Hannibal took his time savoring a mouthful of coffee before he answered. “Nina? Sure. Nice girl. Seems a little young for him.”
“Yeah, well she was his student too. The faculty didn’t take too kindly to it when Dr. Krada took up with her. Then when Nina came down with a bad case of pregnant, Krada had to leave in disgrace.”
“Fascinating, but a little off the topic,” Hannibal said, checking his watch. “I do appreciate the background on Barek, though. I’m actually meeting with his mother today. If nothing else I can tell her that he had loved the woman he married for years. Now, I’ve got to get myself to Embassy Row.”
33
Comparisons between Embassy Row and his own neighborhood in Southeast seemed unavoidable. The buildings were old and crammed together too closely for comfort. Many of the streets were too narrow for two cars to pass, let alone for cars to park on them. And like Hannibal’s neighborhood, city police did their best not to go into the area.
Fortunately, his destination was not clustered with the other embassies on or beside Massachusetts Avenue. Officially “The Chancery of the Embassy of the Kingdom of Morocco,” the building was just outside the area generally thought of as Embassy Row, on 21st Street off Q Street, just a couple of blocks from Dupont Circle. He found a parking garage to store his Volvo in, and walked past the bored looking protesters and beggars to the massive stone edifice that could hold clues to the answers he needed.
He could hear a team of bongo and conga drummers in the outer circle of a fountain, sending their energy out from Dupont Circle. Like so many of the buildings in this part of the city, the embassy had round towers at its corners, like pointed-roofed minarets. It must have appealed to the Moroccans who chose it, most of whom were Sunni Muslims.
Inside, the decor was quite contemporary and more Americanized than he expected. Hannibal walked up to the receptionist, who looked like a teenage Tyra Banks.
“Hello. My name is Hannibal Jones, and I have an appointment with Mrs. Barek.”
“Of course, sir,” the girl said with a smile. “We have been expecting you. You may have a seat in our waiting room but before you do, I am afraid I have to ask you if you are carrying anything that you might need to leave with me before going further into the building. This is simply for security reasons, you understand.”
“Of course.” Hannibal presented his private investigator’s badge. “I show you this, so you will know that I carry this legally.” He then showed her his pistol.
“Thank you sir,” the receptionist said, betraying no reaction at all. “Please leave that with me while you are in the embassy.”
Hannibal was happy to comply. After stowing his pistol in a safe behind her, the receptionist showed him to a comfortable chair in the adjacent bright and airy waiting room. He was on time, but he knew he would have to wait. This was how important people let you know they were more important than you. He didn’t mind. Like the quarters he had to toss at gates on the Dulles Toll Road, waiting was part of the cost of getting to where he needed to be.
After Hannibal demonstrated his patience for twenty minutes, the receptionist ushered him into a cozy sitting room and seated him at a small table. A dark and alluring young woman appeared from an alcove, poured tea from a flowered pot, and left. Then the door opened again and a mature yet striking woman entered the room. Hannibal snapped to his feet.
“Mr. Hannibal Jones? I am Mrs. Fatima Barek.”
He was struck by her perfect posture and elegant bearing as she floated across the tiles toward him. He had expected traditional Muslim garb, but she wore a very American black evening gown that covered her feet without quite touching the floor. Only the click of her heels told him that she wore shoes at all. White kid gloves covered her hands and reached to her upper arm. It was a canny way to keep her entire body covered while giving the appearance of Westernization.
She presented her right hand, at arm’s length, and raised it to shoulder height. Hannibal took just her fingertips between his black-gloved first finger and thumb, gave them a gentle jiggle, and released them. She sat. He sat opposite her. He reached for the pot but she waved his hand away and filled her own cup. He supposed that even when she was the important person in the room, the woman was supposed to pour. She sipped and smiled. He followed suit. She looked at him. He waited.
“Mr. Jones, this is awkward for me. I am still mourning a great loss, and yet I will only be in your country for one day and I need to learn all I can. I understand that you may be able to help me.”
She was heavy, but not fat. Her round face was kindly and loving. Hannibal saw that her son had inherited her obsidian eyes and dark wavy hair. Her skin was maybe a half tone darker than Hannibal’s, but to a casual observer this could be the result of beach time rather than genetics. In some way he could not define, she reminded him of his own mother. It may have been the smile.
“Ma’am, I am very sorry for your loss,” he said, using the words he learned in the Secret Service. “I don’t know what you want to know most, but I will gladly share all I do know. I hope you won’t blame our nation for your son’s misfortune.”
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Barek said. “Our two governments have a long history and this certainly won’t affect it. Did you know, Mr. Jones, that the Kingdom of Morocco was the very first country to recognize the new United States in 1777?”
“I didn’t, but it’s good to know. It’s good to have old friends. I wish I had known your son better than I did.”
He fell silent again, and Mrs. Barek stared at his face for a time. He wondered if her formality, and the ice breaker history lesson, were all avoidance behavior for her. She sipped from her teacup, then said, “Mr. Jones. Would you please honor me by removing your sunglasses so that I can see your eyes more clearly as you speak?”
Had he been rude? As Hannibal thought about it, it seemed obvious that he had, but wearing his shades was a habit. He apologized, pulled his glasses off, and tucked them into an inside jacket pocket. Mrs. Barek noted his eyes and nodded.
“I see you are not entirely a son of Africa yourself,” she said.
“No, ma’am. My father was African American but my mother was German”
“You speak of both in the past tense,” Mrs. Barek said. “You too have known loss.”
“Yes, ma’am. But to survive one’s parents, while painful, is natural. We are not meant to survive our children.”
This time he was certain that her smile was just like his mother’s used to be. “You are very kind,” she said. “Now, please tell me about my son’s death.”
Hannibal examined the portrait of some Moroccan ruler in a military uniform while he gathered his thoughts. He was grateful that this woman was patient. He wanted to get the story right the first time and there were other people’s feelings to consider in addition to hers.
“Here’s what I know,” he said, placing his palms together on the table with his fingers pointing toward her. “Your son apparently entered the country some years ago illegally. Using some very well forged papers and an apparent gift for storytelling, he enrolled in the University of Virginia.”
“I had such plans for Hamed,” Mrs. Barek said. “But he did not want to attend the private school I wanted to send him to, and he wanted to see the world. So, he ran away from home, ran away to America.”
“From all reports he did well academically,” Hannibal said, wanting to say something positive. “But perhaps he was concerned that he would be found out if he stayed in one place too long. He transferred to Howard University. His transfer kept him in touch with a professor he met at UVA who had befriended him. The professor was also an African native. Algerian in fact.”
“This is Dr. Jamal Krada,” Mrs. Barek said.
“Yes ma’am. I didn’t realize you knew of him. Anyway, your son changed his name then, and claimed Liberian citizenship to deepen his cover. Later, when he returned to the States he changed his name again and, I think with Dr. Krada’s help, passed himself off as Algerian. But I’m getting ahead of myself. A couple of important things
