Judith Leon - Iron Dove

Nissia joined them, but without Fatima. Usually everyone came to greet him.

“Where is Fatima?”

“We have to talk about her,” Nissia replied. “And you will have to talk to her.”

“First I want you all to listen to me.” He looked at Saddoun. “Turn down the TV.”

He immediately had their attention. “I have not been able to tell you something sooner, and I regret that. I know what I’m going to say will not please you. But it is necessary.”

“What can be so serious?” Nissia frowned. She shook her head and softly muttered, “Allah deliver me from this horrible day.”

“I have purchased airline tickets for all of you to leave Amalfi on the fourteenth of this month. The tickets will take all of you to your mother in Jordan, Nissia.”

For a moment, the only sound was the low background chattering of the television.

Then their protests burst forth all at once. “I can’t leave school,” Leila cried. “I have a party on the sixteenth,” declared Hanan.

“That’s impossible,” Nissia said, lips set in a hard line.

“I won’t go,” Saddoun said.

Ahmad held up his hand and stared each of them down. “This is not debatable. This is essential. It is necessary that you submit to my will.”

Only Saddoun and Nissia knew that he was far more than a very successful dealer in fresh fish. He saw both of them struggle to resign themselves to what they could not question.

Hanan said, “Father, why do we have to leave? Just us? Aren’t you coming?”

“This is something I can’t explain. It’s something you must accept.”

He turned to Nissia. “Now, what is this problem with Fatima? Where is she?”

Saddoun continued to stare at him, his young jaw set firm, but Leila returned her attention to Hanan’s hair with only a protesting pout on her lips.

“Come with me,” Nissia said. She turned and headed for Fatima’s bedroom. He followed, his good mood having entirely evaporated. He could tell from Nissia’s straight back and stiff neck that she was in foul humor.

Fatima lay on her bed. The room held the scent of jasmine. Quite inappropriate for a twelve-year-old.

Like his other daughters, Fatima wore jeans and a T-shirt. He accepted this in the home, provided that in public the garments covered their arms and legs and that they wore a hajib to cover their hair and necks. Nissia had sided with Leila and Hanan about being casual at home, so he found it the only way to keep even half the peace. Hearing them enter, Fatima sat up but did not greet him. She stared straight ahead.

Nissia walked to the chest of drawers and picked up a photo. She handed it to Ahmad and said flatly, “I found this in her bottom drawer.”

The photo had a signature identifying the subject—Christina Aguilera. The young woman in the publicity photo wore a shape- and skin-revealing red outfit characteristic of a woman of the streets. Arms, shoulders, neck and practically all of her legs were exposed.

He felt the warmth of anger at his neck. “Why would you keep a picture of such a woman?”

Finally Fatima looked at him. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s shameless!”

Nissia sat the picture back onto the dresser. “The picture is only a symptom of the problem, Ahmad. I am sorry to say that your daughter tried to deceive us.”

At the word deceive, he felt his pulse begin to thrum against his temples. “Explain.”

“She left the house wearing her head scarf, and she was wearing it when she came home. But Hanan told me she took it off at school.”

Ahmad stepped to Fatima, grabbed her wrist, pulled her to her feet and slapped her face. “Repent at once!” he commanded.

She pulled away and sat on the bed; tears welled in her eyes and spilled over.

“I said, repent.”

“I—I don’t want to stick out. I don’t want them to stare at me and make fun. I will lose all my friends.”

“You will wear the hajib. You will wear it both to protect yourself from the unwanted stares of men and to honor Allah, who alone is worthy of our worship. If you do not, if you disobey me, the next time I will beat you.”

She seemed to shrink a bit.

“Do you understand me?”

For a moment, she simply sat in sullen silence. Finally, she nodded.

“Repent!”

She took a shaky breath. “O Allah, I repent before You for all my sins and I promise never to return to the same.”

“I am shamed,” he said. “I pray to Allah that this is the end of it.”

He paused, glaring at her a moment to be certain the message had sunk in, and then spun on his heels and strode back toward the living room, at the same time both heartsick and furious. The infidels, if they could, would rob him of his children, but very soon he would strike a blow for Allah that would bring the cursed Westerners to their knees.

With Joe leading, Nova stepped from the offloading ramp into the Alitalia boarding gate at Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci International Airport at roughly 8:15 a.m., local time. She had checked her duffel bag through, as he had, but she carried her aluminum photo equipment case and a briefcase with personal items and her laptop. Joe, too, had briefcase in hand.

“What’s our contact’s name?” she asked.

“Cesare Giordano.”

A tall, thin, clean-shaven and extravagantly dressed man of about thirty-five with bright blue eyes and a neatly trimmed van Dyke held a small sign that said CAT—Blair/Cardone. They walked up to him. Still leading, Joe stuck out his hand.

“I’m Cardone. This is Blair,” he said, nodding toward Nova.

Nova took in the man who should be Cesare Giordano and hid her surprise, although she did share a quick glance with Joe. Joe’s slightly lifted eyebrows suggested that he was having a similarly amazed reaction.

The man’s perfectly cut slacks were black; his long-sleeved silk shirt purple with a red crown pattern over one pocket. It was either an expensive Armani or a fine knockoff. Open at the throat, the shirt framed a heavy gold necklace, the chain holding a massive, two-inch bull’s head with sapphire eyes and polished black horns, probably onyx. Very expensive—with cuff links to match. The shoes were Bruno Magli, of O.J. Simpson fame. He whipped off a pair of sunglasses with metallic, hide-your-eyes lenses. If this was a disguise for a SISMI agent, it was certainly a good one. Her thought was, Beverly Hills pimp but with lots of class.

“Delighted, delighted. I’m Cesare Giordano,” he said smiling effusively. “So pleased to welcome you to Rome, once the capital of the known world. While you are in Italy, you will be my responsibility.”

Before either she or Joe could respond, sleek Cesare Giordano was at her side with the speed of a sprinter. She smelled just a delicate hint of a fruity cologne. He reached for her photocase. But she was also quick. She pulled it back before he could relieve her of it.

“No, no. Really. You must let me carry your case. A beautiful woman should not be toting luggage through Rome.”

“How about some ID?” she said.

He held up a hand dramatically, smiled, nodded. He pulled out a wallet from his slacks pocket and flipped it open. A SISMI badge bore his picture and the name Cesare Giordano.

She handed over the camera equipment. “Very thoughtful of you.”

“My honor, I assure you. Shall we proceed to baggage claim area. I presume you do have luggage?”

“Right,” Joe said.

“And how was your flight?” Cesare asked. Without waiting for an answer he commented on what he felt was the excellent quality of Alitalia service, comparing it one after the other with Lufthansa, British Airways and Aeroflot.

Side by side, she and Joe followed the SISMI agent through the airport to the baggage carousels. With pleasing speed, their bags arrived.