No Rules(64)
The sensory input was overwhelming, and yet she was beginning to see it as ordinary, a typical street scene in Egypt. But why was she here?
She studied the building in front of her. It appeared to be in good repair with fresh paint on balconies, shutters, and window frames. A door covered with iron grillwork stood open to a jewelry shop with the mystical name, Eye of the Gods. Beside it, an old Coke vending machine stood against the wall. As she watched, two girls fed in coins, retrieved the bottle that thunked into the slot, then strolled off, giggling and talking. A slice of everyday life in Luxor.
Stay in character. Doing her best to look composed, Jess turned and arched an eyebrow at their escort. “This is not a police station. Where are we?”
He bowed his head, a small show of respect, at the same time nodding toward the jeweler’s open door. “I believe you will wish to talk to the man inside. We will be here when you are ready to leave.” He turned away, cutting across the street toward the restaurant while the driver said something into the police radio. Calling in a lunch break? She wondered if the city of Luxor knew what they did on their lunch hour. Deep inside, her paranoia added, If they really were cops.
Donovan smiled at her. “That was perfect, Jess. Keep it up when we go inside.”
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, nervously wiping her damp palms on her abaya.
“Remember who you’re supposed to be, and don’t act scared or threatened. This could be the contact we were hoping to make.”
The black-market dealer. A man who took great risks for what he hoped would be great profits; a dangerous man to do business with. His customers could end up dead or in prison. She was not entirely pleased to meet him.
Inside the long sleeves of her abaya, Jess curled her hands into fists, squeezing her fingernails into her palms to stop the trembling.
They walked into the shop. The room was cool and slightly dim in contrast to the brilliant sunlight outside, but as her eyes adjusted to it she realized it was actually well lit. High-intensity spotlights highlighted glass cases exactly like every jewelry store she’d been to in Houston. The contents were similar, too—rings, bracelets, and necklaces in gold. A few watches. Tie tacks and money clips. The only difference was the profusion of ankhs, scarab beetles, and the udjat eye, the heavily outlined and elongated human eye that had been a popular amulet in ancient Egypt.
A young clerk in polo shirt and khakis spoke quietly to a woman in jeans and a blue hijab, showing her a selection of bracelets. The only other person was a middle-aged man dressed in a white thobe, who came from behind the counter. “Masa’a alkhair,” he said in Arabic. “Greetings, madam.” His English was British-accented and flawless. “Welcome to my store. My name is Fareeq Atallah. My sincere apologies for the unorthodox invitation.”
Donovan hung back slightly, giving her no choice but to take the lead. This was her show. The litany of Suzanne Hassan’s personality traits echoed through her mind, reminding her of what she needed to be: Confident. Assertive. Worldly. All the things Jess Maulier was not.
She raised her chin and spoke slowly because it felt slightly arrogant, which helped. “I did not appreciate it.”
He bowed his head humbly. “I believe I can change your mind, Mrs.…?”
“Hassan. How can you do that, Mr. Atallah?”
He smiled. “Allow me to explain over tea. Come this way, please.” Stepping behind the counter, he held a section up while they passed through, then led the way through a work area to a small but elegantly appointed sitting room. Gesturing to facing love seats, he said, “Please, sit.”
They sat in silence as he went through the ritual of pouring tea from a silver tea service into china cups, adding milk and sugar to his own. After placing a tin of cookies—which he referred to as biscuits—on the table between them, he settled back onto the opposite love seat and crossed his legs. Jess sipped her Earl Grey and said nothing, nervously waiting to take her cues from him. This might be their only chance at finding Wally’s vase, and she had to get it right.
“Mrs. Hassan, I understand you are in the market for a special item. A gift for your husband, was it?”
At least one of the merchants they’d talked to must have earned a fee for that information. “Yes, a one-of-a-kind item that makes a statement about his success and stature.” She tilted her head toward the door leading back to his shop. “Not the sort of thing I saw in your store, Mr. Atallah.”
“No, certainly not. That is for the general population. For the more discriminating buyer, I have special merchandise.”