C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

Aware of Abu Elias’s narrowed gaze upon him, Jax settled carefully onto the hard plastic chair. He now had a really, really bad feeling about all of this.

October said, “My shoes?”

“Min fadlik.” Amin turned to survey the two bags standing just inside the door. “Which is yours?”

“The green one.”

Hunkering down beside it, the Arab laid the bag on its side and unzipped it. “Excuse me,” he said as he rummaged through her things, “but it is necessary.”

“Why?” she asked, kicking off her tennis shoes.

“It’s too easy to hide things in the soles and heels of shoes.” He came up with a pair of navy-and-white-striped flip-flops. “Here. You will wear these.”

She slipped on the flip-flops without argument. “I’m not carrying a weapon.”

“Nevertheless, I’m afraid I must also check your hair.”

“My hair?”

“My apologies.” Reaching out, he systematically ran his fingers through her shoulder-length, honey-colored hair. “Women have been known to hide razor blades in their hair.”

She cast an uncertain glance to where Jax sat in the orange plastic chair, his hands resting carefully on his thighs. They were both painfully aware that no one was checking his hair or making him take off his shoes.

As if conscious of the train of Jax’s thoughts, Amin said to him, “You are to stay here, with Abu Elias. Only the girl can come.”

“But-” Jax started to push out of his chair, then froze when the younger man made a tssking sound and jerked his head back, his finger twitching on the machine pistol’s trigger.

“Laa. Khalleek hawn!”

Jax sank back very slowly.

“Don’t worry,” said Amin. “She will come to no harm.” He glanced at October. “Are you ready?”

They walked together down the narrow set of concrete stairs to the hotel’s small, spartan lobby. Tobie noticed that the older woman in the long dress and headscarf who had been behind the desk when they arrived was no longer there.

Outside, the evening was hot and dry, with a warm wind blowing out of the east that sifted dust over the stark, stone-faced facades of the neighborhood’s buildings. The sidewalk here was made of swirled tiles of alternating red and yellow clay, some cracked, some missing entirely. They dodged piles of builders’ sand, a battered wheelbarrow encrusted with dried concrete, a spindly olive tree struggling to survive. Tobie was aware of two women chatting beside a doorway who fell silent as she drew abreast, the women’s heads turning to watch her pass.

Amin touched her arm. “This way.”

They ducked down a narrow passage kept shaded and dank by tall apartment blocks hung with laundry drying limply in the fetid air. The passage emptied onto a street similar to the one they’d just left, although with more small shops, their front windows displaying their wares. They passed a bakery with stacks of fresh flatbread and a tray of croissants, and a tiny shoe store with boxes of children’s plaid slippers in a range of sizes. A man in a dark sweater stood at the corner, near a grocery selling Digestive biscuits and bananas, bottled water and yoghurt. As they passed, Tobie noticed he had a Bluetooth in his ear, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the street.

“Why just me?” said Tobie.

Amin shook his head and kept walking.

They made three or four such turns, winding back on themselves, passing more men-and one young woman-wearing Bluetooth earpieces and quietly watching the street behind them. As they drew abreast of the woman, she nodded to Amin and said quietly, “You’re clean. No one is following you.”

Halfway down the next block, Amin drew up in front of an ancient stone building with a bullet-scarred facade. Staring through the dusty windows, Tobie could see a small restaurant crowded with aluminum tables and chairs with seats covered in dark green plastic. More tables and chairs spilled outside onto the narrow sidewalk.

This was the time of day when such places were typically filled with old men smoking hubble-bubbles, drinking coffee, and playing backgammon. But Tobie could see only one man, sipping tea by himself at a table near the kitchen door.

Amin nodded toward the restaurant’s entrance. “You go in. He’s waiting for you.”

She hesitated a moment, then pushed open the door. Her escort stayed outside.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scents of cinnamon and allspice and coffee. From his table at the rear of the restaurant, the man watched her approach. His features were sharply formed, his nose aquiline, his eyes large and deeply set, his brows heavy and straight. At first she supposed he must be somewhere in his forties, with a heavy dark mustache and dark hair he wore clipped short. But as she drew closer, she realized he was older than she first took him to be, his hair touched by gray at the temples, the skin beside his eyes creased by years of staring into a hot Mediterranean sun. He wore gray chinos and a well-cut black polo shirt, and he might have been mistaken for a French businessman if it weren’t for the MP5 that rested casually across his lap.

“Please,” he said in heavily accented English. “Sit.”

Tobie pulled out the chair opposite him and sat.

A thickset middle-aged woman appeared with fresh tea and another cup from the kitchen. After she had left, the man said, “Do you know who I am?”

Tobie took a quick swallow of the tea and burned her tongue. “No.”

One eyebrow rose in polite incredulity. “You’re not with the CIA?”

“No. I’m in the Navy.”

“Why have they sent you?”

“I’m a linguist.”

He switched to Arabic. “You speak Arabic?”

She answered him easily. “I lived in Dubai as a child.”

A wry smile curled his lips, lifting the edges of his mustache. “You speak Arabic like a Beduin.”

“And you speak Arabic like a Palestinian.”

He tipped his head to one side, acknowledging the point. “My family is originally from Gaza.”

“You’re with Hamas?”

He blinked and took a slow swallow of his tea before answering. “My apologies for not introducing myself. My name is Farrah. George Farrah.”

“Ah. So you’re a Christian,” she said. Arab men named George were always Christians.

“We Palestinians were the first Christians, you know,” he said softly. In Arabic, the word for Christian was Masihi, from the Aramaic word for Messiah. He leaned forward, his hazel eyes watching her face. “A hundred years ago, Arab Christians made up 40 percent of the population of Palestine. We are the descendents of the Jews who followed Jesus, of the Canaanites and Philistines who were here before the Jews but followed Christ, too, and of the Romans and Crusaders who came to the Holy Land and stayed. Now…” He spread his hands wide. “Now we are scattered all over the world in our own diaspora.”

He had unexpectedly graceful hands, with fingers that were long and lean and finely tapered, like a musician’s or an artist’s. As she watched his hands, he took another sip of his tea and said, “Why are you interested in Jasha Baklanov?”

“I’m interested in what Baklanov tried to sell you.”

“I didn’t buy it.”

“I know. I’m trying to find out who has it now.”

“That, I can’t help you with.”

Tobie leaned forward, her palms pressing flat against the aluminum tabletop. “The people who originally contacted Baklanov found out he was planning to double-cross them, and they killed him.”

George Farrah nodded. “I had heard he was dead.”

“Do you know who hired the Yalena to raise the U-boat?”

“Jasha never said.”

Tobie wasn’t sure whether he was telling the truth or not. She said, “You can’t tell me anything about them?”