Legacies

8.

Kemel Muhallal rose from his evening prayers, carefully rolled up his prayer rug, and returned it to the closet. As he moved toward the front of the living room, his gaze was drawn to the catalog lying facedown on the coffee table. He averted his eyes. Not now. Not so soon after prayer.

Kemel stepped to the front window and stretched as he looked down on West Seventy-seventh Street, five stories below. It was always good to shed those restrictive Western clothes and get into a comfortable thobe. He shifted the narrow shoulders of his lean frame within the flowing white floor-length garment as he watched the traffic crawl along the street. Everything in this city seemed always to be in high gear—the way its people walked and talked, the frantic pace of its business, the headlong rush of its daily life… and yet its traffic progressed by inches.

He turned away from the window, and immediately his eyes, his shameless, rebellious eyes, fixed on the catalog. They drew him forward. He felt as if he were on a wire, being reeled toward the coffee table. Slowly, he lowered himself to the sofa and stared at the glossy back cover. It was addressed to this apartment, but not to him. As the landlord had explained, the previous tenant had left a forwarding address for first-class mail only. The rest of it continued to be delivered here.

"You don't want it," the man had told him, "just chuck it out."

Of course. How simple. But in order to "chuck it out," Kemel first had to sift through it, to make sure nothing was intended for him. So many catalogs in the course of a week. Did Americans buy everything by mail? Often he would flip through them, marvel at the variety of merchandise available via a simple phone call, then drop them in the trash.

Except this one. This catalog entranced him. He could not bring himself to "chuck it out" with the rest. He was weak, he knew, and he hated himself for that weakness. He cursed his hand for reaching out and flipping it over. He cursed his eyes for staring at the cover.

Victoria's Secret.

"Forgive my sin," he whispered as he opened it.

He felt a warm tingle in his groin as the now-familiar images swam before him. Such perfect female flesh, and so much of it exposed. He'd been told that America was a devil country, decadent beyond redemption, and surely this proved it.

Back home in Saudi Arabia there were no theaters or clubs. How could there be? Public entertainment is a sin. But this city especially abounded in public places of entertainment, much of it sex drenched. Pornography seemed to be for sale everywhere. The sidewalks were dotted with dens where one could buy pictures and films of people of any mix of genders having sex and engaging in nameless perversions. No act was off-limits. But those places were easy to avoid. They openly advertised their wares, and one did not cross their thresholds without knowing what lurked within.

But the magazines for sale on the newsstands and in the convenience stores were little better. Wholesome-looking publications offered cookie recipes along with twenty ways to a better sex life. And in the back racks lurked covers strewn with naked women in provocative poses, promising greater exposure within. But those too were easily avoided. One simply kept moving.

But this… this Victoria's Secret… it came free, delivered to one's door by the U.S. government.

Surely this was a nation on the brink of doom.

Gazing at the pages, Kemel had to wonder: Is this the way all American women dress under their street clothes? Is this the way their husbands see them?

He thought of his own wife, his Nahela, imagining her wearing such skimpy, frilly things under her abaaya … in his mind's eye he saw her lifting the hem of the billowing black cloak… and beneath she was clad only in these…

He glanced again at the catalog. Unfortunately, Nahela would not look as enticing as these women. She had been sixteen when they married, he eighteen. Now, after eight children—five glorious sons—and twenty years of sitting around the hareem and eating imported chocolates, she had grown large and saggy.

How he'd love to take Victoria's Secret with him when he returned… make it his secret. But did he dare try to smuggle it past customs?

His homeland, as custodian of Mecca and Medina, had a sacred duty to scrutinize and filter all items crossing its borders. And it took that duty seriously. It had to. The whole Moslem world was watching. Perhaps a member of the royal family, if he was discreet, might be able to slip aurat photos past the guards, but anyone else—never.

The list of aurat—forbidden items—included pork and alcohol, of course, but any depiction of a bare female arm or leg, or even a woman's hair, was forbidden as well. Which meant that Saudi customs officers confiscated virtually every Western magazine at the airports; for even magazines that might be devoted to cooking or housekeeping would carry advertisements that exhibited too much bare flesh. Kemel knew this Victoria's Secret would be considered outright pornography.

He jumped at the sound of the doorknob rattling. He heard a key in the lock. That could only be Nazer. Panic engulfed him for an instant. No one—most of all Khalid Nazer—must see this catalog. Victoria's Secret must remain just that—a secret.

He jammed it under the sofa and made a quick, frantic survey of the room as he hurried to the door. Was everything in order? He double-checked to assure himself that no trace of Victoria's Secret was visible.

The door opened, but the safety chain caught it.

"One moment," Kemel said, leaping to the door.

And a curse on Nazer for not having the courtesy to knock. Yes, Iswid Nahr, the organization that employed them, owned this apartment, but Kemel had been living here for months. Just because Nazer had a key didn't mean he should enter without knocking.

He pushed the door closed—wishing he could catch Nazer's fingers—and released the chain. Then he put on a pleasant face.

Be calm, he told himself. And above all, be confident.

After all, Khalid Nazer was his superior here. As long as Kemel remained in America, he would answer directly to Nazer. And Nazer liked to receive his progress reports in person.

Nazer waited on the threshold. He was as fat as Kemel was lean; where Kemel's beard was ragged and untrimmed—as it should be, according to the Prophet—Nazer's was neatly edged and clipped to a uniform length. Nazer's excuse was that an unkempt beard was a hindrance to his work here as a trade envoy attached to the U.N. Kemel suspected that Nazer simply wanted to appear more attractive to the infidel women he consorted with in the weeks and months he spent away from his wife.

Kemel did not like this man. His antipathy began with the man's lax attitude toward the faith, but from there his reasons were strictly personal. He would dislike Nazer's superior air even if he were a righteous believer.

As he pulled the door open, Kemel smiled and said, "Welcome."

He stood aside and allowed Nazer to huff his considerable bulk through the door, then followed him into the apartment.

"Well, Kemel," he said as soon as the door was closed. "I go away for a weekend recess, and when I return, I learn that the Clayton woman's lawyer is dead—murdered. How does such a thing happen?"

Kemel was taken aback by Nazer's abruptness. Usually they went through the routine of Kemel offering coffee and sweet cakes and Nazer refusing, as if such things could not possibly interest him.

And he resented the fat one's tone. Yes, Nazer was his superior, but only in his position in Iswid Nahr. In every other way, Kemel exceeded him. In brains, in courage, in lineage. His grandfather was a bedouin from the desert Nejd region, who fought side by side with Abdel Aziz al-Saud in the wars to unite the country now called Saudi Arabia. And Kemel had been with Iswid Nahr for almost twenty years. He was well-known and respected in Riyadh. His duties had brought him into contact with members of the royal family many times. Yes, America was Nazer's domain, but he had no right to treat Kemel as if he were a mere hireling, recruited like Baker. Who was this overstuffed toad to speak to him so?

"It happens because I am forced to work with fools," he said, venting only a small portion of the heat he felt. "This mercenary you assigned to me is like a mad scorpion, stinging everything he nears."

Nazer blinked at Kemel's reply, then shrugged. "We had to move quickly. We had a record of this man Baker offering his demolition services for hire to the government during the Gulf War. We contacted him. And he has proved most useful so far."

"But we don't need him anymore. We should be rid of him and simply hire a commercial security company to watch over the property."

"Get rid of Baker?" Nazer said, shaking his head. "No, I'm afraid that even if we had the time to make other arrangements, we are, in a sense, married to this man. And as you well know, time is in short supply. This has dragged on far too long already."

Kemel knew… knew all too well. He wanted this matter settled, not simply because the fate of his homeland and the entire Arab world depended on it, but because he was not cut out for this sort of… intrigue.

Yes, the blood of bedouin warriors ran in his veins, but he was a businessman, a negotiator, a—what was the American term? A lobbyist. When he succeeded in his mission, he expected to be well rewarded, enormously rewarded, and would spend the rest of his days in wealth and leisure, adding a second and perhaps a third wife, both in their teens, of course, to his hareem.

And yet he would give up the chance at that dream life in a heartbeat if someone showed up and offered to remove the burden of this terrible responsibility from his shoulders. He would give it up gladly, and then flee this devil country back to his home and his sons in Riyadh.

But that was a fantasy. No one was waiting to take over. Only a few in Iswid Nahr knew of Ronald Clayton's secret, and Kemel was one of them. To reveal it even to one more person was unthinkable.

And so he had to remain here, taking orders from Khalid Nazer, consorting with the likes of Sam Baker, and doing whatever was necessary to succeed.

"Baker is dangerous. This is a delicate matter—"

"Perhaps it is less delicate than you think," Nazer said. "Perhaps witnessing the sudden, violent death of her lawyer will finally convince the Clayton woman that selling the house is the wiser—and safer—course."

"Perhaps," Kemel said slowly. "But I would not count on it. She has not acted rationally since this began. I see no reason why we should expect her to start now."

Nazer sighed. "This is what happens when women are let out of the hareem and permitted to act as equals. The Prophet said it best: 'Men have authority over women because Allah has made one superior to the other.'"

Not to be outdone, Kemel could not resist adding, "He also said, 'Do not give to the feebleminded the property with which Allah has entrusted you.'"

They stood in silence a moment, then Nazer said, "Is it still working?"

Kemel nodded, hiding his annoyance. "Yes, of course. I would call you immediately if it stopped."

"I know you would, but I wish to see it."

Kemel could not blame the man. He saw it every day and was still awestruck by the wonder of it.

"Come."

And he led Nazer to the rear of the apartment.