the case. Unlike the airport with its strict security, the train station offered an easy way to get out of town. No one stopped him as he found an empty seat and put the briefcase directly beside him. It would never leave his sight. Sitting, he grunted from the added weight around his waist. All the bad, cheap food they’d been eating, he thought. With the new money, they’d eat better.
The train pulled out on time and crossed the new bridge over the Ob River. Vladimir looked out the window at the expanse of the west Siberian plain. He rested his hand on the smooth, polished frame that surrounded the window. With the spring sun pouring into the window, the wood felt warm under his fingers. The plain stretched over forests, fields, and factories. The city still ranked as the largest industrial center in Siberia.
He arrived in Turkmenbashi, on the eastern shore of the Caspian Sea, late in the afternoon. As he left the train, he cradled the suitcase with both arms. He reviewed the instructions once again. He was to meet the Arab at the New Independence Monument right at sunset. Vladimir pulled his sleeve back to look at his watch. An hour to go.
He’d have just enough time to make the transfer and get back on the train to return home-good, as he felt uneasy. Not only was he anxious to get rid of the case as soon as possible, but the entire city made him feel he was watched all the time.
The first president after independence from the Soviet Union, Saparmurad Niyasov, had relied upon a personality cult to rule with absolute authority. Huge photos of his face covered billboards, buildings, and posters everywhere. Many streets carried his name. And the crazy monuments he’d built! There was the low, square, dun- colored block building topped by a giant bull. Balanced on the bull’s horns, floated an immense globe. It boasted the name, “Turkmenbashi on Top of the World.”
Vladimir wandered toward the port. The sun had already dropped over the sea to the west, leaving the water colored in blues and grays. A milky light shone around him, illuminating buildings in an eerie glow. He smelled the moist, salty air from the quiet water. A lonely bell clanged.
When he arrived at the Independence Monument, shadows reached out like fingers toward him from low buildings. The monument consisted of an egg-shaped mound on the ground, covered in gold ornamentation, and topped by an immense spire. He would meet the Arab in front of the tall statue in front.
Vladimir reached the point and looked up at the statue. Carved from dark stone, it looked like a fierce Tartar. Full hat, full beard down his chest, he dressed in a long coat that dropped to the statue’s feet. Around the coat, a black cape billowed out as if the wind were blowing it. In his hands, he held a curved, gold scimitar.
Vladimir watched as three crows landed on the scimitar. They cawed their annoyance at his presence.
When he turned around, the Arab stood before him.
Without smiling, the man greeted Vladimir and reached for the briefcase. For a moment, he hung on. “The money?” he asked.
“Of course. I will do it now.” The Arab reached into his coat for a cell phone. A few taps on the keyboard, and he looked back at Vladimir. “Done. Transferred to your account, as before.”
Vladimir waited a few minutes, then keyed in his own cell phone to check the bank account. He didn’t trust these Arabs and despised everything about them. If it weren’t for the money, he wished they’d rot in hell with their terrorists. Satisfied the money had moved, Vladimir handed the case to the Arab.
He accepted it. “Thank you, Mr. Zagorsk. You have done a great thing for Allah. This will help destroy His enemies.”
The feeling of guilt returned to Vladimir.
He peered into Vladimir’s eyes. “You don’t seem well? Don’t worry. It is part of Allah’s plan for all of us.”
He hoped the Arab would never be able to find him, later. But it was a risk he was willing to take for the sake of Nicky. “What will you do with this?” From behind Vladimir, the crows suddenly rose from the scimitar in a cawing clatter and circled twice before heading toward the sea to the west.
“That is beyond what you need to know.”
Twelve
Zehra and BJ stopped before the security checkpoint at the Hennepin County Government Center in Minneapolis. The courtrooms and the prosecutor’s office occupied most of the space above them.
“Why are you working so hard on this one?” BJ asked. “The guy’s a scumbag.”
“I know and I hate everything he stands for, so I’ve got two good reasons to coast. Except for a couple points: if he’s convicted and appeals, he’ll allege inadequacy of counsel-they always do. I’ve got to protect my butt. Also …” Zehra stopped walking while the flow of people continued around them toward the elevators. “I guess, well, I guess it’s my sense of justice. What if he’s really innocent? I’m not saying he deserves it, but if I slack on this I’ve lost my chance to work for a just system.” She looked at the African-American standing next to her and knew he understood.
They arrived at the County Attorney’s floor and asked to see Steve Harmon, the assistant county attorney prosecuting the Ibrahim El-Amin case.
He burst through the door in the lobby, shook both their hands. “Zehra, BJ, two of my favorite defenders.” He invited them through the open door. “Can’t talk you two into coming back to work with the ‘good guys’?”
“Well … there are days …” Zehra said and looked back at BJ, who laughed with her.
After filing into his small office, they sat. “Coffee? Water?” Harmon offered. His blue eyes sparkled.
Zehra shook her head. “You should drink tea, Steve. Better for you. How are things going with the ‘crime fighters’ here?”
Harmon, jacketless, leaned back in his chair and lifted his hands behind his head, where he locked his fingers. Harmon was in his mid-forties-the hardest kind of prosecutor to work against because he was very experienced and clever but young enough to still have energy and drive. Dark hair thinned over his head, which was balanced by a close-clipped beard. The silver flecks throughout shone against his tan skin.
Zehra never forgot how generous he had been to her, when she worked as a prosecutor a few years ago and needed his advice. However, his nickname was “Hardball Harmon” and he wouldn’t offer help now. She looked behind his shoulder and saw the family photo with his teenage kids-a boy and a girl. His boy wore a sweatshirt that named St. Thomas, a local college. Her eyes lingered for a moment because he looked about the same age as the victim in her murder case.
Harmon interrupted her thoughts. “You remember how things are around here. Between my boss, the cops, victims, and the press, I don’t have much time to prosecute!”
“Both sides have their problems,” BJ said.
“And my problem is,” Zehra started, “El-Amin hates women and particularly, me-a Muslim infidel. In the end, I’ll have to try the case anyway.”
“Yeah … the hardest for me are always the ‘not-so-innocent’ victims,” Harmon said.
BJ laughed in recognition of the problem. “Yeah, I remember. Before I worked here, when I was a cop, we’d arrive at the scene of a shooting. Two coked-up dudes fighting over a woman. The first one to pull the gun became the defendant. They’re both strapped so it could’ve just as easily been the other way around.”
Steve dropped his arms and leaned forward over his desk. Energy popped off him. “And you should hear ’em demand their rights! The truly innocent victims-the kids, the rape victims, the old people who get mugged-that’s what bothers me. That’s why I keep working on this treadmill.”
Zehra shifted in her seat. This talk could go on all afternoon. Better to save it for a happy hour somewhere else. “Steve, we’re here to give you notice of an alibi witness BJ found. We’ll file the formal notice and give you the whole statement when our secretary finishes the transcript, but we wanted to talk about it first.”
Suddenly, Harmon’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned over the desk. The light stuff was over. This was business, and he changed completely. “What alibi?”
BJ started, “I’ve been checking and found a guy who says that during the murder, he was with El-Amin at a mosque. He’s an imam and knows El-Amin well.”
Harmon gulped a big breath of air. “Yeah … yeah. Have you checked this guy out? He’s probably a cousin to El-Amin, putting-up for him.”
