The Navigator

She tried the heavy cast-iron handle. The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open and stepped inside. The gauzy glow of oil lamps illuminated the faces of men hunched over backgammon boards and glasses of tea. The thick choking smoke produced by dozens of cigarettes and water pipes had taken only a slight edge off the sweaty odor of unwashed bodies.

The low murmur of male voices halted, as if a switch had been turned off. Although most of the unshaven faces were cloaked in shadow, she knew that she was the target of hostile eyes.

Two figures detached themselves from a dark corner like creatures crawling out of a swamp. One man slipped around behind her, shut the door, and cut off any possible escape. The other man confronted her head-on. Speaking in Arabic, he growled, “Who are you?”

His breath was foul with stale tobacco and garlic. Resisting the natural impulse to gag, Carina stood to her full five-foot-five-inch height. “Tell Ali that Mechadi wants to see him.”

Female assertiveness had its limits with Arab males. An arm snaked around her neck from behind and squeezed tight. The man standing in front produced a knife and held it so close to her left eye that its sharp point was a blur.

She croaked out a feeble call for help.

The door opened with a crash. The arm relaxed around her neck. Corporal O’Leary stood in the doorway, the muzzle of his carbine pressed against the base of the door guard’s skull. The marine had heard Carina over a walkie-talkie tuned to the same channel as the one clipped to her vest.

A Humvee was parked across the street. The vehicle’s top lights were on, and those inside the teahouse had a clear view of the long barrel of the M2 machine gun mounted on the vehicle’s roof. The gun was aimed at the door. A squad of marines stood in the street with rifles in attack position.

The marine kept his eyes on the man with the knife. “You okay, ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, rubbing her neck. “I’m fine.”

“Crash course I took in Arabic didn’t teach me how to tell this guy I will splatter his brains around the room if his friend doesn’t drop the knife.”

Carina did a rough but effective translation. The knife clattered to the floor, and the marine kicked it out of reach. The thugs almost tripped over themselves as they retreated back into the murk that had spawned them.

A voice called out in English from behind a curtain at the back of the teahouse.

“Peace be upon you.”

Carina responded to the traditional Arabic greeting. “Peace be upon you, Ali.”

A man emerged from between the dingy sheets of cotton that served as curtains and wove his way around the close-packed tables. The light from the Humvee fell on his pudgy face and fleshy nose. A circular knit cap covered his shaven head. His NEW YORK YANKEES T-shirt was too short for his ample body, exposing his hairy belly button.

“Welcome, Signorina Mechadi,” he said. He clasped his palms together. “And to your friends, the same.”

“Your man was about to stick a knife in my eye,” Carina responded. “Is that how you welcome guests?”

Ali’s small, cunning eyes surveyed Carina’s body and lingered on her face. “You’re wearing a military uniform,” he said with an unctuous smile. “Perhaps he thought you were an enemy soldier.”

Carina ignored Ali’s comment. “I want to talk to you.”

The Iraqi scratched a scraggly black beard that had bits of food caught in it. “Of course. Let us step out back and have some tea.”

The marine spoke up. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“I’ll be all right.” Carina surveyed the room. “I wouldn’t mind some insurance, however. As you can see, Ali’s place doesn’t attract the finest clientele.”

The corporal grinned. He poked his head out the door and gave a wave. Several marines piled into the room and took up positions along the walls.

Ali held aside the grubby curtains, opened a metal door, and ushered Carina into a room bright with electric lights. A generator purred in another part of the building. Richly colored rugs covered the floor and walls. A television screen connected to an exterior security camera showed images of the street outside the building. The Humvee was clearly visible.

Ali gestured for Carina to take a seat on a platform piled with large velvet cushions. He offered her tea, which she refused. He poured a glass for himself.

“What brings you out for a visit in the middle of an invasion?”

She met his question with a hard gaze. “I came from the national museum. It’s been looted of thousands of antiquities.”

He lowered his glass in midsip. “That’s outrageous! The national museum is the heart and soul of Iraqi’s cultural heritage.”

Carina laughed out loud at Ali’s feigned shock. “You should have been an actor, Ali. You’d easily win an Academy Award on that line alone.”

Ali had learned his acting skills as a professional wrestler. He had even wrestled in the United States under the name of Ali Babbas.

“How could you think I’d be involved in a heist like that?” He still used some of the American slang he had picked up from his wrestling days.

“No antiquity of value moves in and out of Iraq without your connivance or knowledge.”

Ali had established a worldwide network of procurers, dealers, and collectors. He had cultivated the Saddam Hussein family, and was said to have acquired many objects for the collection of the psychopathic sons, Uday and Qusay.

“I only deal in legal objects. You can search the place if you want to.”

“You’re dishonest but not stupid, Ali. I’m not demanding the return of the minor artifacts. They’re useless for museum purposes without reliable provenance.” She drew a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Ali. “I want these objects. There’s an amnesty. No questions asked.”

He unfolded the paper with his thick fingers. His lips widened in a smile.

“I’m surprised you don’t have the BrooklynBridge on this list.”

“I already own it,” Carina said. “Well?”

He handed the paper back. “Can’t help you.”

Carina tucked it back in her pocket and rose from the cushion. “Okay.”

“Just okay? You’re disappointing me, signorina. I expected you to be your usual pit bull self.”

“I don’t have time. I have to go talk to the Americans.” She headed for the door.

He called after her. “The Americans will have their hands full trying to get the power and water back on.” Carina kept walking. “They left the museum unguarded. Do you think they care about a petty thief like me?”

She put her hand on the doorknob. “I think they’ll care a great deal when they learn of your ties to Saddam Hussein.”

“Everyone in Iraq had ties to Saddam,” Ali said with a guffaw. “I was careful to leave no record of my dealings.”

“That doesn’t matter. The Americans have had itchy trigger fingers since 9/11. I’d suggest that you vacate this building before they target it with one of their smart bombs.”

Ali vaulted from his cushion and lumbered over. The sneer had been replaced by an expression of alarm. He reached out for the paper. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Carina pulled the list out of reach. “I’ve raised the ante. Make your calls now. Don’t tell me that the phones are out. I know you have your own ways to communicate. I’ll wait while you call your people.”

Ali frowned and snatched the list from her hand. He went over and reached under his cushion and pulled out a portable radio. He made several calls, using innocuous language that didn’t betray their purpose. After the last call, he clicked off the radio and set it down on the tea table.

“You will have what you want within forty-eight hours.”

“Make it twenty-four hours,” Carina said. “I can find my way out.” She opened the door and flung a final taunt over her shoulder. “You should stock up on your supply of flashlight batteries.”