She smiled.
“I’m Iraqi American, second generation.”
“Wow,” he said. “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard — and now that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”
“No,” she said. “Awkward, but not dumb. Not rude either. But I need to get to work or come back later.”
“Yeah, sorry. I’ll just keep my comments to myself and clean up. You can clean while I shower, right?”
“No,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s against policy.”
“Dang. It’s just that you seem like the most interesting person I’ve met in a while, and I’ve met a lot. First instincts at least.”
“I get that from a lot of male guests.”
“No, I’m not hitting on you. Well, maybe silly flirting a bit, but I’m here with my girlfriend.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Because you’d be doing a horrible job if you were.”
He squinted at her name tag.
“I’m sorry to slow you down, Linda. I should let you get back on schedule. Hopefully I’ll be cleaner and more eloquent next time we meet.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, can I be honest?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ve been forward enough.”
“My weekend job is a hairstylist. I’ve got to tell you, your mountain man thing is a disaster. You’d be much better looking with a clean cut.”
“Maybe I should find you on the weekend.”
“I’m not allowed to solicit business on company time.”
“I’m asking.”
“I have a card,” she said. “Oh no, wait. Shoot. My twelve-year-old took lunch money out of my wallet and forgot to give it back.”
“Wait, what?” Jake asked. “You don’t look old enough to have a twelve-year-old.”
“I had him when I was seventeen. I’ve got three more. I’d show you pictures, but they’re in the wallet.”
His cell phone rang.
“Crap,” he said. “That’s Olivia.”
“I should go,” she said.
He reached for her hand.
“I’m Jake. Jake Jones, and it’s a pleasure meeting you, Linda.”
“Linda Hindy,” she said.
Her smile would protect anyone from harm, Jake thought, and the fear his brother had placed in his heart vanished for the moment. Linda closed the door on her way out, and Jake lifted the cell phone to his ear on its final ring.
“Did I wake you sleepyhead?” Olivia asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Well, kind of. I was awake but hardly up to speed with the world yet.”
“You going to join me sometime today?”
“Sure. And I’m really looking forward to that heart-to-heart talk about ‘us’.”
CHAPTER 5
Six months prior to taking the Leviathan, Hana al-Salem had passed through customs on an academic visa at Dulles International Airport and continued to Norfolk, Virginia.
He carried a duffel bag on his shoulder as he swam in a sea of native Virginians, college students, and military personnel towards ground transportation.
Summer had passed, and Salem shivered while zipping a windbreaker. Spying an attractive woman in her mid-thirties with swarthy skin on the sidewalk, he matched her face and physique against memorized images of the Iranian accomplice he sought.
“Professor Ghaffari?” he asked in English.
“You must be Professor Salem,” Farah Ghaffari said, her voice hoarse from cigarettes and alcohol.
“Yes,” he said.
She extended her hand. He hesitated, reminded himself to follow local customs, and grasped her soft fingers.
“Call me Farah,” she said.
Her pupils dilated as she slid the cigarette between her lips, and Salem suppressed the lust her aura invoked. She slinked like a cat toward the parking lot.
Harlot, Salem thought as he caught up to her.
“You’re here because you don’t trust women,” she said. “Or is it that you don’t trust Persians? Or Sunnis? Or any label, accurate or not, that you wish to place on me.”
“With the responsibility that I bear, I trust no one. It’s a wise precaution that someone verifies your work.”
“Once you’ve verified it, you still won’t trust me, except for having no choice. So why torment yourself?
“I could delay the operation,” he said. “There is no hurry.”
“Delay for what purpose?” she asked. “So that I may seduce another sailor? I’ve already spent a year sifting through these men. There is no doubt that I have found our best opportunity. Or would you ask another woman to take my place and try again? I think not.”
Ghaffari reached for the door of a red convertible mustang. Salem stopped short.
“I will judge that for myself,” he said.
“I have ensnared the commanding officer of the Bainbridge,” she said. “I’m certain you’ll be impressed.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“What’s wrong? You’re sprouting roots in the concrete. Is it that you don’t want to be driven in a racy vehicle by a sexy woman?”
“I think you’ve taken your American liberation too far. It’s commendable that you overcame a difficult upbringing to educate yourself, but transforming yourself into a well-polished whore is degrading.”
He reminded himself to stop insulting her, recognizing that he needed her.
“I like an honest man,” she said.
She lobbed the keys at his chest and slid over the hood. A shrewd look displaced her sultriness.
“Don’t think about it,” she said. “I don’t give a damn about your opinion, and you’ll overanalyze it like every other left-brained economist. Just drive my fucking car.”
Unwilling to yell above the wind whipping over the convertible, Salem said little on the fifteen-minute drive west on Norview Avenue and I-64 West toward Ghaffari’s apartment near Old Dominion University.
After turning into her complex, Salem heard the wind subside.
“Turn left,” she said. “It’s the next street.”
Salem nodded and drove the Mustang westward.
“You thought about it during the entire trip, didn’t you?” she asked. “About how you feel about me. You couldn’t help but analyze it. You have so much conflict within you that you try to think your way out of.”
“Conflict is unavoidable,” he said.
“For a man like you it is. You have your beliefs as a Muslim, as an Arab, and as an economist. That combination alone is difficult. Add to that the handicap of a penis, and I wonder how you don’t go mad.”
Dim lights cast weak shadows into parking lots surrounded by a mini-forest of transplanted firs. Stopping in front of a three-bedroom unit, he asked about the sleeping arrangements.
“You need not worry,” she said. “The university pays me well, and the apartment is large. You will have the entire ground floor to yourself.”
“We should discuss tomorrow’s agenda.”
“You’re tired,” she said. “You should rest.”
“Honestly, I am exhausted. The flights were long and uncomfortable. Perhaps you are correct. I don’t need fatigue skewing my judgment.”
“You look hungry, too,” she said. “I’ll order a pizza while you settle in.”
Salem dropped his duffel bag on his bed and inhaled his stench. He needed a shower. Popping his head through the doorway, he caught Ghaffari talking on a cell phone and staring at him with eyes that seemed sensual. Even with her mind elsewhere, she reminded him of a succubus.
“Mushrooms and pepperoni?” she asked.
“Towels.”
“No, on your pizza.”
“I don’t care. Towels?”
“I’ve laid everything out in your bathroom.”
Salem closed the door and enjoyed the privacy. He worked the knobs and waited for steam to rise. As he slipped under the water, he felt the grime of transcontinental flight wash away.