“Are you saying that this was an honour crime?” Ibn Ghassan asked innocently.
“I’m saying that there is more evidence than just a body.”
Ibn Ghassan shook his head. “What you have here is a family that decided to murder a girl. I don’t know what things are like in your country, but justice in Hadhramaut works.”
“Hadhramaut signed the UN Convention on Family Honour,” Perry said.
“The UN can fuck itself,” Ibn Ghassan said. “Who the hell are they to come into our country and tell us what to do? I know the law. Until the legislature of Hadhramaut passes a new one, murder is murder.”
Ibn Ghassan’s vehemence disconcerted him. He imagined the ambassador being chastised in the Foreign Ministry because Perry had pissed off a well-connected police commander.
“Your laws may not have changed yet, Major, but they’re drafting the legislation. I’m one of the technical advisors. Until the bill passes, the Convention obliges officers of the state to take issues of family honour into account when considering prosecution. Your president signed the Convention.”
“Do you want me to show you what the law says right now?” Ibn Ghassan asked.
“Among other things,” Perry said evenly, “we monitor compliance with the Convention. Our observations feed into decisions about bilateral aid funding.”
Ibn Ghassan’s face reddened. A quarter of Hadhramaut’s budget came from foreign aid. Perry stood his ground and breathed deeply, unintentionally filling his nose with the stink of decay.
“Wait here,” the Major said.
He stormed out and slammed the door behind him, leaving Perry with the corpse of the Malik girl. His stomach clenched. A yellow light bulb hung from the ceiling. He took a cell phone picture of her for his report and then looked away, breathing through his mouth. He examined the mortar between the bricks and ran his finger along the dusty roughness to grind the image of Jasmine Malik out of his mind.
Ten minutes later, Ibn Ghassan opened the door. “Get out of my barracks,” he said.
Perry followed him slowly out of the room.
“Send me the witness statements if you want,” Ibn Ghassan said. “I’m not wasting my men’s time to get them.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem at all.” Perry walked to the door. “I appreciate your help, Major, and we’ll make a note of it when we speak with the Prime Minister.”
“Just get out,” Ibn Ghassan said.
Perry stepped outside. The white embassy jeep was parked in front of the barracks. Two security police with automatic rifles stood to either side of it while two others, stripped to their t-shirts, kicked the driver on the pavement. Ibn Ghassan held out a paper. Perry took it as the security police backed away. The driver moaned, bleeding.
“Your employee had an overdue traffic infraction,” the Major said. “The embassy should take more care in its background checks on its employees. If you ever need help in checking your staff, please let me know.”
The door to the barracks slammed at Perry’s back. The security police lounged on the steps and snickered at him.
Perry printed Lewis’s speaking notes for the rectification ceremony. His office was much smaller than Lewis’s, with a view of the embassy carpool and a clutch of palm trees through two spotless windows. Other than a picture of his mother, the art on the walls was watery and pale. Lewis appeared at the door.
“I’ve been summoned to meet the Minister of the Interior right now with the ambassador,” Lewis said.
“Will you be back for the Parim event?” Perry asked.
“You go. Make sure everything goes off perfectly.” Lewis smiled. “You’re ready for this. Use the speech you prepared.” Then Lewis was gone.
Perry flustered with papers and then hurried to the carpool. The driver stood by the Bronco. The flesh around one eye was swollen. Dried blood crusted the neat stitches on his jaw. The driver opened the door. Perry sat in the air-conditioned shade. The driver closed the door.
He didn’t deserve to be treated like Lewis. Or maybe he did. A diplomat needed to focus to represent his country. There would be a speech. Local and national press. Photos.
The driver pulled out of the parking lot. Perry practiced Lewis’s speech, but anticipation kept the words on the paper. He glanced at the driver and then pulled out his camera to freeze the moving scenery distorted through the fish bowl window.
After two hours, they turned into the driveway of Mr. Abdullah’s house. Wind-scoured Ladas and a few shiny Toyota trucks clogged the way and filled the holes. The driver veered off the lane and bounced over the field, stopping in front of a crowd. The Bronco rocked as the driver closed his heavy door, leaving Perry in his cool shell. Then, his door opened, pulling in hot air.
Perry squinted. Fifty or sixty faces watched him. Some serious and wrinkled. Others smooth and festive. A camera with a telephoto lens clicked. Many hands clutched stones.
He watched them. They watched him. The noise died. He didn’t see Mr. Abdullah. The silence dragged and the speaking notes he’d written seemed suddenly trite. Brown, self-sufficient faces waited to measure the words of a white man barely out of university, here to change their country. A shrivelled man in a traditional keffyeh emerged from the crowd and smiled. He shook Perry’s hand and faced the crowd.
“Mr. John Lewis wishes to say a few words,” the old man said in Arabic.
Perry’s stomach dropped. He hesitated.
“Mr. Lewis wanted to be here. He asked me to say a few words. I am Francis Perry.” The faces were stony. The cameras lowered. Perry swallowed around a dry mouth and delivered his speech without using his notes. He stumbled over his vision of a world without shame. People looked away and started kicking at the dust when he spoke about his commitment to helping the world. One man lit a cigarette and talked with his neighbour while Perry faltered over responsibility. More conversation sprang up in the middle of the crowd. Perry ended with a call to action and a thank-you. No one clapped.
The old man nodded. “Very nice,” he said. He cupped Perry’s elbow and steered him through the crowd. They had formed a circle about twenty feet wide, centered in front of Mr. Abdullah’s house. They turned to Perry. An oppressive silence bloomed.
A surprised shriek broke it. The door opened. A man in his twenties, wearing a yellow button-down dress shirt, dragged a struggling girl out by her wrist. Amirra tugged with her whole body and clutched the doorframe with her other hand. Mr. Abdullah’s wife hesitated behind them before clawing Amirra’s hand free. Amirra fell onto the dirt. The hem of her abaya rose, showing white socks, running shoes and jeans. Her mother slammed the door. Amirra turned towards her house, but the man in the yellow shirt was there. She retreated to the middle of the circle. Her hijab was askew, showing fine black hair.
The crowd looked at her. The old man held something out to Perry. He focused on it with difficulty. The picture of the girl in the middle of the circle disturbed him. She was pretty. The old man held a stone in his palm, the size of a fist. Perry accepted it. Heavy.
Perry looked up, to see what would happen next. Everyone had a stone hefted. They watched him. The old man leaned in, close enough to smell of cigarettes. He extended his hand towards Amirra. “We would be honoured, Mr. Perry,” he said.
Perry’s stomach lurched. Amirra’s sobs warbled into low moans. “I’m sorry,” she said over and over. Perry looked away. Faces looked back, losing their patience. Perry’s hand shook. He lifted the stone.
Amirra stared back, pleading. Fear eroded her words. Amirra flinched as Perry threw.
The stone bounced off the ground, spinning into someone’s shin on the other side of the circle.