“Yes, Viktoriya, that tramp,” Mrs. Barek said.
“He told you about her?” Hannibal said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“I know little,” Mrs. Barek said, her pain and sorrow temporarily morphing into anger and resentment. “Hamed loved her, and said he needed to take her away from the bad influences here in America. Bad influences. This girl was not good enough for my son.”
“I understand,” Hannibal said. What woman is ever good enough in a mother’s eyes?
“Do you?” she asked, her voice rising. “Do you? Do you know that Hamed saw her father beaten to death by this gangster Tolstaya? This man was married, but he wanted this Viktoriya for himself. One of her jilted suitors was a hired killer. Hamed even suspected her of having an affair with one of her college professors. Hamed is as likely to have been killed over this slut’s affections as he is to have died for money.”
Hannibal closed his eyes and silently counted to ten. When he opened them he was looking past the outraged mother facing him. The random bits swirling in his mind had just settled into a pattern as puzzles always do if you push the pieces around long enough. But this time, the pattern had little to do with organized crime.
“Viktoriya Petrova has been at the center of this whole affair from the moment I was dragged into,” he said, almost to himself. “but men rarely kill for a woman’s affection. Besides, I can assure you, just from the methodology, that your son’s death was not the work of any professional assassin. And the gangster, Boris Tostaya, is in the end stages of a nerve disease called ALS. He simply is not strong enough to have chased your son down and shot him, even if he could have somehow found him.”
“And the professor?” Mrs. Barek asked.
“Actually, he has no morning classes,” Hannibal said, “And his schedule appears to be pretty flexible. It hardly makes any sense. But the pattern. The pattern is there.” Hannibal jumped to his feet, an abrupt move that caused Mrs. Barek to draw back. “I’m sorry ma’am, but I need to go now. I have no proof but if what I suspect turns out to be true, then the Russian Mafia is the biggest red herring in history, and the danger might not be over after all.”
“You mean this girl Viktoriya, don’t you?” Mrs. Barek said. “If she’s the reason my Hamid is dead, then I would be glad if the worst happened to her. But it is more important that my son’s killer be brought to justice. If you manage this, the government of Morocco will be very grateful. And this mother will be personally grateful and will reward you for your diligence.”
“Let’s talk about that after we’ve proven who the killer is,” Hannibal said. He hesitated, not sure of the proper way to end this interview. Should he take her hand again? Bow? Maybe if he simply asked to be excused, that would do.
Fatima Barek solved his problem by simply waving him out of the room. “Go and do what you have to do. I hope that if you are able to find the truth, you will contact me through the embassy. I need to know.”
Hannibal nodded, pushed his Oakleys back into place, and hurried out of the embassy, stopping only to collect his Sig Sauer automatic. He had a feeling that he might need it soon.
34
Hannibal’s tires squealed as he locked up his brakes and jerked to a stop in Jamal Krada’s driveway. In the thirty seconds or so after he pushed the doorbell, he tapped his foot and his body shook as if it was idling roughly. His thoughts during the short drive had been dark and chaotic, as he reviewed and fumed about the many tiny clues he had walked past in the last few days.
When Nina Krada opened the door, her eyes flared wide. Hannibal realized that she had never seen him in any state but calm and friendly. Well, that was a pattern he was about to break.
“I’m sorry,” she said in her meek voice. “I’m afraid Jamal is not in right now. Is there a message?”
“Don’t worry,” Hannibal said, pushing the door open. “You’re the person I really want to talk to anyway.” He took five or six steps toward the living room before he realized that Nina was still standing at the door. He turned to see her flushing, her eyes darting left and right. His eyebrows rose, forming a question.
“Mr. Jones, I am not permitted to have visitors when my husband isn’t at home,” Nina said. “Please, if you could come back when he is…”
Hannibal stepped toward her and she shrank back against the door. “You put up with that bullshit?” he asked. “He’s really got you, hasn’t he? Well, you answer my questions and help me get the story straight, and maybe, just maybe, I can free you from him.”
“Free me? No, Mr. Jones, I love Jamal.”
“Do you?” He went into the living room and dropped onto the sofa. “Well, what I want to know is, how much does he love you? Tell me about Jamal’s relationship with Viktoriya Petrova.”
Nina followed but stopped at the center of the living room floor. Barefoot, in a shapeless neutral color shift, she could have been a Nigerian child in a television commercial asking for donations. She raised her fists in front of her chest but they were too small to provide much defense.
“There is nothing to tell. She was one of his students.”
“I see,” Hannibal said in a softer tone. “And weren’t you one of his students?”
Nina nodded, her lower lip covering its upper sister in what looked like a childish pout.
“And what happened? Is what Eric Van Buren told me true?”
Her head snapped up. “You spoke to Professor Van Buren at UVA?” After Hannibal nodded her shoulders seemed to drop farther than shoulders can. “Then you know what happened.”
“Maybe, but I need to hear it from you. Did you…fall in love?”
“You don’t know Jamal,” Nina said, as if that explained something. When she saw it didn’t, she said, “Jamal is a very intense man. He loves a woman so much that she can’t help but love him too. He was a powerful, influential man on the college faculty and I was just a lowly freshman come to America from Algeria.”
“You dated,” Hannibal said. “And things went too far, maybe?”
“No, I wanted it. I wanted him. I wanted his…” the next word caught in her throat, choking her. With her elbows still pressed to her ribs she pointed toward the kitchen. “May I get some water?”
Hannibal waved toward the kitchen and she shuffled off with short, quick steps. He stood and followed at what he hoped would seem a safe distance to her. He stood at the entrance to the room while she pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator and drank a few swallows.
“Stop me if I go wrong,” Hannibal said. “You two were together, but not officially. Professor-student relationships are rather frowned on. But it’s impossible to keep such things secret. When you became pregnant, everyone knew who the father was.”
“He did the honorable thing and offered to marry me,” she said, standing a little straighter than before. “But to the college that was no solution. They cast him out.”
“Imagine that,” Hannibal said. “So he found a position up here but still made you get rid of the baby?”
Nina spun on him with grief and hurt fighting for space on her small face. “No! He could never. It was me. I could not carry the baby. I lost it. I failed him.”
Her legs seemed weak, making Hannibal realize how raw the wound he just touched still was. He helped her into a chair at the table. He wanted to comfort her, to protect her, to make her feel safe, but he also knew that if his guesses were right, time might be short.
“You’ve done your best to make a good home for him, I can see that,” Hannibal said. “But you need to be honest with me. He couldn’t stop looking at his younger students, could he?”