CHAPTER 18

SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE EAST


On the far wall of Ahmed’s office, there was a large painting of a scene from “The Three Apples,” one of the tales related by Scheherazade in One Thousand and One Nights.

In it, a fisherman discovers an ornate trunk, which he sells to the caliph, the ruler of all Islam. When the caliph opens the trunk, he finds the body of a young woman, hacked to pieces. The caliph dispatches his wazir — his chief advisor — to find the murderer, giving the wazir three days to accomplish this task or else face death himself.

On the third day, the wazir has failed and is about to be executed when two men appear, both claiming to be the murderer. The story unfolds from there with a series of turns, each more unexpected than the next, made all the more extraordinary when you remember the teller of the tale, Scheherazade, was trying to save herself from beheading by a merciless king.

To modern scholars, “The Three Apples” is one of the earliest known examples of a thriller in literature, relying as it did on an unreliable narrator and a multitude of plot twists to enthrall readers.

To Ahmed, it was a reminder that no one can be trusted and nothing is as it seems.

Which was fitting, because the painting wasn’t just a painting.

It was also a door that led to a secret place, a chamber tall enough for a man to stand in, deep enough to stash anything of value. One of Ahmed’s ancestors had created it, to hide who-knows-what from who-knows-whom.

Ahmed had actually played in it as a boy. He’d steal some halva from the kitchen, fill an amphora with water, and scurry in early in the morning, before his father had finished his breakfast. Then, sufficiently provisioned, Ahmed would spend the day in there, spying on his father. The painting was transparent from the inside in a few places, allowing Ahmed to see out even though no one could see in. He would stay there, very quietly, listening intently to the conversations that passed between the men who came in.

Ahmed called the compartment aman, Arabic for safe.

Eventually, his father discovered what Ahmed was doing. But rather than scold his son, he praised the boy’s cleverness. He bid Ahmed to cease entering aman surreptitiously. But, every now and then, he would invite his son in to eavesdrop on an important conversation.

Now pay attention to this, he’d say. This man is going to ask me to sell to him for a hundred gineih a unit. I will tell him such thing is not possible, that no one could sell for so little, that I will not be able to feed my family on that amount. I will plead and be quite pitiful. Eventually, he will acquiesce and accept a hundred-and-twenty-five, never knowing that it only cost me fifty.

Other times, it would be: This man will begin by begging me for a special deal. He will cry about his own poverty. I will berate him for his weakness and then pretend to give him a very special price of a hundred and fifty gineih. He will say that his own children will go hungry. As a magnanimous gesture, I will give it to him for a hundred-and-twenty-five gineih. It still only cost me fifty.

Ahmed was amazed how often his father’s predictions turned out to be accurate. He learned much about the world of men and business while secreted away in aman.

He never guessed that, someday, he would use the chamber to hide a store of something called promethium, a substance that could be used to make a weapon more powerful than anything his father could have dreamed of.

Nor did Ahmed guess that there were would be times he would ask members of his own security force to hide in there. Just in case. And only because Ahmed was not as gifted as his father at anticipating what visitors to the office might say and do.

And because those visitors tended to be more dangerous than the ones Ahmed’s father had entertained.

Ahmed was looking at that painting, thinking of the lessons of “The Three Apples,” remembering those long hours he had whiled away inside as a boy, when his phone rang.

“Yes?” he said in Arabic.

Ahmed’s side of the conversation went as follows:

“Yes, I’m ready. I am always ready. You know that….

“Any time you like. Would you like it to be tomorrow? I can make it tomorrow….

“Yes, of course I will have the money. Have I ever failed you?…

“And we are agreed on the price?…

“No, no, no. That is not acceptable. Not at all. These complications you speak of, these are not my problem….

“Well, so kill them if you have to kill them. What do you expect me to do, weep at their funeral? They mean nothing to me….

“Well, then I will suggest to you the desert is a wonderful place to dispose of a body. You are aware of the saying we have about that, yes?”

Ahmed then laughed and said, “No, no. It is this: sand only surrenders that which it wants to. You take care of your problems. I’ll take care of mine. I will see you in the morning, Allah be praised.”

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