Perfect Hatred by Leighton Gage Page B

“Do you recognize this man?” she said.
He gave it only a cursory glance. “That’s a woman,” he said.
She shook her head. “Please look more closely.”
“Why? What—”
“Please. Just look. It’s a picture of the bomber, taken seconds before the explosion.”
The Sheikh pushed his spectacles above his hairline, accepted the photograph and brought it close to his nose. “Oh, God,” he said.
His eyes had become huge. Danusa felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck.
“You know him then?”
The Sheikh nodded. “I know him.”
“Who was he? What was his name?”
“Salem Nabulsi,” the Sheikh said, shaking his head as if to negate the thought.
“Salem?” Danusa said. “ Salem? ” She repeated it with more emphasis.
He raised an eyebrow. “You know Arabic?”
“I do,” she said. “ Peaceful . What an irony. A suicide bomber named Peaceful. Was he a member of your congregation?” The Sheikh sighed. “I am sorry to say he was.”
“Did he ever give you any indication he was planning a violent act?”
“He did not. And, if he had, I assure you, I would have informed the authorities.”
“Any idea how Salem might have become associated with the Chehabs?”
The Sheikh ran a hand through his beard. “I fear I was responsible for that.”
“How so?”
“Salem had heard, somewhere, that Carlotta had been a teacher. He spoke good Spanish, and had the rudiments of Arabic, mostly suras he’d learned by rote, but his Portuguese was very poor.”
“Wait. You mean to tell me that Salem Nabulsi wasn’t Brazilian?”
“You didn’t know?”
She shook her head. “Until now, I knew nothing about him, not even his name. Only that he detonated the bomb.”
“He was from Paraguay.”
“Paraguay? Where in Paraguay? Asunción?”
“Ciudad del Este. I’ve never been there. I’ve heard it’s a dreadful place.”
Danusa nodded. “You’ve heard correctly.”
“He’s been . . . was in São Paulo no more than a few months, but he told me he intended to stay and wanted help to improve his language skills. Someone told him Carlotta had been a teacher. He asked me to approach her, encourage her to give him lessons, said he’d pay her.”
“And she agreed?”
“Not because of the money. They didn’t need it, she said. She was a good-hearted person, always willing to help others.”
“He’d go to her apartment for his lessons?”
The Sheikh seemed shocked that she’d even asked. “That wouldn’t have been at all appropriate. No, she’d meet him here, leave the baby in our crèche and instruct him in a corner of the library.”
“How long had this been going on?”
“A month. No more.”
“Do you think it was a ploy, this business of the language? That he used it to approach Carlotta and her baby?”
“It must have been, don’t you think? If he was planning to blow himself up, why would he put any effort into learning Portuguese?”
“Why indeed. What else can you tell me about Salem?”
“Very little. He was devout. His parents immigrated to Paraguay before he was born. He was not unintelligent, but he was poorly educated. Other than that. . . .” The cleric’s words trailed off. He made a gesture of helplessness.
“Nothing else? Nothing more you can remember?”
The Sheikh shook his head. “He was a private person. When he spoke to me at all, which was seldom, he spoke of God, and the Holy Qur’an, and of almost nothing else. He had some strange interpretations, more based upon hate than love. He referred once, with reverence, to a certain Mullah Asim. He asked me if I knew the man.”
“And do you?”
“No.”
“How did he react when you told him that?”
“He seemed disappointed.”
Chapter Eight
    Leo’s bar had seen better days, and so had that stretch of the Rua Aurora on which it was located. Beyond the open front door, the street was packed with panhandlers. They’d be joined by a horde of whores as soon as the sun went down.
    The Colonel recognized Muniz from his newspaper