‘I was worried it might be the corona. The last thing we need is another outbreak round here, but they say it was a heart attack. Too much coke. That’s what I reckon. Keeled over like a falling cedar and died in a puddle of beer,’ Harry Martin said. ‘God rest his soul.’
Harry Martin was the bombastic Director of Operations for the Port of Seattle. He was a man of fleshy folds, from the rolls that clung to his wide neck to the creases at his wrists and elbows. His bulbous pot belly strained the buttons of his short-sleeved white shirt and even in the air-conditioned office his face was crimson and his bald head was beaded with sweat. The guy devoted his every waking hour to ensuring the port ran smoothly and spent most of his life trapped at his desk guzzling sweet black coffee and donuts. He rubbed a lot of people the wrong way, but Ziad had always liked his direct no-nonsense style. A person always knew where they stood.
‘I was there,’ Ziad revealed, and Harry’s eyes widened.
‘Really? Was it as bad as people say?’
Ziad had tried not to think about Cutter’s ugly death. The satisfaction he’d felt on the night had given way to waves of guilt and pangs of regret, and Cutter’s face now mingled with those of the men in Al Aqarab, haunting his memory, plaguing his nightmares.
‘It was horrible,’ Ziad replied.
‘What the heck happened to you anyway?’ Harry asked, leaning back in his large leather chair. ‘One moment you’re signed off for a two-week vacation, the next you disappear.’
‘I was in a car accident,’ Ziad lied. ‘They put me in an induced coma.’
‘Shit,’ Harry sighed. ‘Sorry to hear that. Are you OK?’
‘I think so. Few broken bones, a bleed on the brain, but they’ve given me the all clear.’
Harry nodded sombrely. ‘Well, like I said, your timing couldn’t be better. Richie’s death means I need a new shift supervisor. You were always a good worker, Ziad,’ he said, and he cast his broad arms into the air and gestured expansively at the mass of papers on his desk and the schedules pinned to the walls. ‘And we’re busier than ever. We’ll have to go through the formalities, but if you want your old job back, it’s yours.’
Ziad stood and offered his hand across the cluttered desk. Harry rose and clasped it warmly.
‘Thank you, Mr Martin,’ Ziad said. ‘It’s good to be home.’
The 1988 Buick Electra rattled and spluttered at every intersection and the tan bodywork was marred by dents and rust, but Ziad didn’t care. The car got him around and his image wasn’t important to him anymore. When he’d first come to Seattle, he’d stretched himself to buy a used BMW M5 in an attempt to give himself cred. He’d never been able to understand Deni Salamov’s low-key approach to life. The Chechen had unimaginable wealth, but the world only ever saw a pious man who ran a handful of small businesses. The passing observer would have no idea Deni controlled the supply of drugs into the western seaboard.
The Buick made a horrible crunching sound as Ziad turned into the parking lot on the corner of 140th Street. Most of the eighty or so spaces were empty and Ziad chose one near the converted mini-mall. Occupying an entire city block, the broad, low building was home to the Salam Islamic Centre, a large civic hall in the heart of the complex. There were four businesses in the building, two either side of the Islamic Centre. To the north were Sunshine Bank, a Sharia financial institution that enabled neighbourhood Muslims to invest according to scripture. Next to it was the Salamov travel agency and currency exchange. To the south of the Islamic
Centre were the Haqeeq Bookstore and, on the very southernmost corner of the complex, the Al Jamaea coffee shop. The parking lot that lay to the south of the building had been closed and converted into a makeshift soccer pitch. Men sat at tables outside Al Jamaea, dragging on cigarettes and drinking coffee as they watched two teams of boys in salwar kameezes battle over a flat soccer ball. The men were first- and second-generation immigrants drawn from all over Asia, North Africa and the Middle East and Ziad recognized a few familiar faces. He felt a pang of nervous excitement at the prospect of stepping back into his old life. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. None of the men outside the cafe were dangerous. His biggest concern was that Deni would realize the threat he posed and have him fed to the gulls. Ziad’s stomach flipped again, but he turned his attention away from the men and reminded himself why he was here; to avenge himself.
To the east of the makeshift soccer pitch was a smaller standalone building, the Salam Mini-mart, a convenience store that specialized in Middle Eastern produce. Few people knew that all the businesses, the community centre and most of the surrounding residential buildings belonged to Salamov.
As he got out of the car, Ziad saw a man he recognized emerging from the goods entrance of the mini-mart. Abbas Idrisov, also known as Abacus, was Deni’s human calculator. The Chechen never kept a record of any of his dealings for fear of prosecution, so every transaction he’d ever made was stored in the eidetic memory of this wizened old man. No one was sure of Abacus’s age, but he moved with the aching hesitancy of a septuagenarian. He had a long white beard, a craggy face with drooping eyes and a bulbous nose that had lost the battle with gravity a long time ago. Even though it was a warm autumn day, Abbas wore a thick full-length wool coat and a traditional ushanka fur hat. He carried a paper bag in one hand and muttered words under his breath as the fingers of his other hand worried a set of red misbaha prayer beads. His eyes lit up with surprise when he caught sight of Ziad.
‘Masha’Alla. Masha’Alla,’ Abbas exclaimed. ‘Ziad Malek. I heard you’d disappeared.’ The old man shuffled over and raised his palm in greeting. He was being cautious, avoiding close contact.
The encounter was a good warm-up. Ziad resisted the urge to close the gap between them, grab the man’s neck and squeeze it until the breath left his body. Everyone associated with Deni was tainted. He couldn’t trust any of them. Had Abacus known he’d been set up? He peered into the old eyes for any sign of guilt. Had Abbas been a party to his betrayal?
‘I ran into some trouble, Abbas, but it’s good to be back,’ Ziad said. The old man’s eyes shone with warmth and happiness, but Ziad knew a jackal like Abacus couldn’t survive the criminal underworld for so long without being an expert at masking his true feelings. ‘Is Deni around?’
‘Of course,’ Abbas replied. ‘This is a great day. He will be like an excited child when he sees you have returned.’
Ziad very much doubted that.
‘Come,’ Abbas said as he headed towards the bookshop. ‘Come, follow me. You will put a smile on your old friend’s face.’