“You are to meet with Mrs. Fatima Barek at the Moroccan embassy at ten a.m. And don’t be late. She’s pretty important people over there.”
“Fatima? Really? Like the seven veils?”
“Hey, do I make fun of your name?” Rissik asked. “I could, you know.”
“Good point,” Hannibal said, filling a mug and pausing to inhale the sweet, rich aroma he loved. “I’ll be there.”
After chatting with Rissik, Hannibal carried his mug around to his desk where he settled back into his chair. He wasn’t sure why the black leather felt different that day; softer, somehow. Then he realized what was different. It was really his again. Smiling, he punched buttons to ring the number left in his other message.
“Dr. Van Buren? This is Hannibal Jones. Is this a good time to talk?”
“Fine,” Van Buren answered. “But it’s just Professor Van Buren for now, or better yet, Eric. In a couple months I’ll finish my doctorate and you can talk to me like I’m an old man.”
“Noted,” Hannibal said, pulling out a note pad and pen. “Eric, then. I appreciate you getting back to me.”
“I had to, after hearing from an old colleague,” Van Buren said. “Dr. Krada said he knows you too.”
“Krada?” Hannibal sipped again, savoring the taste as he organized his thoughts. “Interesting. Why was he in contact with you?”
“Oh, he called about a student we had in common. You guessed it-Hamed Barek, who apparently went to Howard under a different name.”
“Yes,” Hannibal said, thinking Krada wanted to warn his pupil about the crowd of people searching for him. “Did you have something to tell me about him?”
“Actually, we discussed the boy’s history somewhat. That got me looking at his file and remembering old conversations. I know you were trying to trace him back to his roots, as it were, and they are indeed in Algeria.”
“Hold on,” Hannibal said, jotting notes. “I have information that he really is from Morocco.”
“I meant his family,” Eric said. “Barek’s grandfather was an educated, well-to-do businessman in Algeria. He had position and status, things that mean a lot in that part of the world. But his business interests apparently took him to Morocco where he ultimately went broke.”
“I see,” Hannibal said, “But I’m sure Dr. Krada was more interested in where his old student is now. I’m rather surprised he found you.”
Eric’s laughter crackled through the static of a bad connection. “Nothing mysterious there, Jones. I knew Dr. Krada when he was here at UVA. In fact, I was one of his students.”
This news came as an unexpected treat, cheering Hannibal like the welcoming aroma of his coffee. “You don’t say. Tell me, did he have parties for his students down there like he does up here?”
“You bet. And after he moved to Howard I used to drive up there for them. In fact, I was there the night Hamed Barek was introduced to the Russian girl, Vicki Petrova. He fell for her that first night. Everybody could see that.”
“You don’t say.” Hannibal snugged back into the warm leather, notebook in hand. “And what made Krada move up to Howard? I doubt it was more money, since it’s kind of a smaller school.”
“Hardly for the money.” Eric paused and Hannibal waited through the silence. Interruptions were bad for people’s memories. Finally, Eric asked, “Have you met Mrs. Krada?”
Hannibal took his time savoring a mouthful of coffee before he answered. “Nina? Sure. Nice girl. Seems a little young for him.”
“Yeah, well she was his student too. The faculty didn’t take too kindly to it when Dr. Krada took up with her. Then when Nina came down with a bad case of pregnant, Krada had to leave in disgrace.”
“Fascinating, but a little off the topic,” Hannibal said, checking his watch. “I do appreciate the background on Barek, though. I’m actually meeting with his mother today. If nothing else I can tell her that he had loved the woman he married for years. Now, I’ve got to get myself to Embassy Row.”
33
Comparisons between Embassy Row and his own neighborhood in Southeast seemed unavoidable. The buildings were old and crammed together too closely for comfort. Many of the streets were too narrow for two cars to pass, let alone for cars to park on them. And like Hannibal’s neighborhood, city police did their best not to go into the area.
Fortunately, his destination was not clustered with the other embassies on or beside Massachusetts Avenue. Officially “The Chancery of the Embassy of the Kingdom of Morocco,” the building was just outside the area generally thought of as Embassy Row, on 21st Street off Q Street, just a couple of blocks from Dupont Circle. He found a parking garage to store his Volvo in, and walked past the bored looking protesters and beggars to the massive stone edifice that could hold clues to the answers he needed.
He could hear a team of bongo and conga drummers in the outer circle of a fountain, sending their energy out from Dupont Circle. Like so many of the buildings in this part of the city, the embassy had round towers at its corners, like pointed-roofed minarets. It must have appealed to the Moroccans who chose it, most of whom were Sunni Muslims.
Inside, the decor was quite contemporary and more Americanized than he expected. Hannibal walked up to the receptionist, who looked like a teenage Tyra Banks.
“Hello. My name is Hannibal Jones, and I have an appointment with Mrs. Barek.”
“Of course, sir,” the girl said with a smile. “We have been expecting you. You may have a seat in our waiting room but before you do, I am afraid I have to ask you if you are carrying anything that you might need to leave with me before going further into the building. This is simply for security reasons, you understand.”
“Of course.” Hannibal presented his private investigator’s badge. “I show you this, so you will know that I carry this legally.” He then showed her his pistol.
“Thank you sir,” the receptionist said, betraying no reaction at all. “Please leave that with me while you are in the embassy.”
Hannibal was happy to comply. After stowing his pistol in a safe behind her, the receptionist showed him to a comfortable chair in the adjacent bright and airy waiting room. He was on time, but he knew he would have to wait. This was how important people let you know they were more important than you. He didn’t mind. Like the quarters he had to toss at gates on the Dulles Toll Road, waiting was part of the cost of getting to where he needed to be.
After Hannibal demonstrated his patience for twenty minutes, the receptionist ushered him into a cozy sitting room and seated him at a small table. A dark and alluring young woman appeared from an alcove, poured tea from a flowered pot, and left. Then the door opened again and a mature yet striking woman entered the room. Hannibal snapped to his feet.
“Mr. Hannibal Jones? I am Mrs. Fatima Barek.”
He was struck by her perfect posture and elegant bearing as she floated across the tiles toward him. He had expected traditional Muslim garb, but she wore a very American black evening gown that covered her feet without quite touching the floor. Only the click of her heels told him that she wore shoes at all. White kid gloves covered her hands and reached to her upper arm. It was a canny way to keep her entire body covered while giving the appearance of Westernization.
She presented her right hand, at arm’s length, and raised it to shoulder height. Hannibal took just her fingertips between his black-gloved first finger and thumb, gave them a gentle jiggle, and released them. She sat. He sat opposite her. He reached for the pot but she waved his hand away and filled her own cup. He supposed that even when she was the important person in the room, the woman was supposed to pour. She sipped and smiled. He followed suit. She looked at him. He waited.
“Mr. Jones, this is awkward for me. I am still mourning a great loss, and yet I will only be in your country for one day and I need to learn all I can. I understand that you may be able to help me.”