A Wild and Lonely Place (6 page)

I’d been able to negotiate my contract with Renshaw and set up this lunch because at the last minute the civil case in which
I was supposed to testify had been settled. Renshaw was anxious for me to talk with Lateef; the attaché displayed no strong
loyalty to Malika Hamid and might be willing to pass on useful information. Lateef, Gage said, had once remarked to him that
the consul general possessed the temperament of a dyspeptic camel.

The attaché unbent and sampled the chicken, pronounced it good and helped himself to a tacquito. I relaxed, glad he’d finally
eaten something, and redirected our discussion. Since we arrived here Lateef had talked about San Francisco’s diplomatic community:
its relatively small size, some fifty consuls general at last count, and many of merely honorary status; of consular duties
ranging from issuing new passports to citizens residing in the U.S., to making loans to stranded travelers from the homeland,
to negotiating trade agreements with large American corporations; of rivalries and enmities among the various missions, none
of which seemed to involve Azad; of diplomatic entertainment which, he said regretfully, was not nearly as lavish here as
on the East Coast. Now I steered the conversation to Azad.

“I met with Mrs. Hamid yesterday and found her a most interesting woman, I’d like to know more about her.”

Lateef’s small eyes gleamed—whether in enjoyment of his second tacquito or in anticipation of the dirt he was about to dish,
I couldn’t tell. “Malika Hamid is an unusual woman,” he said. “Very forceful. Very single-minded. She always arranges to have
things her way. Her grandmother was English, did you know? One of those terribly gallant impoverished gentlewomen who came
out to the less civilized parts of the world during the latter years of the century, determined to do good works. You’ve read
about them in historical novels, of course. She was hired to educate the emir’s children, but decided to reeducate him as
well. One day he had three wives and his freedom, the next he was bound in wedlock to the honorable Sarah Abernathy. Those
early marriages were not valid according to her, you see. Poor emir! Sarah then set about reforming him, and when she finished,
she set about reforming the country.”

“I assume she succeeded.”

“Most assuredly. She was not a woman to be stopped. Azad owes its present-day progressive status to her. Our women haven’t
worn the
hijab
for decades; they are educated in the same manner as our men, they drive automobiles, they hold responsible jobs. Sarah,
much to her sorrow, never succeeded in making us Anglicans; we do follow the precepts of Islam. But, except for a few fundamentalist
factions, we interpret our faith in ways that apply to the modern world. And we are a peaceable country. Of course”—he smiled—“it
helps that we are also a prosperous country. Full bellies breed peace.”

“And what about Malika Hamid? Does she take after her grandmother?”

“Oh, definitely. She was educated in England, as is the tradition with our leading families, took her final degree at the
London School of Economics. Very well traveled, very well read. Never went in for jet-setting and all that sort of frivolity.
Afterwards she returned home and worked on various highly placed government commissions. She also found time to marry—a distant
cousin on the Hamid side, who gave her one son. The husband is still alive, you know.”

“In San Francisco?”

Lateef shook his head, malice showing in his thin-lipped smile. “No, the south of France, I believe. There was a scandal some
fifteen years ago involving Hamid and not one but two young boys. He went abroad, and his injured wife requested a permanent
diplomatic posting to America. She preferred San Francisco, so the former consul general here was called home. Mrs. Hamid
departed Djara, our capital, with her son, Dawud, and has never again set foot on Azadi soil.”

“Dawud is Habiba’s father?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s still living at the consulate?”

“No. Dawud—Dave, as he insisted on being called—disappeared a number of years ago. Five? Six? I am sorry, I don’t recall.
He was in his late twenties at the time. Mrs. Hamid was heartbroken; she adored her son and would have done anything for him.
To compound matters, it appeared that his disappearance had to do with his involvement in illegal gambling.”

“He owed gambling debts?”

“No, nothing like that. He was in charge of a high-stakes gambling operation of some sort. I must hasten to add that this
is merely idle gossip. Mrs. Hamid works to keep family affairs within the family, as is the Azadi way. Most of her staff do
not care for her, so they distort what little they do hear.”

Including you. “Do you know whether Dawud’s disappearance was voluntary or involuntary?”

Lateef shook his head and speared another piece of chicken.

“Were the police called?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“What about his wife? Is she still living at the consulate?”

He set down his fork and pushed the plate away, seeming to lose his appetite. “The younger Mrs. Hamid lives with her mother-in-law,
yes.”

Something wrong there. “Tell me about her.”

“She is American. Dave met her at UCLA before he was asked to leave because of academic deficiency.”

“Her first name is…?”

“Mavis.”

“What does she do for a living?”

“Nothing, now. She was a poet, a very gifted one; she was awarded many prizes. And she is still a beautiful woman, only in
her early thirties.”

“Why did she give up her poetry?”

He sighed. “She drinks.”

Social drinking away from the consulate? She wouldn’t be able to indulge in an Azadi household where, according to Islamic
law, alcohol was prohibited. “How much does she drink?”

“Steadily and constantly.”

“An alcoholic, then.”

“Yes.”

“Is her mother-in-law aware of the problem?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Has she tried to get Mavis into treatment?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t imagine liquor is kept in the consulate. Does Mavis bring it in over Mrs. Hamid’s objection?”

“As I mentioned before, Mavis Hamid is a beautiful woman, a wounded and vulnerable woman. Her name means ‘song-thrush,’ you
know, and it suits her. For such a person, others will do things—even things that go against their better judgment and the
precepts of their religion.”

Meaning the staff supplied the booze for her. Because she was a beautiful, wounded, vulnerable woman? I didn’t buy that. But
I could imagine a desperate woman paying them, even trading sexual favors for a bottle. I was about to probe some more when
I noticed the raw pain in Lateef’s eyes.

He’s in love with her, I thought, and he’s supplied many a bottle himself.

I said, “So Mavis just stays at the consulate and drinks.”

“She stays in her room. Occasionally she wanders through the house late at night when she thinks everyone else has retired.”

The way he phrased it told me he’d encountered her on those wanderings; had perhaps become her lover, or at least a confidant.

“Do other people in the diplomatic community know about her problem?”

“There were a number of embarrassing incidents when the elder Mrs. Hamid was entertaining last year, that necessitated sedating
Mavis, but of late she has become very reclusive.”

“In your opinion, was her husband’s disappearance the cause of her drinking?”

“She always drank. So did Dave. A great many more of us do than you would suspect. But I would say that it became more extreme
afterward.”

“I still don’t understand why Malika Hamid refuses to get Mavis into treatment. If it’s negative publicity she’s afraid of,
she could always send her to one of those discreet European clinics.”

Lateef had been turning his knife over and over on his plate; now he grasped it like a weapon.

I said, “Let me ask you this: does Mrs. Hamid abet Mavis’s drinking?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Mavis hates Malika. She has since their first meeting. If she were well and strong, she would take her daughter and leave
the consulate. She would cash in the securities she inherited when her parents died several years ago and go far away. Malika
would never see Habiba again.”

“Mavis has said so?”

“Many times—and in her mother-in-law’s hearing. Malika will never permit it. Since she lost her son, Habiba is everything
to her. She will not let her go, and anyone who attempts to take her is expendable.”

* * *

“Gage, I need to get inside that consulate and talk with Mavis Hamid.”

“Malika won’t allow that. And anyway, Mavis is so zoned out most of the time that nothing she says makes any sense.”

“Still, I’ve got to try.”

“Impossible.”

“How can you say that? You control the security there!”

“If Malika found out I set up a meeting between you and her drunken daughter-in-law, she’d cut off my pecker.”

“That’s nothing.”

There was a silence. Then Renshaw recognized my reprise of his earlier comment about my self-respect and laughed. “Shows what
you know,” he said. More soberly he added, “You’ll have to prove to me that it’s necessary you talk with Mavis.”

“I can’t
prove
anything. But you ought to realize that any bit of information, no matter how irrelevant it seems, can prove crucial to an
investigation.”

Renshaw was silent again. I cradled the receiver against my shoulder and glanced at the door that connected my office with
Mick’s. He hunched at his desk, sandy blond head bent over the computer keyboard, stocky body dwarfing the posture chair.
His fingers tapped furiously. Suddenly he peered up at the VDT, said “Uh-huh,” and recommenced tapping.

“Gage?”

“Hang on, I’m checking Hamid’s schedule.”

More silence. Mick said, “Uh-
huh
!” I tried to catch his attention, but he was enrapt with whatever had appeared on the screen.

“Okay,” Renshaw said, “the old dyspeptic camel—I like that, don’t you?—is off to dinner with the head of the Saudi Trade Commission
tonight; they’ll probably plot to raise world oil prices. She’ll leave the consulate at seven; I’ll take you in to see Mavis
at nine when our shifts change—less conspicuous that way. By then the younger Mrs. Hamid will be shitfaced and puking on the
rug, but if you insist…”

“I insist.” Then I thought of my plans to arrive at the cottage tonight with another load of possessions designed to ward
off demons. If I didn’t get there Hy, unlike other men with whom I’d been involved, would understand. But the interview with
Mavis Hamid probably wouldn’t take long. I’d nap before I went to the consulate and be fresh for the four-hour drive.

Renshaw said, “One of our mobile units is parked around the block from the consulate on Laguna Street by Lafayette Square.
I’ll meet you there.”

I agreed, broke the connection, and motioned to Mick, who was standing in the doorway. “What had you so interested?” I nodded
toward the computer.

“The feds’re using the TechnoWeb to solicit information about the bomber.”

“The TechnoWeb?” It was one of the on-line services he insisted we subscribe to, but I couldn’t for the life of me keep them
sorted out.

“Shar, I guided you through it just last month.”

Mick found my inability to internalize computer-related information so irritating that sometimes I perversely simulated ignorance
in order to get a rise out of him. I was feeling perverse now. “Refresh my memory.”

He sighed. “The Web is a nationwide service with over two million individual users. It offers news, sports, and weather; educational
and reference services; games, shopping, and travel arrangements; investment and real-estate advice; bulletin boards, E-mail,
and live discourse.”

“Those boards—”

“Each board is devoted to a specific interest; you post notes that everybody using them can read, and anyone can respond to
you by note. E-mail is private communication with an individual, again by note. Live discourse is like talking, only it’s
via computer terminal. The feds’re smart to tap into the Web, and I’ll bet they’re using the other services like Prodigy and
CompuServe and America Online, as well as the Internet.”

“The Internet—that’s the monster one you need a road map to use?”

Mick smiled smugly. “
Some
people need a road map, but not this kid.”

“Okay—the task force posted on a bulletin board?”

“Three that I’ve found so far: Law Enforcement, Crime and Criminals, and Famous Criminals. Basically the note was a recap
of what anybody who reads the papers already knows about the case. It asked people to come forward with information, either
on the boards or the task force’s eight hundred number, and mentioned the reward.”

“You think they’ll get anything that way?”

He shrugged. “You never know. People who use the online services are generally pretty intelligent, and a lot of the ones I
communicate with tend to get caught up in what you’d call amateur sleuthing. But here’s what I’m thinking: this is an unusual
item; people’ll be posting about it all over the boards. If I monitor them, maybe we’ll learn something before the feds do.”

“Go ahead, then. But I’ll tell you, I don’t have too high an opinion of this mania for the boards. The computer puts distance
between people, allows them to conceal and lie outright. Look what happened to Rae when she fooled around on the boards on
Wisdom.”

The previous fall Rae had become involved with two men through Wisdom’s Frank Conversations board. I wasn’t clear on the exact
nature of the involvement because, try as I might, I could never figure out how one could have what Rae termed “an incredibly
sensual experience” via computer terminal. Computer sex, I suspected, had evolved into phone sex, and Rae had gone about her
business in a blissful if somewhat glassy-eyed condition until New Year’s Eve, when the two had traveled from their respective
homes in Kansas City and El Paso to escort her to All Souls’s traditional party. Unfortunately, the evening ended badly when
they recognized a mutual attraction and left together. Rae immediately swore off the computer as a recreational device and
gave up on men in general. She now spent the majority of her free time watching old movies on TV or playing pinball down at
the Remedy.