He led them down the hall, where the men laid the bride gently down upon the bed. Al-Zahani surveyed the wound. “You must all wait outside.”
Al-Zahani worked for over an hour. When he emerged from the guest room, he spoke dispassionately, addressing his remarks in Arabic to the security guard. “She survives. But she has lost much blood and needs hospital care. You would be well advised to take her to an Israeli hospital.”
The groom, his black coat splattered with blood and dirt, stuck out his hand. “Thank you so much, Doctor. God bless you. I will pay you whatever you wish, but no amount can ever repay the kindness that you have shown.”
Al-Zahani declined the hand. “There is no charge,” he said through the interpreter. “Take her now to the hospital. Do not delay.”
When the group had left, al-Zahani turned to Bashir. “The sheets, the pillows, the bed itself. Dispose of it all.”
FOUR
WALTER JENKINS SLAMMED THE handset onto the telephone cradle. He’d been trying to connect with Sommers since early afternoon. It wasn’t as if this were an off day. Sommers, who was J&F’s top transactional partner and the point man on a $300 million deal, was AWOL. He was seen at the title company all day yesterday, monitoring the escrow submissions and doing what needed to be done to transfer all of Kelsen’s buildings, machinery, vehicles, and other assets to Leland. And then he doesn’t show up at the office. He doesn’t show up for cocktails. Now Jenkins was getting damn tired of hearing Sommers’s voice-mail message.
Jenkins walked down to the fifteenth floor. “Where the hell’s Sommers?” he said to a secretary who was getting ready to leave for the night.
“I don’t know, sir, people have been trying to reach him all afternoon.”
“Do you have any way of contacting him that I don’t know about?”
“I have his cell phone number.” She shook her head. “But I’ve tried it. No answer. No answer at his home either.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”
Jenkins sighed. “Well, I guess there’s nothing else I can do. I’m sure we’ll see him tomorrow morning when the escrow funds disburse. We’d better.”
“He may be out with Mr. Harrington. Some of the Kelsen people have been calling and asking if Mr. Harrington was here.”
Jenkins shook his head. “They can’t find their guy either. Isn’t that just peachy.”
* * *
VICTOR KELSEN ARRIVED AT St. Joseph’s Arena as he customarily did, pulling up to the side entrance in his black Bentley sedan. His driver quickly jumped out of the car and circled around to open the back door. Deacon students in their coats and hoodies huddled on the sidewalk in the frigid evening air waiting for the arena doors to open.
The usher guarding the media entrance smiled. “Good evening, Mr. Kelsen.” The usher stepped aside and handed Kelsen a program. A fixture at the arena, Kelsen could come and go as he pleased. Same center-court seat for the last fourteen years—two rows behind the Deacons’s bench. Kelsen was the athletic department’s most revered booster. He shook several hands on his way into the arena and arrived at courtside during warm-ups.
Deacon players in their blue satin cover-ups were spread around the hardwood for the pregame shootaround. A few players nodded or waved at Kelsen. Two stopped their practice shots to give him a fist bump. Kelsen wandered over to the baseline where Darius McCord was swishing corner jumpers. “Looking sweet, Darius.” Kelsen said.
Darius smiled a little. “Yes, sir, Mr. Kelsen.”
“I think I’m going to see quite a show tonight. Nobody at Northern can guard you.”
Darius never lost his modest smile. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Kelsen.” He spun to his left, pushed off the floor as if he were weightless, and arced an eighteen-footer softly through the bottom of the net.
Kelsen made his way to his section as the arena doors opened and the students scrambled for their seats. The band fired up, the cheerleaders bounced on the sidelines, the JumboTron came to life, and the arena’s energy level began its rocket climb.
A portly man in a Deacons sweatshirt sidled down the second row to the seat next to Kelsen. He set his cup of soda in the holder, took a flask out of his pocket, and dumped a shot or two into the cup. “Hey, Vic, whaddya know? Good one tonight, huh?”
“Mismatch.”
“What’s the line tonight?”
“Eleven, last time I looked, but that’s a soft spread. No way Northern contains Darius. More like eighteen.”
“Agreed.”
* * *
THE FLIGHT WAS MIDWAY over the Pacific, dinner had been served, and the cabin lights were dimmed. Sommers had consumed three little bottles of airplane wine and was finally relaxed enough to nod off.
Alina was being coy. Her voice was soft and alluring, her dark eyes enchanting. Her singsong accent made him chuckle. Zhock, she called him. She rested her head gently on his shoulder, her silken, black hair smooth upon his face. A hint of her floral perfume filled his senses. “I love you so much,” he said.
“Sshhh, you’ll wake the baby,” Alina said.
He leaned over to kiss her and she shifted her weight, jostling him a bit.
Sommers opened his eyes. Of course, it wasn’t Alina. He would never hold Alina again. It was his tardy seatmate Malani, who had slumped to the side, over the armrest, her head settling softly on his shoulder, her hair brushing his neck. She was sound asleep. And I almost kissed this stranger, he thought. That would’ve been challenging to explain.
The two sat just that way for the next half hour, her head against his body, her breathing slow and deep. Though his muscles were beginning to cramp, Sommers sat very still. His legs were asking to be stretched, and a walk up and down the aisle would have done him good, but then, he’d have had to wake her up. For as long as it would last, he’d let this woman’s physical closeness touch off pleasant memories of Alina. Pleasant but sad. Yet, it calmed him. Comforted him. He leaned his head back, shut his eyes, and gave himself to his memories.
Back then, they had been off to Hawaii on their daughter’s first airplane trip. As the plane droned on, Alina and Sophie had busied themselves looking at pictures of the Hawaiian Islands in a magazine. Sophie’s boundless and enchanting excitement drew the smiles of the neighboring passengers. “She is so cute,” Jack heard one woman say, and he thought his chest would burst with pride. Soon, Sophie had dozed off. Alina snuggled next to Jack, and he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Whatever Hawaii had in store, paradise could be no sweeter.
Now, suddenly, the intercom barked, “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seat-belt sign. There’s some rough weather ahead. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts until the turbulence has passed.”
Malani opened her eyes and took stock of where she was—her head on Jack’s shoulder, his arm around her. She looked up at Jack and giggled.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Jack said, quickly lifting his arm. “I … I was sleeping and dreaming and … I’m so embarrassed.”
“I’m the one who should be embarrassed. I leaned on you. You should have awakened me or pushed me back in my seat.”
From there, a conversation gained traction. He said he was traveling on business and was thinking about finding a place on the islands. She said her family was deeply rooted in the islands, they’d been there for generations. She was currently vice president for Hawaii Magazine, a periodical owned by her family. She handed a business card to Jack.
“Honolulu is quite a fascinating place to live,” she said. “Hawaii has over a million residents and over eight million visitors every year—every color, size, and shape. It’s the crossroads of the Pacific. No matter who you are, it’s the ideal place to melt into the mosaic of humanity.”
“Very poetic,” Sommers said, as though the idea had not occurred to him.
She turned her attention back to her music, and Jack returned to his thoughts. The time passed slowly for him, and eventually the plane touched down. “I hope
you find the right opportunity, Jack,” Malani said as she walked down the Jetway. “It was nice meeting you. You have a comfortable shoulder.”
“Thank you,” said Sommers with a short laugh.
Evening rain splashed hard against the banana leaves as Sommers followed the covered walkway to the main terminal. Tired and hungry, his joints aching from his long journey, he merged into the crowd moving toward the baggage carousels. The fragrances of orchids and tropical foliage filled the hall but did little to calm his nerves.
Once again, Sommers scanned the baggage area for law enforcement: men with large chests and broad shoulders, in blue blazers, their hands clasped before them, their feet spread apart, eyeing the arriving passengers, waiting to spot Sommers and take him into custody. But there were no such men and Sommers exhaled another sigh of relief.
Hello again, Hawaii, he said to himself. A place of happier times long ago. Now, you’re just a spot for me to hide at the other end of the world.
Without pausing, he walked past the baggage area, through the automatic doors, and directly to the taxi stand.
“Two sixty-four Kaiulani Avenue, please.”
The cabdriver nodded and drove east in the direction of Waikiki.
* * *
IN HIS TRUMP TOWER condominium, Dan Gibson started worrying about his partner, Denny Harrington. It was 1:30 A.M. It wasn’t like Denny to be late and not even call. He’d never done that before. Gibson got out of bed, slipped on his robe, and went to sit vigil by the living-room window, not that he could identify anyone from the fifty-third floor. He stared at the city lights below. Then he called Harrington’s cell for the third time.
“Hi, this is Denny. I can’t take your call right now, but…”
“Really, Denny,” Gibson said aloud as he hung up. “I know you had a gigantic transaction and a celebration dinner, but do we have to be so inconsiderate?”
At two he called again. And at three. At four he called the police.
FIVE
“COME, MY PRECIOUS LITTLE one, it is time for madrassa.”
“No, Jaddi, please. I’m not going, I hate the school,” said the little girl, her arms defiantly folded across her chest. She stuck out her chin. “I want to go home.”
Squatting before his granddaughter, his hands gently on her shoulders, he spoke softly. “Oh, my little hafiida, we have spoken of this so many times. This is now your home. Your Jadda and I love you very much.” He smiled warmly and raised his eyebrows. “And you must go to school.”
The little girl, with fair skin and light hair, stood before her caramel-skinned grandfather and tightened her lips. “This is not my home!” She stomped her foot. “And I’m never, never going to that school.”
Dr. Arif al-Zahani stood and slowly shook his head. “You are six years old. All children go to school. They do not stay home. And we will not argue further.”
Tears formed in her eyes. She lowered her head. “They make fun of me.”
“Who makes fun of you?”
“Everybody. I don’t know what they’re saying, I can’t speak Arabic. I don’t know their games. They laugh at me. I hate them all.”
“Bashir will talk to your teachers. We will see that no one makes fun of you. Now, get ready for school and Bashir will walk with you.”
“I don’t want to wear a hijab.”
“Why not? It is just a scarf, and a very pretty one.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I want to go home, Jaddi. I want to see my daddy. I want to be in my own room.”
Al-Zahani patted her on the head, turned, and walked out, leaving the little girl sitting on the marble floor, her head hanging low against her chest. She rocked back and forth, clutching tightly to her stuffed bear. The brown bear was dressed in a blue sweater with a large orange C in the middle. She sat on the floor, cheek to cheek with her bear, and sobbed. Her bear understood. He was the only one who cared.
In the next room, her grandfather called for Bashir. The solid, broad-shouldered man in his tan sport coat came into the room. His walk had purpose, his movement efficiency, his bearing befitting a calm, strong constitution. He was not a man to be trifled with. Bashir bowed slightly. “Sayyid?”
“Please walk my granddaughter to school. Speak to the headmistress. Tell her I am displeased with the little one’s integration into the classroom. The children are unkind. She tells me they make fun of her. We must see that such conduct stops immediately.”
Bashir nodded. “I will talk to the woman.”
The large man walked quietly into the library and held his hand out for the little one. She slowly rose and put her tiny hand in his.
Bashir looked down at her and gently said, “We must leave the bear at home.”
“His name is Sweetness,” she said quietly.
He smiled and sat Sweetness on the shelf. Hand in hand, they left together.
* * *
JENKINS CUSTOMARILY ARRIVED AT his office early, but on this day, a day when his firm was in charge of closing the book on a $300 million sale, he was especially early. And he had an uneasy feeling. All his voice-mail messages to Sommers had gone unreturned. He paced the office and made a few more attempts to reach him.
“Damn it, Jack,” he said to the ringing phone. “Get up. Answer the phone.” Finally, at eight thirty, he summoned Gil Roberts, a junior partner.
“Gil, you were seconding Sommers on the Kelsen deal, right?”
“Somewhat, but Jack wanted to handle the deal himself. I prepared some papers for him, but that’s about all. I know the deal pretty well, if you have a question.”
“My question is, ‘Where’s Jack?’ So far, I’ve been unable to reach him. In the event he’s sick or something and doesn’t come in, would you make yourself available to tie up any loose ends and make sure everything goes smoothly this morning?”
“Of course, Mr. Jenkins. All of the deposits have been made. It’s pretty routine.”
Gil went to Sommers’s office to retrieve the file and prepare for the closing. Sommers’s papers and files were neatly arranged in stacks. A few personal items were here and there: a paperweight made from a painted rock, a marble bookend, and a framed picture of Sommers standing on a beach, his left arm around the waist of his wife and his right arm resting on the shoulder of his curly-haired, lithesome child. He picked up the photograph. Sommers and his wife were in their swimsuits. Jack, a head taller than his wife, was still fit from his high school tennis days. Alina was lovely. She had smooth gentle curves, long dark hair, well past her shoulders and parted in the middle. A classic beauty. Dazzling in her two-piece suit. They made a handsome couple. Sophie, her nose scrunched up as she squinted in the sunshine, held a blue plastic bucket and shovel in her hands. The perfect family, thought Gil. What a shame.
Gil found the Kelsen closing papers stacked on the shelf over the credenza. He thumbed through them. Everything seemed to be in order. He picked out the unsigned copies of the two bank releases. Later that morning, when the title company received the signed originals, evidencing full payment of Kelsen’s loans, the balance of the purchase price would be disbursed to Kelsen.
Midwestern Title, the escrow company selected to close the transaction, had wire-transferred funds to pay off each of the bank loans the previous day. When Midwestern received the signed releases, it would disburse $96 million to Victor Kelsen. All neat and simple. The parties estimated that the payoff would occur no later than 11:00 A.M. At 10:00 A.M., Gil called Jim Ellis at Midwestern to make sure everything was in place.
“Jim, it’s Gil Roberts at Jenkins and Fairchild. Can I confirm that you are prepared to disburse Kelsen’s proceeds?”
“I thought Jack Sommers was handling this deal.”
“He is. I’m just helping out. Are we all set to disburse?”
“Not quite. I’ve got First Bank’s release in front of me, but not the one from Exchange. They’ve yet to send over their signed release.”
Gil knew that Exchange Bank was owed $88
million to pay off Kelsen’s commercial loan and would sign the release as soon as they got the money.
“Do you know whether Exchange received its loan payoff?” Gil asked.
“I’m sure it did. I wired the money first thing yesterday morning, the same time I wired First Bank’s, but we don’t have the Exchange release of lien yet.”
“Not good. Kelsen’s money is supposed to be disbursed to him in an hour. Do you have any idea why there’s a delay?”
“No. But I know they received the wire. I have the Fed confirmation number.”
Gil ended the call, thumbed through the documents, and found the telephone number for the Exchange loan officer, Greta Dahmshultz.
“I have your release all set to go,” Greta said, “but we haven’t received our funds yet.”
“Are you sure? I’ve been told the money was wired to you yesterday morning,” Gil said. “Ellis told me he had the Fed number.”
“I’m sorry, but the money hasn’t been credited yet. Sometimes these Fed wires are slow. It’ll probably be credited later today. Why don’t you call me back at noon?”
Gil was frustrated but knew his hands were tied until the wire was received. He thanked her and went to talk to Jenkins.
“This is just dandy,” Jenkins said, standing behind his desk, clenching his fists. “Kelsen’ll be here in half an hour and he’ll have my ass. I don’t care what Dahmshultz says, call her back at eleven. Stay on her.”
As he was told, Gil made the call at eleven, but heard the same dismissive answers, along with “I thought I told you to call me at noon.” He buzzed Jenkins. “I’m sorry, sir, but Ms. Dahmshultz still maintains they didn’t get the money.”
“Gil, I’m sitting here with Mr. Kelsen right now,” Jenkins replied in an irritated tone. “He’s not happy about this. And neither am I. Would you please find out what the hell happened to the wire and the release? Do whatever you have to do.” Jenkins set the phone down and forced a smile at Kelsen. “I’m sure this will clear itself up in a short while.”
Saving Sophie: A Novel Page 2