The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [94]
“Okay. What about the service for Rashid?”
“I spoke to his assistant in Vienna. Everything’s up in the air because the Saudi embassy can’t find out when the city plans to release his body.”
“Why not?”
“She wasn’t sure. Some kind of problem.”
The medical examiner’s office had a big backlog. I knew, because Reggie had had to bribe someone to get Kyle’s remains released to us in time for a Monday funeral. Five hundred bucks and a case of Jack Daniel’s. It was a nasty little transaction that I hadn’t shared with Claire or Kate, and that I was grateful to Reggie for handling. But Rashid’s murder had to be a top priority for the city. I couldn’t believe the medical examiner or anyone else involved would deliberately drag their feet. I’d have to see what Reggie could learn.
“Is that everything?”
“Yes. I’ll be home if you need me.”
“I appreciate it, Amy. Thanks.”
I hung up and checked my watch, debating whether to return Narimanov’s call. I didn’t want to get sidetracked, but I had to give some thought to the future. I knew how curious he must be about Rashid, and how keen he was to get his hands on the Saudi information. It was just before seven. If I tried him back, I’d likely get his voice mail, which would let me be responsive without getting tied up in a long conversation. I glanced over at Claire and Kate, who were sorting through a stack of take-out menus that had been in a basket by the coffee machine.
“I have to make one more quick call,” I said.
“What do you feel like for dinner?” Kate asked. “Japanese, Chinese, or Indian?”
“In Queens? Indian. And don’t forget to order for the guys downstairs.”
It turned out that Joe’s nephew was a cop also, and was more than willing to earn a little extra cash as a bodyguard. He and his partner had driven us from the hotel to the funeral and back, and were currently stationed just inside the warehouse door. I wasn’t taking any chances with security. Kate extracted three menus and held them up.
“Punjabi, Bengali, or Tamil?”
“Whoever makes chicken saag and peshwari naan.”
She opened one of the menus and began studying it. I turned away and dialed my phone.
“Narimanov,” he said, picking up on the first ring.
“Mark Wallace,” I replied, disappointed that he’d answered. He probably had his office number forwarded to his cell.
“Mark. Hold a moment.” The phone went silent for a few seconds. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I was very sorry to hear the news about your son, and to learn you’d been injured in the bomb blast at the Four Seasons last week. Is there anything I can do?”
“It’s kind of you to ask, but no, nothing, thanks.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. But I’m going to be out of pocket for a couple of weeks. I have some family matters to attend to.”
“Of course. Take whatever time you need.”
I hesitated, feeling guilty because of his graciousness. In his place, I wouldn’t have been able to resist interrogating me. Despite my desire to get off the phone, I decided to volunteer an update.
“Thanks. Just FYI, I’ve become less happy about the provenance of the Saudi data, but I found a couple of hours yesterday to spot-check it against some of the information you gave me, and the technical details are bang on.”
“Which leads you to conclude what?”
“Hard to know.”
“I see. And who else have you discussed this with?”
“No one,” I said, a little put off by his question. “Why?”
“Back-end oil futures are up almost five dollars today. I’m hearing that the hedge-fund community is buying heavily.”
“Shit.”
Narimanov’s silence felt like an accusation.
“I gave Walter a preview of what the Saudi data implied a couple of days ago,” I admitted, “when I was trying to enlist his help to check the information through his political contacts. I didn’t tell him anything very specific—just that it looked like we might be headed toward shortages. I warned him not to rely on my analysis and made clear that the information hadn’t been vetted.”
“Perhaps he found someone to confirm your analysis.”
I wished again that I knew what the hell Walter