Date with a Sheesha (26 page)

Not relish. Not experience. I just want to sit in front of a TV or with a good book and eat. And for me, the best (and most travel-worthy) comfort food is red, Pull-n-Peel licorice.

I retrieved my sweet treat from my carry-on, where I always keep a bag stored just for such an occasion, along with a Snickers 176

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bar (in case I needed a second course). That, plus a diet cola from the mini-bar, and I’d be set. As I arranged my banquet, mouth watering, on the night table next to the bed, I caught sight of the phone. A pang of guilt replaced the one of hunger. I’d yet to contact my client. I checked my watch. Not quite noon in Saskatoon.

I dug out my cellphone and dialled. Cellphones are great. Not only do they cost much less to use than what most hotels charge for calling out, they now work almost anywhere in the world.

And assuming the person you’re calling also has one, you never have to wonder where they are or which number to call them at.

Maybe Hema had a similar love affair with her BlackBerry.

Perhaps I should cut her some slack?

“Hello?” came a voice from across the globe.

“Mr. Gupta, it’s Russell Quant.”

“Oh, Mr. Quant. How timely. I’m just sitting down to lunch with Unnati and Mr. Cardinale. You’ve met Colin, have you not?

The executive director of the upcoming carpet symposium?”

I pictured the dark lord in my mind. “Yes, I have.”

“Tell me, how are things going? What have you found out?”

I gave my client a general briefing on my last few days. He remained admirably silent until I was done.

“Oh, but Mr. Quant, do you really believe this carpet you are after in Saudi Arabia is the key to my son’s murder? What about those gay men you met? Could one of them know something?

Maybe they know of someone who did not like Nayan because of his homosexuality. If they themselves have been abused and beaten, perhaps they might know if this is what happened to my son.

What do you call it, a gay-smashing? If someone smashed my son because he was gay, you must find them. And then they must be persecuted. Like they persecuted my son.”

I let the man vent. He deserved it. Although he might not understand it now, I knew the only way for me to serve his cause—which was to find out how and why his son was killed—

was to not allow my judgment to be swayed by what he’d already concluded to be true.

“Mr. Gupta,” I began slowly, “the man I met at the Burj Al Arab—”

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“Yes, yes, what about him? Do you think he had something to do with it?”

“No. He was a very good friend to your son. They had a relationship.”

“I see. I see. What of it?”

“He and your son were to have met—”

“Yes, I know. You told me this.”

“Neil told him that if he didn’t show up, it meant he was in trouble.”

“You see. You see. I was right.”

“And he told him, that if he didn’t show up, he should contact you.”

Silence at the other end of the line.

After a beat, I continued. “He was to ask you to send help.

And to find Saffron, who I now know to be a person in Saudi Arabia. I’m going there to meet Saffron.”

“I see.”

I could hear chattering at the other end of the line; Unnati’s voice asking her husband if he was all right, Colin wondering what I was saying.

“Mr. Gupta…?”

“He knew he was in danger then?” the voice subdued.

“I believe so.”

“And he wanted my help…asked for my help?”

“Yes.”

Quiet.

“Although the farewell party in Dubai was a ruse, I believe he went because of something this man in Saudi said to him, and quite possibly because of the Zinko rug.”

“Yes. You may be right.” His voice was quiet. Changed.

“It’s only one possibility, Mr. Gupta. If I find nothing in Saudi tomorrow, I will return to Dubai. I’ll see what more I can find out there.”

“Yes. Of course. Do what you think is best.”

“Mr. Gupta, could I speak with Colin for a moment?”

“One thing, Mr. Quant.”

“Yes?”

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“My son wanted me to send help. And there you are. I want to tell you, thank you.”

Deep breath. “I will do my best to help
you
now, Mr. Gupta.”

I heard background noises again, then Colin’s voice on the phone: “Mr. Quant?”

I could picture his sneering handsomeness seated at a beautifully set luncheon table, with sparkling flatware and white linens, probably a glass of white in his manicured hand. “Yes. Colin, I’ve run into something here that maybe you, as a carpet specialist, can tell me more about.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“The Zinko carpet. Neil seems to have been very keen to find it, buy it, and bring it back for your collection at the U of S. I wonder if you can tell me if this thing is for real. Or was Neil on some fool’s errand? And if not, what is the Zinko really worth today?”

And, is it worth killing over? But I left that question for later.

There was nothing at first from the other end of the line, then,

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Quant.”

Ah, gone were the good old days when he called me Russell.

Or was that for just a few minutes last week? “You’ve never heard of the Zinko carpet? Or you just don’t believe it’s real?”

“The former. Which, I suppose, makes the latter true as well.”

Couldn’t he just say “yes”?

“Could you maybe ask around? Maybe some of your colleagues, Unnati perhaps…?”

“Perhaps.” More background noise. It sounded as if their lunch had arrived. “Goodbye, then.”

And he hung up.

Was it a bad thing that I wanted Colin Cardinale to choke (just a bit) on his medium rare filet with blue cheese rub, or perhaps his endive salad with prosciutto?

But never mind that. I had my own culinary delight to get to.

After a quick shower, I dug out my Louise Penny mystery, and headed buck-naked back to bed and my Pull-n-Peel. I tugged back the quilt and stared at what lay waiting there for me.

Black petals.

A cool snake wound its way up my spine.

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These petals were meant for me. Not Neil. Me.

Blessing? Curse?

I’m an optimist. But not stupid. I wasn’t betting on this being a blessing.

I startled at the sound of a sharp rapping at the door.

“Russell!” the voice on the other side demanded.

I threw on a bathrobe and rushed to the door.

Hema was standing on the other side, pale as riverbed gold, lips quivering. “Where were you?”

I ignored the accusation in her voice. Something was very wrong. “Hema, what is it?”

“Alastair called. Umar is dead.”

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Chapter 13

“What happened to him?” Ethan asked.

I called him as soon as I got Hema settled, less chillingly rat-tled, back in her own room. There was nothing we could do for Umar. We had a big day tomorrow. We needed our rest. But as soon as she was gone, and I again caught sight of the black petals in my bed, the last thing on my mind was sleep. I dialled home in need of a bit of digital hugging. The whole thing, the petals, Umar, my doubts about whether or not I was on the right track, my cheerless telephone call to my client, heading deeper into the Middle East tomorrow like a locomotive with no engineer, was causing me, uncharacteristically, to become a little unhinged. I was beginning to feel unsure, unconfident, and unsafe.

“Apparently it was an accident,” I answered. “On his way back to Dubai after dropping us off in Fujairah.”

“Apparently?” Ethan could read me like a recipe for boiling water.

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guy from the university, called. When I wasn’t here, he asked for Hema. Anyway, the police found Umar’s car run off the road.

Overturned and burnt out. As if it had exploded or something.”

“That can happen, Russell. Maybe he was going too fast, or the road conditions…?”

“I suppose. But Alastair told Hema he’d driven that road a million times before. And I know that road. We were just on it. It’s in very good shape. Better than a lot of Saskatchewan highways.

There was no reason…no reason.” I fell silent.

“Are you okay?”

He seemed to be asking me that a lot. “I don’t know.”

“Come home.” The words were simple, strong, compelling.

There was nothing I wanted more. But something about Umar’s death didn’t sit right with me. And if it had something to do with my investigation, perhaps with what someone thought Umar might know about my meeting with Fahd in Fujairah, then the last thing I was going to do was be run off. Not my style.

But I still wished I could go home. It’d be so easy. “Say it again,” I murmured. Now I was just being shamelessly needy, like a full-grown German Shepherd rolled over, legs in the air, begging for a belly scratch.

“I mean it, Russell. You’re in a dangerous part of the world.

Dangerous things are starting to happen around you. Get out.

Come home. I’m worried about you. You’re all alone out there.”

“I’m not alone,” I quickly—too quickly—replied. “I’ve got…I’ve got Hema.”

“Oh yeah, she sounds like a real support. I’m sure you’ll be bff’s even after all this is done.”

“She’s coming around. Really. She touched my hand the other day.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I’m okay, Ethan. Really I am. I just got a little spooked tonight. I feel much better talking to you, hearing your voice.

Thank you.”

“Saudi Arabia tomorrow?”

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of my next destination. “Yeah.”

“Don’t you need special visas or something to get in there?”

“Yes. That’s the magic of working with two powerful universities as our sponsors. They’d already approved a visa for Neil. I suppose extending it to cover us didn’t take too much wran-gling.”

“Be careful, hon.”

“I will.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

Our Oman Air flight didn’t depart until one o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, so I used part of the morning to work off some tension in the hotel’s gym facility. Then, over a spartan brunch, Hema and I studied the university-provided list of dos and don’ts for our upcoming visit to Jeddah. Dress conservatively. No shorts in public (no matter how hot it gets.) Don’t be Jewish. Carry your pass-port with you at all times. Stay away from the
mutaween
(religious police). Don’t drive (Saudi Arabia has one of the highest incidents of road fatalities in the world.) Don’t share a hotel room unless you’re married. Alcohol is prohibited. Affection between men and women is prohibited. Affection between men and men is okey-dokey. Use your right hand for everything.

The don’ts far surpassed the dos.

At the last possible moment, Hema decked herself out in the requisite head-to-toe black
abeyya
, and we were off to the airport.

The plane departed on time. After a ninety-minute stopover in Muscat, we arrived in Jeddah at six p.m. Once again, the university had arranged for a guide. Semir met us in the arrivals area and immediately transported us to our hotel. The Jeddah Hilton was a strikingly modern building, with a unique triangular design and views of the Red Sea and an attractive stretch of North Corniche Road. However, as evening market hours had already begun and there was a lot to do, we had no time to enjoy it. We arranged for Semir to pick us up at the hotel’s front doors at eight p.m.

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We checked in, and I headed for my room to freshen up and unpack. Instead, I was accosted by the unexpected.

“Russell, old man! Imagine finding you in a posh place like this!”

Alastair Hallwood.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” I haltingly accepted the man’s outstretched hand.

“Oh, just passing through,” he said with his usual hooting laugh and a toothy grin. “You know how it is for us international types. One day the Jeddah Hilton, on to the Bangkok Four Seasons the next, then it’s the Ritz in Kiev.”

I stared.

“Okay, you’ve rumbled me. I was worried about my beautiful pheasant after we talked on the phone last night. I came to see if I could help.”

“Hema? You came to Jeddah because of Hema?”

“That’s right, mate. She was distraught beyond belief. You didn’t hear her. She took that poor sod’s death quite hard, you know.”

“So you just hopped a flight to Saudi Arabia?”

“It’s not difficult for me, Russell, ol’ chap. I’m back and forth several times a year on university biz. They’re used to me here.

Don’t even look at me twice at the airport. Even though a handsome lad like myself is hard to miss. Now where is she? You haven’t gone and lost her already, have you?”

I was still perplexed, and it must have showed.

“Russell,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder and lower-ing his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She told me everything.