The Navigator (NUMA Files 7)

“Yes, thank you,” she said, rubbing her neck. “I’m fine.”

“Crash course I took in Arabic didn’t teach me how to tell this guy I will splatter his brains around the room if his friend doesn’t drop the knife.”

Carina did a rough but effective translation. The knife clattered to the floor, and the marine kicked it out of reach. The thugs almost tripped over themselves as they retreated back into the murk that had spawned them.

A voice called out in English from behind a curtain at the back of the teahouse.

“Peace be upon you.”

Carina responded to the traditional Arabic greeting. “Peace be upon you, Ali.”

A man emerged from between the dingy sheets of cotton that served as curtains and wove his way around the close-packed tables. The light from the Humvee fell on his pudgy face and fleshy nose. A circular knit cap covered his shaven head. His NEW YORK YANKEES T-shirt was too short for his ample body, exposing his hairy belly button.

“Welcome, Signorina Mechadi,” he said. He clasped his palms together. “And to your friends, the same.”

“Your man was about to stick a knife in my eye,” Carina responded. “Is that how you welcome guests?”

Ali’s small, cunning eyes surveyed Carina’s body and lingered on her face. “You’re wearing a military uniform,” he said with an unctuous smile. “Perhaps he thought you were an enemy soldier.”

Carina ignored Ali’s comment. “I want to talk to you.”

The Iraqi scratched a scraggly black beard that had bits of food caught in it. “Of course. Let us step out back and have some tea.”

The marine spoke up. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“I’ll be all right.” Carina surveyed the room. “I wouldn’t mind some insurance, however. As you can see, Ali’s place doesn’t attract the finest clientele.”

The corporal grinned. He poked his head out the door and gave a wave. Several marines piled into the room and took up positions along the walls.

Ali held aside the grubby curtains, opened a metal door, and ushered Carina into a room bright with electric lights. A generator purred in another part of the building. Richly colored rugs covered the floor and walls. A television screen connected to an exterior security camera showed images of the street outside the building. The Humvee was clearly visible.

Ali gestured for Carina to take a seat on a platform piled with large velvet cushions. He offered her tea, which she refused. He poured a glass for himself.

“What brings you out for a visit in the middle of an invasion?”

She met his question with a hard gaze. “I came from the national museum. It’s been looted of thousands of antiquities.”

He lowered his glass in midsip. “That’s outrageous! The national museum is the heart and soul of Iraqi’s cultural heritage.”

Carina laughed out loud at Ali’s feigned shock. “You should have been an actor, Ali. You’d easily win an Academy Award on that line alone.”

Ali had learned his acting sk

ills as a professional wrestler. He had even wrestled in the United States under the name of Ali Babbas.

“How could you think I’d be involved in a heist like that?” He still used some of the American slang he had picked up from his wrestling days.

“No antiquity of value moves in and out of Iraq without your connivance or knowledge.”

Ali had established a worldwide network of procurers, dealers, and collectors. He had cultivated the Saddam Hussein family, and was said to have acquired many objects for the collection of the psychopathic sons, Uday and Qusay.

“I only deal in legal objects. You can search the place if you want to.”

“You’re dishonest but not stupid, Ali. I’m not demanding the return of the minor artifacts. They’re useless for museum purposes without reliable provenance.” She drew a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Ali. “I want these objects. There’s an amnesty. No questions asked.”

He unfolded the paper with his thick fingers. His lips widened in a smile.

“I’m surprised you don’t have the BrooklynBridge on this list.”