Girls of Yellow Page 4

  “Tormenting a citizen, naturally.”

  Faraz blinked three times as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “Do you know who I am? Do you know who my business partners are? Answer my question you insolent bitch or I’ll have you under the whip tomorrow morning.”

  “It’ll be difficult for you to have me under the whip tomorrow morning if it’s busy lashing your back two hundred times in front of the parliament building where all your government partners will be able to see you for the degenerate sinner that you are.”

  Faraz blinked three more times. “Remember my face, woman. Let it be the one you think of when you take your last breath. I’m going to make some phone calls tonight and then we’ll see what happens to you tomorrow.”

  He peered in to study Elise’s ID but she closed her wallet before he could read her name.

  “You have a slave by the name of Safa?” Elise said. “A child you acquired through your connections with your business partners?”

  Faraz hesitated, no doubt digesting the realization that the religious police hadn’t arrived at his home to discuss a minor issue. Consternation replaced some—but not all—of the outrage in his expression.

  “What about her?” he said.

  “How old is the girl?”

  Faraz turned and shouted the same question toward a room deeper inside the house.

  “Fourteen,” one of the wives shouted back.

  Elise said, “Is she present in your home right now?”

  “She’s part of our family,” Faraz said. “Of course she’s here.”

  Elise smiled on the inside. Three years of relentless research and pursuit of false leads were finally about to be rewarded. Only wood and wallboard stood between her and Valerie now.

  “Then please let me into your home. I must speak with her immediately.”

  “Lick my ass,” Faraz said, and started to close the door.

  “Prostituting your slave is a crime against Allah.”

  Faraz pulled the door back open. Lines sprang on his greasy forehead. He seemed as genuinely horrified as he was surprised at the bogus accusation.

  “Justice must be served,” Elise said.

  “How dare you make such an accusation?”

  “Justice will be served.”

  “This is outrageous. What is your proof? Where is your evidence?”

  “You can cooperate and submit to an interview here, in your home, right now, or be hauled out of your office tomorrow and explain yourself to a prosecutor whose deficiency in sleep will be exceeded only by his lack of patience.”

  Faraz flung the door open and squared himself, fists balled. “You think I’m going to let you leave my sight when you’ve made such a libelous statement? Your mother’s vagina,” he said. Arabic insults typically referred to one’s family or sex. “Get in here and explain yourself, now.”

  “That doesn’t sound very welcoming, sir. It’s been a long, hot day filled with awful speak of reprehensible behavior. A glass of water and an understanding tone would be appreciated.”

  Faraz took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly. Then he contorted his expression into something that might have amounted to a smile among condemned men.

  “May I see your credentials again so that I may address you properly?” he said.

  Elise complied with his wish.

  Faraz leaned forward and scrunched his eyes. “Kawlah Ahmed. That is your name?”

  Elise didn’t bother answering. She just stared at him like the morally judgmental, Arabian bitch-goddess she was pretending to be, wondering if she needed to be worried about being discovered. If Faraz were to call one of his friends and have them verify her identity, Elise would likely survive the test. Her name was in the computer database and she bore a distant resemblance to the real Kawlah. Elise knew she would fail a more careful rigorous investigation that included deep background or biometric checks, but those were not tests she needed to worry about in the banker’s home tonight.

  Five minutes later she was seated in Faraz’s study drinking tea. Book collections in burgundy and green leather bindings lined paneled shelves made of walnut. All of the names on the bindings were in the city’s native language.

  “You speak Hungarian?” Elise said.

  “I speak whatever language is necessary to make money. You have your beverage, you’re being treated with more hospitality than you or your kind deserve. Now tell me about these lies someone has been spreading about me before I get upset and slit your throat where you sit.”

  “I’ll conduct the interview, Mr. Faraz. Thank you very much. And if your responses please me, then I perhaps I’ll answer one of your questions. Describe the details of Safa’s adoption.”

  “We did nothing wrong. It’s a Muslim’s right to share in the spoils of war. As the great Saudi cleric, Sheik Saleh Al-Fawzan, once said, ‘slavery is part of jihad and jihad will remain as long as there is Islam.’ All our arrangements were entirely lawful.”

  “I didn’t say they weren’t.”

  “The Deputy Minister of Defense is a friend of mine. He helped us make arrangements with the Department of Slave Procurement to acquire a raw specimen.”

  “A specimen?”

  “A child at birth. Someone without life experience, emotional attachments or knowledge of any religion other than Islam. A girl whom we could mold to become a serving dependent. We paid a little extra to buy the mother’s full cooperation. It’s preferable to acquiring a baby without the mother’s cooperation. Less risk of latent emotional scarring.”

  Serving dependent. As the phrase echoed in Elise’s head, she pictured Faraz scolding, slapping and locking Valerie in a closet for not completely removing the stains in his underwear.

  “What stipulations did you make about the specimen?” Elise said.

  “Just the basic ones. That the mother be under the age of twenty-five to reduce the probability of birth defects and that she be in good health with no evidence of a destructive lifestyle.”

  Elise suppressed a laugh. If Faraz had been told that Valerie’s mother had led a clean lifestyle, he’d been duped by his own people.

  “And, of course,” Faraz said, “that the father be dead.”

  Elise might have tried to imagine what Valerie’s father looked like when he was alive but there was no way of knowing who he was. Valerie’s mother had been an addict who’d traded her body for drugs. There had been so many men, she wouldn’t have recognized their faces if she saw them.

  “Why was it essential for the father to be dead?” she said.

  “So that the child was a legitimate spoil of war,” Faraz said. “Does the religious police not know the law?”

  “The acquisition of international war booty is not my specialty. Once the Department of Slave Procurement completed its examination of the specimen—”

  “She was transported here, to a doctor in Budapest, for the second mandatory medical examination. That’s a local requirement, a prerequisite to obtaining permission for the slave to be domiciled in Eurabia.”

  “And that doctor was Rudolph Qattan of the Ottoman Health Network?” Elise said.

  “I detest being asked questions by people who already know the answer, especially when it’s by a woman.”

  “Why does it bother you so much when it’s a woman asking the question?”

  “Because she could be busy doing what she was meant to do, darning my socks, preparing dinner, or sewing a dress for one of my wives.”

  “How lucky for your wives to be married to a man so thoughtful.”

  Faraz took her seriously and shrugged. “I am their husband.”

  “Our records show that you returned to Doctor Qattan for annual visits until the specimen turned six.”

  “As I said, my wives and I have done everything according to the law.”

  “And that’s all you’ve done, where Safa’s—where the specimen’s health is concerned?”

  “Of course that’s not all we’ve do
ne. She gets fed, she has shelter, she is cared for. I told you, she serves at our wishes but she’s part of our family.”

  “And yet you haven’t taken her to see her physician for over six years.”

  “Further proof she’s in excellent health. There’s been no need for her to visit Qattan.”

  “Or,” Elise said, “there’s been a need not to visit him so that he might not detect any obvious physical signs of sexual abuse.”

  Faraz fumed. “The only abuse in this home is the unrelenting flow of insults and libelous accusations pouring from your satanic lips.”

  “Then show me the evidence.”

  Faraz frowned.

  “The specimen,” Elise said. “Let me see how healthy she is with my own eyes. Let her speak for herself.

  “That’s an excellent idea. Wait here.” He stood up and left the room.

  Logic rendered any celebration premature. Elise’s biggest challenge remained. Faraz would never allow her to leave his home with his slave no matter what kind of authority Elise asserted or what spurious proof of abuse she provided. In fact, Valerie herself would probably fight to stay in the only home she knew.

  Elise’s thoughts were interrupted by the hushed sound of voices. One of them belonged to a young girl. She spoke perfect Arabic and replied in the affirmative with the extreme deference of a human who belonged to another and didn’t know to question the morality of such ownership. As the footsteps grew louder, Elise touched her hair to make sure it was in place, forgetting that it was tucked under her niqab. When two shadows appeared in the doorway and one of them belonged to a young girl, Elise held her breath.

  An African girl stepped into the room with Faraz. Her hazel eyes were set in a perfectly oval face, and even though many pretty girls’ looks faded as they matured, there was no doubt this girl was destined to be a beauty.

  But she was not Valerie. For even though her mother had slept with men of various creeds and races, the skin of the daughter who had been ripped from her at birth had been as white as her mother’s.

  “Who is this girl?” Elise said.

  “This is Safa,” Faraz said.

  Faraz’s slave bowed her head as though they were living in medieval times, when Islamic warriors had routinely sent conquered Christians as slaves to their homelands.

  “Do you take me for a complete fool?” Elise said.

  “What are you talking about?” Faraz said.

  “This is not Safa. This is not the girl you acquired twelve years ago.”

  “But of course it is. Our slave is standing here in front of you and still you don’t believe me? You confound me, woman. I don’t understand why you’re here, let alone so late in the night, but believe me, I’m going to find out. Get out of my house.”

  A string tugged on the back Elise’s eyes. She hadn’t cried in forever. Despite the sensation, she wondered if her body really could create tears.

  Elise’s voice took on an apologetic note of its own accord. “There must be some misunderstanding. The Safa in our records has blonde hair. Blonde hair, do you hear me? White skin and blonde hair. The records say you adopted a girl like that.”

  Faraz’s eyes flickered. He paused for a beat, then stood and whispered into his slave’s ear. The girl left the room.

  “I understand now,” Faraz said, in the voice of the accommodating banker, not the enraged parent. “This really is a misunderstanding.” He sat down again and sighed. “You meant that Safa.”

  “That Safa?” Elise could hear the disbelief in her own voice. “There’s more than one Safa?”

  “I’m afraid so. But the first one …” Faraz stumbled to find words. “The first one turned out to be a poor fit for our family.”

  “How so?”

  Faraz shrugged. For the first time, he took his eyes off Elise and looked down as he spoke. “She had a combative nature. Very stubborn and unreceptive to my wives’ orders. Once she turned … eight, I think it was … we opted to replace her with a new specimen.”

  “But Qattan …” Elise said, struggling to hide her disappointment. “There are no records of him conducting the necessary tests on this second specimen as he did on the first one.”

  “There was no need. We purchased her from a woman in the country formerly known as Spain. The woman’s husband had died when Christian terrorists bombed his mosque and she was returning to live with her parents. Her plans to raise a family had been destroyed so she had no need for a slave. And my wives loved the name —”

  “And what of the first Safa?”

  “She was blessed to have been accepted into a religious slave training school of the highest moral caliber. To my knowledge, she’s still there, benefitting from an education in Islam and all the skills a young slave girl needs to serve her masters.”

  “And who runs this wonderful training school?”

  Faraz beamed. “The most wise and holy man by the name of Imam Salim.”

  Elise felt her gut ripped out. Salim was the most radical cleric in Eurabia, arguing openly for Islam’s manifest destiny and Arabia’s need to conquer additional Hindu and Buddhist lands by whatever means necessary. That said, he was a deeply religious and respected man who would surely provide quality care for his students. There was solace in that, Elise thought, wasn’t there?

  “I’ve told you all I know,” Faraz said. “Why don’t you knock on the Imam’s door and try to visit with him tonight to verify my story? Morality doesn’t sleep right?” Faraz glanced at his watch and shook his head in disgust. “See how that goes for you.”

  Elise bowed her head, muttered an apology and hurried out of the house, the tormentor fleeing the tormented.

  CHAPTER 5

  Ali returned home and engaged in his favorite therapy to relieve stress and relax his mind.

  He had sex with his slave.

  He called home ahead of time and instructed his wife, Sabida, to prepare his bed and their slave for him. Sabida laid out his favorite robe in the bathroom and informed the slave of his desire. After his shower, Ali found the slave waiting for him in the bed, wrapped in fresh linens, bathed and smelling of rose perfume. Ali didn’t waste time on foreplay. This was not a romantic or emotional encounter. He wanted sex, she was legally bound to fulfill his desires, and they both acted accordingly.

  Ali and Sabida had bought their slave legally through the Department of Slave Procurement from the country formerly known as Denmark. The slave’s father had been a Danish accountant and her mother a hairdresser. After the father was executed for his involvement with the Danish national resistance, the mother was deported for being the spouse of a convicted terrorist. Meanwhile, the twenty year-old daughter was claimed as war booty by the Ministry of Defense and assigned to a training facility for slaves in Arabia. When she was put up for auction a year-later, Ali’s father-in-law used his political connections to acquire her as an anniversary gift.

  When Ali first saw her he was immediately aroused. This was less a function of her sleek figure, its exquisite proportions and her fresh face, and more the contrast between her overt beauty and the extreme shyness with which she carried herself. It was this sweetness that drew Sabida’s approval, though Ali had no doubt that his wife could sense the magnitude of his attraction.

  From their first sexual experience, Ali had no issue with the girl’s submission. She was a slave and there was nothing she could do about her plight in life. Her only choices were to make her life miserable by adopting an adversarial stance with her owners, or improve it by being performing her duties enthusiastically. At first the girl pursued the latter path by yielding to Ali’s every wish. Then, after she grew to understand a man’s base sexual desires, she began to anticipate Ali’s wants and stimulate him beyond his expectations. Eventually, Ali lost any semblance of inhibition that may have constrained him initially. He fulfilled all his fantasies without any shame.

  All this was not only legal but healthy, Ali thought. Slavery was permitted according to the Quran and the Had
ith, the holy sayings of the Prophet Mohammad. Ali had never cheated on his wife. In fact, he’d never entertained the prospect, not even once. He didn’t favor prostitutes, indulge in haram pornographic images, or let his conduct toward Allah, his family, or his job suffer because he was sexually unfulfilled.

  Ali thoroughly exhausted himself over the course of forty-five minutes. Afterwards, he took another shower, dressed, and retired to his favorite chair in the living room. Sabida brought him his customary glass of apple juice immediately. They never spoke of his sexual relationship with their slave, but Ali often detected a note of resentment when Sabida first saw him after one of his romps. Sometimes it was conveyed in her tone of voice, other times with a glance.

  Today she put his apple juice on the coffee table in front of the sofa instead of on the one by his chair, forcing him to stand up to get it. Ali didn’t grumble. It was only natural for a woman to momentarily resent her husband for having had sex with another woman, even if it was lawful and holy. Humans were jealous and possessive by nature. Sabida’s great virtue was that her resentment never festered. She knew her husband’s love for her exceeded his lust for his slave immeasurably, or at least so he thought. To discuss the topic with Sabida was such an awkward proposition that it was unthinkable.

  She sat down on the sofa opposite him while he sipped his juice.

  “How are you, my beloved?” she said.

  “Refreshed, famished, never better,” Ali said.

  “You’re home early today. Is everything all right at work?”

  Ali stared into space, images of the dead dhimmi girls—both of them—flashing in his mind.

  “No,” he said. “Everything is not all right at work.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  Ali leaned forward, reached out and gripped her hand. “Eyes to my soul, don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m a policeman. By definition, everything is never all right at work.”