glad to see you.”
“No, man, you need your father-daughter time. Besides, I think I’ll make it an early night. Later.”
Hannibal closed the door and counted to ten to make sure Ray wasn’t going to double back for something he forgot. Then he marched to his office door, unlocked it, and stepped through. It locked behind him when he closed it.
Ivanovich was staring at the computer monitor, apparently surfing the Web. His left hand was lying beside his pistol. He glanced up when Hannibal entered, then turned back to whatever he was looking at. Hannibal’s headphones hugged Ivanovich’s head. Hannibal’s eyes traced the cord back to his bookshelf stereo. A compact disc was spinning in the player.
“You went in my tunes,” Hannibal said through clenched teeth. Ivanovich cocked an eyebrow at him and uncovered his left ear.
“You went in my tunes,” Hannibal repeated.
“You make it sound as if I had violated you,” Ivanovich said. He was smiling, but Hannibal was not. Ivanovich eased his hand onto the butt of his gun. “You have an interesting and surprising collection.”
“You were expecting the collected works of Barry White and George Clinton?”
“I wasn’t expecting this.” Ivanovich unplugged the headphones and the industrial thump of Nine Inch Nails filled the room.
Broken, bruised, forgotten, sore,
Too fucked up to care anymore,
Poisoned to the rotten core,
Too fucked up to care anymore!
“That figures,” Hannibal said. “Trent Reznor’s nihilistic lyrics are just perfect for a heartless assassin.”
“Nihilistic?” Ivanovich grinned again, tapping the tip of his silencer against the desk. “Not a word, or even a concept I would have expected from you. But then, you couldn’t be stupid and do what you do. In fact, you must understand human motivations better than most.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular Dr. Phil,” Hannibal said, dropping into his visitor’s chair. “You want a report of today’s progress?”
“That would be good. I was about to order Chinese. What do you like?”
“It ain’t bad enough you bogart my office? I got to eat with you now?”
Ivanovich’s eyes moved down and his smile faded. For a moment, Hannibal thought he had touched something tender.
“No,” he said, his eyes returning to Hannibal. “It is not required that you eat with me. I simply ask you to. Heartless assassin is a lonely life. Even more so for the assassin who has a heart and cannot be with the one he wants to protect. This feeling you now know. In any case, I would have enjoyed a conversation about nihilism, and Kierkegaard’s view of self-actualization. I know you think of such things. Who do you have to discuss them with?”
“I…” Hannibal lowered his eyes and his voice. “I, um… I like General Tso’s chicken.”
8
The next morning found Hannibal parking in Dani Gana’s driveway. His day had begun with a long run, a hot shower, and a modest breakfast. Then he spent the better part of an hour on the telephone with Jamal Krada. The history professor was excited to have come up with a short quiz that he was certain would catch up anyone who was just pretending to be Algerian. Hannibal copied down the questions and answers, then discussed them with Krada. It seemed important to make sure he understood enough background to catch someone who had a surface knowledge of the subjects he would bring up.
As he approached the door, Hannibal mentally rehearsed the conversation he expected to take place inside. But as he reached for the doorbell he heard a scream. It was short, but it was definitely a scream. His right hand dropped to the doorknob while his left reached under his arm. The doorknob turned. Unusual in this city, but not unexpected in this neighborhood.
Hannibal slid his Sig Sauer P229 free of its shoulder holster as he stepped inside, wondering if Gana was finally showing his true colors to the girl. His visit to Krada’s house had shown Hannibal the level of respect Algerians show their women. The front room was dark, all light coming from the kitchen. Fearing for Viktoriya’s safety, Hannibal moved along the wall in silence. As he approached the kitchen, the smell of fried potatoes hung in the air. Had she burned his hash browns? Would that spark a slap in their culture?
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
