Two From Isaac's House

by Normandie Fischer

  If Zif were worried, Tony ought to be in a raging panic. That thought had him splashing water on his face, dashing down the stairs and outside, and marching purposefully toward the town center. He knew what he’d like to tell Zif and everyone at headquarters, but he also knew the forces railing against Israel were a true menace to peace in the region, if not the world, and murderers abounded. Even here in Italy. Right now, especially here in Italy.

  His small part was to find out what he could and report what he found. No one was asking him to take down the bad guy. Just figure out the bad guy’s next move, if he could. And watch the shadows.

  He slid into one of the empty seats outside at Café Centrale and ordered an espresso. Someone had left a newspaper on the chair beside him. He picked it up and scanned the headlines, unsure of what he hoped to accomplish by sitting here, except that he’d be visible in case someone wanted to speak to him. Some unknown someone who might have information that would bring clarity to his world.

  Sure, dream on, buddy.

  His stomach rebelled against the coffee, so he dropped some bills on the table, along with the newspaper, and got to his feet. A man leaned over to snatch up the paper.

  He’d seen that face before, but where? And then he noticed the cowboy boots and nodded in recognition. “Ciao.” The man’s large eyebrows rose as he saluted with the folded paper.

  Walking might help him lose the jitters and some of the excess pounds his pizza and pasta consumption had added. Sure, he had a lot of frame to fill, but that would only be truth if he were running or doing more cardio. In a couple of weeks, he’d leave Perugia with nothing to show for the months here except the unwanted pounds, a growing proficiency in Italian, and a relationship with Rina that should never have begun.

  Except it had. He couldn’t get her out of his thoughts. He remembered the taste of her lips. Oh, man, the texture. He shook his head and kept walking, because his thoughts had moved way beyond kissing. He quickened his pace, which he hoped would take the place of a cold shower.

  As one day segued into the next and Ibrahim’s roommates continued to talk about his extended vacation, Tony gave into the temptation to spend time with Rina. He kept both his hands and his kisses to himself, which was the only way she’d agreed to keep seeing him. And, man, if that didn’t take more willpower than he’d thought possible….

  Sainthood, here I come.

  Hah. Right. Like that was happening. An honest man, a good man—and, yes, a smart man—would have bowed out of the picture entirely.

  Instead, he dreamt of the time when circumstances would change, and he could go back to being an engineer with no extra baggage. And she could possibly… maybe she would want… Someday, she might even get rid of the fiancé and want him instead, in the someday that might happen when everything was different, and the world stopped spinning out of control.

  “Acie said there’s a group going to a dance club on Saturday,” Rina told him after class. “And you’re invited.”

  “Do I have to dance?”

  She tossed her glossy hair off her shoulder. “Yes. If I do, you do.”

  “I have several left feet.”

  “I’m clumsy everywhere but the dance floor. So I don’t believe you.”

  He grinned down at her. “Well, you’ll find out for yourself on Saturday. I’ll pick you up. Eight o’clock?”

  “Perfect.”

  “You want to get a bite to eat now?”

  “I do, thank you.”

  See, this was exactly the sort of thing he wasn’t supposed to let himself do. But he kept thinking about the few weeks left in Perugia and then the dark dismal months following his return to Amman. He’d just continue to keep his lips to himself and his ear to the ground for Ibrahim’s return. And he’d try not to waste these last moments before he had to let her go.

  Saturday morning, it rained. A cold front, unusual for this time of year, blew in from the north. It continued to drizzle through the afternoon, and as dusk descended, a mist hung over the lower altitudes. The damp air of the center city made Tony long for a comfortable chair and a warm fire. If he couldn’t have that, he’d be glad of a friendly crowd.

  The club was dark, crowded, and very loud, with a bar at one end and a dance floor in the middle. The jarring note—other than the cacophony—showed up in the person of Roberto Gambacorta, the bit of slime he’d seen passing what looked like currency to Ibrahim. Tony also recognized the chiseled Roman from that same café, Nicco Bertelli. Cousins Nicco and Roberto. What a small world.

  It seemed that Acie’s pregnant sister, Mae, was married to Roberto’s brother, a restaurateur who sat catty-corner to him. Roberto, Nicco, and Giorgio. Got it. Didn’t like it, but he got it.

  And that wasn’t all. He learned more about the hit-and-run involving their grandfather, Signor Bertelli. The information that someone had seen a gray Mercedes speed away from the accident connected too many dots. Ibrahim drove a Mercedes. A gray one. Ibrahim had received something that looked like cash from Roberto, the old man’s grandson. Ibrahim and the Mercedes were gone, but he didn’t know for how long.

  Watch your back. He heard the whisper, but now it included an addition: And watch Rina’s.

  Greek tragedies had nothing on this Italian melodrama, and here was Rina, sitting too close to someone who, for whatever reason, had probably attempted murder-for-hire of his own grandfather. Tony balled his fists just looking at the man, but he couldn’t point a finger yet. First, he’d have to hand over that puzzle piece to Zif to see where it fit.

  Smoke clogged the air, cancer concerns shrugged off with a beh. Rina touched his arm and offered the carafe of wine. He poured a few inches into a glass.

  Several seats away, Nicco flirted with Acie. Tony would like to know how Nicco fit into the picture with Roberto and Ibrahim. From what Rina had said, Giorgio was a good guy, but these days, who could tell? Acie seemed nice enough. She was certainly amusing and obviously head over heels for that Nicco fellow, who was a tad too handsome for his own good.

  “Tony,” Giorgio called from across the table. “Mae tells me you do occasional oil work in Bahrain. What is it like? Sheiks and turbans? Everyone driving a Rolls?”

  “No turbans.” Tony grinned at the image. “They’re more likely to wear keffiyehs, head scarves, to keep the sun and sand out. And not everyone has cashed in on the oil riches, though the quality of life has certainly improved from pre-oil days. I’m only there a few weeks out of the year, and I live rather isolated with other foreigners because I’m not Muslim.”

  He’d turned away from Rina to chat with Giorgio, and describing the Persian Gulf kept him from noticing what had happened until Rina fell back in her seat midway through the song and brushed against his arm with a muttered exclamation. He leaned toward her. “What’s wrong?”

  She blew through her teeth, almost a hiss. Across the table, Roberto was sliding into his own chair. The man drew a cigarette from the pack in front of him, lit it, puffed, and leaned back, a smirk forming as he returned Tony’s stare

  Tony laid a hand over Rina’s. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Please.”

  “Acie, you’ll forgive us?” he asked.

  “Of course.” And to Rina, “We’ll talk later.”

  A quick ciao to the others, and they headed out into the dark street. She stretched her arms at her sides and then crossed them under her breasts. At least, that’s where he imagined they sat. He didn’t give their position more than a passing glance.

  “We’ll take the long way,” he said, dropping his hand to her lower back. “I think we both need air.” And they’d avoid being seen together in the city center, just in case trouble waited there for him.

  “What a creep. What a horrible, disgusting creep.”

  “What did he do?”

  She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I can’t believe I agreed to dance with him. I knew what he was. I’d seen him before. It’s just, he’s Giorgio’s brother, and
I didn’t want to make a scene or offend Mae.” Her shoe caught on a cobble, and she grabbed for his arm. He tucked her close to his side.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice unsteady.

  “You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “I’m just so mad. There he was, making pleasant conversation at that end of the table, lulling us. Acie and Nicco—boy, they’ve got stars in their eyes, don’t they?—chatted with him, too, so when he suggested a dance, I couldn’t think how to say no.”

  “I wish I’d been paying attention.”

  “I thought one dance would be harmless enough.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “As soon as we got out there, he pressed his slimy, reeking-of-cologne body—and I don’t mean just his chest—flat up against me. All of him, as if I wanted to feel… you know… I thought I’d puke all over him when he didn’t let me go right away.”

  He bit back a bark of laughter and tried to sound solicitous. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t know what to do with his hands all over me, but if another couple hadn’t bumped into us to break his hold, I was about to try bringing my knee up.”

  What he wouldn’t give to have seen her render the man a momentary soprano. “Shall we turn around so I can kick his butt from here to Africa?”

  She leaned into his upper arm. “I wish.”

  They passed a couple kissing in a doorway and an old man shuffling home. Shadows seemed especially black.

  “You know, don’t you, some women wouldn’t have minded how he danced? He’s very attractive.” His voice seemed to bounce off the stone buildings of the narrow street. “A lot of the dancers were entwined like that.”

  “Having an oily, repellent, smelly stranger try to seduce me on the dance floor?”

  “I didn’t notice the oily, but I certainly agree with repellent.”

  “He’s disgusting.”

  “Rina.”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “I just wanted to say, well…” He stopped and turned her toward him, his hands clasping her arms just above the elbow. “It’s just, you know, if things were different, if you were free and we were someplace other than here, alone and listening to music of our choice, well, I’d want to hold you close and dance with you. Even if I’m not a good dancer, I’d like to hold you. Close.” Abruptly, he dropped her arms. “I’m sorry. We’d better get going.”

  “But—”

  “Now’s not the time.” Not until he fixed things and made sure she was safe from the likes of Ibrahim. Kamal. And not until she was free to be his.

  By eight o’clock the next morning, he’d showered and was sitting at his table, washing down day-old bread with a swig of instant Nescafé, when a knock sounded. Cup in hand, he opened the door. Ibrahim pushed past him into the room.

  “Do come in.” He tried to sound nonchalant as he set down his cup. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Would you like coffee?”

  Ibrahim glanced from his bare feet to his wet hair. “I have met with Achmed.”

  “Jordan, eh? Didn’t know you were heading there.”

  “He sends for you. The car is downstairs.” The man extended a sheet of paper.

  He recognized Achmed’s handwriting. “An emergency necessitates your immediate return,” the note read. “Ibrahim will bring you. He comes with my authority.”

  Tony stared at the words as an icy chill took hold of him. His pulse quickened. “Good,” he said finally. “Good to have this. I was waiting to hear from Achmed. Glad word’s finally come.”

  Think, Tony, think.

  Ibrahim stood with his legs slightly apart, his face a rigid mask.

  “I will need a few hours to pack and get rid of my rental car.” Tony fiddled with the paper. He smoothed it, then folded it into a small square. He tried to calculate how long it would take Ibrahim to pull a gun. Could he possibly disarm him first? He wished he’d taken karate instead of piano lessons way back when. The movies made it look so easy.

  “We leave now,” Ibrahim said.

  He should make that move if he were going to. “But I can’t take off this minute. There are things I must do. Give me two hours.”

  “None of that matters. We must obey.”

  He barely registered the man’s hand insinuating itself under the light jacket before there was a pistol pointed at his middle. He felt the blood drain from his face as if it were actually leaking from his head to his feet. His breath caught in his throat.

  The round black hole in the barrel of that gun looked huge from his perspective.

  He’d opened the stupid door, complacent, forgetting danger as he’d gallivanted around town, chasing an unavailable woman instead of watching his back—all because a couple of boys had said this man was still gone.

  Stupid, that’s what he was. This was Kamal, in person. No longer Ibrahim.

  “Get some shoes and come.”

  Tony sat on the bed to pull on socks and shoes. Was this the gun Rina had seen? Achmed’s bit of authority? The one Tony had been given on his arrival in Italy was tucked neatly in his suitcase, under the bed some twelve feet away.

  He had to keep cool, figure some way out. Surely, between here and Jordan he could get the pistol away from Kamal. He should be able to do that, even if he wasn’t the pro Kamal was. He’d never had to kill anyone, hoped he never would, but maybe he could do something if he continued to pretend ignorance. Which meant he’d better keep up the pretense that he dealt with a man named Ibrahim. Use your brains, Tony.

  “I don’t understand the need for the gun.”

  “You are correct, there is no need.” Ibrahim stepped to the table where the photos of Tony and Rina lay. He tapped Rina’s face with the gun barrel. “If you fail to cooperate, your big cow of a woman will not live to leave Italy.” He scooped up the photos, put them in his jacket pocket, and holstered the gun before gesturing at the door. “Go.”

  23

  TONY

  Why had he stopped himself from telling Rina how he felt? Now she’d never know. She’d look for him in the next days. Then she’d worry about him. And then she’d write him off as an inconsiderate jerk who took off without a word of goodbye.

  What really made him a jerk was having gotten involved with her in the first place. Having put her in danger.

  At least he no longer had to worry about her safety. Not with Ibrahim sitting next to him, miles and hours away from Perugia.

  By the time the small plane landed at Queen Alia International Airport outside of Amman, hours of travel grime clogged his pores, and his lids scratched against his corneas. Ibrahim pushed him through the small hangar, pointed him toward a wall, and punched numbers into a cell phone, the gun still aimed at Tony through the fabric of his pocket. When Ibrahim lowered the phone, he cursed. “They are not there. We must wait.”

  “So let’s go get cleaned up and have something to eat,” Tony said. “My place? You can call back from there.”

  “Lesh la? Why not? Just don’t get any ideas.” The man nodded toward the line of taxis. “One stop on the way.”

  His apartment building had all the modern conveniences the older homes lacked with nothing to recommend it architecturally. Most of the Jordanian middle class lived in small houses or apartments like his, while the lower classes—including many Palestinian refugees fortunate enough to have escaped the squalid camps—lived in mud shacks that looked as though they might crumble if the wind blew from the wrong quarter. A few might consider these a step up from the large black tents the Bedouins erected on any vacant land that struck their fancy. And then there was the growing intelligentsia and small business elite who lived well but not lavishly, unlike the upper class, the very few who owned villas or palaces.

  Tony had been invited to some of these, especially when his parents were still living in the Middle East, but he had struggled always with anger that a king, considered a father figure by his people, would allow
his children such poverty while he and his friends surrounded themselves with splendor. It seemed archaic.

  Of course, in recent years, American presidents had moved in that direction, too.

  The balcony of his flat looked out over an empty and almost barren lot. Sometimes a shepherd and his goats added an exotic touch to the picture as they wandered in to graze on the few patches of drying grass. The view did not attract him now.

  He tossed his bag on the couch and cranked open one of the windows. “Certainly is musty in here. What do you want, a soda or something stronger? I should have both somewhere.”

  Ibrahim held up the sack he carried. “A glass. Give me a glass.” Taking one, he filled it in one white glop.

  Tony turned away to open his own soda. “There’s a can of beans in the cupboard. You want me to heat some?”

  “No. And no cooking. You’re hungry, eat out of the can.” The man opened drawers, checked under the couch cushions and on shelves, sipping his goop and muttering to himself while he tossed the place.

  Chewing a last forkful of beans, Tony figured he could count on a miserable case of gas, but at least the motion of eating and swallowing kept him from throwing caution away to hurl himself at the creep. That would land him with a hole in his stomach and no need to worry about indigestion.

  “Look,” he finally said, “I’m going to get a shower while we wait. You want one when I’ve finished?”

  Ibrahim didn’t answer. He followed Tony into the bedroom where he rifled through Tony’s closet and checked bureau drawers before allowing him to get some clean clothes.

  “You’ve got the only one.” Tony waved toward the gun and didn’t mention the small pistol stashed under a floorboard.

  Ibrahim grunted and glanced around the windowless bathroom. “Keep the door open and don’t try anything.”

  Tony’s mind remained dull as he lathered and rinsed. It didn’t render anything brilliant as he tucked his shirttail into his slacks and picked up a comb to flatten his damp hair.