Girls of Yellow Read online

  “You did the right thing, Ish,” Ali said. “Now I need you to do one more thing for me.”

  Ismael stared at him with a blank face.

  “Go back to work,” Ali said. “Forget about all this, and stay away from me.”

  “The thing is, A, my search got flagged. Someone put a marker on all those murders.”

  “How do you know?” Ali said.

  “I got a phone call.”

  Footsteps sounded from the direction of the stairwell. Ismael’s eyes fell toward the floor as a man appeared.

  “There he is,” Zaman said, wearing his shit-eating grin. “The Dhimmi Lover, himself.”

  Ali cursed under his breath. His investigation was over. Now that Zaman had evidence that Ali had gone off on his own and discovered the other murders, even the General wouldn’t be able to help his son-in-law. Ali had overstepped his bounds and acquired knowledge that was dangerous to one’s career track, if not more.

  “Who would have thought it would turn out to be true?” Zaman said, still smiling. “Is it not unbelievable? A crisis of conscience or some such mental illness for the guy least likely to give a shit about a dhimmi, the man whose father gave shelter to more soldiers than all of Pakistan back in the day.”

  Ali’s face flushed. “What about the next girl, Captain? Does it bother you at all that it’s just a matter of time before he kills again?”

  “I have to use the toilet,” Ismael said, and disappeared toward the stairs.

  Zaman turned serious. “Actually, it troubles me more than you’ll ever know. You think I became a cop because I don’t care about the law—yes, even the laws for the protection of dhimmis? Unfortunately, sometimes the real world forces you to compromise your ideals for the greater good.”

  “And we can’t have a serial killer running around Eurabia during the Intertheocratic Conference, can we?”

  Zaman bared his teeth. “If you value your life, you’ll never use that phrase again, and you won’t make any inquiries into crimes committed outside of Budapest, either. If you do, no one will help you, that I promise you. Now follow me to my office. I want you to tell me everything you know about this murder—these murders—and how you learned it.”

  Zaman led him into the elevator. As they walked, Ali’s mind went to the murders he’d known in his youth. Once again he saw the five boys who’d been staying with his family run into a temple wearing their rucksacks. A moment later the building blew up. Ali wasn’t sure what made him happier back then, that the temple contained dead Jews or the corpses of the boys he’d hated so much. Now the thought of being happy that any human being had been blown up seemed wrong. Now that he was a parent, the thought of teaching a child to hate made him sick.

  “Does it ever bother you?” Ali said.

  “Does what bother me?” Zaman said.

  “That they’re in the process of becoming an endangered species, like the man-eating tigers in Bangladesh.”

  “Bangladesh?” Zaman frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The dhimmis. The fewer of them that are left, the more they deserve their rightful protection under the law, don’t you think? Otherwise they’ll become extinct and how can extinction of any living thing possibly be good?”

  “That’s something for our betters to worry about,” Zaman said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because they’re rich and they don’t have to worry about keeping their jobs.”

  “But don’t you think every person is accountable for his actions in this life and the next?

  Zaman looked genuinely concerned for his subordinate’s mental health. “What’s happened to you, Ali? Why won’t you let go of this case?”

  “If you have to ask that, then you won’t understand. It’s a calling.”

  “I thought Islam is our calling.”

  “It is. That’s the thing. Islam and this murder investigation. They’re one and the same.”

  “How’s that exactly?”

  “The dead girl was the scum of the Earth just like we all used to be. Not even her parents could provide for her—they gave her up for a life of slavery, a life of misery we Arabs can understand. Who if not a Muslim cop is going to seek justice for her? Who else is going to care for the ones that no one else cares about?”

  “Ali,” Zaman said, “you’re scaring me.”

  Ali shrugged. This was the moment where a man might have answered, “That makes two of us.” But that would have been a lie, Ali thought, because he wasn’t frightened at all. And it was this realization, in fact, that scared the living shit out of him.

  They arrived on the main floor and the elevator door opened. Zaman stepped out first and headed for his office, no doubt assuming Ali would follow. But Ali ignored him and marched straight to the front door and out the station.

  The last thing Ali heard was Zaman repeating his name over and over again, each time successively louder, until the station door slammed shut and Ali couldn’t hear anyone’s voice but his own.

  CHAPTER 16

  Elise liked the Cardinal who delivered the speech on the need for religious enlightenment at the Intertheocratic Conference. He was reviled in certain Catholic circles for being too progressive. He embraced gays, birth control and female priests, and she admired him for being his own man. She also sympathized with him because his philosophy made him a target for assassination by haters within his religion as well as those outside it. Maybe this was why his speech on religious enlightenment ran forty-five minutes longer than planned. Perhaps he wanted to get his words in while he was still alive. But more likely, Elise thought, like all great orators, he simply loved the sound of his own voice.

  As a result of his speech running so long, Elise didn’t complete her translation duties until early afternoon. She skipped lunch, swapped her diplomatic ID for that of the morality police, and hopped onto her bicycle. By the time she arrived at the Persian School of Dressmaking, she was out of breath and the students from Imam Salim’s training school were rising from their seats under the same teacher’s supervision.

  Elise stood beside Miss Mona, who’d welcomed her with a smile and brought her back into the classroom for her second visit. They watched as the students fell into formation and left. Elise found Valerie in the same seat as yesterday and made sure to steal only a glance for fear Miss Mona or the teacher would notice if she stared.

  “The children worked on bridal dresses today,” Miss Mona said. “That’s our couture store’s specialty, but the girls were working on entry level models that would appeal to the wife of a working class Eurabian.”

  “One has to learn to speak before one can sing,” Elise said.

  “Quite right.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that you refer to the children as … well … children.”

  “As opposed to?” Miss Mona said.

  “I believe the proper Eurabian term for the young and indentured is ‘specimen.’”

  “I’m the mother of two boys and three girls.” Miss Mona slipped her arm under the crook of Elise’s elbow and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Legally they may be specimens but to us they’re children, are they not Miss Kawlah?”

  Elise indulged in another glance at her sister before the girl left, and felt a tug at the corner of her eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Elise said. “They most certainly are.”

  Miss Mona withdrew her arm and smiled again. “I’m so happy you returned today. I take it as a sign that you’re genuinely interested in a potential partnership.”

  “Most definitely,” Elise said. “I thought we could discuss curriculum, how you’d handle the demand on your teachers and resources, that sort of thing.”

  What Elise really needed to do was get to the kitchenette within the next five minutes because Valerie would be waiting for her.

  “I would welcome such a discussion,” Miss Mona said, her voice suddenly stern, “but I think it’s a bit premature.”

  “Yes,”
Elise said robotically, before realizing what Miss Mona had just said. “Wait. Premature? Why is that?”

  “Because you’ve been lying to me.”

  “What?” Elise focused on looking outraged and not betraying her surprise.

  “And you lied to Mister Zaid, and when one lies to Mister Zaid, one is lying to Imam Salim. And that is not tolerated.”

  Elise raised her chin and added some pepper to her voice. “This is a serious accusation. What is it I presumably lied about?”

  “Your family tree.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mister Zaid called Imam Labib of the Maldives this morning. He has no plans to expand his training school into a franchise. He’s never heard of the plan you proposed, and he’s never heard of you. He has no cousin named Kawlah Ahmed.”

  A muscular man in a black leather jacket ambled toward them. Elise hadn’t seen him enter the classroom so he must have been lurking behind a rack of clothing or one of the support beams that held up the roof. His eyes were as dark and as lifeless as his jacket, and Elise guessed the bodyguard’s blood pressure would barely rise if he had to kill her.

  “That is ridiculous,” Elise said. When the lie was exposed, the only course of action was to deny the truth. “There must be some misunderstanding. Mister Zaid must have called the wrong Imam Labib.”

  Miss Mona started to speak but stopped and frowned instead. “Are there two of them?”

  “Evidently.”

  Miss Mona considered this for a moment. “We’ll get to the bottom of this when Mister Zaid gets here.”

  “We certainly will,” Elise said. “Do you expect him soon?”

  “Any minute.”

  Miss Mona glanced from Elise to the bodyguard and back to Elise. The sequence left no doubt that if Elise tried to leave, he would stop her.

  Miss Mona said, “You’ll wait here until then.”

  “And so shall you,” Elise said.

  Miss Mona wrinkled her brow, just enough to confirm Elise had cast doubt on whether Kawlah Ahmed had fabricated a story about a fictional cousin named Labid, or if there’d been a genuine misunderstanding.

  “May I have a glass of water while I wait?” Elise said. “Don’t trouble yourself. I know my way to the water cooler.”

  Elise bounded toward the kitchenette without waiting for an answer. She kept Miss Mona and the bodyguard within her peripheral vision. They stepped toward each other and exchanged whispers. As Elise approached the kitchenette, fresh voices could be heard coming from the direction of the front lobby.

  Zaid had arrived, Elise thought. She didn’t have much time.

  Elise held her breath as she approached the entrance to the kitchenette, fantasizing that Valerie would be there with her back to her just as before. But although the window was cracked open, the room was empty.

  Elise poured herself a glass of water and stood close to the doorway where she could hear voices if they approached but remain out of sight. The water did little to settle her. Such was her plight, she thought. She wouldn’t know peace until she acquired the alleged treasure from the man in the wheelchair for Christendom and extracted her sister from Eurabia.

  A rustling noise sounded outside the window.

  Elise slipped behind the water cooler to prevent Valerie from seeing her. Valerie descended through the window, back to the room, one leg at a time. Her feet barely kissed the table between a pile of napkins and a pastry knife before she vaulted onto the floor with a perfect dismount.

  “Back for another smoke?” Elise said.

  Valerie glanced at her, let out a muted gasp, and brought her hand to her lips to seal them. “You’re really here,” she said.

  “And so are you,” Elise said.

  Valerie glanced at the cabinet where the teas were stored, and then turned back to Elise, who shrugged with indifference. Then Valerie sealed her lips and burst into action. She whipped the cabinet open, pulled out three cigarettes, and quickly put everything back in place.

  Eyes brimming with excitement, Valerie reached out and offered Elise one of the cigarettes.

  “What, only one for me, and two for you?” Elise said.

  Valerie swallowed, put a second cigarette in the palm of her right hand, and offered them both to Elise.

  “I’m just kidding, Miss Safa,” Elise said. “You keep all three.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Elise remained expressionless.

  Valerie put the cigarettes in her pocket.

  “Why do you smoke?” Elise said.

  Valerie shrugged. Then a light flickered in her eyes. “Why does the morality police smoke?”

  “Because the morality police—like everyone else—is immoral every once in a while. Because it makes me feel good. Do you not feel good when you’re not smoking?”

  Valerie shrugged.

  “Do you not like it at Imam Salim’s school?”

  Valerie’s expression brightened. “I like it a lot.” Then just as quickly, she cast her eyes downward. “For as long as I’m here, I guess.”

  “Have you been told you’ll be leaving soon?” Elise wondered if someone had bought Valerie.

  “I’ve been taking special lessons lately,” Valerie said.

  “What kind of lessons?”

  At first Valerie hesitated and blushed. But then she became animated.

  “Men are the protectors of women,” she said like a machine, “because Allah has given one more strength than the other, and because they support them from their means. The world is just temporary consciousness and the best comfort in the world is a righteous woman. Do you ever … do you ever get scared, Miss Kawlah?”

  “Only when I’m awake,” Elise said.

  Valerie pursed her lips with determination. “I’m not scared,” she said.

  “What are you not scared of?”

  Valerie shook her head.

  “You can trust me,” Elise said. “What are you not scared of, Miss Safa?”

  “I want to be free.”

  “Of what?”

  “The future.”

  “What if I told you I can help you?”

  Valerie’s eyes flickered before fear settled in. “I don’t think so …” She stepped toward the window. “I have to go. They’ll be looking for me.”

  “I’ll protect you,” Elise said.

  Valerie stopped. “Why?”

  “Because …”

  A man’s voice bellowed outside the kitchenette. It sounded like Zaid. The sound of rushing footsteps followed.

  “Because it’s my mission,” Elise said. She darted toward the window. “Quick. We need to get out. Now.”

  Valerie scooted up and out the window and Elise followed. They raced down an alley that looped around an adjacent building. When the street came into sight, Elise told her to stop. She wished she could whisk Valerie away right now but she had nowhere to hide her. The hotels where the delegations from the foreign kingdoms stayed were under constant surveillance for the delegates’ protection. Until she made arrangements with Darby, Elise was powerless.

  And this realization perpetrated an eerie premonition that this was her only opportunity and she was blowing it, that not only would she never be alone with Valerie again, but she might never lay eyes on her little sister again, either …

  Elise wanted to scream, tear the guts out of Eurabia, get two first-class tickets on that fucking time machine Darby had mentioned as a joke, do something …

  A random car honked its horn.

  Elise recovered her senses. “Can you meet me tomorrow?” she said.

  Valerie hesitated. “Where?”

  “By the statue of the little princess by the Danube.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you want to be free of the future?”

  Valerie didn’t answer.

  “Can you sneak away tomorrow? Can you get away without getting caught?”

  This time she nodded.

  “Good,” Elise said. “What time?”
>
  “Hmm.” Valerie maintained enough composure to actually contemplate the time. “Afternoon is better. Before dinner would be best. The guards get tired and the staff is preparing food. Four o’clock?”

  “Four it is.”

  Valerie ran to the street and took a left. Elise let her run ahead, then followed. When she got to the corner, Elise stole a glance and saw an angry man—probably one of the schoolmasters—chewing out Valerie in front of the door to a minibus with tinted windows.

  Elise took a right and continued walking in the opposite direction, oblivious to her surroundings, vaguely aware that she’d have to double-back at some point to retrieve her bicycle, knowing that the extraction of Valerie from Eurabia remained a long shot, yet euphoric that she now had a legitimate chance of succeeding.

  CHAPTER 17

  Ali saw the minibus in front of the entrance to the Persian School of Dressmaking and double-parked next to the least valuable car near the curb, a canary yellow Fiat shaped like a coffin on wheels. He tried to see who was aboard the minibus but the blackened windows prevented him from getting a glimpse inside. He paid no attention to the alley on the nearside of the building where the dressmaking school was located. At first he thought he could see teenage faces gathered at the rear window looking back at him. But the closer he got the darker the tint became and the less he could see.

  A clattering noise registered behind him. It sounded vaguely familiar but he paid no attention to it because he was so focused on the window. By the time he realized it was the sound of footsteps rushing toward him, it was too late.

  The soldiers burst out of the alley aiming rifles at him. There were more of them than he could count and they were upon him immediately.

  “Hands up, kneel down. Hands up, kneel down.”

  “I’m a cop,” Ali said. “I’m a cop.”

  “We know who you are, Dhimmi Lover. Hands up, kneel down. Now.”

  Ali caught a glimpse of the patch on the sleeve of a soldier’s green uniform before the man slipped a black sheath over Ali’s head and rendered him blind. The patch featured the ever-present white crescent moon against a red circular background. It identified the soldiers to be members of the Caliphate’s Republican Guard, the most elite fighting unit in all of Eurabia.