Murder at the Opera by Margaret Truman Page B

infidels were not wasted. My degree is in business, the American way of doing business, cheat and lie, make your fortunes on the backs of the workers, and abandon them when it is time.” Rihnai laughed. “I was a good student, huh?”
    “Very good, Ghaleb. Very, very good.”
    Rihnai looked out over the stream that ran fast and deep from recent rains. He said as though addressing the water, “You say the plan is ready to be put into action. When?”
    “I do not know for certain, but soon. That is what my brother has told me.”
    Still without looking at his friend, Rihnai said, “It will shake the Americans to their core.”
    “It is time. Too much time has passed since the towers came down. It is time to strike again.”
    “Yes. The time is here.”
    They returned to Rihnai’s apartment, where the Iraqi fell asleep on the couch while Rihnai answered e-mail messages on his laptop. At eight, they went to one of Amman’s most expensive restaurants and feasted on mensef, roast lamb stuffed with rice and spiced with cinnamon, pine nuts, and almonds; makheedh, beaten yogurt combined with the fat of mutton; salata bi tahini dressed with sesame oil paste; and finished their celebratory meal with many cups of qahwa, bitter, thin coffee flavored with cardamom seed, and rich, sticky pastries. Sated, they returned to Rihnai’s apartment, where he broke out bottles of red wine that had been included in one of his illegal shipments from the United States. Drunk and happy, they hugged, and the Iraqi eventually stumbled down the stairs and into the cool, damp night.
    Rihnai placed a call as soon as the Iraqi was gone. He was on the phone for only a few seconds. He played a DVD containing episodes of The Sopranos on his laptop, constantly checking his watch as he did. Two hours later, he shut off the computer and carried his bicycle down the stairs. After ensuring that his Iraqi friend hadn’t decided to linger in a restaurant across the street, or hadn’t fallen asleep on the sidewalk, he mounted the bike and pedaled fast down the King’s Highway, until reaching a small village twelve miles to the east. He pulled behind a one-story gray stone cottage. A yellow light inside slithered through a crack in the drapes covering the windows. Rihnai went to the rear door and knocked—three times, a pause, then two sets of two raps each.
    “Rihnai?” a male voice asked from behind the heavy, rough-hewn door.
    “Yes.”
    A dead bolt was activated and the door opened slowly and noisily. Facing Rihnai was a large man wearing tan cargo shorts with multiple pockets, sandals, and a T-shirt without markings. He had a round, ruddy face. His hair was blond, bordering on orange. His moustache was gray and in need of trimming. Rihnai knew him only as M.T.
    Rihnai stepped inside and the door was closed behind him, the bolt slid into the locked position. The room was small and square, with little furniture. A table and two rail-back chairs stood in the middle. The only light was a faux Tiffany lamp hanging over the table. A digital tape recorder the size of a pack of cigarettes was in the center of the table; a tiny microphone with cables leading to the recorder sat in front of each chair.
    “Sit down,” M.T. said, indicating one of the seats. “Wine? Whiskey?”
    “Whiskey. Scotch if you have it.”
    “I always have Scotch,” M.T. said, his British accent now evident. He poured from a bottle into two tumblers, placed the glasses and bottle on the table, and took the second seat. “So, you finally have something of value, Ghaleb,” he said, his elbows resting on the tabletop, his hands folded beneath his chin.
    “Yes,” Rihnai responded, tasting his drink. He pulled a package of four Hoyo de Monterrey cigars from his pocket and offered one to the Brit.
    “Thank you, no,” M.T. said. “Nasty habit. You should give it up for your health, Ghaleb.”
    “Cuban,” Rihnai said, lighting the cigar. “The best. I get them in the Canadian