Date with a Sheesha (24 page)

A n t h o ny B i d u l k a

He made an empathetic sound, then: “Your mom says hello.”

“You saw her?”

“She and Barbra and Brutus are over for dinner.”

“There is a special place in heaven for you.”

He laughed. “Wanna say hi?”

“Oh sure.”

A moment later: “
Sonsyou
? Dat you? Can you hear me?

Sonsyou
?”

“I can hear you just fine, Mom.”

“Vhere are you den? I can hear you so goot.” Her voice was quite loud, as if not quite believing I could hear her if she spoke at a normal register.

“Oman.”

“Amen,
Sonsyou
. Amen. I pray for you every night until you come home safe.”

She’d misheard me. I tried again. “Oman. Salalah, Oman.”

There was quiet, and then I could hear her talking to Ethan.

“Etan, I tink mebbe someone took de phone. I don’t understand dis language dey are talking to me.”

“Russell?” came Ethan’s voice. “Maybe this isn’t working too well.”

“Just tell her I’m all right, and I’ll be home soon. Oh, and make sure she’s not feeding Barbra and Brutus people food.”

“Uh huh, yeah, good luck with that.”

We played lovebirds for a little while longer, until the boat started making grunting and groaning noises. We were about to shove off to sea. I’d need both hands to hold on.

“Oh gawd,” I said into the phone. “This thing is beginning to move. Pray for me, Ethan.”

“Oman to that, Sinbad,” he said, laughter in his voice.

A couple of hours later, Hema and I met in the ship’s dining hall.

It was a surprisingly charming room of dark, heavy woods with sparkling chandeliers. We were seated at a table with six other guests, none of whom spoke English.

When we were settled with our
khuzi
—slices of stuffed, whole 163

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roast lamb—I asked Hema about her success with the Fujairah rug merchants.

“It went moderately well. I made one purchase. The second piece I was hoping to buy was much too damaged for our collection. And his price was too steep. There was no negotiating.”

I felt sorry for the guy.

“But at least we have two carpets on their way home. I have high hopes for Oman.”

She almost sounded excited. And she had also given herself away.

“What two carpets are those?” I asked in mock innocence as I spooned up some deliciously spiced rice.

Hema stared at me, the badger knowing she’d been spotted near the chicken coop.

One thing I learned about badgers growing up on the farm: if they’re cornered, they can be as dangerous as a wounded lion. I decided not to play games with mine. “We saw you, Hema. At our marketplace. Why were you there?”

She recovered quickly. “I got through my business sooner than I expected. As I already told you, the one seller’s carpets weren’t worth pursuing. I decided to check on you. See if you needed my help.”

Hema wasn’t the type to dig herself in deeper with a lie, especially when it hadn’t worked in the first place. I appreciated that.

But still, something about the way she answered made me think there was something she wasn’t telling me.

“I know these carpets may not seem like much to you. But to me, my aunt, and to the university, they are treasures. I couldn’t just sit back and hope you and Umar found the market and made the deal. I needed to be sure.”

“Why wouldn’t we find it? You gave us the right directions, didn’t you?” Not according to Umar.

“This is the Middle East, not Eighth Street in Saskatoon.

What’s the big deal? Why does it bother you? You don’t like being checked up on? Is that it? Or is it that you don’t like being checked up on by a woman?”

Where did that come from? I could see there was no use 164

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defending myself against her meritless accusations. She was simply trying to launch us into a different argument to distance us from the conversation at hand. Clever. But never try to trick a trickster.

“Then why run away when we saw you? You obviously didn’t want us to know you were there. Why?”

A couple of our tablemates, although not understanding a lick of English, were beginning to give us looks. It was becoming obvious to them that we were not a lovey-dovey couple on a honey-moon Arabian cruise. And if we were, the chance of one of us ending up overboard was growing high.

“I wasn’t running away,” she insisted. “I saw you had your carpet. I saw you’d had it shipped. I was satisfied. I had other things to do.” And with that she began a frantic search of her purse. “Oh great! I left my BlackBerry in the cabin. I’m not hungry anyway.”

Off she went.

I glanced at the other diners at my table and smiled. They gave me sad smiles in return.

My cabin had no balcony, only a porthole above a narrow single bed. What I wouldn’t have given to be on the Friends of Dorothy cruise ship that had ferried me, ever so safely, and ever so glamorously, from Spain to Italy a number of years ago.* Then again, someone had been murdered on that ship, and I myself had been knifed. But now, as the tiny vessel bounced and heaved and moaned and groaned its way across the Tropic of Cancer and past places like Muscat, the Island of Masirah, Sughra Bay, and Shwaymiyah, I think I’d’ve preferred it. Sure, it all sounds like a big adventure until you think you’re about to end up in the Arabian Sea. Fortunately, I do not get seasick, only sea-scared.

After exhausting every prayer I knew, I decided to pull out the books in the backpack I’d found in Neil’s office. Even reading another textbook extolling the wonders of old carpets was better than staring at the ceiling, wondering if the screws that held together the struts looked a little loose. I was in luck. The smaller 165

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of the two didn’t look like a textbook at all. The cover was a brightly coloured depiction of a scene featuring brown-skinned men in turbans, vests, and
I-Dream-of-Jeannie
pants. They were in a small room, surrounded by heaving mounds of sparkling jewels, gold coins, glittering brass lamps, and other intricate metal-work. Through an arched window in the background, a flying carpet carrying two more men was outlined against the mellow cream of a full moon. Great, I thought to myself, maybe I can lose myself in the tale of some Ali Baba-ish adventure.

I opened the book and nearly jumped out of my bed.

Dry, black petals fell from the book onto my chest and bedcov-ers.

I remembered what Hema had told me about the flower petals.

Curse or blessing? Curse or blessing?

Being on this boat was curse enough for me.

After clearing away the bloody things, and catching my breath, I went back to the book. The first thing I found was a table of contents. Blech. It
was
a textbook. Still, reading was better than bolt-watching. And, I was betting that whoever placed the petals must have thought there was something worthy of my attention—or rather, Neil’s attention—in here. If so, I was going to find it.

As the boat shifted up and down, side to side, making noises I did not want to contemplate, I flipped through the pages, one by one.

Eventually I came upon several pages with passages that had been highlighted or underlined. By Neil? By the petal pusher?

I studied each word carefully. Something interesting caught my eye. Interesting enough to make me forget the creaking boat beneath me. At the top of one section, with a penned asterisk next to it, was a word I’d recently become very familiar with: Zinko.

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Chapter 12

How does one measure the value of an antique carpet? When a rare find
is uncovered, is value derived from its age? Its appearance? Its state of
completion? Its state of relative impairment? For instance, the oldest
known knotted pile carpet is the “Pazyryk Carpet,” dating from the fifth
century B.C. Is the Pazyryk more or less valuable than the “Fostat
Carpet,” from the ninth century A.D.? One is from Siberia; the other
was found near Cairo. One is virtually complete, the other just a frag-ment. Does there exist another knotted pile rug which is intact, virtually complete, and although younger than either the Fostat or Pazyryk,
considerably more valuable? So it would seem. This carpet is known as
the “Zinko Carpet.”

Thus began the claim of the essay’s author, Christopher Longwith, long since passed on to that great carpet souk in the sky. The article was one of many included in the book I’d found in Neil’s backpack. According to the volume’s editor, Longwith’s claim about the Zinko was met with great incredulity from many quarters.

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Longwith asserted that the only official description of the Zinko was in a little known dialect of Classical Arabic, and only by travelling to Saudi Arabia, at much personal cost and danger, had he been able to obtain a careful translation. Neil had noted in the margin,
“Classical Arabic has no dialects. Check this.”

With thorough cross-checking of facts, Longwith ascertained the age of the carpet to be tenth century A.D. The Zinko was apparently found
in situ
with other contemporary objects, buried in dry sands that facilitated preservation. Longwith determined that the excavation date had been relatively recent (some time during the early twentieth century). He credited the lack of communication between the Arab nation and the rest of the world for the rug heretofore being unknown. Again, Neil had noted, “
Could
he get to SA without the British knowing? Coastline was British protec-torate. Research.
”

Another old rug story. Sheesh.

I laid the book aside. I pulled myself up in my bed, just high enough to peek out the porthole. Black as pitch. I was hoping for some sign that we were about to enter calmer waters. Or, better yet, land somewhere with a beautiful beach and swim-up bar. No such luck.

Since taking on this case, I’d come to realize that one man’s welcome mat is another man’s treasured possession. So, I dutiful-ly retrieved the book and read on. Fortunately, I had Neil’s yellow highlights and underlinings to guide me to the good parts. And the next part certainly got my attention.

Apparently the Zinko was more than just a carpet. It was, by Longwith’s account, also a treasure map. Uh-oh, I said to myself.

A case I had last year in Saskatoon had revolved around a treasure map.* As full of the promise of great wealth and adventure as treasure maps always first appear to be, I’ve found things never seem to end up too well for the treasure hunter.

I had to reread the section more than once, but if I had it right, this particular old rug, the Zinko, was inlaid with a series of priceless gems. Longwith waxed poetic about rubies, emeralds, dia-

*
Aloha, Candy Hearts

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monds, and amethysts. The greatest value of all, however, wasn’t in the gems themselves, but rather in their placement. Longwith described how the positioning of the jewels in the carpet created a map. The map supposedly would lead the owner to a priceless cache of more of the same. This cache, Longwith purported, was the greatest treasure chest of gems in the world.

Now this got my attention. Whether the Zinko tale were true or not, every criminal justice professional the world over would agree: money and wealth are the root of most evil. Could Neil Gupta’s death be somehow tied to the Zinko? He certainly seemed interested in it: telling his friends about it, highlighting passages about it in the books I found in his knapsack, visiting merchants throughout the Middle East who seemed to know about it. And there was the missing folder in the “Z” hanging file in his apartment. Far-fetched? Maybe. Maybe not.

I quickly skimmed the rest of the book, but found no other highlighted areas. I tossed it aside and reached for the second book. A quick look revealed no highlights or underlined passages.

I turned to the index at the back of the book. Under Z, I found Zinko. I turned to the associated page.

The heading of the paragraph was “Myths Debunked.” I read the two-line entry. It basically said the existence of the Zinko carpet had never been proven and was likely a researcher’s (unidentified in the article) failed attempt at fame via fakery.

Apparently no one thought much of Christopher Longwith’s claim of an antique carpet doubling as a treasure map. So why did Neil Gupta?

In the morning, with much kissing of the ground by yours truly (sand in teeth be damned), we hit land. We were now in the south-ernmost reaches of the Sultanate of Oman. A world away from the oftentimes industrious, oil-crazy, sometimes flamboyant north, and separated from it geographically by an interminable gravel desert known as
Rub’ al Khali
or The Empty Quarter. With summer temperatures reaching nearly 55 °C (131 °F) at noon, and dunes taller than the Eiffel Tower, some called it the most forbidding 169

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environment on Earth. But not so the city of Salalah. Salalah is a colourful, sub-tropical place with coconut-fringed beaches and banana and papaya plantations. Now you’re talking.

As we filed off the ship, locals greeted us with plates of dates soaked in a syrup that tasted kind of nutty. We collected our luggage, tossed onto the dock like freshly caught salmon, then cabbed it to our hotel, The Haffa House. There was no time to catch our breath. Hema was on a tear, and with barely enough time to wash our faces, we were off.