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…”
“That bastard.” Gana’s face turned from bright to threatening as if someone had flipped a switch. “You must understand that the enemies of my family have sent this man to find me. If the local ayatollah receives a clear photo that proves my location, he will send his zealots to kill me. I must defend myself against these jackals.”
Hannibal went to his car wondering if he was adding to the pressure on a man who was already being persecuted. The parking space he had found faced away from his next destination, so once he started his Volvo up he had to drive a block the wrong way, turn left and go over a block, then turn left again. Now he was aimed the right way, but moving slowly on a side street that was too narrow to have cars parked on both sides. This didn’t discourage any of the local residents from parking there, daring any passers-by to ding their vehicles on the way through.
Had he been able to drive any faster he might have missed it. As it was, he had to ride the brake to ease past Ben Cochran’s brown Saturn, distinctive in its inconspicuousness. It seemed that at least one person was still pursuing Gana. Cochran must still have been trying to get a good photo.
Thumbing his steering wheel controls to bring up Led Zepplin, Hannibal considered the possible significance of this otherwise insignificant man. Gana had given a very convincing performance in his kitchen, but something still didn’t feel right. If the Algerian religious establishment had the resources to send spies all the way to America in pursuit of their infidel, would they hire someone as amateurish as Cochran appeared to be? That aside, wouldn’t they find a Muslim to do their spying? Would they hire a man who was so white? Hannibal knew it was dangerous to judge a person by his appearance, but he could not imagine Cochran turning out to be a disciple of Allah. It just did not seemed likely that an angry ayatollah would trust followers who were not of the same faith.
If Gana was who he said he was, who was really after him and why? Hannibal pulled his little notebook from his inside jacket pocket. Gana had come to Washington upper society with an official endorsement. Muting his music to dial his telephone, Hannibal decided to find out just how valuable that endorsement was.
“Good morning. Leon Martin, please.”
9
Irritations seemed to come to Hannibal in clumps. Trying to reach Leon Martin, vice president of the Chemical Banking Corporation, was getting on his nerves. He lost track of how many times he was transferred and put on hold. When his frustration level reached “slap somebody,” he hung up and called Raisa Petrova.
“Mrs. Petrova, it’s important that I speak with your banker. Would he recognized your name.?”
“I should say so,” she said. “We have spoken several times. I handled much of the family financial matters while Nikita was out handling business.”
“Then I need you to get me on the phone with him.”
“And why should I want to do that?” Mrs. Petrova asked. “You are only looking for evidence that will hurt my Viktoriya and her man. You think he’s some sort of fake.”
“Yes, ma’am. And don’t you want to prove me wrong?”
This was the kind of twisted reasoning that Raisa understood. In conference call mode, Hannibal used her as a battering ram against the bastions of New York capitalism.
This verbal battle had taken place mostly while Hannibal was parked under a towering ash on a quiet and shady street about ten minutes west of Gana’s house in the equally upper class Crestwood area. Hannibal had tucked his car in behind a Lexus parked down the block but within sight of the elegant blue-and-white home Cindy
