Two From Isaac's House

by Normandie Fischer

  Ibrahim guarded the phone and access to knives and guns, but any delay was good as long as he was still breathing. And Achmed might catch a stray bomb, or an earthquake could destroy the camp. Or Tony could discover his inner Superman.

  Good thought. If only.

  He stared at the mirror. His reflection wasn’t pretty.

  A knock sounded on the outside door, followed by muffled footsteps and voices. A man slinging an Uzi burst into the bathroom, and Tony lifted his hands over his head. Two others pointed their weapons at him from the hall.

  “Down! Now!” one of the intruders screamed in Arabic as he motioned Tony to the floor. Tony knelt. The gun’s butt slammed against his skull. “All the way! Flat on your face, traitor!”

  Falling forward, Tony caught the floor as it rose up to meet him. Someone pressed a gun muzzle against the back of his neck, forcing his cheek into the tile. Grit on the rough terrazzo bit into his skin, scraped like razors when he moved. He could see Ibrahim leaning against a wall, blowing a circle of cigarette smoke into the air. Tony swallowed a curse. He’d like to ram the stupid cigarette down Ibrahim’s throat, chuck these bullies out the window. Do damage to someone.

  Start the past few days all over again. Maybe the past year. Get himself back to the States. Make different choices. Maybe seek the God of his fathers.

  All he could do now was try. Adonai, have mercy.

  The throbbing point above his right ear was probably bleeding. Maybe if he concentrated on pooling blood, he wouldn’t have to see how close the sharp toe of someone’s black shoe was to his eyes. He closed them, just in case.

  One of the men wrapped a cord around his wrists and yanked, wrenching his right shoulder. He winced and clenched his teeth against the pain that shot through his neck. “Must you?” he mumbled in English.

  The short guy pointing the gun, the one with the shoe, yelled at him in coarse Arabic. “Shut up! You don’t talk unless we say so, you understand, American pig?”

  Stupidly, defiantly, Tony answered, again in English. “Not really. I’m not at all sure why you’re doing this.”

  His stupidity activated the little man’s shoe. Just in time, Tony moved his head and the blow fell across his jaw. Breaking it? No, thank You, Lord, but probably loosening several teeth. Tony ran his tongue over the inside of his mouth. Maybe not.

  The teeth seemed intact. He tasted blood, but that may have come from his lip. If he could just get his hands on the slimy bastard, he’d show him a shoe or two.

  Two of the larger men grabbed him and pulled him to his feet, manhandling him out the door. Ibrahim waved his cigarette. “I think I will take that shower now,” he said by way of good-bye.

  The ride in the car, listing around corners as the driver honked pedestrians and other vehicles out of the way, flung him like a trussed sack from one side of the backseat to the other, often into the gun barrel held just under his jaw.

  The camp was as he remembered it, dusty, hot, and now half empty. One or two men lounged near the outlying tents, but most of the activity centered around one of the mud buildings. The driver stopped outside the one that housed the main offices of Abu Sadiq. Two of his captors dragged him from the car and pushed him inside and to the floor in front of a desk. Sitting behind the desk was his childhood friend, Bahir.

  Not Achmed.

  “Ah, I hear you sent for me,” Tony said to the desk leg.

  His attempt at humor met with a kick to his shoulder from the nasty fellow with the pointed boot. He really ought to learn.

  Bahir waved the other men away. As they left, he walked around the desk until he towered over Tony. For a moment, he merely stood there, feet apart. Then he spat. Right in Tony’s face.

  The spittle dripped down Tony’s cheek as his once-friend wheeled, returned to his seat, and for the next hour or so ignored the fact that Tony existed.

  Lying there, unable to wipe his face, watching minions come and go with dispatches or cups of coffee, one with a falafel sandwich that made his stomach acids go crazy, he wanted to scream out at Bahir and ask him what this was all about. But that would have been worse than stupid. It would have been pointless. He knew. Somewhere, he’d made a mistake, slipped up, been distracted. So near, yet so far from freedom, from life as a noncombatant, an everyday, normal, wonderfully dull life that had once not even attracted him. He remembered a school chum laughing at the middle class, the dullness of mediocrity he’d called it. Oh, how Tony longed to be dully middle class right now, instead of—what was he? Classless socially, politically a zero, and soon, oh, too soon, he’d be dead.

  He turned his head enough to glimpse the set of Bahir’s jaw and tried to imagine how his friend must feel. At least, the Bahir of old, the one he’d known for more than twenty years.

  They’d been eleven or so when both families lived in Beirut. He and Bahir had played daily that summer, making the northern coast their playground, each other’s home their own. Their parents were friends, Bahir’s father an economics professor and Tony’s a professor of engineering at the American University. Their mothers shopped together.

  They’d swum pretty far out into the Mediterranean that day, farther than usual, lulled by the calm waves, the crystal water. Then Bahir got a cramp, a bad one in his stomach, making him double up with pain. Right away, he started to sink and swallowed some water, choking on a mouthful. That sent him into enough of a panic to sink again, holding his side, kicking wildly.

  Tony swam over to help, was grabbed by the flailing arms, and started to go down, too. Punching at Bahir, he hadn’t known if either of them would escape. Finally, he landed a fist in Bahir’s face as they surfaced, jolting the other boy so he loosened his hold and listened to Tony’s pleas. Bahir then lay still in the water, his round little body portable now that it was quiet. Back on the beach that afternoon, they’d vowed eternal friendship.

  Now, the cords bit into Tony’s flesh. His fingers grew numb. Dried blood cracked on his lip, maybe in his hair, and the floor sent damp, cold messages to his bones. Changing position would only draw their attention. He’d seen the guard eye him ghoulishly, and he knew the power of the VZ-61 Skorpion submachine gun some of the men of Abu Sadiq favored, a machine pistol small enough to be carried in an over-sized belt holster and able to fire 840 rounds per minute. At that rate, it didn’t matter how accurate they were.

  So he endured, thinking about Perugia, trying to lose himself in dreams of Rina, wishing he’d been able to contact her before all this happened, wishing for her sake he’d never met her, but never wishing it for his own. Please, Adonai, keep her safe after I’m gone.

  Then, as he watched a giant cockroach scuttle over the guard’s shoe on its way to a nice bit of crumb, a pair of cowboy boots walked over to him. “So here he is,” drawled a voice Tony’d not heard before. “The great negotiator, the great hero, the savior of his people. But which people, we might ask.”

  “Hah!” The guard laughed. “Good catch, Jamal.”

  Jamal. So the boots were named Jamal. Boots he’d seen twice in Perugia. What did this Jamal have to do with anything?

  Bahir remained silent. The boots wandered into the next room.

  Finally, Bahir stood up again. “Get the car ready,” he said to the guard. Then to Tony. “Lucky day for you, Achmed is not here to deal with you. He was called to Baghdad this morning, told me to take care of you. Allah have mercy on your rotten soul.”

  The guard returned with another, and together they lifted Tony, dragging him to a car. Bahir’s young brother, Sami, got in on the driver’s side. Bahir slid in back, next to Tony. The short guard with the short temper protested.

  “Ah, you disapprove, my dear Khalil?” Bahir asked silkily. “You doubt my ability to handle this little affair?”

  Khalil tried to stare Bahir down. “You should wait to question him. Achmed would want it.”

  “And Achmed discussed this with you?”

  Khalil was the first to look away.

  “I thought
not.” Bahir smiled. “Sami and I will be there by six at the latest. You know what to do.” He climbed in the Mercedes, gave Sami the signal to go.

  They turned south. Perhaps they were headed to the camp at Wadi Musa. At least Achmed wasn’t here, in the car with them.

  How on earth did Bahir put up with such a master? Fine, Bahir had begun with a youthful zeal, but he had to know the truth about the atrocities Achmed ibn Wafiq enjoyed watching, even if the sadist didn’t inflict them with his own hands.

  When Bahir had graduated cum laude from Harvard, Achmed had approached him, offering the position of right-hand man, think-tank type for the freedom fighters, architect of the new Palestine. Maybe it had been the death of Bahir’s pacifist parents that had pushed his friend over the edge, aligning him with the radical Abu Sadiq. Arabic newspapers had blamed Israeli agents for the car bombing, but Bahir’s father had loudly criticized Islamic Jihad and Hezbollah, along with Syrian and Iranian intervention in Lebanese politics. Tony tried to convince his friend to look past the obvious, but Bahir had regarded him with disdain, written to Achmed, and the next thing Tony’d heard was that Bahir wanted him, Tony, to come on board and help with international relations.

  And so Tony had become that which he despised, insinuating himself into a place of trust—or so he’d thought. And now he had to weigh what he’d accomplished against what he’d lost.

  Had Bahir been swallowed by Achmed’s madness? Or might reason and compassion lurk, buried perhaps by anger and bitterness but still there? Tony looked at the back of Sami’s head. Sami, who would follow his brother anywhere.

  They continued in silence. Finally, Bahir spoke. “Your friend Paola sends her regards and hopes to see you soon. I imagine it won’t be long now.”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing much. Jamal said she was singularly uncooperative during interrogation. He didn’t see her take the pill.” He eyed Tony. “But her cell phone led us to you. It seems she was trying to call you when he grabbed her. Too bad, wasn’t it, that she didn’t have time to erase your number? That she hadn’t cleaned her apartment of certain incriminating evidence? Ibrahim was kind enough to bring the phone and evidence here for our technicians to check.”

  Hadn’t Paola’s phone been encrypted? Zif had assured him they took care of that from their end, along with the security device for Internet use.

  Whatever they’d found had helped them determine his guilt, but at least she’d had a pill that let her escape torture at the hands of that Jamal character or anyone like him. “So, she’s at peace now, with her family.”

  “I doubt it.” Bahir turned to stare out the window at the bleak landscape.

  Tony spoke softly. “Abu Sadiq killed her husband and two little boys. In the bombing of a civilian bus full of tourists.” In the rearview mirror, Sami’s eyes showed a momentary horror, which quickly turned back to anger.

  “The hazards of war.” Bahir spoke coldly.

  More miles passed in silence before Bahir turned abruptly to face him. “How could you work with them? I…” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “I don’t understand how you could do it. You and I were friends, brothers since we were kids. We said we would die for one another.” Again, he stared out the window.

  Tony studied Bahir’s profile. What could he say? This was the old Bahir, the one he knew. But he had no answer Bahir could accept. They had different loyalties, although Bahir spoke the truth; they had been closer than brothers. Except for this. Except for the sides they were born to.

  Tony’s voice sounded just above a whisper. “I’m sorry, habibi. I’ve not been dishonest in that, not in loving you.”

  Bahir turned abruptly. “Bah! I spit on that kind of love. The love of a traitor. How many who have trusted you are in prison now? Or dead? All because of you? Answer me that. And what were you going to do if I were captured, eh? Send me love notes? Tell me of our friendship? You disgust me.”

  Sami kept his eyes on the road ahead, but Tony saw his face reflected again. The pain and anger etched lines around his mouth. Sami, the cub, accepting him through the years because of his friendship with Bahir.

  Nothing had prepared Tony for this.

  “How could you help them?” Bahir asked. “I just don’t get it. Are you that much American? After all these years? I mean, I went to school there, too, but you’d never catch me helping the Israelis. Where are all your grand words now? Where the hell is your loyalty?” Bahir slammed the back of his fist into the door next to him.

  Tony squeezed his eyes against the involuntary tears. He’d never let his thoughts go this far. He owed it to Bahir to tell him the truth, but wouldn’t that hurt him more? A lifetime of lies?

  “My mother was from Jerusalem, my grandmother’s sister and parents died in the prison camp at Dachau.” He paused as Bahir’s head pivoted back toward him. Sami’s eyes met his in the mirror. “My father’s mother was also Jewish.”

  Bahir expelled a long breath. “Ya Elahi. I don’t believe this. You were all spies. You’ve been lying all your life. You and your parents. Everything a lie.”

  They descended into the Wadi al Hasa. Al Karak was behind them. What lay ahead? The silence weighed like sodden boots on a forced run, but Tony was afraid to ask anything, afraid his words might trigger action he’d rather postpone.

  He’d always been lucky, had everything he wanted or needed—good schools, good friends, a close family. He had liked his various jobs, especially the excitement, not to mention the thought of doing something useful.

  But now two of his friends hated him, and the excitement of one of those jobs was about to kill him. And worst of all, he doubted he’d ever done anything to help a single soul.

  Adonai, Lord of my fathers, please hear my prayer.

  He rested against the side window, his eyes unfocused. Fear dangled choices he wished he could unmake, until he was left with a regret so huge it threatened to swallow him. He closed his eyes, but images of the pain he’d inflicted on Rina, Bahir, and Sami jeered at him—their eyes, their tears, their horror—until the car’s movement bounced his head against the glass.

  They turned off the paved highway, heading east along a rutted track that resembled a thousand others, the valley narrowing, closed in by sandstone cliffs. They were well into the desert of Edom, or maybe even south of that. He’d lost all awareness of how many hours had passed.

  “Here,” Bahir said.

  Sami stopped the car, got out, and pulled open Tony’s door as Bahir walked slowly around the car. “Out,” Bahir said. “Now.”

  The angles made climbing from a too-small backseat with his hands tied nearly impossible. Bahir, who’d taken off his red and white headscarf, his hatta wa’gal, waved a gun with his free hand. “Help him stand, Sami. I don’t want to have to put a bullet in him when he’s lying flat on the ground.”

  That was a comforting thought. He’d rather not be shot at close range like that either. When he finally stood before Bahir, his once-friend said, “Drape him in this and then untie his hands.”

  “Untie him? Why? And why the hatta?”

  “I want to see him in it once more. I want to kill him with the face of his treachery before me. And you know what, little brother?” Sami shook his head. “It will be a perfect burial shroud. He’ll be easier for the vultures to find.”

  Sami barked a laugh as he threw the cloth loosely over Tony’s head so one corner hung in his eyes. “There, pig, though why he lets you wear it, I don’t know. Me, I’d hang you with this.” Then he drew out his knife, turning once again to his brother. “You sure?”

  “It will look more like a hunting accident if anyone finds the body before the vultures do. That’s not likely, but no one wants questions when his bones are picked with hands still tied behind his back.”

  “Ah. True.”

  The gruesome image had Tony praying his friend would shoot straight and well and not leave him lingering to become some vulture’s prey.

&n
bsp; Sami sawed at the cords binding Tony’s wrists. “Oh, so sorry,” the young man said when his blade nicked skin, “but what’s a little blood, eh? You’ll be losing plenty soon enough.”

  Bahir pushed Tony forward. “Run, traitor. Run home, and may Allah have mercy on your rotten soul.”

  Tony stumbled, caught himself, and turned once more to look into Bahir’s face.

  “Go on, run!” Bahir yelled, raising his arm and aiming.

  24

  RINA

  She tossed the crumpled note into a nearby trash bin. A lot of good it had done her from the caverns of her purse. When she’d needed it to wave at her or call her name, it had remained hidden, silent and unread, never prompting her to ask if Tony’d discovered a connection between his Palestinian acquaintances and the break-in at the convent.

  Just being near Tony was too distracting, even if he had behaved like a perfect gentleman since that Day of the Kiss. That event seemed to have taken on fairytale proportions: she dreamed of it and longed desperately for a repeat. But lusting after one man while engaged to another was just plain wrong.

  She could admit that truth, but the closest she’d come to fixing the mess was to close down Tony and his kisses.

  Call her a coward. She was, and being one shamed her.

  She tried to concentrate on the lesson—the final was mere days away—but she kept watching the door, expecting any moment to see Tony push it open and smile her way. At lunch, she dunked unsalted bread in her bowl of tortellini soup and listened to the other boarders chatter while thinking about her two o’clock cappuccino date with Tony. She got to Santino’s early and carried her cup to a vacant table. Absurd to feel so eager to see him again, so school-girlish in the throes of a first crush.

  She had to stop this. A waiter approached. She ordered a flaky pastry. The chocolate center oozed and coated her lips when she bit into it. She licked the excess, thinking of Tony’s lips, his smile, his eyes twinkling humor.