glass, steel reinforced and locked electronically, like a gate to a vault.
Habib unlocked this second door by a combination that he had memorized. As he did this, he shielded his hands from view.
Once the door opened, Habib brought his new contacts into the building. He brought his guests down a long hallway within the center of the first floor. A large gray cat seemed ready to greet Habib but then scurried out of the way at the sight of the visitors.
Habib led his guests into a small room, the principal’s office. Habib drew the blinds and illuminated a small desk lamp.
“Well, welcome,” he said again. “You’ve traveled far?”
“Far enough,” said Jean-Claude.
“Of course,” Habib said. “Of course.”
Habib and his school had frequently been at odds with Italian educational authorities. The government saw Habib’s institution as pushing its own Islamic agenda and not meeting the state standards of the Italian Ministry of Education. Arabic and Koranic schools in Italy were known as gateways of radicalization for European Muslims. Habib’s school was not accredited by the Italian education authorities, and yet three hundred students, mostly the sons and daughters of Egyptian and Syrian immigrants, attended it.
But Habib was also a local hero within his community. Bearded and devout, sometimes genial, sometimes edgy, he projected, overall, a generous grandfatherly image to the families who sent their children to his school. He charged low tuition to working people, and nothing to those who couldn’t afford it. He had also become the target of local fascist groups who denounced Islamic immigration in general-Habib in particular-and Italy ’s new secular laws, which to them seemed to give traditional Roman Catholicism a legal backseat to the faith of the unwashed and newly arrived. He was very much a contradiction. He was a gentle man, but he often drew violence. He had been a merchant for much of his life, and yet he was trained at the university level as a chemist. He was a scholar, but he also dealt with thugs. He was suspicious of everyone, yet trusting of too many individuals. Who knew where his real loyalties actually lay?
Jean-Claude sat quietly with the attache case now across his lap.
“So?” Habib said eventually. “We are here to conduct business?”
“We are,” Jean-Claude answered. “But time matters to me. So we should proceed.”
Jean-Claude placed the attache case on the table. Habib eyed it warily, its latches facing him.
“If you wouldn’t mind, perhaps
Jean-Claude gave a little snort of amusement. “Of course,” he said.
Jean-Claude unlatched it with two loud clicks. Then he turned it back toward Habib.
Habib’s eyes widened. Within the case were several bricks of cash, mostly euros but a significant concentration of American dollars as well, fifties and hundreds, bound together with rubber bands. There were some smaller packets of Swiss francs.
“Count it,” said Jean-Claude.
“With pleasure, I shall.”
Habib flicked quickly through the money, calculating as he counted, coming out with a sum equivalent to almost sixty thousand American dollars.
Finally, Habib smiled. “Very well. Very close to the proper amount, giving consideration to the current rates of exchange. So you have made yourself a purchase,” he said. “It is an honor. But…,” he said, raising his gray eyebrows in exaggerated surprise, “something perplexes me. May I inquire upon a point?”
Jean-Claude fixed him with a chilly glare, then nodded.
“A few short weeks ago,” Habib posed, “when we negotiated a price, you stated that you had acquired a piece of art that you were engaged in selling. And yet the price I demanded was considerably higher than what you stood to receive upon that sale. We had quite an argument, if I recall. Yet you arrive here today on an afternoon’s notice with everything that I asked for. That suggests that other funds have come from other sources, which further suggests the involvement of others beyond our immediate circle. As you might imagine, that alarms me.”
Jean-Claude’s tone was flat. “It shouldn’t,” he said.
Jean-Claude had made his living acquiring coveted property, then selling it. But it had often occurred to him that one could make even more money by selling the same item more than once. One particular purchaser from the Orient had paid in full for the artwork but then met with a terrible accident before he could take possession of the object in question. Jean-Claude, of course, mourned the man’s ill fortune but was able to secure a second bid very quickly from an Italian businessman. The latter gentleman delivered a fifty percent down payment.
It’s too bad, Jean-Claude mused, that he would also not be able to sell the item a third time. But sometimes a dealer had no choice except to complete a transaction.
“My first buyer met an unfortunate end. After payment was made. I have since found a second buyer. Now, where is our cargo?”
“Not far from here.”
“We can retrieve it now?”
Habib opened his hands in an expansive gesture. “Of course,” he said. “We will go for a short drive. As soon as I lock up the money.”
“Have it your own way,” Jean-Claude said. “Do you also wish to have your own bodyguards come with us now?”
Habib shrugged and laughed. “And why should I, my friend? You come here through an honest and devout contact in Madrid. You have paid in cash for the merchandise you want. You appear to be pious and a man of honor.” Habib also gave a pat to his midsection to indicate that he was carrying a pistol. “And I have taken some small precautions. Aside from that, what can I do? My enemies are not you, my brothers in Islam, but rather the Americans, the Zionists, and the Christian fascists here in Italy. Some day, I know, they will come and kill me, but,
“Understood,” said Jean-Claude with a slight nod.
“You will then excuse me for one minute?” Habib asked.
Jean-Claude’s gunmen stepped aside to allow Habib to go to the door and leave the room. Habib left the door open. Jean-Claude listened to the sound of his footsteps and the direction the older man walked with the attache case. The men in the room exchanged glances but said nothing.
Less than three minutes later, Habib returned.
“Very well,” Habib announced to the room. “Your merchandise is at a farmhouse nearby. I have a van, my friends,” Habib said. “We can all go together or you can follow if you wish to use your own vehicle.”
“For safety’s sake, we will use our own vehicle,” Jean-Claude said.
“Then let us complete our business.”
THREE
NAPLES, ITALY, AUGUST 26
Five minutes later, Habib was on the road that exited Naples to the south. Ten minutes later, he was outside the city limits, driving steadily through the night, one eye on the road, one eye on his rearview mirror. His van was small, old, and drafty. It rattled. From a tape player bolted to the dashboard, Arabic music whined softly, a stream of ballads by Kazeem Al-Saher, the Iraqi pop icon who now made megahits in Lebanon.
In the follow-up car, which bore French plates, one of Jean-Claude’s guards drove while Jean-Claude rode shotgun. The third man was in the backseat.
Both cars moved quickly. The night was cloudy, but there were stars. The drive took another quarter of an hour on main arteries and then Habib led the way onto a side road. Next he accessed a smaller one. They went through farmland; vineyards, it looked like to Jean-Claude. Then they were on a long driveway in an area that was surprisingly rural. Finally, Habib’s van rolled to a halt, and the following car came to a standstill a few meters behind it.
