Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

Season of the Camel by Edward D. Hoch

Last month we had the pleasure of announcing the forthcoming publication of a new collection of Nick Velvet short stories (The Velvet Touch/ Crippen & Landru). We have since learned that the TV option on the character, which has been in place for several years now, is to be renewed. Velvet is generally held to be Mr. Hoch’s most popular series character, but former secret agent Jeffrey Rand, this tale’s hero, also has high ratings with EQMM.

It was on one of Rand’s occasional visits to Egypt with his wife Leila that he first encountered Omar Goncah, a designer of computer chips who traded in Oriental rugs in his spare time. He was a slender, well-spoken man who informed them early on that he’d been educated in England.

“King’s College, Cambridge,” he said smoothly, upon learning that Leila lectured in archaeology at the University of Reading. “I regret not returning to your country more frequently, but my affairs keep me in the Middle East.” They’d met at a dinner party in Alexandria, arranged by Leila’s cousin on the eve of their departure from the city.

“We’re planning a cruise up the Nile,” Rand explained in response to Omar Goncah’s question. “Egypt is a good place to spend part of the winter, away from gloomy England.”

The slender man smiled. “I know a better place. Come with me to the camel fights in Turkey.”

“The what?” Leila asked. “Certainly you must be joking.”

“No, no! I am very serious. There is a big one on Sunday in Selçuk, in western Turkey. I fly to Istanbul tomorrow noon. They are like bullfights in Spain, although the camels are rarely injured.”

Rand and Leila thought no more of it at the time, but lying in bed that night she suddenly asked him, “What do you think about going to the camel fights?”

“It’s not what we planned.”

“But isn’t that half the fun of being retired and on holiday? You can do what you want, and so can I!”

“Camel fights in Turkey? Do you really think there are such things?”

“Let’s find out.”

It took them an hour to make the necessary changes in their itinerary, but by midmorning Saturday they had tickets on the noon flight to Istanbul. Their new friend Omar was surprised to see them at the gate but immediately took them in hand, even arranging to sit with them on the two-hour flight. Rand suddenly found himself on a first-name basis with the man.

“Tell me, Jeffrey, what line of work were you in before you retired?” he asked as their plane dipped its wings over the Mediterranean.

“I was a civil servant. It was very dull.”

Omar Goncah shrugged. “Sometimes selling carpets can be dull too.”

“But aren’t they valuable?” Leila asked impishly. “Don’t they all fly?”

“Ah, but if they were flying carpets would I be paying for this airfare, dear lady? In truth, though, I do have a flying carpet. It is in the baggage compartment right now, flying to Istanbul with us.”

“You’re planning to sell it there?” Leila asked.

“No, I will award it as a prize in one of the camel fights. Traditionally, carpets are awarded to the winning owners, but they are usually cheap, machine-made products. This one carries some slight value because of its fine workmanship.”

“An advertisement for your business,” Rand said.

“Of course, of course. I have learned the ways of the world.”

They landed on schedule at Istanbul’s airport, where the air was crisp with a January chill and Omar had arranged for a hired car to take them the rest of the way to the camel fights at Selçuk. “Where is that?” Leila inquired.

“Three hundred and eighty miles south of here. A good driver can make it in five hours, so we should reach the village by sundown.”

“I didn’t realize it would be so far,” Rand’s wife said, and he recognized in her tone the first rumblings of regret that she’d persuaded him to make this trip into the unknown.

The hired car was a German-built limousine with a trunk large enough to hold Omar’s rolled-up carpet. The three of them fit easily into the backseat, leaving the driver alone up front. His name was Aytekin, and he seemed to speak some English, exchanging a few words with Omar before they started out. “I told him to take the shortest route,” their new friend said. “Perhaps upon our return we can go the more leisurely way and stop at the archeological site of Homer’s Troy. They have a huge replica of the famous Trojan Horse at the museum there.”

“I’d like to see Troy,” Leila agreed. “It would be something to tell my next class.”

The drive took them through mountain passes and along wooded hillsides. Occasionally they would come upon another car or even a bus, but for the most part the area between villages seemed all but deserted. “This doesn’t look like camel country,” Rand remarked.

“The best grazing lands are nearer the coast. Many of the people here are nomads who farm mountainside pastures during the growing season. They use camels as beasts of burden, but the fighting camels do no work. And they only fight during the winter months, which is their mating season.”

Suddenly the limousine swerved sharply, bumping across the grassy shoulder. Rand saw at once that the road ahead was blocked by several vehicles, one of them a police car. Omar and the driver were out of the limo at once, with Omar shouting in English at a uniformed officer. “Fool, you need signs or flashing lights! My driver almost ran into you on this curve!”

The officer placed his hands on his wide leather belt and came over to them. “A man has been killed here,” he replied in English, gesturing toward the hulk of a burned-out car. “It was a car bomb with a timer attached. You can pull around us on the grass and get back on the highway.”

“What is this?” Omar asked the driver. “Are there terrorists even here?”

“Everywhere,” came the reply as their driver maneuvered around the obstructions. “Kurds.”

Rand couldn’t help noticing the license plate on the burned-out vehicle. “That’s a diplomatic license.”

Omar nodded agreement. “Driving down to the camel fights is a popular weekend outing for the diplomatic corps. It was probably someone from Ankara or Istanbul.”

“That’s a terrible way to die,” Leila remarked.

“The Kurds are a problem here?” Rand asked.

“Not usually in this area, but if the bomb was planted hours ago, it was probably done at an embassy or consulate.”

They drove along the winding road in silence for a time, until they reached a crossroads and overtook a battered truck carrying a camel in the back. Two ropes around its neck secured the large beast, looking so incongruous in the truck. There was a muzzle over its mouth. “A fighting camel,” Omar Goncah observed, “on its way to Selçuk, no doubt. They are muzzled so they can’t bite each other.”

“The poor things,” Leila said. “I detest all staged fighting between animals.”

“They are hardly ever injured,” Goncah assured her as they passed the truck. “They crash into each other with much pushing and shoving. When one is pushed to the ground or runs away, the other is the winner of the match. That driver is Jobar, one of the best trainers of fighting camels.”

“I suppose there is betting on the outcome,” Rand said.

“Of course, but these people are not wealthy. It is merely a winter diversion for them.”

After another hour’s drive they came to the village of Selçuk, a small outpost of the country’s Asian heritage, close to the Aegean Sea. Omar had arranged for rooms at a small inn. It was a two-story house with many windows, built of wood on a stone ground floor. An outside stairway led from a courtyard to the second-floor rooms.

They were greeted by the innkeeper, a black-bearded man named Sevret who wore a traditional red fez. Rand realized it was the first one he’d seen since their arrival in the country. At one time it had been the country’s national headdress. “Greetings,” the bearded man said, bowing slightly to Omar Goncah and then shaking his hand. “I have two rooms at the top of the stairs. Your party is here for tomorrow’s camel fights?”

“That’s correct,” Omar responded. He glanced around. “Are we the only guests?”

“Most people come by car or bus, just for the day. But I am expecting another, a man from the Greek consulate in Istanbul.”

Rand and Omar exchanged glances. “We passed a fatal accident on the highway about an hour north of here,” Omar told him. “The car had diplomatic license plates.”

“Ah! I pray it was not Mr. Berk.” He emphasized the words by placing his palms together in prayer. “But you have arrived in time for dinner, and I invite you to join my wife and me on the first floor when you have had time to freshen up.”

Rand glanced back at the car, where the driver was unloading their bags and Omar’s carpet from the trunk. Omar called out to him in Turkish and the rolled carpet was returned to the trunk. “It’s safer there,” he told Rand. “Aytekin will call for us in the morning and drive us to the camel fights.”

“He’s not staying here?”

“There are friends in the village.” He smiled. “A woman, I think.”

The innkeeper’s wife proved to be a charming half-English woman named Beth who was an excellent cook. She and Leila became instant friends, discussing their mixed heritage, and after dinner they helped clean up together while Beth’s husband supplied cigars for the men. Rand demurred, but Omar lit one with their host. He leaned back in his chair as if still at the dinner party in Alexandria where Rand and his wife had first met him.

“This is so relaxing,” he told the innkeeper. “But Mr. Berk has not yet appeared. I fear it may have been him in that accident we passed.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Sevret told them. “He was to take part in the ceremonies.”

“Perhaps I can fill in,” Omar suggested. “I have a carpet in the trunk of our hired car. It has some value, and I plan to offer it as a prize.”

Sevret nodded slowly. “That would be most kind of you, Mr. Goncah. My wife and I have been working all day at food preparation and there has been little time to plan the ceremonies, informal as they are.”

Rand and Leila retired early, and in the morning they were awakened by the sound of buses passing in front of the inn. When Omar joined them he commented on the sunshine. “This is perfect weather for a camel fight, with the temperature in the forties. Sunny days are rare here in January.”

Beth Sevret brought them breakfast and stayed to chat. “The buses come each Sunday during the fighting season, bringing thousands of fans from other villages. It is good for our business. There is a makeshift arena a few miles down the road and the fans set up picnic tables. When the fighting starts they watch from the surrounding hillsides. They have most of their own food, but they always need extra salads or kebabs or yogurt. And, of course, they need raki. It is the national drink here, very potent. Sevret and I will be at the fights to fill all their needs.”

“Do you have any trouble with Kurds?” Rand asked her.

“Kurds? Not in this part of the country. They are in the eastern regions.”

The hired limousine arrived shortly after they’d finished breakfast. Rand noticed Omar checking the trunk to make certain his carpet was still there. Then they set off down the road, following a line of buses.

They parked in a field near the arena, some distance from where the buses were lined up. The arena was a large circle formed by a roll of metal fencing, and a curly-haired Turk wearing a padded woolen vest was leading a suitably adorned camel into the enclosure as they approached. “Mehmet!” Omar called out. “It is good to see you again.”

The man leading the camel turned and smiled. “Omar Goncah! Do you have a carpet for us today?”

“Don’t I always bring one, my friend?” They embraced, and Omar took a closer look at the camel. Rand was impressed by the size of the beast, made even larger by colorful padding, mirrored blankets, bells, and pompoms. “They often weigh a ton or more,” Omar told him, as if reading the question in Rand’s mind.

Leila was also impressed. “We don’t grow them this bulky back in Egypt.”

“Their owners treat them well. There is great prestige in owning a good fighting camel.”

“All this to win a carpet?”

“The owners are paid about two hundred dollars for entering each competition, but that hardly covers the cost of raising and transporting the animal. It is the sport that is important. Mehmet’s family has trained fighting camels for more than a century. He carries on the tradition when he is not working at his government job.”

Omar instructed his driver to bring the carpet from the trunk of the car and hang it over the fence for all to see. The camel owners clustered around, enthralled. Rather than the machine-made carpets Rand and Leila could see on display, this was an intricate hand-woven square creation with what appeared to Rand to be a geometric tree-of-life design, complete with birds. “It goes to the winner of the last fight,” Omar announced, and his words were immediately translated for those who spoke no English.

Rand and Leila wandered among the crowd, watching as they ate and drank in preparation for the day’s events. Rand noticed that many families had brought a carpet with them, and when the Sevrets arrived he asked Beth about it. “In earlier times, carpets lined the insides of tents for the nomadic people,” she explained. “When the tribes converted to Islam they acquired a new function as prayer rugs. They are an important part of life here.”

Finally it was time for the first fight. An announcer with a portable public-address system said something in Turkish and the spectators cheered as two bulky camels were led into the arena. Rand observed last-minute bets being made all around. Then the owners brought them closer, face-to-face, and moved quickly out of the way. “Sometimes a camel will bolt at this moment,” Omar explained, joining them on the hillside above the arena. “If he runs away, he forfeits the match.”

But neither of these beasts showed any reluctance to fight. After hesitating for only a moment, they slammed into each other with the force of two locomotives, each pushing and shoving to gain the advantage. The owners, in their padded vests, stood nearby, ready to move in if necessary. Cheers went up from the crowd. The announcer grew more excited. Then, within minutes, one of the camels was pushed to the ground and the fight was over. The losing owner ran out to examine his animal while the winner was paraded around the arena in triumph. The announcer presented the winning owner with a pale green carpet whose pattern was hardly a thing of beauty.

Leila purchased some food from Sevret and his wife, and she and Rand settled down with Omar for a snack before the next fight. “Do these go on all afternoon?” she asked him.

“It depends on the number of entries. The animals are pampered and fight only once a week, about twelve times in a season. Usually there are at least eight fights here at Selçuk, sometimes more.”

It was about this time, as the camels for the second fight were being led into the arena, that a van from the Turkish police pulled off the road and parked at the foot of the hill. Two men in suits and topcoats emerged, accompanied by a pair of uniformed officers. They waited near the announcer until the second fight came to an end, after about ten minutes, and then one of the men took the microphone for an announcement. He said it first in Turkish and then repeated it in English. “We are seeking anyone who might have come here from Istanbul yesterday, especially anyone who might be acquainted with Rolf Thadder, a press attaché at the Norwegian consulate. Mr. Thadder was killed in a highway accident yesterday on his way here. Please raise your hands if you traveled from Istanbul yesterday afternoon.”

Some of the spectators exchanged glances, but none raised their hands until Rand and Leila did. Then Omar followed suit, and one of the camel owners did so too. Rand recognized Jobar, the truck driver they’d passed on the road. The government police fanned out, one man coming to Leila and him, one to Omar, and one to the camel owner. The fourth officer walked over to speak with Sevret and his wife.

“You saw the accident?” the detective asked Rand, but it was Leila who answered.

“We saw the aftermath. The officer at the scene said it had been a car bomb with a timer.”

“That is correct. What are your names, please?”

“Jeffrey Rand. This is my wife, Leila.”

The detective nodded, taking a notebook from his coat pocket. “I am Captain Iznik. I believe I have a report on you, Mr. Rand. Were you not director of British Intelligence for a time?”

Rand smiled. “Hardly! I headed up the Concealed Communications unit, but that was several years ago.”

Iznik frowned and jotted something in his notebook. Rand wondered where the detective had obtained the information on him, but before he could ask, Iznik said, “We’ve established that the dead man, Rolf Thadder, had some sort of business to transact here today. He removed a quantity of money from the consulate safe before starting out yesterday morning. It’s not entirely clear whether the use of this money was authorized.”

“You mean he stole it.”

“He may have meant to return it, but the embassy reported the theft to the police and asked us to be on the lookout for him. One of his coworkers mentioned a Greek named Berk whom he’d been seen with recently.”

Berk. The name was familiar, but for a moment Rand couldn’t remember where he’d heard it before. Then it came to him. Berk was the man from the Greek consulate whom Sevret and his wife had been expecting, the one they’d feared might have been the victim of the car bombing. Apparently it hadn’t been Berk but a Norwegian named Thadder. But if that was the case, what had happened to Berk?

The police questioning was continuing in a low-key manner, but Rand could see the next set of camels being led into the makeshift arena. As they clashed, the roar from the spectators was so great that he didn’t catch Captain Iznik’s next words. “What was that?”

“I asked if you are here on official business.”

“I’m retired, Captain,” Rand told him again. “I have no connection with British Intelligence. Why should you think that I do?”

“This is a remote place to come for the dubious pleasures of a camel fight on a Sunday afternoon. Your arrival in Istanbul was noted yesterday. We keep an extensive file on foreign agents.”

“You’d better update it. My wife and I met Omar Goncah in Alexandria and he invited us to join him.”

“Mr. Goncah? Where is he?”

Rand glanced around. “He was here a few minutes ago. I believe one of your men may be questioning him.”

There was some excitement in the arena as one of the camels went down, apparently injured. Several of the spectators rushed forward and for a moment the fallen beast was the center of attention. It had been bitten on the leg when its opponent’s muzzle came undone. Rand looked around for Omar but couldn’t find him. His driver was up by the car, polishing its hood. Then Rand noticed one of the camel owners near the fence where Goncah’s prize carpet was on display. It was his good friend Mehmet, and Rand could have sworn the man took a quick photograph of the carpet with a tiny camera.

The police had concluded their questioning well before the final fight, but they fingered for some food and drink at Beth Sevret’s urging. She and her husband had been busy serving an elaborate variety of shish kebab to the spectators, passing the metal skewers to anyone with the purchase price. The government detectives, Rand noticed, ate for free.

“Is this the final battle?” Leila asked, making clear that she was growing tired of the violent spectacle.

“I hope so,” Rand agreed. “With all that padding it’s like watching sumo wrestlers.”

Mehmet led his camel into the arena, and the cheers were the loudest of the afternoon, growing even louder when the rival camel and its owner joined them. Rand recognized Jobar, the man whose truck they’d passed on the trip down from Istanbul. This was truly the main event the crowd had been anticipating. Turkish pounds changed hands at a rapid rate, often going to middlemen who served as bookmakers.

This fight lasted longer than the others, and it was obvious from the start that the camels were evenly matched. Both owners shouted encouragement, though it was doubtful the beasts could hear or recognize their masters’ voices over the roar of the crowd. “Stay here a moment,” Rand said to Leila.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to get closer to the action.”

He made his way down the hillside, looking for Omar but still not seeing him. He came upon Sevret carrying two skewers of shish kebab, but he had not seen their companion either. “He’ll turn up at the end of this fight,” the cafe owner promised. “He must present his carpet to the winner.”

Rand headed over to the missing man’s limousine, but there was no sign of him there. Some scraps of kebab on the ground were the only evidence that anyone had passed this way recently. Behind him he heard a final cheer go up from the crowd and he knew the match must be over. He hurried down to the arena in time to see Omar Goncah lift the carpet off the fence and carry it to the winning owner, not Mehmet, as expected, but his rival, Jobar. Mehmet’s camel had bolted from the arena and had to be pursued by the handlers.

Omar said a few words in Turkish and handed over the carpet with great ceremony. That was when Rand realized that the police official, Captain Iznik, was at his elbow. “Mr. Rand, I wonder if you could help us,” he said quietly.

“What is it?”

“There’s been another murder.”

Leila saw him walking away at the officer’s side. She came running over and asked, “What is it now?”

“Go back with Omar,” he told her. “I’ll join you soon.”

Iznik led him around the back of the area where the buses were parked. Two of the officers stood guard over the body of a man slumped against the rear tire of a bus. One of the metal shish-kebab skewers had been plunged through his neck. “Do you know him?” the officer asked.

“No,” Rand answered honestly. “I don’t remember ever seeing him before.”

The dead man was middle-aged, wearing a plaid shirt and jacket. He seemed better groomed than the majority of the local farmers, and Rand wondered if he too had come from the city. “We found some identification on him. His name is Plato Berk, an official at the Greek consulate in Istanbul. You may remember the name. I mentioned him earlier as a friend of the man killed by the car bomb.”

“I remember.”

“But you didn’t meet him? At the inn or elsewhere?”

“No. I believe Mr. Sevret and his wife were expecting him, but he never arrived.”

“He arrived,” Iznik corrected, “and obviously his killer was aware of it.”

“I know nothing about the man,” Rand insisted. “Nor about the previous victim.”

“Yet both were attached to their governments’ consulates in Istanbul. I think we can assume the same person may have killed them, even though the method of murder was different in each case.”

“It’s a possibility,” Rand agreed, his mind racing.

“I do not consider your presence here to be a coincidence, Mr. Rand. Something brought these people together and you know what it was.”

“I know nothing. My wife and I came here at the invitation of Omar Goncah.”

“We have spoken to Mr. Goncah. A rug merchant, is he not?”

“No, actually he’s a—” The words froze in Rand’s throat. Suddenly it was all clear to him. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “Something important’s come up!”

He walked quickly away as Captain Iznik called after him. “We’re not finished yet, Mr. Rand. Come back here!”

Rand broke into a run. Ahead he could see the spectators still milling about as the camels were being led off to their trucks. Leila was standing with Beth Sevret and he called to them. “Where’s Omar? Have you seen him since the last fight?”

“He went up to the car for something,” Beth replied.

“Stop running,” Leila ordered. “You’ll have a heart attack at your age!”

Rand slowed to a trot, feeling his heart racing. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Captain Iznik in pursuit at a slower pace. As soon as the limousine came into view, he saw Omar and their driver in conversation. The slender man smiled and spoke to Rand. “You’re just in time. I was speaking to Aytekin about starting back soon. It’s a long drive, but I hope we can make a brief stop at Troy so Leila can see it.”

Rand’s eyes were on the driver, and he saw a pistol snake out from under his coat. “My time is short,” the man said in broken English. “I want the chip.”

Omar’s eyes widened. “I can’t believe this.”

“You’ve killed two men for it already,” Rand told the driver. “That’s enough for one weekend.”

Aytekin saw Captain Iznik hurrying across the field toward them. He swung his weapon in that direction and Rand struck out at his arm, sending the shot wild. Then he and Omar both grabbed him as Iznik drew his own weapon.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Your killer,” Rand told him. “Aytekin set the bomb in Thadder’s car in Istanbul and skewered Plato Berk this afternoon.”

“What was his motive?”

“A computer chip. Want to tell us about it, Omar?”

Rand and Leila went back to Sevret’s inn after the police had finished. Omar came with them as they waited for a replacement driver to take them back to Istanbul. As was often the case, it fell to Rand to fill in the story’s missing pieces.

“Omar told us back in Alexandria that he was a designer of computer chips who traded in Oriental rugs in his spare time. He was bringing a carpet here to present as the prize in the final camel fight and asked us to come along. Perhaps he felt that having a staid British couple by his side would hide the true nature of his trip.”

“Which was?” Sevret asked.

“To sell his design for a highly advanced computer chip to the highest bidder. Once I remembered his occupation, I knew that had to be the reason. Why else would various governments and their representatives come all the way down here? Why else would Rolf Thadder have removed a quantity of cash from his consulate safe?”

“Why here?” Beth Sevret asked. “Such a deal could have been closed on a street corner in Istanbul.”

“I wondered about that myself,” Rand admitted. “But then I realized that Omar must have a preferred buyer down here. I remembered the carpet he’d offered as a prize in the final match. It was square, while surely the carpets used as prayer rugs are always rectangular. They must be, because a Muslim kneels on it and prostrates himself during his devotions. Omar’s rug was square, and what I’d taken for a geometric tree-of-life design was actually his design for an advanced computer chip.”

Omar spoke for the first time. “It was foolish, I suppose, but in my business there is a need for secrecy. I had the carpet hand-woven to my design and carried it with me quite openly. I even felt secure enough to leave it in the trunk of the rented car with a driver I barely knew. A thief would be looking for a tiny chip, not a prayer carpet. And if someone did steal the carpet it would be meaningless to him without a knowledge of its true importance. Since the chip’s function involved weapons-launching, I approached a number of smaller governments without the resources to develop such technology themselves. Mehmet’s government offered the most, but Berk and Thadder were still in the running. If Thadder stole the money to buy it, he may have been operating independently of his government. It mattered not to me.”

“But how did you know that Omar’s driver killed them?” Leila asked Rand.

“We must assume only one killer was involved. Of the few countries that knew about Omar’s chip, would more than one resort to assassination rather than paying cash for it? I don’t think so. But if the same person killed Thadder and Berk, that meant the killer had to be in Istanbul yesterday to plant the bomb in Thadder’s car. The police suspected he might have come here. That was why they asked to interview everyone who drove down from Istanbul yesterday. You’ll remember four people raised their hands, the two of us, Omar here, and the truck driver Jobar. The three of us could not have planted the bomb because Aytekin picked us up at the airport and we drove down here at once. Jobar might have planted the bomb, but he couldn’t have killed Plato Berk. He had to be with his camel in the arena when Berk was skewered. The same holds true for Mehmet, of course. He had to be near his camel during the fight. The Sevrets here were roaming the grounds, but they couldn’t have been in Istanbul to plant the bomb because they were busy here with their food preparation.”

“I was near the arena too, to award the prize,” Omar reminded them.

“But your driver wasn’t. And Aytekin didn’t raise his hand when the police asked to question those who’d come from Istanbul yesterday. Why not? Because he was fearful of police questioning. I noticed him earlier, over by his car, polishing it. Later I found discarded food on the ground there. Aytekin recognized Plato Berk in the crowd and went after him, pulling the food from his skewer so he’d have a weapon. The gun would have made too much noise. I imagine Berk drove down this morning, keeping out of sight after what happened to Thadder.”

“Would Aytekin have killed Jobar too, for winning the carpet?” Sevret asked.

Rand shook his head. “He never knew about the carpet or he’d have stolen it during the night. He ran out of possible buyers to kill so he had to go after Omar himself, imagining he carried the chip in his pocket.”

“Do you?” Leila asked the slender man.

“No, no, it is under lock and key. I brought only the carpet.”

“And now the wrong man has won it,” she observed. “What will that poor farmer Jobar do with it?”

Rand had an answer for that. “It is not the carpet but the design. Before the last fight I saw Mehmet take a picture of it. I imagine for the money he paid, he decided a camera was more trustworthy than a camel.”