The Devil's Banker Read Online Free PDF Page B

jackals. After all, if a man had a few hundred dollars to spend on a precious stone, he might be willing to part with a good deal less to sate his baser desires. He’d been mistaken. The cloudy reception on Bhatia’s TV was from her pager, no doubt. They all carried them, anxious to meet their customers’ beck and call. Carrion birds, they were. Vultures. And laden with as many diseases.
    Still, Sayeed was unable to look away. The sun shone through the window, silhouetting her breasts. He imagined that beneath the full-length garment she possessed an exquisite form. He was tempted to take her to his safe house and have his way with her, but the current of lust was swept aside by waves of self-righteousness. Years of education demanded to be heard. He was talking before he knew it, speaking as if the Prophet himself commanded his tongue.
    “Harlot,” he said. “Do you think every man is corruptible? Do you think you tempt me even for a moment? You are a disgrace to Islam and to the Prophet. Do you not follow the holy teachings?”
    The woman did not respond.
    “Speak when you are addressed!” he bellowed.
    “Excuse me,” came the voice, timid and repentant. “I did not mean to run into you. It was an accident. I did not realize I was of offense.”
    “Of course you did. How else can your actions be taken? Why else have you been waiting so long in the store? Do you think I do not know what you wish of me?”
    Sayeed grasped the woman’s arm and pulled her along with him. “Stay on the street, where you belong. Or better yet, inside your house of ill-repute.”
    Her upper arm was muscular. She was strong. He had known women like this, in the camps, and in America.
    He pushed her through the doorway and into the street.
    “Away,” she cried, struggling. “You have no right.”
    “I am a man. I have every right.”
    He heard her exhale, and then she was upon him, striking him with the ferocity of a wildcat. A fist swung at his face. Stepping away, he deflected the blow, keeping a grip on her arm.
    “A fighter, eh? Is that where you built your muscles? Hitting men and stealing their wealth when they are weak and sated?”
    A dozen men had stopped to gawk at the struggle. Quickly, a circle formed around Sayeed and the woman. Voices offered all manner of advice, a precious few even calling for Sayeed to let her go.
    “Away,” she yelled repeatedly, the fear of retribution pinching her voice. “Let me go. I shall call the police.”
    “Call them,” he seconded. “Be my guest. Here, the Lord God is judge. We require no other authority.”
    He tried to swing her around and get her arm locked behind her, but suddenly she slid inside his reach. His jaw rocked. His mouth filled with a warm, salty fluid that he knew was blood. It surprised him, nonetheless. She had hit him. The whore had hit him. Clenching his fist, he swung at the veiled face, holding back nothing. A cry escaped as she collapsed to a knee.
    A cheer erupted from the crowd. The spectators closed in, fifty of them at least, more rushing in every second. Their voices were raucous and hungry, the confrontation awakening an ancient taste for savagery.
    Sayeed lifted the woman to her feet. Dust coated her burqa . Rivets of blood dotted the ground beneath her, some black, some violently red. Yet, as she rose, he felt something hard and angular rub against him. Something that felt very much like a gun.
    “Who are you?” he asked, raising his machine gun to port arms, pulling the firing pin, and slipping a finger inside the trigger guard.
    “I know who she is,” came a cracked and rusted voice. “I have seen her watching.”
    Sayeed spun to face an old man, dressed entirely in black, emerging from the ring of spectators. “;Yes, Imam,” he addressed the mullah. “Tell me. Tell us all.”
    The Islamic cleric raised a gnarled finger, his voice shrill with the fury of a thousand years. “A crusader!”

 
    Chapter 4
    With two fingers, Adam Chapel