Storm Front

even if he wanted one. Not unless Awad’s fingerprints were found on the patch of blood.
    Back inside, Awad was saying to Yael, “Think about it. I am a young single Lebanese Arab man who is attending a flight school. You think I want to get caught by the American police for breaking and entering? I’m surprised Virgil didn’t bring Homeland Security with him, to kick down the door. Not even my large and succulent personality could help me then.”
    Virgil came in, sat on the couch, winced, took the gun out of the small of his back and put it in his jacket pocket. “So,” he said, “who’s the Turk?”
    “One minute,” Awad said. He went to the worktable, picked up the laptop, came back to the couch, touched some icons, and a note page popped up: “He is a man named Timur Kaya,” he said, looking at the laptop page. Virgil moved closer, looked over his shoulder, took a notepad out of his jacket pocket, and copied the spelling.
    Awad continued: “He represents another man named Burak Sahin.” He tapped the laptop screen, and Virgil noted that name, too.
    “According to my uncle, Kaya spent his earlier days in Turkish Army intelligence, cutting the testicles off Kurds, when they would not tell him where the other Kurds were hiding,” Awad said. “My uncle told me to be careful with my testicles.” He looked at Yael. “I am very fond of them.”
    “I’m sure they are quite valuable,” she said.
    “This is correct,” Awad said. “Mmm. So: he is employed by Sahin, who is a big collector of important artifacts from former Turkish lands. Like Israel. The rumor is that he will pay five million for this stone the minister has.”
    “Five million?” Virgil was incredulous. He knew a guy who’d killed a friend’s wife for ten thousand dollars and the papers to a three-year-old Buick. He looked at Yael. “It’s worth five million? You didn’t tell me that.”
    “We weren’t concerned with how much it would sell for—we’re only concerned that it’s stolen property,” she said. “We’re not going to pay to get it back.”
    “Then I think,” Awad said, performing a full-dress Middle Eastern shrug, which involved the entire body, “that you will not see it again.”
    —
    A CCORDING TO A WAD , his uncle had called him from Beirut and said that a man he knew was interested in buying the stone, and would pay a large amount of money for it. Awad was not being asked to make the payment himself, but to simply verify Jones’s possession of the stone. If he did that, then Awad would arrange for the buyer to meet Jones for the exchange.
    “Who is this that your uncle knows?” Virgil asked.
    “I do not know the answer to that question,” Awad said. “I asked, and my uncle said it was best that I did not ask.”
    “The Party of God,” Yael said.
    “This is possible, but I would not venture, under any conditions, to say so myself,” Awad said.
    “The Party of God—is that bad?” Virgil asked.
    “You may know them as the terrorist group Hezbollah,” Yael said.
    “Okay, that’s not desirable,” Virgil said.
    “So, with three killers seeking this stone already, I think it’s time for Raj Awad to preserve his testicles and take a vacation,” Awad said. “Perhaps to New England. New England is supposed to be nice in the summer.”
    Virgil: “Three killers? This Kaya guy, the Hezbollah buyer—who’s the other one?”
    Awad looked at Virgil, as if not believing his ears, then at Yael. When Virgil still didn’t catch on, he poked a finger at her.
    “She’s with the Israel Antiquities Authority,” Virgil said. “She does antiques.”
    Awad snorted. “They sent an antique dealer to compete with the Turk and the Hezbollah? I tell you, Virgil, I use an American idiom here. Your head is placed where the sun don’t shine.”
    Virgil looked at Yael, who said nothing, then back to Awad: “The sun don’t shine?”
    “She is Mossad, Virgil. Or Shabak. She cut your throat like a young goat.” Awad drew his index finger across his throat.
    “A young goat?” Virgil looked at Yael.
    Yael said, “He’s been on the
kief
. I’m with the IAA.”
    Awad snorted again, and Virgil said to Yael, “You were talking about favorite pistols? You prefer a Sig or even a well-turned Beretta? And you’re an antiquities expert?”
    “Israel is different,” Yael said, looking away.
    “This is true,” Awad said. To Yael: “I am told that young, attractive Mossad women are sometimes used to