Titus Ray Thriller Box Set, page 21
part #1 of Titus Ray Series
He studied the photos for a minute. “No, I’ve never seen him before; but you’re right, he definitely looks Persian.”
Since Danny could legitimately flash his badge and question anyone inside the hotel, we agreed I’d be his silent partner unless we found Bashir inside the hotel. In that case, our roles would be reversed, and Danny would be an observer while I questioned Bashir.
Danny had already given me a history lesson on the Skirvin Hotel in the car, but I wasn’t prepared for the luxurious and elegant feel of the place. It looked as if it belonged to a bygone era of oil barons and wealthy cattlemen.
When we walked up to the reception desk, Danny used the straightforward approach.
He flashed his creds at the young female desk clerk, showed her the photos of Bashir, and asked if he was registered. The clerk called the hotel manager, who looked as if he too belonged to a bygone era.
However, he proved to be exceptionally cooperative, and within a few minutes, he was able to tell us no one was registered at the hotel under Bashir’s name. That didn’t surprise us.
Still trying to be helpful, the manager invited us to wait in his office while he took the photographs of Bashir and went to make further inquiries from his hotel staff.
As soon as we were alone, I said, “Look, Danny, if we find Bashir is hunkered down here, we have no way of telling how he’s going to react to a confrontation. I mean, if he’s innocent of her murder, he’s going to be grieving over his wife’s death. On the other hand, if he killed his wife, he could be violent. You don’t really need to be involved in this. Let me go and—”
“Titus, stop,” Danny said sharply. “Don’t keep blaming yourself for the hit on Wassermann. There was absolutely nothing you could have done about that.”
He jabbed his finger in my chest, emphasizing each word. “We’re doing this together. End of story.”
I stared down at him for a few seconds. “Okay. End of story.”
The manager returned and announced they had a guest named Motaz Asadi, who appeared to be Bashir Karimi. He was staying in one of their mini-suites, Room 426.
“Call Mr. Asadi,” Danny said to the manager, “tell him he failed to sign the registration form when he checked in. Say you’re bringing it up now. Give us a few minutes to get up to the fourth floor before you make that call.”
A few minutes later, Danny and I were positioned along the wall outside Room 426. On the floor to our left was a room service tray with the remains of what appeared to be a chicken sandwich.
Less than a minute went by, and then we heard the telephone ring inside the room.
It rang twice before someone picked it up.
Both Danny and I had our guns out, ready to stop Bashir if he got spooked by the phone call and decided to flee the room.
The door remained closed.
Approximately three minutes after the manager made the call, Danny knocked on the door.
“Mr. Asadi, it’s Stephen Coleman, the hotel manager.”
When Danny faced the peephole, I saw him trying to hide his facial features by scratching his forehead, just in case the occupant of the room was expecting an older man to match the voice he’d heard over the telephone.
The locks on the door were disengaged within a couple of seconds, and when the door swung open, we both rushed in.
A startled Bashir brandished a knife from behind his back when he saw us.
Danny shouted, “Drop it. We’re not here to hurt you.”
Bashir calmly pointed the weapon at Danny, and then, for the first time, focused his attention on me.
He looked confused when he recognized me.
“Bashir,” I said, “my friend is with law enforcement. We’re here to help you.”
“Drop your knife,” Danny ordered, “and we’ll lower our weapons.”
Bashir considered this while continuing to stare at me. I nodded my head at him, encouraging him to comply.
He maintained his position, so I slowly walked over and placed my handgun on the dresser.
Bashir’s eyes remained defiant for a few seconds, and then he lowered his arm.
He didn’t resist when Danny took the knife from him.
“Who are you?” he asked, slumping down on the bed. “How did you find me?”
While Danny did a walkthrough of the room, I pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down in front of Bashir.
In less than a minute, Danny gave me the all clear sign, and then he sat down on a sofa across the room from me.
He didn’t holster his gun, though.
I touched Bashir on the shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your wife’s death,” I said softly.
He shrugged me off, his facial expression reflecting both anger and grief. “Who are you?” he asked me again.
Although his clothes were wrinkled and disheveled, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in a while, he still maintained the same air of self-assurance I’d noticed at the ESL dinner.
“I’m exactly who I said I was the other night at the dinner when we first met,” I said calmly. “I’m writing a book on the Middle East with a professor at OU, but I’m also a volunteer in the ESL class.”
Bashir gave me a look of incredulity.
I could tell he didn’t believe a word I’d said.
Bashir turned and addressed Danny, “And you?”
“I’m Danny Jarrar. I’m an investigator with the Oklahoma State Bureau of Investigation. Titus and I are good friends. When you turned up missing yesterday, he asked me to help him find you.”
Danny took out his badge and held it up for Bashir to see, but he showed no interest in it.
Bashir turned back to me. “And now that you’ve found me, what happens?”
“I want you to help us find your wife’s killer.”
Bashir took a deep breath and bowed his head, pressing his hands against his temples as if his head were pounding.
I said to him in Farsi, “You don’t have to know who I am to believe I want to help you.”
He looked up quickly, his eyes narrowing as he stared at me.
Finally, with desperation in his voice, he said to me in Farsi. “He killed her. Now I want to kill him.”
Chapter 26
After a few seconds of silence, Bashir asked me in English, “Where did you learn Farsi?”
When I simply looked at him and didn’t respond, he nodded his head as if he understood my reticence. Then he asked, “You knew Farah and I weren’t from Iraq, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I suspected you and Farah were Iranians.”
After I told him about overhearing their Farsi conversation in the church's parking lot, he pointed out, “Yet, you never ask us about this deception.”
“It was really none of my business, and I thought you might have a good reason for deceiving people.”
“Yes,” he agreed with a decisive tone in his voice, “we did.”
Bashir lowered his head for a moment. Seconds later, he looked up with a pained expression on his face. “Were you there at the church yesterday when she was killed?”
Although it was difficult to meet his gaze, I answered truthfully. “I was the person who discovered Farah’s body.”
Upon hearing this, his composure completely collapsed, and he started weeping.
Danny holstered his weapon, went over to the bathroom, and brought Bashir back a glass of water.
As he handed it to him, Danny said, “We’re both very sorry for your loss, Bashir.”
“Thank you,” Bashir said, taking a sip of water. “Do you really want to help me find the man who killed her?”
We both gave him our assurances that we did, but then I told him he would have to tell us everything—what he was doing living in the States under a false identity, who would want to kill his wife, and why he ran from his house in Norman.
He promised, “I will tell you all this and more.”
* * * *
Bashir moved from the king-sized bed to an overstuffed chair in the living area where Danny was seated on a sofa. I retrieved my gun from the dresser and sat down next to Danny.
“I will begin with my real name,” Bashir said. “It is Behnam Kashani, but my passport is in the name of Bashir Karimi.”
“Did you get—?”
Bashir interrupted me. “No, do not ask me any questions. It will be easier if I tell you my story first. Afterward, I will be glad to answer whatever questions you may have for me.”
Sensing his need of control, I relented. “Sure, that’s fine.”
He nodded his approval and began his story.
“I was born in Iran in 1980, the year after the Iranian Revolution and after the Shah was overthrown. My father often told me he believed the day the Shah had to leave Iran was the saddest day of my grandfather’s life. My grandfather was very close to Shah Pahlavi and his family, and due to that relationship, when the Shah was in power, my grandfather became a very wealthy man. First, he invested in steel. Then he ventured into banking, and later into automobiles. These were industries the Shah assured him would not be nationalized.
“However, once the Shah was deposed, my grandfather urged my father to step down from all their business ventures and join the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, which was in its initial formation right after the revolution. My grandfather predicted the IRGC, whose responsibility is internal security, would become the only means to riches and success in Iran’s future. Within a few years, my father became one of the IRGC’s senior commanders.”
Bashir sighed heavily and continued, “I’m relating this history because I want you to know I was raised in a very wealthy and prestigious household in Iran, and it encompassed two worlds, one of the military and one of business. Naturally, when I became of age, I yielded to my father’s wishes and joined the IRGC. However, because of my family’s wealth and connections, I was also able to pursue a degree at the University of Tehran at the same time, and that’s where I met Farah.”
Despite his request, I interrupted his story. “Could you clarify one point, Bashir? Is your father an ardent Islamist like most members of the IRGC?”
Bashir nodded his affirmation. “According to my grandfather, my father maintained a very secular lifestyle when he was growing up in the Westernized society the Shah had built; however, once he joined the IRGC, he adopted the militant’s strict adherence to the tenets and practices of Islamic law.”
“I’m sure that affected your upbringing,” I said.
Bashir cleared his throat. “Yes it did. I was also an Islamist until I met Farah. As you Americans describe it, I fell in love with her at first sight. However, after I got to know her, I discovered she had rejected the Muslim faith. She had become a Christian, a follower of Jesus Christ.”
This time it was Danny who interrupted him. “Oh, wow! I’m sure that didn’t sit well with Daddy.”
Subtlety was never Danny’s strong suit, and I was afraid his comment might be offensive to Bashir, but instead he agreed with Danny’s observation and went on with his story.
“You’re right, of course. My father and I had many painful arguments, and I finally agreed to stop seeing her. However, during our time apart, I started reading a Bible she had given me, and then I understood why she had become a believer. I too became a believer. A few days later, I sought her out and we were reunited. However, she agreed with me to keep our relationship and my new belief a secret until I could decide how to break the news to my father. A few—”
Suddenly, a soft melody from a cell phone started playing, and Bashir immediately let out a cry of anguish and rushed across the room to a nightstand. He whipped open the drawer, withdrew the phone, and silenced the ring.
As he continued staring down at the phone, I walked over and took it from his hand. The screen name was displaying “Farah.”
“Who’s using Farah’s phone?” I asked.
His words were barely perceptible. “The man who killed my wife.”
“Why is he calling you?”
“When I finish my story, you’ll understand,” he replied, walking back over to the living area.
After he sat down, his chin dropped to his chest, and he vigorously rubbed his eyes. At that moment, I wasn’t sure he was capable of continuing. But, moments later, he raised his head, and with a determined look on his face, resumed his story.
“One of my responsibilities in the Guard was to investigate document forging. A few weeks after I started seeing Farah again, I received some information on a known forger, a man who operated near Azad University on the outskirts of Tehran. After reading the evidence against him, I decided there was enough information to make an arrest. However, after talking it over with Farah, instead of arresting the man, I offered him a huge sum of money to prepare passports, travel documentation, and other papers we would need in order to leave Tehran and start a new life in America.”
“Were you afraid of your family?” Danny asked.” Is that why you wanted to leave?”
“No. While I knew my family would disown me, I never thought they would harm either of us. What we both wanted more than anything else was to live a normal life as believers of Christ. I knew that was never going to happen in Iran, and the only place I knew it could happen was here in America.
“Six months before I met Farah, my grandfather had passed away. Before he died, he had deposited a substantial amount of his wealth in Swiss bank accounts, and when he died, some of that fortune became mine. So, once we had made our escape from Iran, Farah and I flew to Geneva, Switzerland, where I made arrangements for the funds from my inheritance to be transferred to accounts here in the United States. We did all of this without telling anyone we were leaving Iran and coming to America. Once we arrived, though, I contacted my father.”
At this point, Bashir’s voice cracked. “He told me I was no longer his son. I was dead to him.”
He stared out the window with a faraway look in his eyes for a few moments. Watching him deal with the pain of losing his family was difficult.
I changed the subject. “Why did you choose to come to Norman?”
He gave me a weak smile. “We considered several places, but, in the end, Farah was the one who decided we should live in Norman.
“I wanted us to live near a university so I could pursue a degree, and I also felt we would be safer in a community where there was a large international population. When I was looking at OU as a possibility, Farah got excited about coming to Oklahoma. Later, I realized this excitement was due to her poor English. When I told her we could live in Norman, Oklahoma, she thought I was saying normal, and that’s what we both wanted, just a normal life. Even when I explained it to her, she still insisted Norman was where she wanted to live.”
Bashir gestured toward the window, and said. “We were married at a church not far from here, and while we were looking for a residence in Norman, this hotel was our first home.”
“That’s how we found you,” I told him. “Farah’s computer had photographs of the two of you here at the hotel.”
“That was careless of me to leave her computer behind,” Bashir replied, shaking his head, “and it was my carelessness that got her killed in the first place.”
“I know you want to blame yourself for her death,” Danny told Bashir, “but instead you should focus your energy on helping us find her killer.”
“You’re right,” Bashir agreed. “That’s what I must do.”
“So tell us what you know about the man who murdered your wife,” I prompted.
“To do that, I need to tell you what happened two months ago.”
I saw Danny remove a pen and notepad from his coat pocket. So much for technology—he had left his iPad in the car.
“Our passports identified us as Iraqis, and for that reason, we were very careful about making Arabic friends because I didn’t want our accents to betray us as Iranians. However, after living in Norman for over a year, I could tell Farah was getting homesick. So, two months ago, after she met a Jordanian woman at a grocery store, I gave my consent for us to attend a meal at the woman’s home. I thought a family meal would do Farah a lot of good, because she hadn’t joined the ESL class yet, and I knew she needed to make some friends in Norman.
“The dinner seemed harmless at the time, and it was wonderful to see Farah enjoying herself. She especially liked playing with the children in the family. However, when the meal was almost over, the Jordanian woman's nephew and his two roommates arrived. I immediately recognized one of the roommates, although he gave no indication he knew me.”
“Was he an Iranian?” I asked.
“No, he was a Palestinian I had met about a year before I left Iran. He was attending a training camp for Hezbollah recruits being conducted by the IRGC. My commander and I had spent a couple of days at the camp observing their training methods, so I knew I wasn’t mistaken about his identity.” Bashir took a long, slow breath. “He’s the man who killed my wife. His name is Shahid al-Nawar.”
At this disclosure, Danny looked over at me with a look of triumph. Getting up from the sofa, he said, “Excuse me. I need to call my office.”
After Danny stepped out in the hallway, Bashir said, “I need to take a break.” Then, he headed for the bathroom.
While Bashir and Danny were out of the room, I raided the room’s mini-fridge and grabbed a soda. A few minutes later, Danny walked back in the room. When he saw Bashir was in the bathroom, he said, “The surveillance team can’t locate Shahid. I’ve ordered an additional unit to Norman, so we should get some results soon. If that—”
Danny cut himself off when he heard the bathroom door open.
Bashir looked emotionally depleted, and I held up the soda can. “Would you like one?”
“No, thanks.”
Danny got himself something to drink, and when we sat back down, I asked Bashir, “What makes you so certain this man killed Farah? You said he gave no indication he knew you.”
Bashir replied with disgust. “He knew who I was, or rather, who I had been, as soon as he saw me, but I didn’t know that until a week after the dinner. That’s when he approached me in a parking garage on the OU campus and held a knife to my throat. Then, he made me get inside his car where we could talk. Once inside, he told me he had recognized me at the dinner and had been curious as to why I was living here under a false identity.
