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A shadow fell across his face and he opened his eyes and looked up to see Zachek, his face raw and red as just-butchered meat, swollen on one side. Below the neck, his body was pale as milk. His torso was completely devoid of scars. Boris remembered when his own body had looked like that.
“Fancy meeting you here, Boris.” Zachek’s smile was warm and ingratiating. “I saw what you did to Cherkesov.” He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “A sorry end for a man of such power. But then, power is fleeting and life is short, eh?”
“You look like a fucking bureaucrat, Zachek. Go home.”
Zachek’s smile was lopsided, as if stitched there by a bad tailor. “What did Cherkesov tell you?”
“Nothing,” Boris said. “He had bigger balls than I had imagined.”
The smile froze. “I don’t believe you, Boris.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re out of your league here in the field.”
Zachek’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t we partners now?”
Boris lay his cheek against his folded arms. He was getting a crick in his neck from keeping his head up. “You’re supposed to be in Moscow, tending to your part of our bargain.”
“To be honest, I didn’t trust you would keep your end.”
“But I have.”
“Astonishing, really.” Zachek flicked the key dangling from Boris’s right wrist. “What was Cherkesov doing in Munich? Why did he come here?”
“I told you—”
Zachek leaned over Boris. “He was a mule, wasn’t he? He was bringing something here. Was that it?”
“I have no idea.”
Zachek lunged for the locker key. When Boris tried to slide off the table, the masseur held him in place.
“What the hell is this?” Boris said.
“You know what this is.” Leaning over him, Zachek slid the wristband off. He held up the key. “Let’s see what’s in your locker.”
As Zachek sauntered off, Boris tried again to rise, but the masseur, leaning in with all his muscled bulk, held him even more firmly in place.
He was not alone with the masseur for long. He saw another man enter the room. His face was triangular, vulpine, the black eyes never alighting on one thing for long. He was not a tall man, but he was nevertheless imposing. His body was squat and wide, chest and shoulders thick with matted hair like a bear’s pelt. Despite his lack of uniform, Boris recognized him immediately.
He forced a smile onto his face as the man approached him. “Konstantin Lavrentiy Beria, at last we meet.”
30
IN THE LONG Damascene twilight, Bourne walked down Straight Street, the main artery of Bab Touma, the oldest section of the Medina. Not knowing where it might be safe, he dug out the slip of paper Rebeka had given him and called her. He heard the pleasure in her voice when he identified himself.
“I live in an alley off Haret Al-Azzarieh,” Rebeka said. “It’s very near the old Jewish synagogue, right around the corner, in fact. I’ll come down to meet you, otherwise, finding me the first time is pretty much impossible.”
Bourne liked that, and told her so. He saw her at the head of Haret Al-Azzarieh, leaning against a crumbling brick wall that might have been a thousand years old. She was dressed in woven leather sandals, a long flowing cotton dress, and a brightly colored long-sleeved shirt in the Syrian style. She seemed perfectly at ease.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, just as if they were old friends. “I know a small place with excellent food not far from here.”
Bourne nodded, and they wended their way down crumbling alleys and narrow streets. Every city in the Middle East had a pervasive smell. In Tunis it was jasmine, in Fez, cumin; here in Damascus it was coffee mingled with cardmom.
“What happened to your hotel reservation?”
“The room was unacceptable.”
“There’s no shortage of hotels in Damascus.”
“But none as impossible to locate as your apartment.”
She smiled as if she knew he wasn’t telling the truth. Perhaps she believed that he was simply taken with her; if so, he had no intention of setting her straight. On the other hand he was curious about her. She did not strike him as a typical flight attendant: slightly bored, reserved, interested in her passengers for only as long as they were on her plane.
Walking along the streets of the Medina was like opening a pack of Advent cards. In each window, within each doorway, were a staggering array of artisans working in glass, silk, pottery, and upholstery. There were bakers and halal butchers, flower arrangers and tailors, basket weavers and dyers. On the street itself were vendors selling everything from steaming cups of thick Turkish coffee to cardamom ice cream dipped in almonds. Then there were the flamboyant water sellers, dressed in the ornate Ottoman style of the Umayyad Caliphate. The Umayyad caliphs had made Syria their home, even while their fierce armies were expanding their empire east to Baghdad and north across the Mediterranean into Spanish Andalusia.
When Bourne remarked on the number of Iraqi accents he was hearing, Rebeka said, “For some years the Medina was declining in population. Iraqis—Su
The restaurant she took him to was tucked into an outdoor patio, jam-packed, and full of flavorsome odors. Vines climbed the walls and filigreed iron and brass lamps threw moonbeams of light across the tables and checkered tile floor. Niches in the black and ocher walls contained brightly colored mosaics of Ottoman sultans and Umayyad warriors.
The rotund chef bustled out from the kitchen. “Marhaba,” he said.
“Marhabtayn,” Rebeka replied.
He shook Bourne’s hand and said something Bourne couldn’t hear over the hubbub.
After they were seated, she said, “No menus. Baltasar will make us special dishes, probably farooj, because he knows it’s my favorite. Do you know what this is?”
“Chicken with chilies and onions,” Bourne said.
A plate of stuffed grape leaves was delivered to their table. Rebeka ordered mate, an Argentinian drink that had recently become beloved by many Syrians.
“So,” Bourne said as they ate, “why do you live in Bab Touma?”
Rebeka licked olive oil off the fingertips of her right hand. “The history of the Jews is here. Of course there’s history everywhere in the Medina, but the history of the Jews is the most evocative—stalwart, sorrowful, brave.”
“You must be sorry they’re mostly gone.”
“I am, yes.”
The mate appeared, a waiter pouring the beverage for them both. Bourne ignored it, waiting for it to cool, but Rebeka drank it hot through a silver straw.
“It’s sad to see all the ruins,” Bourne said, “the abandoned buildings, padlocked and dark. The synagogue most of all.”
“Oh, the synagogue, at least, is no longer empty. It’s been renovated recently.”
“And worship has begun again?”
“There’s an Arab living there now, not full-time, but still…” She shook her head. “Incredible, isn’t it?”
“That’s sometimes the end of things,” Bourne said. “Sad and ironic.”
She refilled her cup and shook her head again. “It shouldn’t be that way. It mustn’t.”
The empty plate was whisked away, replaced by another piled with falafel.
“Tell me about the synagogue. Who lives there now?”
Rebeka frowned. “No one knows, really. At least, no one’s saying. But then this city thrives on secrets.”
“You live near enough. You must have seen the Arab coming and going.”
She smiled, tilting her head so her eyes caught the light. “Why are you so interested in the synagogue?”
“I have business with the Arab who lives there.”
She put down her cup. “You know his name?”
“I do.”
“What is it?”
He popped a falafel ball into his mouth. “Why are you so interested in him?”
Her laugh was like velvet. “You and I have a mutual interest.”