NutmegStateBlues(Continued from An Acquisitive Eye) The information Jonah gave Felix is as good as his word. Mr. Mohammed Al-Reeb, current owner of the Venus Cyrenica, lives in a two-story house in Windsor, a suburb just north of Hartford. The file says that he commutes every day in a 2008 Lexus to his vice president's position at Unified Insurance Agency down in Hartford, in Goodwin Square. He keeps relatively long hours. He is 48, a widower, as yet not remarried, one daughter, 12. Two dogs, a pair of Labradors. He's active in the local Islamic center, too. Felix secures a suite of rooms in town, pays through the week, pays extra not to be disturbed, and then converts one room of the suite to an office. One wall gets a bulletin board mounted, which takes thumbtacked pictures of the piece and the relevant info. Felix goes out and about with a camera the next day, and pictures of the city and the building, distance and landscape shots, get added to the collection. The Islamic Center, too. So, too, do pictures of Al-Reeb, if Felix has them or can get them through internet searches. Finally, after that, he composes an email to Mohammed Al-Reeb, a preliminary statement of interest through his company, to see if he would be interested in meeting to entertain an offer on the piece. There are a couple of pictures of Al-Reeb, on the Islamic Center's website, in group shots. There are also a couple of singletons he is able to find through some assiduous searching on the internet. Al-Reeb doesn't look like anything out of the ordinary. Thirteen hours after Felix sends the email, he receives a reply. Dear Sir, I am sorry, but I do not know what you are talking about. I do not have this 'Venus Cyrenica.' Unauthorized possession of such materials would be very likely illegal under both Libyan and United States laws, and I am the law abiding sort. I do not know who told you that I would have such tainted goods, but you have been deceived. If you wish further discussion, I would be happy to meet you for coffee. Allahu Akbar, Mohammed Al-Reeb Well, that got his attention. Felix composes another email, this one full of contriteness and apologies for the mixup, but the gist of it is that he'd like to meet for coffee, yes, at Al-Reeb's convenience. Arrangements via email are quickly made. Mohammed suggests noon the next day at a coffee house near the Capitol building called "La Paloma." On Capitol Avenue, it is extremely public and not at all hard to find. A quick check on the Internet suggests no deception or other shenangians; there is a coffee house there, and it has reasonably good reviews, and is within walking distance of the State Capitol building. Felix goes early, not only to check the place out but to make sure with the staff of the coffee house that he's the one picking up the check. The night before, though, he's going to look into multiple redundant places between the hotel and Al-Reeb's residence to stash the sculpture, if it comes to that, and how to get it sent off to a nondescript destination. That one likely will require bribery, but he'll handle that after the coffee shop meeting. There turns out not to be too many good places to stash a sculpture between the hotel and Al-Reeb's home, or few that jump out at Felix as being eminently suitable for the purpose. There are a couple, enough that Felix does have some options. There is a UPS shipping center not terribly far from one of the "drop sites" that would be useful for the purpose. The staff at the coffeehouse is reluctant at first, and suspicious, especially since it becomes clear that Mohammed is a regular and valued customer. A little persuasion from Felix, and possibly a bit of lying, is required to get them to accept the idea in the first place. The coffeehouse's layout and style is very much like the Le Pain Quotidien chain that Felix, living in NYC, is familiar with. Warm atmosphere, large communal tables. Rustic look. One of the communal tables has been cleared and prepped for Felix's deliberations with Mohammed. Mohammed, when he does show up, looks pretty much like he did in the dossier, a well dressed, clean-cut looking businessman who looks around the cafe with a slight wariness. It's small enough that Felix knows Mohammed won't have any trouble finding him; he just waits, and rises to greet the man when he approaches. Mohammed spots Felix, nods, and heads to the counter. There is a bit of confusion on his face as Felix's gambit plays out. He finally carries over the coffee toward Felix's table, sipping it. He is still clearly nervous, but he outwardly relaxes a bit as reaches the table. "Good afternoon. Thank you for the coffee," he adds. He pauses, clearly ceding the initiative to Felix. Felix smiles, but inside his head he's thinking, None of this is going well, am I making it worse? "You're welcome," he says aloud. "Merely an apology for any inconvenience I've caused you. Completely my fault." Mohammed takes a sip of the coffee. "Perhaps we both have gotten off on the wrong foot," he says neutrally. "With events so ... unsettled in my homeland, mistakes can be made. Thieves and Ruffians are everywhere. "And yet..." he studies Felix, pauses for effect and adds, "What is your interest in such things as the Venus?" "It's ... unique," Felix says, carefully. "It's history. The highest form of classical art. I personally would like to admire a piece like that." He pauses. "And as it so happens, I speak for a curator who also has had an interest in the piece." "A curator?" Mohammed says. He looks at Felix carefully. He takes another sip of coffee before continuing. "Do you know this curator well? Or is this through an intermediary of some kind, another link in the chain like, say, yourself. "The Venus is dangerous in the wrong hands," he adds. And then perhaps a bit too hastily adds, "Or so I have heard." "I don't know them personally, no," Felix admits. "But, they gave me no reason to doubt their sincerity. All hypothetical, of course - there's nothing wrong or dangerous about an interest in an art piece. Right? Or did something happen?" "I am a god-fearing man." Mohammed says. He pauses a moment and studies Felix for a little longer before continuing. "But the Koran speaks of things that existed before he for whom I was named had the Koran dictated to him. And other texts talk of such things as well. "I am an educated man, sir," he continues. "And yet there are things that cannot be explained by any science of man. Do you wish me to explain further, or would prefer this to be forgotten in the steam of this most excellent coffee?" Felix tries to smile, but it slips away. "And the legends grow," he says. "Amazing, that there should be so much history around a piece of art that I've never heard. Please, go on." "Very well," Mohammed says. "There are lost cities, yes, cities lost to time, cities destroyed by the wrath of the one God. You know of these, surely. "There are things, it is said, that tie into the spirits and demons that plagued the world before the book was dictated to he whose name I gained thanks to Haji," Mohammed says. "Things owned by the spirits and demons who inhabited these places. It is said that the Venus is older than even those legends from Greece, though it was refashioned by such as they. Far older, sir. "A Goddess of ancient Misr, ancient Egypt by the name of Bast," Mohammed says. "It is said she carved the Venus from living stone in the city of Ineb Hedj, and gave it the power to become living flesh, a houri of unsurpassed beauty." Mohammed stops. "And with those gifts, unsurpassed cruelty and skill in the arts of killing. Time and again, it is said, she has been awakened to be the lover of those who then sent her out to kill their enemies, often by seduction. While one might be pious and say this is a parable about fidelity to one's wife and children, the stories persist, if one knows where to look." Felix, who had been nodding politely, perks up his ears at that one. That had not been in the internet search. "Wait, what? You're saying that people still tell these stories? Documented stories?" Come to think of it, the Egyptian claim was proving a little hard to swallow, too, considering the style ... "This is hard to believe, you know. I mean, it clearly looks Grecian." "Not many tell these stories, sir." Mohammed says. "At least not as literal truth but what do you call it, science fiction, fantasy. Legends. Tales. For who would truly believe this. But if you know how to read these legends, you see the truth behind them." He takes a sip of his coffee. "Do you not know that the Children of the Nile had done great things and built great wonders long before the Greeks understood anything better than stone?" Mohammed continues. "Certainly, the Minoans are an exception to that, and it is said that for a time the Venus looked like one of their Goddesses. All made up like a whore and painted. "The cycle turns and revolves. For surely you know that Venus is not its Greek name. The inescapable Roman culture has seemingly stamped that name and this appearance upon the Venus, perhaps forever, or until the Romans are forgotten. It amuses me to think that perhaps one day it will look like an image of some other civilization, maybe even the American. A representation of Marilyn Monroe. Or Grace Kelly, perhaps." Felix leans forward a little, clearly interested in spite of himself and his attempt to act clinical. "The cat goddess, right? Because cats were so important as ratters and mousers in Egypt. So, then, in these stories - the oldest ones, I mean - why did Bast go to all the trouble to carve this statue?" "That is, my friend, where my knowledge dries up like a river in the summer sun," Mohammed says. "Pagan histories and stories about what the world was like at the dawn of time, long before the Prophet are not to be taken without some skepticism." He scratches his chin. "Tales of war and conflict between the gods, nonsense and babble that myth and legend overwhelm facts. Myths that that the Gods of the Children of the Nile, and the Gods of the Greeks, and the Norsemen, all of them, are the winners of a battle against even older Gods, and tools such as the Venus were their weapons and shields." "The Titanomachy," Felix says. "Well, at least for the Greeks. I could see the resemblance for the Norse, too, I suppose. I don't remember the similarity for the Egyptians." He pauses, and puts down his cup. "It would be a fair thing to behold. Are you a collector yourself, Mr. Al-Reeb?" "I collect less dangerous things than the Venus of Cyrenica, if that is what you mean," Mohammed says. "And oncs that are far less, shall we say, problematic than a statue that comes alive to kill. "The Roman province of Cyrenaica where Libya now sits was a hotbed of culture and enlightenment for centuries until the empire began to fall and the province was depopulated. Many things still lie beneath the desert sands at Ptolemais, and a few of those things have, with all due legal procedure, by Allah, come to my possession. Nothing of any ... mythological import, I assure you." He gives a not-quite-trustworthy smile, which he covers up with a sip of coffee. "I see," Felix says. He shrugs slightly. "I see that my curator is going to be very disappointed. But while I'm here, would you be interested in showing off your collection?" "Showing off my collection." Mohammed studies Felix and sips his coffee. Felix is a good enough judge of character to know that he has already made up his mind, he can see it in his eyes. But he is being cautious in spitting it out. Finally, he does. "No, I don't think that will do at all, sir." His tone is both mild and slightly oily, even in the denial. He finishes the last of his coffee. "And now I must return to my employment, or else I will not be long in keeping it. Thank you for a most interesting diversion. It is not often that someone listens so ... intently to things others have forgotten or dismiss." Felix's smile shows just the correct mix of appreciation and disappointment. "The pleasure was all mine, sir," he says. "Thanks for your time, and good luck to you." The man smiles slightly and nods. Now we do it the hard way, a tiny little voice says in Felix's head, way down deep. "Peace be upon you sir," Mohammed says. There is just a touch of Sydney Greenstreet as reimagined by George Alec Effinger in his voice. A slight slip of the mask, perhaps? He gives another nod to Felix at the threshold of the coffeehouse, and then leaves its confines for the greater boundaries of the day. Felix gets back to his room without incident or being obviously followed. There are no signs of police or unusual activity at his hotel room, either. Neither the Nutmeg state's finest, nor the FBI seem aware of what Felix is up to. And so Felix turns to his contacts to see if he can get a fake bust. Felix's friend Simon can come up with a cheap and nasty version that probably won't fool Mohammed for very long, or he can do a better one but that will take a few days for him to get and test a better and more accurate template. That is ... unfortunate. Felix gives the go-ahead for the more accurate version, because if he's going to commit to it, a more accurate copy will be needed. This pushes back the timetable by a few days, but then Felix ought to know if Mohammed tries to hide/sneak the thing out himself because... ... the next step is for Felix to case the joint. And do it well enough that nobody will notice he's watching. Where his target lives, where and when he works, what he does on his off times, etc. Most importantly, because of human nature, Mohammed is likely to go check on his prize if he really owns it, so Felix will pay special close attention to his target's movements the first day or two. It takes until the end of the third day for Mohammed to break his routine and give Felix the paydirt he is seeking. The first, second, and most of the third day is mind-numbing in its banality. Mohammed rises, breakfasts, travels from his house to the insurance company. Brown bag lunch, both days. Prudent driving, going precisely three miles above the speed limit. Nothing that doesn't already dovetail with his knowledge of the man. There is no outward indication that Mohammed knows that Felix is following him, or that anything is amiss. Felix is good enough at surveillance and counter-surveillance to be confident of that. It is after work on the third day that Mohammed does not take the usual exit off of the interstate heading toward home. Instead, he continues on, heading toward Bradley International Airport. He finally comes to a stop at a self-storage site called "The Lock It Up," parks, and heads inside the large glass and steel building, which quite different and much more upscale (and probably better protected) than the grungy and disreputable storage places that are the norm. Since Felix obviously can't go in, and will probably have to come back later, he'll give the place a drive-around. Mostly, he looks for entrances, signs of security (human and otherwise), the telltale vents of an onsite generator, any wireless or broadband signal that his phone would pick up, that kind of thing. (Continued in Nutmeg State Blues II) |
