The walls were brick here. The corridor turned, then vanished into darkness. Decker felt the wall for a light switch and flipped it on. Bright fluorescents flashed like lightning overhead, spreading along the corridor, illuminating it one section at a time. Decker made his way down the passageway, his footsteps echoing. The corridor pitched to the right, then jogged left. Finally, Decker noticed a change in temperature. It was getting warmer and his nose was suddenly assaulted by the distinctive odor of a gym — the smell of sweaty socks and sneakers, fresh mold and dank humidity. The corridor led into a narrow L-shaped basement room, a kind of changing area, with a few metal lockers propped up against the rear wall and a pair of wooden benches. There was an alcove on the far side of the room with a single shower and a torn white plastic shower curtain. Decker noticed a calendar on the wall; it was from last year, some kind of promotional piece from Wurlitzer, with a busty girl wearing antlers writhing on a snow-sprinkled, cherry-red jukebox.
Decker walked over to the lockers and inspected them one by one. Most were empty. One hid an old gray sock, another a pungent pair of sneakers. He slammed the lockers closed as he finished searching them, and the noise reverberated in the enclosed space. Somewhere upstairs someone had flipped on a jukebox. He could hear Elvis Costello lamenting. Well it seems you’ve got a husband now. He opened the last locker, peered inside. Someone had left behind a dark blue windbreaker. Decker checked the pockets. Nothing. He looked behind it. Nothing. He looked down. There were a couple of sheets of paper at the bottom of the locker. He picked them up. The first was blank. So was the second. He could see where they had been torn off from the pad; each sheet was trimmed with ragged paper pigtails. But as he was about to put them back, the top sheet caught the bright reflection of the fluorescents overhead.
Decker pitched the sheet to the side, just slightly, trying to catch the light. The reflection bounced and he saw the outline clearly, the arabesque, the invisible calligraphy. Someone had written something here; or — more accurately — on the sheet immediately above it in the pad, and the indentation had come through. You could see the imprint clearly in the light.
Decker placed the paper on the bench. He took out a mechanical pencil from the pocket of his blazer and began to shade in the impression, exposing the outline underneath.
It was indeed some kind of Arabic script, but he could barely make it out: Death Will Overtake You. And a number: 54,000.
While similar in design, this illustration was clearly different from the one which he had spied through Moussa’s window. The PC wallpaper had been less florid, less ornate.
I hear you let that little friend of mine take off your party dress. Decker folded the piece of paper and slipped it into his jacket. Ahhhllison… my aim is true. My aim is true. My aim is true….
“Find anything?” Warhaftig said.
Decker almost slammed into Warhaftig as he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs. “Not really.” He started up the steps.
There was a payphone at the top of the landing, and Decker noticed someone had torn the wallpaper off at a seam. The naked concrete was spattered with phone numbers. “How about you? Any luck?” For some reason, Decker could not tear his eyes away from the wall.
“Just those work orders,” Warhaftig said, huffing up the stairs behind him. “Kazinski’s heading back. You coming?”
“Going uptown,” said Decker.
“What for?”
“Thought I’d visit Doctor Jusef Hasan.”
“That guy from Columbia?”
Decker nodded. “If anyone can help me decipher that wallpaper, it’s probably him. He’s an expert on Islamic culture and calligraphy. I already tried the CIA and NSA. Not a peep. They’re clueless.”
“He’s a nut, Decker. I’ve seen him on the News Hour with Jim Lehrer. He’s a radical extremist, always bitching about how the Patriot’s Act is unconstitutional, that sort of thing. What makes you think he’ll talk to you? You’re the establishment, the enemy. And besides, Homeland Security considers him a risk.”
Decker turned. “He’ll talk to me,” he said.
Chapter 13
The truck pulled up beside a three-story brick warehouse on the outskirts of Gurjev on the Caspian Sea. Gulzhan and his men got out and stretched their legs. As they flexed and moved about the cobblestone courtyard, three men appeared in the headlights of the truck, emerging through a corrugated iron door. They approached Gulzhan and embraced him, one by one.
The first man was small, with a narrow face and frame, interminable black eyes and ebony hair. He had the body of a gymnast, supple and muscular. He wore a pair of green fatigues and a tatty brown turtleneck sweater.
“Salaam, Ali Hammel,” Gulzhan said.
“Salaam,” Hammel replied. He touched his hand to his heart and kissed his fingertips.
The second man stood in stark contrast to the first. He was huge, with a large melon-like head, thick wavy black hair, and a long bushy black beard. His eyes seemed perpetually in motion, ox-like, taking in the truck, the men, the moonlight on the black canal that winked at the far end of the alley, adjacent to the warehouse. When he was satisfied that nothing was amiss, the herd safe, he hugged Gulzhan with transparent glee.
“Salaam, Auwul,” said Gulzhan. He slapped him on the back. The large man grinned, his huge teeth glistening in the tangle of his beard. “It’s good to see you again. You’re looking fat, and happy.”
The third man stepped in from the side. He had a lean and predatory look, like a jackal, a thin henna-red beard, and piercing almost amber eyes. His head was shaved. He wore a camouflage jacket that hugged his narrow waist, a pair of green parachute pants, and thick black Army boots taped up around the ankles. “Where is the other truck?” he asked.
Gulzhan glanced about. “I have bad news,” he said. “Uhud is dead.”
The man’s eyes narrowed to the shape of almond shells. “How?” he replied.
“His truck was ambushed near Zhetybay. A’ in sh’Allah.” Gulzhan paused for a moment, glaring at the ground. “One of our informers called me.”
“And the HEU?”
“Do not worry, Ziad,” Gulzhan said, patting his vest. Then he added, “What about Kunabi?”
“On his way.”
“Good, good.” Gulzhan looked over at the truck. He seemed distracted for a moment, as if he were checking the pressure of the tires. Then he turned and said, “Let us sit and eat.” He stretched his back, craning his neck with surprising dexterity. “It has been a long drive, and we are hungry.”
The men began to file back toward the warehouse, all save Ali Hammel, who hovered for a moment in the courtyard. When everyone else had disappeared, he turned toward Gulzhan, saying, “What happened to Uhud?”
“I told you,” Gulzhan said.
“Do not play games with me, Gulzhan Baqrah. I know you too well.”
Gulzhan shrugged. He studied the small man next to him. “Very well,” he said. “You knew him too, didn’t you, Ali? I’d almost forgotten. Friends, perhaps. And I’m sure El Aqrab will want to be informed.” He spat and started slowly down the alleyway that ran along the warehouse, back toward the canal. Hamel glided at his side. When they had reached the dock, Gulzhan stopped and stared up at the warehouse, blanched by the light of harbor cranes. It was a three-story brick structure with large frosted windows reinforced with chicken wire. A series of sliding doors ran almost the entire length of the ground floor facing the canal. At one end, an abandoned furnace chimney clung desperately to the side, illuminated by a streetlight.