9/11 TWO Chapter 7. Dental Work

7. Dental Work

It was incredibly hot and incredibly humid. Shalah Muhammad’s shirt was already soaked in sweat and the day had only just begun. Yet he still wore his jacket. He felt undressed without it. Hyderabad was his favorite city, especially Old City. He called to the auto rickshaw driver to let him off at Charminar, and he strolled down to the Laad bazaar, then turned off into a side street which was crammed full of pedestrians rushing to and fro, as people do only in India’s crowded downtown streets and alleys.

He resisted visiting the Gulzar House where the famous Hyderbadi pearls were brokered and sold. He might go there on the way back and buy some loose pearls for his wives who enjoyed stringing them or working them into their garments. He knew a place where he could buy them at bargain prices. But, business came before pleasure, he said to himself, smiling as he remembered his old teacher at the Harrow boarding school in England. It was his favorite saying. “Business before pleasure, young man,” he would say. And it had stuck. He never deviated from that rule.

The street narrowed into an alley, where the shops were more like stalls at an open market. It was hard to find one’s way through the crush of busy people. To make it worse, young men, mostly bearded, strained on their bicycles carrying enormous loads of cloth, cotton, and other wares. They were totally bent on going forward. Too bad for you if you got in the way. Dentists’ row came up suddenly. He had visited here often when he had a tooth ache, and enjoyed watching the dentists sitting in their own chairs, calling out, offering the best painless services, special deals on two for one extractions. At last he found the booth he was looking for, decorated in gaudy colors, a sign in bright red saying, SMILEY HOUSE and beneath it the slogan, HEALTHY TEETH, HEALTHY MIND. And on a brass plate at the entrance, tacked on to the wobbly pole that held up a canvas awning to shield the dentist chair from the sun, was written in a careful but amateurish hand, DR. KUMAR JAMAL. DDS. OXFORD.

Shalah approached the dentist who was dressed carefully in a bright white open neck shirt, slim tight fitting gabardine pants, and of course, had a sparkling white smile to match his shirt. His beard was almost non-existent. It had been carefully cropped and groomed to be as short as possible but clearly visible.

“Do you have a cleaning special today?” asked Shalah Muhammad.

“I’m sorry sir, but the special ended yesterday. But I do have a special on extractions if you have a coupon,” replied the dentist in almost perfect Farsi.

“You speak Farsi?” asked Shalah, surprised.

“Of course. I am from Western Punjab, the best and most beautiful part of Pakistan,” the dentist said proudly, “but of course, I have my DDS from Oxford.”

“I have a coupon for two extractions.”

“I’m sorry sir, the coupon to which I am referring allows only for one extraction. Are you sure you need two extractions?”

“I’m sure.”

“Perhaps you had better step in and I’ll take a look.” Dr. Jamal slid out of the chair and beckoned for Shalah to take his place, and he did so.

“Open wide, now. Ah, yes, I think you’re right. It’s two. You’re sure you want to do two extractions? It will of course cost much more than one.”

“I will pay for two.”

“Very good, sir. But by the look of it, it will be too much for you if I do both today. Besides my assistant is not here, and he speaks only Urdu.”

“Then when? I can go to someone else, you know, and probably get a better price.”

“Price is important, but when it comes to extractions, quality is much more important, wouldn’t you say sir? Besides I have the best equipment and I guarantee the extractions will be totally painless.”

“And how expensive?”

“You understand that doing two costs a lot more than one.”

“I thought two was always cheaper than one.”

“No, much more, but guaranteed for a lifetime.”

“That’s not very long.”

“Very funny, sir! Would you like to make an appointment for the extractions? I have a very special comfortable chair in the back. And you can watch TV as well.”

Dr. Jamal slid a curtain back exposing an empty space surrounded by more curtains. Shalah followed him and Jamal closed the curtain behind him. They stood close to each other, almost touching.

“We can do it whenever you want,” whispered Jamal in Farsi. “I have it all set up. It will be easy.”

“So, they will be disassembled, or will we have to do that?” asked Shalah Muhammad.

“We will do it. I take it they don’t have to be completely disassembled?”

“Just enough to allow packing into a crate that doesn’t look like a missile.”

“And the money?”

“Ten million U.S. dollars now, ten million on receipt of shipment.”

“Thirty million, half now. I meant it when I said two is a lot more than one.”

“Twelve and twelve.”

“Deal. And where do we ship to?”

“The Port of Newark, USA. I will send you details later. Actually, I will not. My Russian colleagues will be receiving the shipment. They will contact you.”

“Excellent! And the down payment?”

“We need to find an Hawala.”

“No problem. There’s one in the next street, behind Gulzar House.”

“OK. So let’s be clear. These are two short range mini Nag missiles, right?”

“Right. Fifty miles max range. We have already located them in Bangalore. The security is minimal. Shipment from there through Mumbai port a breeze.”

Dr. Jamal opened the curtain and led Shalah Muhammad out, placing a “back in 5 minutes” sign on the dentist chair. As they wound their way through the crowd of shoppers and vendors, Shalah sought additional assurance.

“Your boys can do this, right?”

“Of course. No problem. This is easy. No violence. We have people inside.”

“You understand the consequences of failure?”

“Really. This attitude is insulting. We never fail. Never!”

“OK! OK! Just so we both understand.”

They made their way through the Gulzar house, through a back door and into a small alleyway which was nevertheless crowded with seemingly too many people trying to get through too small a space. Dr. Jamal waved to an old wizened man, dirty turban on his head, sitting in a doorway on a low stool, cell phone in hand. “I have a customer for you!” he announced in Telugu, as he and Shalah Muhammad squatted down beside him.

Shalah had to guess what he had said. “I don’t like this. What language is that? I thought it would be Urdu,” he said with a hint of suspicion.

“Oh, Sorry. It’s Telugu. The Hawala does not speak Urdu. He’s from Vizag which is about 360 miles south of here where Telugu is mainly spoken. My cousin lives there, that’s how I know him.”

“How much? Where to?” grunted the Hawala.

“It’s from Dubai and it’s twelve million U.S. Dollars.”

“Ah! My friends in Dubai. They have so much money there! Your contact should call this number.” The Hawala indicated a name and number on a grubby hand written list. Shalah Muhammad opened his cell phone and made a call.

“This is nine-one-one. Yes, the amount is twelve million U.S. Dollars.

Call Hawala Felix, in Dubai. I am texting you the number now.”

“Have him send the money to this number,” said Jamal as he handed the Hawala a piece of paper.

“To Bengaluru?” asked the Hawala.

“Right, Bangalore,” he said.

“It will be a few moments, depending on how efficient your man is in Dubai. May I offer you some chai?” He signaled a boy who immediately ran off and returned quickly with three small cups, passing them out carefully. The Hawala raised a cup as if proposing a toast. “To money, praise be to God!” They all raised their cups just as the Hawala’s cell phone rang. He answered, “Yeh, good. OK.” He tapped END, then dialed another number. “Hello? Yeh. Good. Twelve million,” and closed his phone.

“It is done. My fee is one thousand U.S. Dollars. The boy will take it.”

Shalah Muhammad pulled out a wad of bills from the inside pocket of his jacket and counted out ten $100 bills.

*

Monica Silenzio guided her pure dark green 2012 Volvo wagon with tinted windows into the parking lot. They were somewhere in Hoboken, New Jersey, a run-down industrial park, so typical of the back streets of New Jersey. The lot was covered with old decaying bitumen. New Jersey weeds, far more powerful here than in any other state, thrust their way through the bitumen making cracks and holes, and even where parts of the lot were concreted over, it was no match for New Jersey’s weeds. They just forced their way right through it. At the far corner of the large lot which contained few cars for its size, was an old warehouse, a long low steel structure, covered with unpainted corrugated iron, a glass and brick front stuck on to the warehouse, as though it were an afterthought, and probably was. The Volvo rolled to a halt. Silenzio jumped out and darted around to the passenger side just in time to open the door for MacIver.

“Gees, you’re an accomplished chauffeur too!” he joked. “Where are we?” He had bantered and joked with her all the way, but she would not tell him where they were going. “You spies,” he joked, “you just can’t help holding everything back.”

Silenzio took a small bow, smiling vivaciously, her wavy blonde hair blowing in the Hudson River breeze. Her smile was a complicated smile that kept MacIver guessing. It was not a seductive smile. It was more a smile that told him she was just playing around with him. It conveyed an air of superiority and confidence. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, “but you’re so well-known and respected, this time I think it’s OK.”

“You mean, it’s OK to open the car door for me?”

“No, silly! Letting you into this place.”

“And what exactly is this place? It doesn’t look all that secret. Not even any barbed wire around the property. Very bad security, I might say as an expert in the field.”

Silenzio walked up to a blank wall beside the glass lobby door and spoke to it. The wall slid open. “Come on,” she said.

MacIver, amused at the security antics, followed. They entered the lobby and were faced with another plain wall, this time with a mirrored glass panel, a hole in the middle, chest high. Silenzio inserted her bare ring finger with difficulty. A light blinked. She straightened up and spoke in a deep monotone, “Agent 33 Monica Silenzio with one guest, Larry MacIver.”

“That’s it? We’re in?” asked MacIver

“Not quite. Put your finger in.”

“I could say something.”

“Don’t.”

“Which one?”

“Your favorite.”

MacIver inserted the middle finger of his right hand. He couldn’t help running his tongue against his upper lip. The action was reflected in the mirror. A sliding door opened and Silenzio grabbed his arm to guide him in. MacIver found himself in a cavernous warehouse with rows and rows of filing cabinets. Behind a large glass panel there were workers, some wearing headphones, seated by computer consoles, tape recorders, mountains of books and papers. MacIver stared at the sight in amazement.

“The cabinets?” he asked.

“Data from wiretaps, and whatever, collected since nine eleven.”

“The CIA collected all this?”

“And the National Intelligence Agency. We share information just like the Nine Eleven Commission said we should.”

“Admirable. And the workers over there?” MacIver pointed to the people behind the glass partition.

“Translators.”

“But how could they ever do all this?”

“They can’t. They’re only up to 2003.”

“Ridiculous!”

Silenzio raised her eyebrows.

“Sorry, it’s terrific you have shown me this, but —”

“But what?”

“Well it’s just a terrible waste of scarce resources.”

“Who says they’re scarce?”

“The current chatter you quoted at the meeting.”

“There’s a rating system. Some chatter can be put on fast track. Has to be approved by someone with gold security clearance. There’s a protocol.”

“Say no more. I understand. So it’s basically useless, and probably not timely either, even the ‘fast track’ chatter.” MacIver stepped towards the work room.

Silenzio grabbed his arm. “You can’t talk to them. You don’t have clearance,” she said.

“But what could they possibly know that would risk national security?”

“That’s not the point. It’s protocol. Come on, let’s get you back to the university where you belong.”

MacIver shook his head in despair, derision, or both. But he looked sideways at Silenzio. He liked the feel of her touch on his arm. He tried to get a whiff of her gorgeous hair. She guided him out through the security rigmarole, then to the car. She opened the door for him and MacIver gently touched her hand as she gripped the door handle.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asked, “it obviously supports what I said at the meeting.”

“It’s my way of saying what I can’t say in public. Besides, I trust you.”

Taken aback MacIver released her hand. In truth, he wanted to hug her really hard.

*

Mr. Kohmsky sat still, staring at the wall. Mrs. Kohmsky sat beside him, fidgeting in her handbag. It was the one that Sarah had refused when offered to her. She said she had no use for it.

Mrs. Kohmsky had nagged her husband until he gave in. She knew he would. He didn’t believe the FBI nonsense about Sarah being dead. They were lying. They both knew that. They had a lot of experience listening to government officials lie. The rule of thumb was to assume everything was a lie until proved otherwise. So she had convinced Mr. Kohmsky that they should try going to the New York State Police. They were supposed to be better trained than the NYPD. Maybe they could help track her down, or at least give them some lead they could follow up themselves. Now here they sat in the Manhattan Office of the New York State Police, hoping someone could give them some answers. The small waiting room was comfortable and the chairs soft. The entire office was quiet, very different from the NYPD offices that always bustled with activity. It gave the impression that this branch of the New York State Police was not at all busy.

Deputy commissioner Sylvia Celer emerged from her office. The Kohmskys stood immediately to greet her. She cut an imposing figure, a very tall slender woman in her fifties, her dark gray uniform perfectly pressed, the creases accentuating her angled features. Instead of ushering them into her office, she sat with them in the anteroom right where they were.

“Please remain seated, Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky. Now what can I do to help you?”

“Our daughter Sarah,” Mrs. Kohmsky stuttered as she sat back in the soft chair, “we don’t know where she is, haven’t seen her for more than eight years. We’ve tried everywhere, NYPD, FBI, but they say we should assume she is dead.”

“And why do they say that?”

“They won’t say. But we know in our hearts that she is alive somewhere.”

“They are lying to us,” muttered Mr. Kohmsky gruffly, still staring at the wall. “They are keeping information from us. They know something.”

“I can’t imagine that they would keep information about your daughter away from you. What evidence do they report that suggests to them that she is dead?”

“They checked their missing-persons data base and found her there, but we don’t think that means anything. The photo they have is the one we gave NYPD years ago. Besides, we have given them evidence that she is still alive, but they just ignore it.”

“Evidence? What evidence, Mrs. Kohmsky?”

“The money we received from Chernobyl.”

“From where?”

“Chernobyl, Russia.”

“And you think it comes from your daughter?”

“Not exactly. In fact we received some just last week. We decided this time to come to you because we have heard that the New York State police are the most professional police and that you specialize in finding missing persons. We saw it on your web site.”

“I have to agree with you on that, Mrs. Kohmsky. Do you still have the money?”

"It’s here.” Mr. Kohmsky shifted slightly, dug his hand into his old denim pants and produced a small brown envelope that was covered with stamps and certainly looked like it had traveled all the way from Russia.

“May I open it?” asked Commissioner Celer.

“Of course,” said Mrs. Kohmsky, “the money is all there. We haven’t touched it yet. There was no note at all. Nothing.”

Commissioner Celer opened the packet and retrieved a thick wad of 100 Euro notes. “And you think this money is coming from your daughter?”

“Who else?”

“But why would she send you money? You’re not poor are you?”

“Well, we’re comfortable. We’ve always done our best to make sure Sarah was not wanting for anything. So we don’t really know why she’s sending us money.”

“She’s guilty, that’s why,” growled Mr. Kohmsky.

“Guilty?” asked the Commissioner.

“Guilty that she hasn’t got in touch with us for so many years. What did we do to her to deserve this? We gave her a good home and good education. And then she just runs away.”

“So you think she ran away? That nothing foul has happened?”

“As we’ve told all the others. We haven’t seen her since she went to do her Master’s Degree in Oxford. Not one word from her ever again.”

“Was there a disagreement between you before she left? Bad words?”

“No, nothing in particular. We never argued, actually,” said Mrs.

Kohmsky.

“She never said anything?” asked the Commissioner.

“Well, we are – were - a pretty quiet family. We didn’t ever say much to each other,” offered Mrs. Kohmsky.

“This money. Do you mind if I keep it for a little while? I’ll have our people at the State Crime Lab examine it. There may be some clues there. May also be a clue as to where the envelope came from?”

“Well it’s from Chernobyl, of course.”

“You came from there, right?” asked the Commissioner.

“Yes, but we have lost contact with everyone who lived there. Mr. Kohmsky had two brothers, but they left there years ago, at the same time we came to America.”

“And do you know where they are now?”

“We never heard from them again,” said Mr. Kohmsky, “never.”

“Have you ever tried to contact them?”

“No,” answered Mr. Kohmsky abruptly.

“I see.” The commissioner carefully replaced the money into the envelope.

“Please help us,” pleaded Mrs. Kohmsky.

“I will put my people on to it right away. I can’t promise you anything, of course. But we will give it a try.

“Thank you, commissioner,” said Mrs. Kohmsky, dabbing at a little tear at the corner of her eye, “you are most kind.”

The Commissioner stood as if to end the conversation, and Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky stood with her. “One thing puzzles me,” said the Commissioner, “how come these envelopes come from Chernobyl? I thought no one lived there since it was destroyed in the nuclear disaster way back when.”

“We thought so too. We don’t know exactly, except that we think that some people have moved back into the general area. But that’s only very recent. We’ve been getting these packages for years.”

“Before Sarah disappeared?”

“At least since she was a teenager.”

“So why then would you conclude that the money was coming from her?”

“We know it doesn’t make sense. But it’s our only hope. Maybe she has gone back to Russia and met up with her uncles or something.”

“And the money you’ve received before. Always from Chernobyl, always Euros?”

“Yes. Although of course it was not Euros before there were Euros.”

“What was it?”

“U.S. dollars.”

“Did you tell the FBI and NYPD about the money?

“Of course,” said Mr. Kohmsky, “they said it had nothing to do with the case. They’re lying.”

“I see. Mr. and Mrs. Chomsky, I mean Kohmsky, I’ll be in touch. But don’t get your hopes up. The NYPD and FBI are very good at their work. They have a worldwide network of operatives. If she were alive, they would have found her by now.”

Mr. Kohmsky, unusual for him, offered his hand, which the Commissioner received, and they said their good-byes.