good.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“No, I just got here myself,” he said, and when al-Kalli smiled again, Greer thought,
Al-Kalli looked around, as if appraising the pier and its attractions. “I’ve never been here before.”
No shit, Sherlock, was what Greer thought. But what was it with this English accent? That night when Greer had crept into the zoo, he’d been too far away to hear what al-Kalli was saying. And though he’d been expecting him to sound like an Arab, or have trouble speaking the language at all, he sounded instead like that guy who played Lawrence of Arabia in the movies.
“Shall we take a look around?” al-Kalli said, as if he actually cared, and before Greer could reply, he’d sauntered off toward some of the other rides. Greer of necessity tagged along, with Jakob, in wraparound shades and a short-sleeved shirt that conveniently revealed his powerful arms, bringing up the rear. Greer wasn’t sure how he’d imagined this playing out — maybe the two of them standing over by the ocean railing, speaking softly, in private, while the gulls wheeled above? — but this was definitely not it. Suddenly Greer felt he wasn’t in control of the situation at all; worse, he felt like some poor relation who’d foolishly invited a big shot to meet him at some dive.
“Reminds me of a place called Brighton Beach,” al-Kalli said. “Ever been to Great Britain, Captain Greer?”
“No, not yet,” Greer replied, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.
“It’s just as tacky as this, but it lacks the California sun.”
Greer knew that he had to take charge, or else al-Kalli would just keep snowing him with this bullshit. Setting himself squarely in front of al-Kalli, and using the line he had practiced at home, he said, “Have you had time to consider my proposal?”
But at home he had never imagined it getting a laugh. “Why,” al-Kalli said, “are we getting married?”
Jakob snorted, too, and Greer felt even more like a fool.
“In business,” al-Kalli advised him, “never appear too eager.”
Christ, Greer thought, he’s giving me blackmail advice. Al-Kalli stopped in front of one of the Skee-Ball booths and watched as a fat kid with a Lakers T-shirt hanging down to his knees rolled ball after ball up the alley.
“You sell yourself short,” al-Kalli finally said, without even bothering to look at Greer — who had no idea how to take that remark. How could he have asked for too little? He hadn’t even mentioned an actual price in the letter.
“Why stoop to blackmail when you have proven yourself, up until now, so resourceful?”
The kid in the Lakers shirt, unhappy with his final score, kicked the booth and stomped off, brushing past Greer like he wasn’t even there. Greer was starting to wonder if the kid was right.
Al-Kalli had moved on, too, strolling with his cane in hand toward the bumper car rink. Greer caught up to him again at the rail.
“I know, for instance, how you gained entrance to my estate,” al-Kalli said, his eyes riveted on the bumper cars careening around the course. “And that’s been taken care of. But what, precisely, did you see? And how much do you really know? Your letter was somewhat vague on these points.”
Now, Greer thought, they were finally getting down to brass tacks. “I saw enough,” Greer replied, ever conscious of Jakob hovering just out of earshot.
“Enough for what?”
One of the bumper cars banged up against the rubber wall in front of them, and then got smacked by two others from either side.
Al-Kalli finally turned to face him, and his eyes glittered like beetles in the afternoon sunlight. “You don’t seriously believe I would pay you hush money, do you?”
Greer was speechless.
“It would never end. I’d have you showing up with your hand out for the rest of my life.” He turned his gaze back toward the bumper cars. “No, I’d much sooner have you killed.”
“You could try,” Greer said.
Al-Kalli laughed again. “Please, Captain, we both know your car — the green Mustang, with the cracked window, parked by the exit ramp — could easily have been wired by now. I could be done with you by nightfall.”
This was not going at all as Greer expected. Maybe he should have mentioned an actual figure in the letter. Maybe al-Kalli thought he was going to be unreasonable, and yes, keep showing up for more money. But Greer wasn’t like that; he was a man of his word. If he asked for a million, he’d take the million and then he’d be gone. Hadn’t al-Kalli seen, from his actions in Iraq, that he was as good as his word?
“So what are you suggesting?” was all Greer could come up with. He felt that he needed time to fall back and regroup, but he wasn’t going to get any.
Al-Kalli was already moving on, toward the video game arcade. The racket emanating from its doors was unbelievable.
“A job.”
A what? Greer thought he might not have heard him correctly over the din. “What did you say?”
“Clearly, I need help with my security,” al-Kalli conceded. “I’ve fired the gatekeeper, fired the Silver Bear company, and you, as it happens, are already compromised. I can either employ you or…” He shrugged, as if to suggest the Mustang could still blow sky high.
Greer was dumbfounded. He caught Jakob staring at him from a few yards off. Did he know what was going down?
“But you will need to tell me now,” al-Kalli said, “so I can make my plans accordingly.”
The bells and chimes and buzzers and whistles going off in the video arcade made it hard even to think. But Greer knew he had to.
Al-Kalli started to walk away, idly rapping the end of his walking stick on the wooden boards underfoot. Jakob followed him, and turned toward Greer as he passed him by.
Greer stood where he was, unsure of what to say or do.
They were fifteen or twenty feet away, before Greer, who felt himself suddenly fresh out of options, said, “Okay.”
But they didn’t stop or turn around, and for all he knew they hadn’t even heard. So he had to swallow his pride and shout, “Okay!” after them.
They were just disappearing around the corner of the next concession, on their way back toward the parking lot.
“Okay!” he shouted again, and a bunch of kids gave him a funny look. “I’ll take it!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
We were twenty-five days with barely enough food and water to sustain us, and in the dead of night, when we most needed his help, Peter the Hermit fled our camp, with William, Viscount of Melun, known to us as the Carpenter because of the axe he wielded so prodigiously in battle. The next day, the Frankish lord Tancred pursued and recaptured them, and upon their return they were made to give their public oath that they would not again abandon the cause of Christ and our pilgrimage.
Beth knew that the scribe’s account was true; she had checked the standard historical texts, and Peter’s desertion was well recorded in the annals of the First Crusade. As was the scribe’s account of the siege of Antioch, which immediately followed.
Though the walls of Antioch had been breached, the inner citadel and its defendants still resisted, and we found ourselves besieged in turn by a mighty army led by Kerboga, the Prince of Mosul, and twenty-eight Turkish
