Fouad rode with Thera back to town, clinging to her as she worked the bike around the narrow streets before they got to the cafe where he believed he would find the Kurd. The bulletproof vest under her coveralls exaggerated the firmness of her body, but even without it he thought he would find her flesh stiff and hard, not so much the product of exercise or deprivation but an expression of will, as if to be a warrior she had shed everything soft from her.
She had beautifully curly hair, just long enough to peek out of the back of her helmet. She would be quite a pretty wife.
Fouad poked her side as the last turn came up, afraid she would miss it. When she stopped, he felt his legs wobble, his equilibrium shaken by the ride.
“You look like you could use a drink,” said Thera, pulling off her helmet.
“A devout Muslim does not drink.”
“Are you devout?”
Fouad stared as she unzipped the front of her coveralls, forgetting for a second that she had clothes on beneath it.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said, pulling the coveralls down. She left her bulletproof vest on, dropping her oversized
“I wasn’t insulted,” he said.
The image of her undressing stayed with him as he led them inside. Fouad had not seen the Kurd, Abu Nassad, in four or five years. But he recognized the man the instant he saw him across the room, and as their eyes locked he felt the other man’s fear.
There was no reason for Nassad to fear him any longer, but the emotion was reflexive. Fouad approached him across the room, standing over the table and leaning toward him menacingly, though his voice was mild. “I hope you are well, Abu Nassad.”
The Kurd blinked. “Yes.”
Fouad sat in one of the empty chairs. The man sitting next to Nassad looked first to Fouad and then to Nassad before rising and walking over to the other side of the room. The two other men remained sitting, looking at their coffee impassively. There was a pipe on the table; Nassad offered Fouad a smoke, but he shook his head.
Thera and Rankin sat at a table nearby, Thera watching the room and Rankin watching Fouad and the Kurds.
“I’m looking for information about someone,” said Fouad.
“I don’t sell information.”
“I do not buy.” Fouad wished he had a cigarette, not because he felt the need to smoke — he had never been much of a smoker — but because it was a useful prop. There was so much that could be done with it. “Khazaal was here, and I would like to know where he is now.”
Nassad’s face turned pale.
“He’s here still?” asked Fouad.
“No.” Nassad shook his head. “The devil has gone.”
“Very well. Where?”
“It seems to me, Fouad, you owe me a great deal. When last we met you extorted a bribe from me. I would like my money back.”
Fouad turned his anger into a trite frown, as if he weren’t insulted, as if he weren’t angry at being held up by a man whom he could have had executed, whom he could have executed himself. “Where did he go?”
“The old ways do not work anymore,” said Nassad, the effort in his voice obvious. “You cannot intimidate me.”
Oh, but I can, Fouad thought. He leaned across the table. “Where?”
“How much do you want?” said Rankin behind him.
Nassad, who had started to slide back in his seat, sat upright immediately. “Five hundred American.”
“Fifty Euros,” said Rankin.
“Nothing,” said Fouad.
Rankin reached into his pocket and threw a fifty-Euro bill on the table. “Everything you know. Or the Iraqi will show you how angry he is.”
Nassad reached for the bill, but Fouad threw his hand over it.
“Khazaal, the pig, was here,” said the Kurd. “He left in the morning. He paid for a car with a jewel. He’s traveling with jewels, not cash. He has necklaces and gold. Many of them. In a case his bodyguard keeps. Ask his hotel.”
“Which hotel?”
“The Palmyra.”
“Where did he go when he left?” said Rankin.
Nassad shrugged and reached for the money. Fouad let his fingers touch the edge of the bill.
“How many jewels?” said Fouad.
“Khazaal and I are not on speaking terms.”
“What was he trying to buy?”
“Here? What would you buy here?”
“Which direction did he go in?”
Nassad stared at Fouad. Was it fear that he saw in his eyes or defiance? Both maybe.
Rankin, meanwhile, slipped around the back of the Kurd. He had slipped the palm-sized Glock 22 into his hand and pressed it now against the man’s skull. “Answer my friend’s question,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“I think west. Mansura, maybe. He asked about a car and flights out of the airport. I believe he was going to the coast because he said something about the sea.”
“Lebanon? Or Syria?”
Nassad shook his head.
Rankin studied Fouad’s venomous look. It was the hardest expression he’d seen on his face since they had come. Fouad wanted to kill the Kurd. The emotion reassured Rankin; until now the Iraqi had been a blank to him, with no visible emotion, a dangerous mask that could not be trusted, especially in an Iraqi.
“Let him have the money,” Rankin told him. “Whether he deserves it or not.”
Fouad lifted his hand. As the Kurd reached for the money, one of his companions at the table sprang at Fouad, only to find himself spinning and then wrestled to his knees by Thera, who pressed the sharp edge of her knife against the soft part of his neck near his Adam’s apple.
“I’m not holding this very well,” she told him in Arabic. “So you will bleed to death slowly if I kill you. I’m sure you would prefer a painless end.”
The man croaked as he dropped his knife. Thera threw him down, and as someone else moved forward she raised her other hand, revealing a grenade.
A conventional one, not one of the miniature flash-bangs on her vest.
“No pin,” she said.
Fouad rose from the table. He too had drawn a knife. Had Thera not intervened, the man who sprang, would be dead now. The thought made him shudder slightly. He returned the blade to its scabbard beneath his jacket and walked slowly to the door. The others followed.
“The bikes!” said Thera as soon as they were outside. “Go!”
She waited until she could hear the footsteps approaching the door to drop the primed bomb in her hand — it was a smoke grenade — and tossed a pin flash-bang on the ground before running to catch up with the others.
13
As the name suggested, Il Medici had an Italian motif, with buff marble statues and a massive fountain that
