Austin Camacho - Russian Roulette

He saw them before they saw him. Gana was running water on his hand in the sink. The woman across the room looked frightened but unhurt. Viktoriya Petrova was a couple of inches taller than her mother but otherwise she was what Raisa Petrova’s graduation photo would have looked like. Her skin was very fair with a hint of rose coloring, and the curls of her shiny black hair rolled down to her shoulder blades. When she saw Hannibal step out of the shadows, gun first, her hands shot out toward him as if she could stop him with her palms from across the room.

“No, please, don’t shoot my husband.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Gana asked, his voice rumbling.

Hannibal holstered his weapon. “Sorry. I heard a scream and I guess I just reacted by reflex. Husband?”

“A civil ceremony this morning,” Gana said, turning off the water and picking up a dish towel. “Not that it is any of your concern. In fact, there is nothing happening in my home that concerns you.”

“Really?” Hannibal asked, walking across the room toward the sliding doors. “Is that blood on the doorsill there? Sure looks like blood.”

Viktoriya looked at Gana while Hannibal touched his finger to a small red stain just above the door handle. There was not enough to indicate a stab or gunshot wound, unless a lot of cleanup had taken place before the scream.

“Oh, Dani was over there after he cut himself,” Viktoriya said.

“Yes, I was trying to help in the kitchen. I guess I shouldn’t try,” Gana said, wrapping the towel around his hand.

“Really?”

“I must have leaned against the door there for a minute while I was shaking my hand, trying to control the pain. I realize now that Viktoriya did scream when she saw me bleeding, but, really, it’s minor.”

It sounded like a hasty attempt at damage control to Hannibal, but he could hardly justify asking Gana to unwrap his hand to prove there was an injury. He had no idea what might have actually happened in that kitchen, but he could see that the girl was unharmed. Besides, he wanted to preserve his status as invited guest long enough to gather more information.

“I guess that’s none of my business,” he said. “You know the reason for my visit.”

“Yes,” Gana said, leaning on the sink. “There are people who question my identity.”

“People?” Viktoriya asked.

Gana waved the question away. “Your mother has already told Mr. Jones here that I am living in exile from my native Algeria. He does not realize how far reaching a jihad can be in the Moslem world.” He turned to Hannibal. “You must see that I cannot give you my real name. In fact, I am hoping to convince you not to share what you have already discovered.”

“I won’t tell anyone anything if you convince me that you’re not a fraud.”

“But how can he do that without revealing his family name?” Viktoriya asked.

Hannibal pulled a chair out from the table, spun it around backward, and sat. “I think I’ve come up with a solution. I don’t have to know your name to do my job, just be sure that you’re really from Algeria. I consulted with a subject matter expert. He gave me three questions that, if answered correctly, would make him pretty sure that a person was a native of Algeria. Are you game?”

“You Americans have a word for this kind of thing,” Gana said. “This is bullshit.” He stalked toward the back door where Viktoriya met him.

“Dani,” she said, “you don’t want to do anything that will make Mother doubt you. Why not just answer his stupid questions?”

“You mother will not doubt me,” Gana replied, his smile slowly returning.

“All right then,” Viktoriya said, sliding her fingers down the buttons of his shirt. “Then consider whoever this is that Jones is working for. Would it not be better, safer, to get that person out of our lives?”

Gana closed his eyes. Viktoriya traced his jawline with her first two fingers. Gana’s shoulders dropped and he returned to the table.

“All right, Jones, if it will put this inquisition to rest.” Gana dropped into a chair on the opposite side of the table. “What kind of questions do you have?”

“Well, for example: what happened in fourteen hundred ninety-two?”

Viktoriya’s brows furrowed. “Columbus?” Hannibal showed her his palm, indicating that she needed to be quiet.

“That is the year my people immigrated,” Gana said. Viktoriya’s face showed her confusion, so he continued. “Algeria’s original people were the Berbers. She was occupied by the Phoenicians, by the Romans, and then the Arabs, of course. But in 1492, Spain expelled their Jews and my people, the Moors. They moved en masse into Algeria and settled there.”

Hannibal nodded. “Thanks for the history lesson. Now, can you tell me what Hoca looks like?”

Gana looked puzzled for a moment, but then smiled. “I see. You probably mean Hoja. Hoca means teacher in Turkish, and the character is Turkish, but his name is Hoja. I can see that the difference in pronunciation would be difficult for your Western tongue.”

“Yeah, curse my Western tongue. What did he look like?”

“This was a good choice,” Gana said, smiling again and nodding. “Only Americans would describe your Santa Claus correctly. Hoja is also a character of myth, sort of a roly-poly man in a turban who always rides in on a donkey. In the stories he is a crafty fellow, who pun ctures the pompous by pretending to be naive. Sort of a wise fool. There are dozens of stories. Would you like to hear one?”

“That’s all right,” Hannibal said.

“I’m glad you paid attention in school,” Viktoriya said, pulling one of Gana’s legs out and settling her petite behind on his lap.

“These are things you learn in your home or in the streets.” Gana said.

“Yes, like how to enjoy your tea at the right hour,” Hannibal said. “What was your favorite tea for the tea hour back home, Mr. Gana?”

“Ahh, the tea hour,” Gana said, and his eyes seemed to drift back into the past. “In my home there were three of them, always in the same order. My favorite was the first, the strong tea. Strong like life. The second was bitter, like death.” He turned to Viktoriya and his voice softened. “The third tea was sweet and symbolized love.”

“So if you only wanted one, you would take the first?” Hannibal asked.

“That would be rude. If you only want to take one, you should wait for the last, which is the worst. Now, anything else you’d like to ask me?”

Gana seemed to have warmed to this game. He sat with his bride’s hand in his, looking eager to prove himself again.

“Just one more thing,” Hannibal said. “When you wandered into your local cafe, what was your favorite local beer?”

Gana chuckled and wagged a finger at him. “A trick question. You know full well that local cafes don’t serve beer in my country. I used to get mine at international hotels or the embassy. And my favorite was Stella Artois.”

“I grew up in Germany,” Hannibal said. “I know that’s a Belgian beer.”

“Yes, but it is brewed in Algeria as well, under Belgian control. If you insist on a truly local beer, then I would choose Tango, which is OK but a little sweet for my taste.”

It was enough for Hannibal. The replies had rolled off Gana’s tongue, in the smooth way all words seemed to roll off his tongue. But, they did feel like answers from the gut to Hannibal. Gana might or might not be a political exile in hiding, but he appeared to be a native Algerian. And maybe he wasn’t putting anything over on his new bride after all. Hannibal stood, almost ready to let this couple go on with their lives.

“One last thing I’d like to know. Why are you so concerned with being photographed? I saw you exchange words with that fellow yesterday morning. Of course, it was at a distance, but…”