The room was almost unbearably hot. Both Sasha and Elena had removed their coats and rested them on their laps. Now they awaited the return of the man with the thick dark hair and bushy mustache who had led them into this room.
“Kahk dyeelah? How are you?” Elena asked.
Sasha was staring at the president of Syria.
“How are you?” Elena repeated.
“I am growing sullen again,” he said.
“Have I told you you are a difficult man to work with?” Elena said.
“Yes, but I am not always difficult.”
“One hundred percent of the time in my experience,” she said.
“And that experience, you must admit, is very, very limited.”
“If you-” Elena began, but stopped abruptly when Sasha put his finger to his lips and motioned over his shoulder with his thumb.
At first she sensed rather than saw or heard the man who had entered the room. Tkach had not even looked in the direction of the man behind him, but he had known he was there.
Elena’s eyes met Sasha’s with a question, her mouth opening slightly. Sasha smiled enigmatically, stood, and turned. Elena stood and turned also.
“I am Hassam Durahaman,” the man said in a deep voice that betrayed no accent.
He was tall and trim and wore an unwrinkled blue suit. His skin was dark in sharp contrast with his white hair and thin white mustache. He stepped forward and held out his hand to Tkach. Tkach responded and found the grip firm and powerful. Durahaman nodded, almost a bow, in Elena’s direction.
“Coffee?” he asked, turning his back and motioning for them to follow. The man who had ushered them in entered the room.
“Yes,” said Tkach.
The second man took Sasha and Elena’s coats and the oil minister said something in Arabic. The man bowed and disappeared behind them as they entered a large office with a desk to their right. To their left a quartet of armchairs covered in a silky, muted red material circled a round table inlaid with what seemed to be thousands of black and white stones in an elaborate design. There was a large, ornate, rectangular rug. The background of the rug was a dull cream yellow. The foreground was a variety of colors, primarily red, in a labyrinthian pattern.
Durahaman moved to the table, held his palm out to Tkach to take a seat, and pulled out another chair for Elena. As she sat he pushed the chair in for her.
“Thank you,” she said.
When they were seated, the minister adjusted his trousers adroitly to keep them from wrinkling, rested his arms on the arms of the chair, and looked at them. “You have come to report on your efforts to find my daughter,” he said. “I can see by your faces that you have not located her. Am I correct?”
Elena waited for Sasha to answer, but he said nothing. “Correct,” she said. “But we have some ideas. We know where she spent much of her time and with whom. We would like to know if you have any information on where she might have gone or the people she associated with.”
Tkach pulled the photograph of Amira and Grisha Zalinsky from his pocket and held it forward for the oil minister to see.
Durahaman barely glanced at it. “Ah, the Jew who was murdered this morning,” he said as the door through which they had come opened. “Our coffee.”
The dark-haired man set a silver tray on the mosaic table. On the tray was a brass coffeepot with an ornate handle. The coffee cups were also brass with matching handles.
“How did you know about Zalinsky?” asked Elena.
“Sugar?” Durahaman asked.
“Two, please,” said Elena.
“None,” said Tkach, though he normally took three cubes at least if he could get them.
Durahaman poured and then waited while Sasha reached over to pick up the cup. The brass handle was painfully hot. He put the cup down gently and said, “I’ve changed my mind. I would like sugar. Three lumps.”
Durahaman nodded, dropped three cubes into his cup, and handed Sasha a spoon.
Elena reached for her cup, picked it up, and barely got it back into the saucer. A few drops spilled on the table. “I’m sorry,” she said, leaning over to wipe the spots with a napkin.”
Durahaman lifted his own steaming cup to his lips with a forgiving smile in her direction and sipped slowly.
“This table has withstood two revolutions,” he said. “A man died on this table. That was in Egypt many years ago. It took me four days to clean the blood from between the small tiles.”
“A steady hand and great patience,” said Tkach.
Elena tried to pick up her coffee again. It was too hot. Sasha had already picked his up and was drinking. She was damned, she decided, if she was going to play this game. She left the cup where it was.
Durahaman said, “Observe the carpet beneath our feet. It was made by hand more than three hundred years ago. I am told it took a year. The artist worked with infinite patience more than ten hours a day. The rug is priceless, but it is of no value unless it is seen and appreciated.”
“Like your daughter?” asked Tkach.
The minister did not answer.
“How did you know about the death of Grisha Zalinsky?” Elena asked again.
“A grateful friend in the law kindly informed me,” he said. “You are not drinking? Too strong?”
“Too hot,” she said.
“And is it too hot for you, Inspector?” he asked Tkach.
“No,” said Tkach. “I am a deputy inspector.”
“Yes,” said Durahaman. “You are both young. Experience with coffee and life are very helpful when one wishes to stay unburned and alive.”
“Your daughter is still missing,” said Tkach. “But we will find her.”
“It is your job to say that, Deputy Inspector,” Durahaman said, reaching out for the coffeepot. “You’d like a bit more? Not too strong, is it?”
Tkach accepted the coffee without putting the cup back in the saucer. Hassam Durahaman smiled at Elena. His teeth were white. She found him very charming.
“I have sent my limited staff in search of Amira,” he said. “I have a few humble resources.”
“Like your friend in the law?” asked Tkach.
“Yes, like my friend in the law. In my country young men are taught to be polite to those in positions of power and authority.”
“I am sure,” said Tkach, putting down his cup and rising, “that our superiors and your friends will keep you informed about our efforts to find your daughter. Now, we must get back to work.”
“The young lady has not had her coffee,” Durahaman said calmly, “and I have something to tell you.”
Tkach stood awkwardly for a moment. His fingers, he knew, were burned, probably blistering. He looked at Elena and sat again, arms out on the arms of the chair as were those of his host. Elena tested the handle of the cup. It was still hot but manageable. She brought it to her lips.
“A woman called me several hours ago,” Durahaman said. “She said that she was sure she could locate my daughter. She wanted confirmation of the reward which the police had indicated I would pay. I asked her what police and she described a handsome young man with unruly hair and a very lovely young woman.”
Durahaman smiled again and toasted Elena with his cup. “I confirmed the reward,” he said, looking now at Tkach. “In fact, I increased the reward and told her she would be paid in hard currency, French francs not American dollars. Do you know this woman?”
“Yes,” said Elena.
“I do not like people making offers on my behalf without my consent,” said Durahaman. “I do not pay extortion. My country and my people have learned a great deal from our enemies.”
“The Israelis,” said Tkach.
“Yes,” said Durahaman. “If this woman finds Amira, I do not intend to pay her. However, I expect you to meet her again, if necessary, tell her she will be paid, and get my daughter.”
“You want us to lie,” said Elena.
“As you already have in my name,” he reminded her. “It is not my honor that is in question. It is yours. It is growing late.”
As he rose slowly Elena hurriedly finished her coffee. “And,” he continued, “you have work to do.”