Storm Front by John Sandford Page B

not bothering to deny that he’d been there. “I didn’t. I was invited to come over to look at a stone. I was on time, I knocked, but nobody answered. I knew he was sick, so I went inside—the door was not locked—and called to him. Nobody answered. I was writing a note to him when you came in . . . I suppose it was you.”
    “It was,” Virgil said. “Why did you run?”
    “I thought you might be the Turk,” Awad said.
    “The Turk,” Yael repeated.
    “Yes. You definitely do not want to mess with the Turk. He cut your good parts off. Well, maybe not you, but”—he pointed at Virgil—“you.”
    Virgil thought,
First things first
, and asked, “Where’s this note you were writing to Jones?”
    “Should still be there, in the kitchen.”
    Virgil said to Yael, “Don’t let him run—I’m going to make a phone call.”
    “Yeah, I’ll stop him,” she said. “I’ll hit him with my purse.”
    Awad said to her, “Your personality alone would be enough. You are one very attractive Jewess.”
    “Keep talking,” she said.
    “Ah, Jesus,” Virgil said.
    —
    V IRGIL CHOSE to step into the hall, leaving the door mostly open, in case one of them tried to strangle the other. He called Mankato PD to get the cell number of the crime-scene guy, and when he had it, called and asked about the note.
    “It was on the floor by the kitchen counter. All it says is, ‘Dear Mr. Minister Jones . . .’ That’s it.”
    “Thanks,” Virgil said, and rang off. He had no case on Awad, even if he wanted one. Not unless Awad’s fingerprints were found on the patch of blood.
    Back inside, Awad was saying to Yael, “Think about it. I am a young single Lebanese Arab man who is attending a flight school. You think I want to get caught by the American police for breaking and entering? I’m surprised Virgil didn’t bring Homeland Security with him, to kick down the door. Not even my large and succulent personality could help me then.”
    Virgil came in, sat on the couch, winced, took the gun out of the small of his back and put it in his jacket pocket. “So,” he said, “who’s the Turk?”
    “One minute,” Awad said. He went to the worktable, picked up the laptop, came back to the couch, touched some icons, and a note page popped up: “He is a man named Timur Kaya,” he said, looking at the laptop page. Virgil moved closer, looked over his shoulder, took a notepad out of his jacket pocket, and copied the spelling.
    Awad continued: “He represents another man named Burak Sahin.” He tapped the laptop screen, and Virgil noted that name, too.
    “According to my uncle, Kaya spent his earlier days in Turkish Army intelligence, cutting the testicles off Kurds, when they would not tell him where the other Kurds were hiding,” Awad said. “My uncle told me to be careful with my testicles.” He looked at Yael. “I am very fond of them.”
    “I’m sure they are quite valuable,” she said.
    “This is correct,” Awad said. “Mmm. So: he is employed by Sahin, who is a big collector of important artifacts from former Turkish lands. Like Israel. The rumor is that he will pay five million for this stone the minister has.”
    “Five million?” Virgil was incredulous. He knew a guy who’d killed a friend’s wife for ten thousand dollars and the papers to a three-year-old Buick. He looked at Yael. “It’s worth five million? You didn’t tell me that.”
    “We weren’t concerned with how much it would sell for—we’re only concerned that it’s stolen property,” she said. “We’re not going to pay to get it back.”
    “Then I think,” Awad said, performing a full-dress Middle Eastern shrug, which involved the entire body, “that you will not see it again.”
    —
    A CCORDING TO A WAD , his uncle had called him from Beirut and said that a man he knew was interested in buying the stone, and would pay a large amount of money for it. Awad was not being asked to make the payment himself, but to simply