City of Veils (41 page)

It was no comfort that even Americans were miserable in marriage, although he had the notion that Eric had come here and failed to understand that when a woman is cloistered, your duties to her multiply a dozenfold. And he had clearly failed to comprehend that just because your wife was safely tucked away at home did not mean that you could seize any woman who happened to cross your path.
Misyar
marriage or not, it was forbidden for an infidel to marry a Muslim woman.

The night before, he and Miriam had been unable to crack the username and password that would have let them view whatever was on the memory card Miriam had found. Samir had even become involved, but the effort had ended in frustration. Because Miriam had taken Samir’s only guest room, Nayir had returned to his boat after promising her that he’d pick her up first thing in the morning and quietly telling his uncle to keep an eye on her.

His alarm clock went off, ringing an imam’s call to prayer in a squealing electronic voice that was becoming tinnier every week. He turned it off and went to the bathroom to perform his ablutions just as the marina’s loudspeakers blared the official call. He knelt on the floor with a deep sense of gratitude for morning prayer, for the chance to take his mind off his worries and turn his thoughts to greater things. He prayed for lighthearted blessings, for the happiness of strangers, the safety of travelers, good health to the elderly, and a dozen other wishes that came into his mind, and when he stood up, forty minutes had gone by and he felt refreshed.

He ate a leisurely breakfast and managed to clean up the interior of the boat before heading out for the day with a feeling of completion. His sense of well-being ended abruptly when he went topside and saw a man standing on the pier next to his boat.

“Mr. Sharqi?” He spoke in a kind way, but Nayir’s instincts told him that he meant no good at all.

“Yes,” Nayir said.

“I’m Detective Inspector Osama Ibrahim,” the man replied. “I’d like to have a word.”

Nayir didn’t suppose he had much of a choice. “Please come in,” he said, motioning to the ramp that led to the boat.

“Thank you,” Osama said. “But I’d prefer if you’d come with me.”

So this was what it came to. He should have known better, getting involved in something that wasn’t his business. He felt a flash of anger at Katya. He shouldn’t have put the burden on her anyway, telling her about Miriam. Of course she would have to tell the police. His palms were clammy as he hauled himself onto the ramp and walked numbly up to the pier. “May I ask what this is about?”

“I’m sure you know already,” Osama said. His tone was frighteningly polite. Nayir realized belatedly that this was
the
Osama that Katya kept talking about, and while it provided him with a glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t be arrested, interrogated, or humiliated too badly, his mind was filling with unpleasant realizations: that Katya had told him where Nayir’s boat was docked, had told him all about the
misyar
and about his promise to bring Miriam in for questioning. And evidently it hadn’t been enough for Osama to trust a stranger like Nayir, so he had come here to speed things along.

They were just approaching a black, unmarked car parked in the marina lot when Osama said, “By the way, congratulations on your success with the Nouf Shrawi case.”

Nayir was taken aback but made a polite response. He got into the car, grudgingly grateful that it wasn’t a squad car and that the neighbors wouldn’t notice that the police had picked him up. He found it difficult to judge Osama kindly, however. A classically good-looking man, he sported a clean-trimmed mustache and baby-doll eyes. He wore a well-tailored suit and had a businesslike air. Little things made him seem arrogant: manicured nails, a gold watch. This was the man Katya worked with, the man she saw every day and who saw her. The smell of aftershave and cologne that came wafting off him once they’d shut the car doors made Nayir feel sick, but the false politeness really was the crowning touch.

“So, I understand you may know where we can find Miriam Walker,” Osama said, putting the car into gear and taking off slowly, as if waiting for Nayir to direct him. Nayir wanted to say no—every part of him was shouting it—but he had already told Katya that he would bring Miriam in. He wanted to ask what they were planning to do to her, but he sensed that admitting his concern for her would only make matters worse.

Osama took a left and cut into traffic. He didn’t seem to mind Nayir’s rebellious silence, but then he wasn’t the sort to let a little sincerity get in the way of seeming composed. They encountered traffic at once, which was unusual. Osama rolled down the window and asked a pedestrian what was going on. The man informed them that a motorcycle show was in town, and that the distant roar of what sounded like airplanes was actually belching from the tailpipes of hundreds of Harley-Davidsons, or what the Americans liked to call “hogs.” Osama thanked him and rolled up the window.

“Hog,” he mused.

“Isn’t that another word for
pig?
” Nayir asked.

Osama glanced at him, apparently taking the comment to mean that he was one of those ridiculously conservative men who took offense at everything. Nayir remained quiet. When traffic began moving again, they saw that the real cause of the congestion was an accident involving a pedestrian. A man was lying on his side on the street, paramedics bent over him. The poor soul was moving, so at least he wasn’t dead.

A few blocks later traffic stopped again, and the roar of bike engines grew louder. When the Harleys finally came into sight, everything seemed to slow down. Cars stopped. Pedestrians froze. A woman on the sidewalk scooped her son into her arms and lifted her burqa, pointing at the bikers. Her son began to cry, a great wail of fear that was cut off by the roar. A pair of squat black motorcycles rode past on the cross street, riders bedizened in skin-tight leather and sleeveless shirts. Their arms and necks were pink from the blazing sun. Nayir began to sweat just looking at them. Then more bikers came, clustered in groups like vultures descending on a carcass. Some African men, a few Arabs, mostly Europeans and Americans, all processing through clouds of sweat and exhaust and rippling heat waves, making enough noise to drown a call to prayer. Riding a motorcycle would have been difficult in a robe; there was not a single one in sight, only leather and skin, the rippling flesh of muscled arms. The bikes paraded slowly, somehow gruff and flamboyant at once. But the blinding flashes of sunlight on chrome and the thunderous noise made Nayir wish they would hurry out of sight, drive on and be forgotten, this spectacle of American culture.

Once they were moving again, Osama seemed more relaxed.

“We’ve done a background check on Eric Walker,” he said casually. “Enough to realize that he and Leila were calling each other frequently up until two days before she disappeared.”

They drove past a roundabout. “And we also know that Miriam was not in the country when Leila died,” Osama went on. “So we’d just like to bring her in for questioning. Your wife has told me…”

Nayir didn’t hear the rest.
Your wife?

Osama had finished speaking and was looking at him.

“Katya told you that?” Nayir asked.

A small frown played at the corners of Osama’s mouth. “Yes,” he said. “She’s been very open. She cares about this case a lot.”

Everything was clicking horribly into place. That must be why Katya wore the engagement ring: she had to make her boss believe she was married. She’d obviously had to tell them about Nayir, but how could she explain how she knew him if he wasn’t related to her? He would have to be a relative—but had she really told them he was her husband? Aside from an undercurrent of glee, he was appalled by the blatancy of the lie.

“Mr. Sharqi, is something wrong?”

Nayir realized at once that he couldn’t break Katya’s cover. How could he have been so stupid? Of course the police wouldn’t have hired her if she were single. There would have to be a law about these things, and the police of all people wouldn’t be inclined to break it.

“No,” he said quickly. “I was only thinking.”

“About?”

Nayir couldn’t come up with a suitable lie, but he was saved from doing so by the sudden crackle of the radio. A man’s voice came over the speaker. Nayir didn’t understand his strangely coded language but he noticed Osama’s look of discomfort. A moment later, the inspector’s cell phone rang.

Osama answered it and listened for a moment, grunting “Yes” and “All right.” His face betrayed anxiety. When he was finished, he pulled quickly back into traffic and took off with a rush.

“There’s an emergency,” he said. “It’s close to here.”

“What kind of emergency?” Nayir asked.

“Domestic dispute,” Osama grunted, skidding into a sharp left that left tire marks on the road. They merged onto a broad open boulevard, and Osama sped up. “Some guys’ wives are trying to kill each other.”

“Oh.”

“Technically,” Osama said, “it’s
haraam
to send in a man to break up a women’s fight. We have female cops who are trained to handle domestic problems.”

“So why are we going?” Nayir said.

“None of the women are on duty right now. Hopefully, by the time we get there, there won’t be another bunch of bodies for my squad.”

Nayir was quietly surprised. “If it’s
haraam
, why did they call you?” he asked.

“I gave orders to the emergency services to notify me when situations like this come up. They want to do something about it, too, but there aren’t many cops who are willing to get involved. Only me and a few others.”

“But clearly, you have the husband’s permission,” Nayir said, “if he’s the one who made the call.”

Osama nodded. “But it’s still
haraam
and illegal, and I could lose my job.”

They pulled into a parking lot facing a tall apartment building. Just before Osama leapt out of the car, he turned to Nayir and said, “I might need your help, if you’re willing to give it.”

Nayir got out at once, anxiety, remorse, and stubbornness assailing him in equal measure. He followed Osama into the building as the inspector said over his shoulder, “Just stay behind me, and do what I say.”

He wanted to ask Osama if he had a gun, and if so, why he wasn’t brandishing it. Nayir’s heart was racing despite a feeling that this could all turn out to be very foolish. The next scene put this feeling to rest. Osama pounded on the door, and a man answered immediately, looking frantic and terrified, and quickly ushering six crying children into the hallway. Agonized, Nayir watched them pass; they looked terrified. The man, obviously the husband, was just as scared. “They’re in there,” he said needlessly, pointing into the apartment, where the sounds of screaming burst forth at intervals. They heard the crash of a plate, the horrible wail of a baby, and women yelling at one another, one of them crying, shouting raggedly through tears, then another shrieking so viciously that Nayir wanted to clap his hands to his ears.

Everything happened at once. Osama shot through the house and entered the kitchen. Nayir was right behind him, no longer afraid, only anxious that one of the women would attack Osama first, the shorter of the two men. Once through the kitchen door, Nayir moved to one side. He caught sight of blood spatter on the wall, the fridge. A woman was lying on the floor, unmoving, facedown, her back covered in blood. Another two were standing on opposite sides of the room, a kitchen table between them. Both were holding knives. On the counter, apparently forgotten, was an infant in a bassinet, screeching at the top of its lungs.

Nayir thought for a moment that the husband had been pathetic to let things get this far out of control. But even the presence of police did nothing to stop the fracas. The woman closest to the sink hurled a knife at the other one, who just as quickly hurled a breadboard back, and the two objects clattered against the opposite walls as the women ducked to avoid them. The woman nearest the sink was panting with fury, her eyes terrifying in their wildness. She picked up another steak knife. There was blood on her hand.

“Put it down!” Nayir and Osama both boomed at once.

The woman hurled it at her rival. Osama seized the opportunity to close in and grab the woman, gripping her wrists and lashing on the handcuffs he’d loosed from his belt. Nayir had no choice but to block the other woman. The minute Osama had subdued the first one, the second had come bolting around the table, knife in hand. She thudded into Nayir’s chest, and he managed to grab her just seconds before the knife would have plunged into his arm. He twisted her wrist, and the knife fell. She shrieked and pounded his chest with her free arm until he seized that hand, too, and somehow found himself pinning her to the wall, her face pressed into the tacky flowered wallpaper.

Osama was pushing him aside and slipping handcuffs on the second woman. “Ambulance is on its way,” he said. Then he knelt beside the woman on the floor, who stirred and groaned. “Don’t move,” he told her, resting a hand on her back. “Help is coming.”

“Bism’allah ar-rahman, ar-rahim.”
The prayer flew from Nayir’s mouth in small muttered phrases. Time fractured, and images clicked oddly around him like the shutter of an old-fashioned camera. Osama lifting the baby from the bassinet and shushing it. One of the women falling to her knees in tears. Another officer coming in. Nayir came to and saw that he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding one woman’s upper arm in a vise grip and keeping her antagonist directly in his line of sight. She had been dragged up from her knees and was now standing next to the fridge, hands cuffed behind her back, staring blindly at his face. There was blood in her hair, and one of her eyes was swollen shut.