City of Veils (43 page)

The door swung outward and she stepped into an enormous courtyard littered with giant slabs of stone and wood that looked like archaeological relics. She crossed a small patio and stopped beside one of the columns that supported the arcade, looking up to make sure no one was watching from an upstairs window.

Careful not to trip on the stone blocks, she picked her way through the courtyard. The air was cool and fresh. A small fountain in the corner was bubbling murky water. Suddenly she heard a noise behind her and she stopped to listen. It was nothing.

There were four doors at the end of the courtyard, and she opened each one. The first led into a dining area, the second into a sitting room. Behind the third she found another darkened room. She spent a good five minutes looking for a light switch without success. She tried to open the window. It was locked, but beside it she spotted the outline of a table lamp. Fumbling, she managed to switch it on.

There was a desk in the middle of the room, and an elaborate computer system and a wall of books. The far end of the room was wide open and appeared to lead deeper into the darkened house.

She went to the desk and opened the drawers. She was hoping to find a clue, any clue at all, about where Mabus and Jacob and Eric had gone on their camping trip. She was sure this was where Jacob was heading right now. He had said that they’d gone to Mabus’s place for their trip. As far as she knew, it was the only place the three of them had in common.

The drawers were empty, but to the right of the desk was a corkboard, and here Miriam’s heart skipped. The same photo she’d seen at Jacob’s house, showing the three men in the desert, was pinned to the lower corner of the board. She almost couldn’t bear to look at Eric’s face, but she could see that he was genuinely happy in the shot, and it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Hanging from the wall beside that was a framed satellite photo of the desert blown up to poster size. There were sand dunes and, in the center, a faint grid of white stones with the words
Qaryat al-Faw
written in block letters. Various signatures, some in Arabic, were scrawled along the edges of the print, which gave her the idea that this was an archaeological excavation of some sort, and that the people who had worked on the dig had created this commemorative poster for Mabus. She couldn’t make out any of the names. She pulled a pen and paper from her purse and scribbled down “Qaryat al-Faw.” At least this was something.

She went back to the desk and attempted to turn on the computer, but it wouldn’t start. As she was fussing with it, she heard a noise from deeper inside the house. It sounded like footsteps, slow and deliberate. She swung around and stared into the darkness. Adrenaline coursed through her when she realized that the footsteps were actually coming from the courtyard. She stepped back as the sounds came closer.

Clutching her purse, she stumbled into the darkness of a hallway. Her foot caught on a power cord and she fell forward, cracking her knee on a table. Pain shot through her leg. The footsteps were approaching faster now. Biting back the pain, she got to her feet. It was darker in the hallway. She felt along the wall for a door. Locating a latch, she pushed it and plunged through a doorway into another hall. She shut the door behind her and tried to calm the rushing in her head enough to listen.

She had the horrible feeling that she’d be trapped forever in this dark, confusing house, groping for safety, followed by an unknown assailant. The door behind her opened very slowly, letting in the smallest crack of light. She ran to the opposite wall, fingers desperately searching for an exit. She found a metal doorknob, twisted it open, and tumbled onto the street. Not the same street she’d been on when she arrived, it was another alley, wider and darker. A droplet of rain touched her face and she jumped. Disoriented, she walked toward the light of the main road, praying that the taxi would be there. It wasn’t at the corner. With shaking hands she draped the burqa over her face.

Was it prayer time? She hadn’t heard a call to prayer, but the street was deserted. The shops looked rundown, and there were no signs in English. She decided to go around the block. At the next corner two men were standing by a truck. When they saw her, they stopped talking. They were young, African, each wearing a wildly colored polyester shirt. One of them opened his shirt and said, “
Voulez-vous
fuck me?” The other laughed.

Miriam turned the corner and saw with dismay that the street veered off to the right. She had to go left to get around to the front of the house, but there was no alley connecting to it. She didn’t care. The men on the corner were staring after her, and when she looked back, they began to walk in her direction. She picked up her pace and kept moving forward. She fished in her purse for her cell phone but couldn’t find it. A sudden jolt of nerves. She stumbled on her cloak. She wanted to run, but she didn’t know where to go.

“Hey!” a man’s voice called out behind her. “Hey,
marra!
” Woman! She began to jog. Finally finding her cell phone, she dialed the taxi service, speed-walking now. A car stopped beside her. She couldn’t help slowing, turning to look through the front of her burqa. A car door slammed. Footsteps on the pavement, marching toward her. She glimpsed a man’s face, a reptilian stare seeking her own. She broke into a run.

She sprinted ten feet but she was no match for the man. Encumbered by her cloak and burqa, she stumbled just as he seized her shoulder and yanked her backward. She screamed, but he grabbed her mouth, his other arm gripping her waist, drawing her squirming and clawing toward the car and shoving her inside.

A
fter picking up the memory card from Samir and dropping it off at the station, Nayir and Osama went to Mabus’s house. They arrived as the sky was darkening with clouds. No one answered, and the front door was unlocked. Osama drew his gun before entering. “Police!” he called out. “Is anyone home?”

They did a quick run-through of the house. No one was there, but the back door was wide open. There was nothing of interest inside. The computer seemed to be broken, and it looked as if the desk had been cleaned out long ago; the thin layer of dust on its wooden surface was undisturbed. Osama called the station and asked for a forensics team, then he motioned Nayir back outside.

While they were waiting for forensics, Osama’s cell phone rang. He answered it and listened intently for a few minutes before hanging up.

“They finally got hold of Miriam’s cell phone activity from this morning,” he reported. “She received a call from a man named Jacob Marx.”

“That’s probably the same Jacob she talked about,” Nayir said.

They decided to abandon their vigil and head over to the Arabian Gates compound, which wasn’t far. Nayir was surprised to notice that it was getting dark. The rain had stopped, and the sky was an iron gray.

“What did Miriam say about this man Jacob Marx?” Osama asked.

“She said that he was a philanderer and that if anyone was sleeping with Leila it would have been him, not Eric. Apparently, he slept with Arab women all the time.”

Osama didn’t seem the least startled by this information. “But this
misyar
document said that Eric and Leila were married,” he pointed out.

Nayir nodded.

“Jacob was in the desert with Eric and Mabus?” Osama asked.

“Yes,” Nayir said. “Miriam saw a picture of the three of them out there. It was a recent photo. She saw it at Jacob’s house.”

Osama fell into a reflective mood. Just before they reached the compound gates, he said, “The quickest way to get information from someone is usually the least pleasant way.”

Nayir had images of someone strapped to a chair, an interrogation light flooding his face and a small, twisted man holding a scalpel to the victim’s ear. He had heard stories of police brutality, conveyed by word of mouth and successive retellings that of course rendered the details increasingly disproportionate. He couldn’t say whether any one detail was true, but the sheer volume of stories, the surprising number of friends and acquaintances who had something horrible to say about a loved one’s unfortunate encounter with the police, was enough to convince him that the authorities were not always working in the public’s best interest. All the admiration for Osama that had sprung up inside him after this morning’s events threatened to vanish as quickly as it had arisen.

“What do you mean?” Nayir asked calmly.

Osama glanced at him. “I was just observing,” he said. “But I’m going to play it by ear with Jacob. What I’m trying to tell you is that whatever I do, just go with it, all right?”

Nayir didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to “go with it” if Osama started sawing off somebody’s toes.

Seeing Nayir’s face, Osama let out a bark of a laugh.

T
hey had little difficulty getting through the compound gates. The guard gave them Jacob’s address, but he must have called the house to warn the occupants, because when they knocked on the door, Jacob’s wife opened it as if she’d been standing right behind it.

“Excuse us for the intrusion,” Osama said in English, “but I’m Detective Inspector —”

“I know,” she said. “Come in.” Although her face was exposed, she was wearing a black headscarf and a long black
abaaya.
Nayir surmised that she’d put on the garments just for them. The scarf kept slipping back from her forehead, and she had to adjust it twice before they reached the kitchen.

Nayir thought it must be an American convention to invite guests straight into the kitchen, because it was exactly what Miriam had done. Once they were seated at the table, he realized that she felt more comfortable here. She puttered about making coffee and setting dates on a tray. Osama looked as if he’d have liked to protest all the fuss and get straight down to business, but out of politeness he refrained. “You’re Mrs. Marx?” he asked.

“What? Oh! Yes, I’m Jacob’s wife. Patty Marx.” She had stopped puttering and now stood staring at them anxiously. Behind her the coffeepot beeped, and she spun back around, poured hastily, and set two mugs on the table in front of them.

“Mrs. Marx,” Osama said. “We’re here about Miriam Walker.”

Mrs. Marx froze, leaning over the table.

“You don’t happen to know where we can find her, do you?”

She shook her head, looking more frightened than ever. “She was here last Thursday, but I haven’t seen her since.”

Osama nodded and scribbled something in his notebook.

“Has she done something wrong?” she asked.

Osama gave her a peculiar look. “No, we’d just like to talk to her about her husband’s disappearance.”

“Well, I haven’t seen her,” Mrs. Marx said with a blatant tone of finality that managed to say
So you can leave my house right now
.

The whole conversation was going much too slowly for Nayir. “We think she might have gone to meet your husband somewhere,” he said. “She spoke with him on the phone this morning. She was with my uncle at the time, and she told him that she was going to meet a friend. We believe that friend was your husband.”

Panic was apparent in the woman’s eyes now. “My husband’s not here” was all she could bring herself to say. She turned back to the coffeepot and took a glass cup from the shelf, obviously lost in thought. After a moment she looked at the glass strangely and exchanged it for a mug. She poured herself a cup of coffee and turned to face them, leaving the coffee untouched on the counter.

Osama, who had been watching her with a falcon’s eye, said, “Mrs. Marx, where is your husband?”

“I—I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “He was here this morning, and then he said he was going out. I didn’t ask where.”

“What time did he leave?”

“About—I don’t know, noon?” She cringed as if hoping it was the right answer.

“Where do you think he went?” Nayir asked on a sudden impulse.

Her eyes flickered nervously to Nayir, but she turned back to the counter and took the lid off a sugar bowl. “Well,” she said, “if he said he went to meet Miriam, then that’s where he went.”

“He didn’t say that,” Osama said.

“Oh.” Mrs. Marx nodded.

Osama was looking discouraged. There was even a trace of anger in his eyes now. “Mrs. Marx, the reason we’re looking for Miriam is that we believe she may be in danger.” Mrs. Marx rounded on them. Her mouth formed a small
O
.

“You saw her Thursday,” Osama went on, “so you probably know that her husband is missing. What you might not know is that there was an article in the paper today linking her husband with the murder of a young Saudi woman here in Jeddah.”

She let out her breath in surprise. A subtle change in her expression made Nayir think that this information had triggered an important realization. She carried her coffee to the opposite end of the table and took a seat, balancing herself on the edge of the chair as if preparing at any moment to spring up again.

“So if there’s anything you can tell us about where your husband might have gone —”

“Well, I think he went to the desert. But you don’t think he’s any kind of danger to Miriam, do you?” she scoffed. “Even if he had gone off to meet her somewhere—which I highly doubt—he would never hurt her!”

“Why would he go to the desert?” Osama asked.

“Well, because he likes to go camping!” Mrs. Marx said.