“I assume there’ll be docs at the nuns nursing home where we’re taking him,” Juan said.
“Don’t assume anything.”
The scrape of chair legs on flagstone as the men rose, folded newspapers and tossed napkins into a bin. Zak dropped euros on the table and with the flourish of a matador, draped his linen jacket over his shoulders as if it were a cape.
Bassem gave a remaining croissant a wistful look.
“Wrap it in a napkin. I paid for it,” Zak said over his shoulder as he wove around the tables toward the car park.
They clambered into the BMW SUV. As soon as Carlos convinced the others to fasten seat belts, he accelerated onto the A 20 without checking the mirrors. Carlos shouted above the roar of a passing truck. “You said the spa people on the phone told our contact the baby wasn’t there.”
Zak pushed the cigarette lighter into its charger. “Because people hiding a kidnapped hostage don’t always tell the truth?” The lighter sprang from the socket and Zak lit a Marlboro.
“Does that make us re-kidnappers?” came from behind.
Zak turned to Bassem in the back seat. “Don’t stir shit.” Zak groped around the floor for a McAuto cup for an ashtray, then once more faced the rear seats. “Antonio, you remembered the wire cutters?”
Antonio nodded.
The SUV climbed the mountains north of Malaga. Miles of hairpin curves, At the turnoff onto the secondary road, Carlos slowed as they approached a petrol station. He looked at the instrument panel. “Could use gas.”
“We can’t stop here,” Zak said. “We’d be remembered. Too conspicuous. Can we hold out until the Interstate on the way back?”
“I’ll try.”
A few kilometers farther, the Papillion sat in all its splendor, as grand as Paige described.
Carlos whistled.
“Quite a spread,” Zak agreed. “My contact guessed there would only be a skeleton staff on Sunday.”
Carolos pulled up under the portico. One glance through the window of the vehicle and a doorman in white pantaloons and red tarboosh spun and hurried into the building.
“Out. Antonio, you first.” Zak ordered.
Antonio adjusted his balaclava, slid from the seat, and took off.
Zak flung the door open into the afternoon glare.
The doorman returned followed by a woman in an ankle-length white coat. She stood with her arms crossed, blocking the entrance. A tag on her lapel read ‘Doctor Mercedes Ollu, Jefe.’ “You’re bringing in a patient?” Her Spanish carried a French accent.
Zak stepped into the beam of the automatic doors. “We’re here to retrieve the baby. Hamid’s his name.”
“We don’t admit children,” she said.
“Unless they’re hostages,” Zak said.
Ollu refused to budge. He moved toward her. The doorman lunged. Zak slammed him against the wall. The tarboosh tumbled to the ground and rolled into a bed of pansies.
Zak grabbed Ollu’s wrist and twisted her arm up behind her back. “Move it,” he ordered and force-stepped her through the entrance. The bareheaded doorman stood aside as Juan and Bassem passed in single file.
No customers in the lobby. Only the receptionist on her feet behind the counter. She swiped her cell phone, held it to her ear, looked at the device, and tipped it back and forth.
A blast of warm air, the fan’s last gasp before the air conditioning conked out. The recessed lighting dead, pale rays from the skylights cast the room in twilight. Swinging the wire-cutters Antonio rounded the corner of a corridor and came up beside Zak. “Piece of cake, found the generator. “
Zak ratcheted up the tension on Ollu’s arm.
“I told you we don’t admit children,” she gasped.
The arm went higher. She stifled a sob.
“Tell me what room and get it over with,” Zak said. He imagined the quandary behind those wire-rimmed glasses. The kid goes missing on her watch, and payment’s down the tubes. On the other hand, no amount of money was worth her life. The choice a no-brainer.
Ollu took a halting step forward.
The hallway floor was lit by square patches of light that streamed from windows high along the wall. Too women in flowered smocks and headscarves burst from behind swinging doors. They stopped.
“What’s going on?” one said in English.
“Nothing. Go home,” Ollu ordered. “Quickly.”
The women bolted toward the lobby.
Zak marched Ollu past an alcove holding a copy machine, then a cafeteria empty except for a woman in a burka wiping a table. A push-broom leaned against a chair. Ollu nodded to an unmarked door.
The spotless room smelled of bleach and baby powder. Bassem aimed and shot out the overhead cameras, one, two, three. The ceiling rained shards.
Zak shouted at Bassem. “I told you not to use that. Put it away.”
When the air cleared, Zak saw a cart laden with diapers, a bedside table, a few plastic chairs, and a crib on high wheels parked in the far end of the room. Plastic tubes and wires as intertwined as bougainvillea vines curled over and around the baby. An IV line tethered a bag of fluid to a needle in Hamid’s bird’s leg of an arm. The infant was shrieking, his hands in fists.
Juan examined the contents of the bag atop the pole. “Saline.”.
Zak freed Ollu from his grip, and she rubbed her reddened wrist.
He glanced to see how Juan was progressing. “Why saline?”
“Ask our consulting pediatrician,” she replied.
Juan monkeyed with the IV as the infant shrieked at the top of his lungs. Juan finally lifted the baby and held him against his chest with one hand, while the other picked up a prescription vial from the table. “Grab the rest of the medical shit,” he shouted to Antonio.
“It’s dangerous to move—” Ollu began.
An alarm siren howled through every orifice in the building, loud, louder.
“What the fuck?” Juan yelled.
“Our auxiliary back-up to the gendarmes.” Ollu’s tone triumphant.
“Haul ass,” Zak said.
Juan circled the table on his way to the hall. Ollu grabbed the rail and with one mighty shove rammed the crib into his hip. Juan reeled, fought for balance, and gave ‘way when Ollu kicked him in the groin. As he doubled over, she grabbed Hamid. Juan stumbled backward until he reached a chair that slid out from under him.
Zak and Antonio dashed to block Ollu’s exit.
“You two steer clear,” Bassem ordered, taking aim.
“Put that fucking thing down,” Zak yelled.
The siren escalated to an ear-splitting crescendo.
“I said, no,” Zak shouted as the gun went off.
Ollu slumped against the wall. Zak wrested the infant away just in time before she slid to the floor. Hamid kicked, his arms flailing with each scream. Zak thrust him toward Bassem “Get him out of here.”
Zak saw that the bullet entered Ollu’s shoulder. Was there an exit wound? No time to check.
Juan struggled to his feet.
“Can you make it to the car okay? Zak asked.
Juan nodded and limped from the room.
Zak went over to Ollu. The sleeve of her white coat dripped red. He drew her to her feet and supporting her weight, led her to a chair. She collapsed onto it, breathing hard. Her glasses must be somewhere on the floor. He found them under the cart and gently hooked the stems behind her ears.
“I wish you had cooperated.”
He strode down the hall to the salida sign, then bore dow
n on the bar across the door. Sunlight pierced his eyes, and it took a minute to make out Carlos behind the wheel.
“We all in?” Zak said, catching his breath.
“There’s blood on your hands,” Carlos said.
Zak wiped his palms on his slacks.
“Will the lady doctor be all right?” Bassem said from the rear seat.
“Shut up,” Zak replied without turning around.
“Don’t blame me. You saw I aimed past her,” Bassem said. “A scare tactic.”
Zak stared straight ahead.
Hamid organized his whimpers into a god-awful shriek.
“Mind if I strangle the fucking brat?” Antonio said.
The BMW churned through the gravel and bumped over a curb onto the cement driveway. A mile farther, Carlos swung onto the secondary road and gunned it. With Le Papillon receding in the distance, Carlos said, “Thank God the police didn’t catch the alarm.”
“Wrong. Coming up on your blind side,” Bassem said. “A Guardia Civil Mini Cooper.”
“A roach on wheels.” Carlos laughed. “We’ll outrun it in a heartbeat. If our gas holds out.”
The khaki-colored Cooper raced along the shoulder and came up on the passenger side of the SUV
“They’re gaining ground,” Zak glimpsed a black beret and the glint of a weapon balanced on the frame of the back-passenger’s window. Just as the mini drew abreast of the SUV, it gathered a second wind and soared ahead.
“How much gas do we have?” Zak said.
Carlos spoke through clenched teeth. “Fumes.”
17
The day after Rocio, Zak was explaining the outcome of re-kidnapping Hamid, operation tot rescue, he called it. Talking non-stop he trailed me into the kitchen.
I finally got a word in edge-wise. “You’re sure Hamid’s okay?”
“The aide at the nursing home said no fever, and the lungs were clear.”
“What about the police and running out of gas?” I handed him a bottle of rioja. “Can you open this?”
He took the wine and spoke over his shoulder while he picked at the seal. “Carlos swung into a village off the highway, and bam, a one-pump station.”
The moan of a cello drifted from the radio on the countertop. I leaned to turn it off.
“DeFalla. Leave it on,” Zak said.
I lowered the volume and ready for the kill, said, “Yesterday when I was at Alfonso’s—you said you couldn’t go with me because of a closing in Marbella. True?”
“The seller from hell.” Zak wound off the seal and looked around for the trash can.
“It’s under the sink.”
He opened the lower cabinet. “A hysterical buyer waiting at the notaria’s, and I’m cruising the alleys for a parking place in that damned town.”
“You’re sticking to your story.”
“I saw my commission go down the tube when the seller—” He paused mid-sentence. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Alfonzo tried to kill me.”
He lowered the bottle. “Holy shit.”
“He shot his handgun over my head. God knows what if I hadn’t talked him down.”
“Where was Juan?”
“Off to wherever you told him to go.”
In slow motion, Zak reached for the corkscrew.
“You set it up, didn’t you?” I said. “Ordered Juan to leave me alone with an armed paranoid schizophrenic. How convenient for you, if the witness, meaning me, who saw you in the restaurant with the dead woman before she was dead, is out of the picture.” I raised my hand, and with a flick of the wrist said, “Poof.”
My harsh breath was the only sound in the room.
“You’re wrong.” He sounded hurt. “I did not set you up.” He twisted the screw into the cork: his hand stopped. “Wait. A gun? With his diagnosis, the mental health people won’t let ‘Fonze have one. What the hell’s this all about?”
I kept it short. He stared at me as if stunned, and I almost believed his bewilderment and outrage were genuine.
“Impossible,” he muttered as he screwed the bit into the cork. “You think I’d kill you?”
“Exactly what I think.” But now I wasn’t sure. “Or I thought you tried to.”
“You know me better than that.”
Was I being conned?
Halfway out of the bottle, the cork fell apart. “Fuck.” Zak unscrewed the bit, leaving the stump inside. “This pisses me off.”
“I got the corkscrew from the Chinese outlet; you know the one near—”
“No, I’m pissed at you.”
I wasn’t surprised at his anger, just unprepared for the heat of it. “Maybe Alfonzo was exaggerating his craziness, a defense for his aggression, Patients will do that.”
“He’s not your patient.”
“Could he be off his meds?”
Zak didn’t answer. Silently we moved around each other, Zak arranging glasses on the table, me rummaging for spoons and knives. When the microwave pinged, I found a potholder, and trying to come off as matter-of-fact, said, “There’s hot sauce.” When I lowered the plate, I caught the look on his face.
“I thought you’d like tacos,” I said. “Mexican.”
“That’s why I don’t like them.”
“I have paella in the freezer. One hundred percent Español.” My joke fell flat.
We avoided each other’s eyes. He gave an exasperated sigh. “How can you believe… never mind.” Once more, his hurt came through.
Tension hung in the kitchen like the acrid aftermath of a grease fire. My sixth sense said he was innocent. And my sixth sense was always on the mark. “I’m sorry. My suppositions aren’t your fault.”
Mozart crossed the room toward his bowl. He drank, raised his head, and with his tongue dripping a stream of water, he padded over and rested his muzzle on Zak’s knee.
The air lightened. As if relieved, Zak said, “The nuns made a huge fuss over Hamid. Thanks to you telling me where the kid was.”
“De nada.” At the sink, I drew the paella from its plastic sleeve. “Just so he doesn’t go back to the jihadists.”
Zak fooled with the shred of cork, tapping it down into the wine and watching it bob to the surface. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Sunday he’ll be safe enough.”
My hands stopped. “That’s not the deal. Not just Sunday. You promised you’d fix it with the church to get him adopted.” The air thickened again.
“Only one problem.” Zak fished out a shred of cork. “The Knights swore to return the kid to the Muslims when it’s over.” He examined his wet finger. “This is a mess.”
“Damn straight.”
He wiped his finger on a napkin.
I pulled out a chair opposite Zak’s. “Choice. Break your commitment to the Muslims. Or break your commitment to me.”
Zak tipped his glass in my direction. “All will be resolved. Trust me.”
In the background, the jolly British announcer on Gibraltar Radio ran down the Costa del Sol’s coming events. “For all you ex-pats out there looking for a taste of the real Spain, get yourselves to the festival in Molino. A stone’s throw from Tarifa.”
“That’s us. Turn up,” Zak said.
“Entrada free.” The announcer chuckled at his own Spanish. “For the food, you’re on your own. Sponsored by the Diocese of Cadiz, music by España Antigua, bring the nippers and you’ll find plenty of parking. Parking? You heard me. Parking, spot on.” The rest of the announcement was drowned in static.
>
“You’re going?” Zak said.
“With the doctor with us when we found Hamid. Tony, remember?”
“I forgot.”
Fifteen minutes later, I brought out the paella of prawns and chicken wings soaking in orange broth. “Turmeric,” I said. “The poor man’s saffron.”
With Mozart snoring under the table, I explained my vision of the renovation of Dad’s house. “Get rid of those fluorescent bulbs,” I said.
A lull in the conversation. “Incredible,” Zak said. “That you worry about latex paint and grout. That’s what Great Estates is for: we’ll do it right. I can’t believe a woman like you—that any woman, but especially one as, well, as elegant as you can be concerned about trivia.”
I didn’t know where to look.
He lifted the rioja and held it in mid-air. “I mean, come on, you’re a doctor, and much, much too—special, I should say, to get excited over latex paint.” He refilled my glass.
“I never get excited.”
“Never?”
How cute. A hidden meaning I pretended not to catch. I fingered the top button of my blouse.
His eyes moved from my neckline to somewhere beyond my shoulder. “You’re afraid of getting close, to me, to anyone, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know you well enough,”
“That can change.”
I thought for a minute. “But I can’t.”
True, I was afraid. Not necessarily of him, but of heading into a buzz saw of a relationship I couldn’t handle.
“More rice?” I asked.
With his hands on the edge of the table, he leaned back with the chair resting on its hind legs. “More everything except rice.”
My skin felt clammy. I rose to go to the door and let in the night breeze. Then I returned to my chair when I realized the door was already open. “Looking for fresh air.” How stupid that sounded.
“Next week, let’s go sailing.” Zak swung forward bringing the chair to all fours. “We could overnight in Cadiz.”
Casey’s warning, ‘he’ll ply you with wine and get you in his boat.’ “Tempting, but I’m editing a paper on a deadline.”
The Loss of What We Never Had Page 14