The Shield of Darius (9 page)

“Thank you,” she said softly. “But I know that I am
not
an attractive woman.”

“Ah,” he smiled. “You have been fooled by this artificial American standard of beauty!” He turned her face up toward him. “Most American women are too soft – and far too shallow. You are bright and interesting, and to me, very sensuous.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you. I’m not at all experienced….”

He placed a finger on her lips. “In my culture, that is a virtue. And you could never disappoint me.”

“I’d prefer not to stay at the Hilton then,” she said.

Javad had been patient and gentle and for the first time in her life, Amy Trossen had felt truly loved. Though not a large man, he was firm and strong and she took particular pleasure in stroking his body until he was unable to wait any longer and carried her to bed. The night had been long and passionate, more delicious than she had dreamed possible. They now met together every weekend, alternating between Arlington and his beautifully refurbished row house on Philadelphia’s Quince Street. She was lying beside him in his second floor bedroom, feeling the warmth of his body against her breast and stomach and fingering a small bronze shield he always wore on a chain around his neck, when he first mentioned marriage.

“What is this?” she asked, lifting the disk from his chest. “You never take it off.”

He smiled and held it up where they could both look at the quarter-sized circle of hammered bronze.

“This is a symbol of my heritage,” he said. “My family descends from a long line of ancient kings.”

“Like the Pharaohs?” she asked, studying the shield.

“From farther east,” he said. “But it leads me to what I have wanted to say to you tonight. I would like to make you part of that family.”

She stared up at the bottom of his chin, then began to weep softly. Javad pulled her onto him and kissed her forehead.

“I have upset you. I hope I have not presumed too much.”

“I couldn’t be happier! You just surprised me. I feel like I’ve been waiting forever to hear you say that.”

“It will need to be a few months….”

She turned her face upward. “Why don’t I quit my job and move up here with you? We can make plans as we have time and….”

“That is exactly what I want. But I need the business on better footing before you come. I would just feel more secure about everything.”

“Better footing?” She laughed incredulously, looking across his chest at the plushness of the room. “It looks like you’re doing wonderfully.”

“Ah, yes. For now. But I won’t be able to for long on this limited Philadelphia market. I need to begin to market nationally, and that can be risky.”

“I can help with that,” she said, trying not to sound pleading. “I can keep the books and take care of publicity….”

Javad pulled her close and squeezed her into silence. “You are a wonder, Amy! How could I be so lucky?” She snuggled against him and closed her eyes, listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart.

“I was thinking yesterday afternoon as I worked on our buyers’ list that there
is
something special you could do to help.” His voice rumbled in his chest and tickled her ear. “I’m almost hesitant to ask, but it could put us just where we need to be in a very short time.”

“Anything,” she whispered. “Just tell me what you want.”

He gently stroked her hair as he spoke. “To be truly profitable, a business such as ours needs a specialized buyer pool. The most difficult thing for me has been to find these prospective clients – people with the interest and resources needed to invest in oriental carpets. We know who these people are. They are professional people. People who travel. They are generally urban, for some reason. Perhaps they like to have more people around who can admire their purchases. It occurred to me that your job puts you in a perfect position to identify people of this type….”

She pulled away and looked seriously into his hypnotic black eyes.

“I couldn’t do that. The information’s supposed to be confidential and I promised….”

He shook his head vigorously. “You’re right. It was wrong of me to ask. Since the people would never know how I got their names, it seemed like an innocent idea and one that could put us in a position to have you join me in the business. I should never have suggested it.”

Amy again rested her head against the dark mat of hair on Javad’s olive chest, rubbing the small shield between her finders. “What would you do with the information?”

“Just send a marketing packet and letter saying something like, ‘You have been suggested to our firm as someone who might find oriental rugs an attractive investment and addition to your décor.’ People get mail like that all the time and never stop to think about how the company got their names. But I can try to think of something else. It just may take a little longer.”

“How many were you thinking of?”

“Oh, only four or five per month. I couldn’t follow up well on more than that. All I would need is name, address, occupation and travel information. Those who visit Europe and the Near East would be our best prospects. I think it would be helpful to get a selection from a number of large cities around the country, then word of mouth can begin to work for us. And we need to know what we can about their travel habits.”

She was silent for a moment. “I guess that wouldn’t do any harm. If they don’t work out though, let’s not do it any longer than we need to.”

The arrangement did work out, and the Oriental Garden’s out-of-town sales nearly tripled. Two weeks after sending her initial list of four names, Amy received the first monthly check for $500 with a brief note.

If all continues to go this well, we should soon be together forever. Two of the four prospects responded. One has placed an order. You are a perfect partner! I love you. Buy yourself something you like.

Amy’s twentieth bonus check came in Saturday’s mail as she was reviewing her May selection to give Javad when he arrived at the apartment that evening. She typed the list carefully onto a sheet of plain white paper and checked the names a final time for spelling. She now knew exactly what types responded best to the brochure. Javad would like this group. At his request, she was now focusing on the Southwest, particularly Phoenix and Albuquerque, and had four excellent candidates. A doctor named Castleberry from the Phoenix suburb of Mesa, a business executive from Scottsdale by the name of Clement, and two from Albuquerque; a banker named Ramirez, and Jon Prescott, another businessman.

Amy had also come across another
Esfarjahni
in the applications and out of curiosity had run the name through the computer for the past five years. She wondered if Javad knew that his name was actually Persian, not Egyptian, and that his forefathers had probably come to Cairo from Iran. It excited her to know something that personal about him, something he may not even know himself.

He reached the Arlington flat at seven thirty, looking tense and tired and complaining of a headache.

“The weekend drive doesn’t help any,” she said, kissing his forehead. “But I have something to make you feel better.” She took the list from the side table and handed it to him. He scanned it quickly and patted her cheek, as if she were a child who had shown him a good report card.

“This
does
help. We need to begin to cut into that Navajo trade in the Southwest. And you’ve picked some good ones. I’ll get a marketing packet off first thing on Monday.”

“I have something else too,” she smiled. “Another Esfarjahni applied for a passport. I think his first name was Hushang or something like that. From Detroit. I thought you might be related, but he’s Iranian. Did you know your name was originally Persian?”

Javad looked up from the list, his eyes chilled. “The name may be the same, but we’re not the same people. I do not want to hear mention of this again. Is that understood?”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, drawing away. “I thought you would find it interesting.”

His face softened and he pulled her back to him. “I’m sorry too. I know of the connection all too well and we are not proud of it. I told you that my family has a royal lineage – and now you know where we come from. But we were forced to leave many generations ago.” He eased her away and pressed his fingers hard against his temples, wrinkling his forehead. “Do you have any aspirin, my love?”

“Just Tylenol. You remember? I told you a couple of weeks ago that I can’t take aspirin. It upsets my stomach.”

“I really prefer aspirin, with what they are saying about it helping with the heart. If you don’t mind, I will walk down to the store and get some while you finish setting supper.”

“Hurry back. I’m almost ready now.” She pressed suggestively against his hip. “I want to get dinner out of the way and really begin working on that headache.”

“It won’t take a minute.” He swatted her playfully on the bottom and left the apartment, walking quickly to the all night convenience store two blocks south on the corner. He did not go inside, stopping on the sidewalk to dial a number in Salt Lake City.

“Hello?” The voice at the other end was male and also deeply accented.

“
Salaam
,” Javad replied, speaking in his native tongue. “I have a rush order for you. An Arthur Ramirez, 1429 Maiden Lane, Albuquerque, New Mexico. He is scheduled to leave in two weeks from Friday for a three week vacation in India. One of the stops will be Bombay.”

“
Khoobay
,” the voice at the other end responded. “Allah be with you.”

“And with you.”

EIGHT

Kate declined Christopher Falen’s first request to meet, irritated that he didn’t have anything new to tell her about Ben’s disappearance.

“I’d just like to review the events of that day with you,” he said over the phone.

“I’ve been over that a dozen times with at least that many people from the government. Don’t you people exchange information? I have a very busy week and I can’t keep running to Washington to fill each of you in on the same thing I covered with the last person.”

He had offered some excuses about being from a special investigative branch, which allowed her to tell him to call again when his investigation was getting somewhere. He called three days later, saying that he had new information and would be glad to meet her in Baltimore.

At his request, they met for lunch at the Mariner’s Pier One overlooking the trendy, carnival bright shops and eateries of Baltimore’s harbor. Below the restaurant’s windowed front, the eighteenth century frigate
Constellation
rode majestically at anchor beyond bobbing rows of white sailboats, its masts and rigging jutting across the city’s distant glass and concrete skyline. Water-reflected light played against its black and cream sides and as Kate entered the restaurant, she hoped the news would be as cheery as the lively harbor atmosphere.

She had accepted this second invitation with skepticism, but hastily rearranged her business schedule to free up some time on each side of the lunch hour. Despite the government’s less than cooperative attitude up to this point, Kate couldn’t afford to let a lead go unexamined.

The maitre d’ was expecting her and ushered her to a table along the windows. Mr. Falen sat with his back to them as they approached, looking out over the harbor, but turned and stood as he saw their reflection. Kate suppressed a smile. He was just the kind of man her mother approved of; taller than average and strikingly attractive, with wavy light brown hair, graying at the temples and swept back from a high forehead. His deep set gray eyes looked her over with unhurried forthrightness, a look that had a photographic quality about it that made Kate feel she was being carefully recorded. She guessed him to be in his mid-fifties.

“Mrs. Sager? Chris Falen,” he said, extending a hand. ‘Thanks for meeting me.”

She took his hand and appreciated the firm shake; strong without trying to crush her. He beckoned to the seat opposite.

“Like something to drink?”

“Thank you, no. I’m squeezing this in between a couple of design meetings and would appreciate it if we could order and talk over lunch. I’ll have the seafood salad with honey French dressing on the side. And unsweetened iced tea to drink please.”

He smiled faintly and nodded, signaling to a waitress who took Kate’s order and added a club sandwich for himself.

“Well, then let’s get started,” he said, handing her a card and leaning back comfortably in his chair. The card said simply, “Christopher Falen, U.S. Department of State” and provided a phone number. Kate found herself wondering if the professionally tailored jacket, carefully knotted silk tie and lightly starched shirt were standard fare for mid-level bureaucrats.

“As I mentioned over the phone, Mrs. Sager, I was contacted by the Secretary’s Office and asked to follow up on your husband’s disappearance. It’s a puzzling case, and the Secretary doesn’t want it ignored.”

“He seems to have changed his mind since I left his office a few weeks ago,” Kate said, smiling thinly. “At the time, he seemed to think there wasn’t much that could be done.”

“I think he left that impression because he wasn’t certain which way to go with the situation – trying not to give false hope. He always follows up though. In this case, one of his aides contacted me. You might call me a ‘special investigator,’ loosely assigned to the department. I check on cases of this type for various branches of State.”

“And what have you learned from checking on this particular case?”

“A few things that might be helpful. But I’d like to go over some background with you first.”

Kate’s smile curled cynically at the edges. Though this man looked a cut above the others, he seemed to have about as little to contribute.

“I came to learn from you, Mr. Falen. Not repeat the disappearance story.” She knew her voice was icy, adding to the sharpness of the criticism.

Falen smiled disarmingly, a boyish half-smile that Kate knew was intended to soften her, and only served to scratch at the irritation.

“I understand your frustration. I have a report on all your previous meetings, and they haven’t led anywhere. But I’d like to follow a slightly different line, if you don’t mind.” He held the smile for an extra moment.

“Ask whatever you like,” she said evenly, trying not to show its effects. “I’ve become even more convinced that Ben was abducted, and I don’t believe that he was the one who used the passport to travel to Paris. If you’re planning to convince me otherwise, you’re wasting your time.”

“Could be. But let me suggest something that could make that a possibility.” He paused – somewhat too dramatically, Kate thought.

“Was your husband affiliated with any organizations that might be viewed as out of the ordinary?”

She arched a carefully shaped brow. “What’s out of the ordinary? American Businessmen’s Association? Rotary? I’m sure there are others, but I can’t think of them at the moment.”

Falen studied her carefully, an uncomfortable examination that seemed to waver between admiration and irritation. The boyish smile looked even less appealing.

“I’d like to speak frankly, Mrs. Sager,” he said finally, leaning slightly forward over the table. “But I need a promise that at least for now, this stays between us. Can you give me that?”

Kate considered the request. “I’m not sure I can, Mr. Falen….”

“Please, I prefer Chris.”

“Alright, then – Chris. I plan to do whatever I can to locate my husband. I want to work with you, but not if it interferes with other avenues I might wish to pursue.”

Chris sat back and shrugged. “That’s up to you. But this might be leading us into areas neither of us would want made public. I could use your help. But if I can’t get it, I’ll go it alone and keep a lid on this as long as I can.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” she said, bristling slightly at the veiled threat. “You seem to be suggesting that Ben’s involved in something.”

“I’m not suggesting anything until I have a promise that what we talk about stays between us – at least for now. There just seem to be some unusual coincidences.”

“What kind of coincidences?”

“Do you agree to my conditions?”

Kate tried to return the penetrating look, considering what she was likely to get from this man if she refused his request. Probably nothing.

“You really don’t leave me any choice,” she said. “Tell me what you have.”

“You have the choice of listening to what I say, then ignoring your promise.”

She straightened in her chair, feeling her face flush. “I’m not at all sure I can trust you either, Mr. Falen. You asked for this meeting. If I tell you I will keep what you say in confidence, I will. Or we can end our discussion now.”

Falen tried the half smile again and took a bread stick from the basket in front of him, rolling it between his fingers without taking a bite. He nodded emphatically.

“You’re right. If we’re going to get anything done on this, we need to trust each other. Here’s what I have.” He paused as the waitress brought their lunches, then continued without touching the sandwich.

“There have been a number of disappearances similar to your husband’s over the past several months. Half-a-dozen or so. Under any circumstance, that’s an unusually high number. But in this case it’s all the more puzzling because there hasn’t been a single note left behind, and nobody’s made any attempt to use the people as hostages. Doesn’t look much like abductions. 
And
…,” he raised an index finger to stress the point and quiet the objection she knew her eyes reflected. “And…in every case the passport was used within twenty-four hours to go to either Frankfurt or Paris. These disappearances have happened all across the globe, so as a group, they haven’t attracted a lot of attention.... But I’m starting to think these people are meeting for some reason.”

Kate struggled to keep her face expressionless. The thought was new to her, and she wanted to mull it over before giving any indication of its import. She spread red honey French dressing over a portion of her salad while she formulated her question, placed the small silver pitcher beside her glass, then looked up again at the State Department investigator.

“Did these people have other things in common? Other than the circumstances you have described?”

Mr. Falen nodded appreciatively. She had asked the right question.

“The only factor I can come up with is that several of these people seemed to come from an almost unbroken line of East European ancestry. At least, that’s what the information passed along by the Department shows.”

Kate returned to the salad, poking at it absently. “You know, I presume, that Ben’s family’s from Yugoslavia. In fact, from what is now Kosovo, and originally came to America as refugees. But he’s Roma by ancestry – what most people call Gypsy – and it’s never been that big a thing with him. His father and uncle, maybe. His grandfather – no question about it. But Ben usually leaves when they get into one of their ‘Roma persecution’ discussions.”

“Usually?”

“Well, it’s hard to avoid them all together. There’s still family near Pristina and they write occasionally. Ben’s father went over a number of years ago – before the latest war made things so difficult and things really became tense. His family is Lipjan Roma originally and Catholic, so they were suspected of siding with the Serbs. I don’t think he’s been since. But Ben? No. He’s too far removed.” As she made the statement, Kate found herself wondering if it was true.

“He’s the oldest son, isn’t he?”

“Only son. He has sisters, and they married Roma Americans. Or at least men of Roma descent. He married an Irish girl, which removed him from the circle by a step. And as I said, there’s none of the passion for the old country the others show. He’d be the least likely member of the family to….”

Falen was silent and she knew he was again studying her as a string of loosely connected thoughts worked its way through her head.

“Hmmm,” he grunted. “It seemed like such a good possibility, particularly since nothing else makes any sense. During the Kosovo purges – which certainly included the Roma – we know that various guerilla groups developed in the country that had U.S. supporters who provided monetary assistance. But some also had militaristic arms in Kosovo, watching the new government to keep their particular ethnic group from being persecuted. Some compare their influence to that of a mini-Mafia – though they appear to be more nationally minded. There have been some recent incidents against Roma in both Kosovo and Albania, and we have worried that one of these groups might be organizing something. But if you think it wasn’t that big a deal with your husband….” Christopher Falen picked up a square of club sandwich.

“Is there such a Roma group?” Kate asked.

Falen quickly swallowed a bite and wiped his lips. “The RPA,” he said.  

“RPA?”

“Roma Protection Alliance. It’s involved in Kosovo and a number of other countries where the Roma have been persecuted. Have you heard of it?”             

Kate didn’t respond. She was thinking of Peter Koka.