a friend. The only people who can vouch for Ra’id are the workers in the store.”

“And the clerks say he was there?” Katya asked.

“They don’t remember,” Osama said. “Some of them do, some of them don’t.”

“What about in-store security cameras?” Katya asked.

“We collected them when we were there,” Majdi put in, “but apparently the cameras had been broken for some time.”

Osama and Majdi exchanged a look that said
That’s ridiculously suspicious.

In the hallway, one of the floaters was motioning to Osama. He turned to the door. “Majdi,” he said over his shoulder, “call me the minute you find out anything about Mabus.” Without even nodding good-bye to Katya, he left the room.

N
ayir awoke to the ringing of his cell phone. He rolled out of bed and looked at the clock: 6:45. He’d slept straight through the call to prayer. Cursing at the phone, he answered it.

“Mr. Sharqi?” It was an American woman’s voice.

“Yes,” he said. He had never been comfortable with phone courtesies in English.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “I’ve just… I was wondering… I’m the woman you spoke with two days ago?”

“Yes, Mrs. Walker, I remember you.”

“Oh, good,” she said. “Actually, I’m calling because I have some information for you. That address I gave you for Mr. Nabih? Well, it’s not the right one. I checked with the neighbors and they said that he lives in Dubai now. He’s been there for a long time.”

“Oh.” This would be a disappointment for Katya, a dead end. “Thank you for telling me.”

“There’s one more thing,” she said quickly. “There is a property manager who takes care of the building. I have his address if you’d like it. I just got it from my neighbor this morning. This guy might know more about Mr. Nabih.”

Nayir took down the name and address, registering the nervousness with which Miriam was giving it. He felt the impulse to warn her that the police might come back with more questions for her, but the words seemed to be tumbling together in his mind. He didn’t want to upset her.

“Thank you again,” he finally said.

“Sure.”

“Mrs. Walker,” he said, “did you find your husband yet?”

There was a silence. “No. I called the consulate again but they haven’t found him either.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Do you have everything you need? Food and —?”

“Actually,” she said, “could I ask you a favor?”

“Yes,” he said automatically.

“Could I trouble you for a ride? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’ve got to get somewhere—here in the city, actually—and the cab service is full out.”

All of his impulses rose up at once to say yes, of course, I’ll help. But his stomach bottomed out at the very suggestion. Being alone in the car with Katya was one thing. Katya was… Well, what was the difference? That he cared more for Katya? That he’d known her longer? That she was a Muslim? When he’d started seeing her, she’d been engaged to another man. It occurred to him suddenly the trap he’d fallen into, letting himself think it was all right to be with Katya even though they weren’t married. If he let himself go with one person, then what was to stop him from letting go with another?

She was still talking. “But if you’re too far away, I’ll understand…”