Dogs

by Nancy Kress

  “Thank you,” Ruzbihan said. She felt his wariness grow; he was too experienced not to know that this was preliminary negotiation. She wanted something. “Why are you in London, Tessa? Why do you ask after Richard Ebenfield?”

  “He has sent me threatening emails. The emails also soil Salah’s name. I am very angry. I wish to stop this, and to punish him for it.”

  Ruzbihan studied her. On the one hand, he understood the avenging of honor, as perhaps few Americans could. On the other hand, he knew she was an American, and a woman. On a mythical third hand, he also knew he did not understand American women, particularly one who would choose to become an FBI agent. She watched him weigh these considerations, and she saw the moment Ruzbihan chose to believe her.

  It was the same moment she knew he was not in collusion with Richard Ebenfield, and that this trip had been a dead end.

  He said, “What is it you want from me?”

  “I came here on a stolen passport, my sister’s. I cannot return on it. By now the FBI is looking for me. They don’t believe a few emails are reason to take action against a crazy American. They don’t understand what he has said about Salah.” Tessa hesitated, averted her face, and repeated the filthiest epithets in Arabic. She had made Salah, against his better judgment, teach them to her.

  Ruzbihan was silent. Then he said, “You should have borne a son to do this someday for you.”

  “We were married only five years.”

  “And you had no husband before Salah? You are…thirty maybe?”

  “Thirty-five. No, I had no husband before Salah.”

  Ruzbihan shook his head over the mating customs of Americans. Then his demeanor shifted once again, becoming all business. “You want from me what?”

  “A passport and airline ticket to Pittsburgh, going first to Toronto. The Bureau will have spotters with my picture at all the Washington airports. I know you can do this, Ruzbihan. In Tunis, business is conducted like…I know you can get me a passport in another name, with my picture. With a date of issue that predates all the new embedded chips. Then I will be away from London and out of your hair, and I can find Ebenfield in the States.”

  “Why have you thought he is there? His emails have come from someplace near you?”

  “No. They came through a mixmaster remailer.”

  “He may be anywhere in the world.”

  "No," Tessa said, not surprised that Ruzbihan knew the English for “mixmaster remailer.” She would bet that on occasion he used them himself. “Ebenfield has already emailed that he watched me once.”

  He frowned. “And your authorities do nothing for this? It is not a crime?”

  “It is, yes. Stalking. But the authorities are too busy with major problems to investigate a stalker who doesn’t actually make death threats.”

  Ruzbihan nodded. Authorities who were “too busy” for their duties were an old story in Tunisia. But he said, “I cannot give you a false passport, Tessa.”

  She faced him squarely. “Yes, you can. You are saying that you will not.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. Suddenly she understood. “Ruzbihan, I no longer work for the FBI and I am not wearing any electronic devices. Send a woman of your household to search me, to take all my clothes. You want me out of London, because it’s not good for anyone to know you even talked to someone who used to work for the FBI. That’s why you didn’t want me to tell them your name in the first place. It must be some questionable business deal, because I know you are not a terrorist.”

  “How can you know this?”

  “I worked domestic counter-terrorism for the Bureau. We investigated American crazies who want to blow up their own government. But it’s more than that. When I married Salah, the Bureau did a thorough background check on his life. You were checked out then. You came up politically clean.

  “And also—you were Salah’s friend. He would have wanted you to help me. We can help each other. You want me out of London before your business associates hear about me, maybe because Mogumbutuno is closed again to any signatory of the 2004 International Trade Agreements … it doesn’t matter why you don’t want anyone to know I visited you. I want you to know it doesn’t matter to me. You want me out. I want to be back in the States. All I need is a passport and an airline ticket.”

  A long moment passed. Finally Ruzbihan repeated, with a mixture of anger and disapproval and admiration, “You should have borne a son. Wait here.” He left the room.

  Tessa was suddenly exhausted. Sleep was out of the question, but she lay on the floor with her head on her cushion. Damn the security camera. Let Ruzbihan bin Fahoud bin Ahmed bin Aziz al-Ashan’s security detail think she was disgraceful. Undoubtedly they already did.

  Ruzbihan did not return. Eventually Tessa fell into a light, fitful doze. She dreamed that she stood braced to shoot her gun at Victor Balonov, who in turn aimed at Billy. She fired, but when the body toppled forward, she saw that it was not Balonov but Salah, and that she had killed him. She cried out, waking drenched in sweat in the small room with its bright Arabic rugs on the pristine white walls.

  » 41

  Cami sat in the back seat of the car with Billy, while his friend Jess Langstrom drove them. That made Cami feel weird, as if this were a date or something and Jess really was just what he’d said, the chauffeur. He seemed to be a very quiet man, maybe a little depressed. Billy, however, talked nonstop.

  “You been in Tyler long, Nurse Cami?”

  “No, I just came here from Benton, in West Virginia. That was my first hospital, but I wanted something more exciting.”

  “Tyler is more exciting? You gotta be sh…kidding me!”

  “Well, Benton is pretty small. And Tyler is so much closer to Washington.”

  “You been down to D.C.?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “I’ll take you,” Billy said. “We’ll do the night life.”

  “Well, maybe.” He was starting to scare her a little, the intense way he leaned toward her, the eagerness on his face. He seemed to understand that, though, because he leaned back and his voice got calmer.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t drive you home myself, but in a coupla days I’ll be just fine, the doc said. Or almost, anyway. You ever been to the Moonlight Lounge? Right here in Tyler?”

  “No. No, I haven’t.” But she’d heard about it. A wild place.

  “Or maybe we could just go to the movies,” Billy said, and he looked so hopeful and little-boy, with his face all eager and his hair slicked down with water, that she melted again.

  “Oh, I’d like to go to the movies.” In the front seat, Jess Langstrom glanced back at her in the rearview mirror. He was smiling slightly and shaking his head…why?

  Billy said, “And maybe in a few days you’ll get your dog back.”

  Jess’s smile vanished.

  Cami said, “Oh, that reminds me… Jess, would you mind making one more stop? I’m really sorry to put you to the trouble, but I promised a little boy at the hospital. The address is 146 Cobbler Drive. I’m really sorry.”

  “No problem,” Jess said.

  “I just have to give this note to his friend. I did promise.”

  “No problem,” he repeated.

  Billy said, “Now you’re a post office as well as a nurse, hahaha.”

  “Well, when it’s for a child… Billy, you wouldn’t believe what some of these dog-bite victims have been through! Those poor children!”

  “Tell me,” Billy said, and even though that too-eager look was back again, this time Cami didn’t mind so much because the look was for the kids, not herself. So she told him about Jason and Lisa and Allen, until the car stopped in front of a small, dingy house with sagging shutters and a chicken-wire fence broken down at one corner. All at once Cami realized that Billy was no longer listening to her. Both men had turned their heads toward the woods.

  “Another dog pack,” Billy said. “Damn it, Jess, they got umpteen volunteers out there plus the whole goddamn Maryland
Guard and they can’t nail a few renegade hounds? If I could shoot…”

  “I know, you’d take them all down single-handed. Actually,” Jess said, turning to Cami, “Billy’s probably the best shot in Tyler. Very handy if you need a rhino stopped at your door. What do you need to do at the Doakes’? I think it would be better if you stayed in the car and let me do it.”

  Cami hesitated. “Well…all right, I guess. It’s a note that Allen wanted delivered to his friend Jimmy.” She passed over the tightly folded piece of paper.

  “Why didn’t Allen just call Jimmy from the hospital? I’m sure you’d have helped him do that.”

  “Of course! But you know kids…they like to be secretive.”

  Jess fingered the note he’d taken from her. For a moment she thought he was going to open it, and she braced herself to protest. Kids should be allowed their little secrets! But then he nodded and took the note to the door.

  Billy said, “Your hospital kid has some strange friends.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like Jess said, that’s the Doakes’ house. Sheriff is there three, four times a year for domestic disturbance, oldest kid is truant from school all the time, Jess and I been called in for animal abuse.”

  “Animal abuse!”

  “Well, more like neglect. They got a passel of cats and somebody called ’em in for shutting the cats outside in really cold weather. The cats were howling their heads off, so maybe it was really more like a noise violation. Don’t look like that, Cami, nobody was torturing animals. Least, not here.”

  Cami watched the house. The door was opened by a woman in jeans, baggy sweatshirt, and oversize slippers. Three kids crowded behind her, one a boy of about Allen’s age, a skinny red-head in a torn Eminem T-shirt. After some discussion, Jess handed the boy Allen’s note and the woman slammed the door.

  Billy was asking her about Belle, and Cami answered mechanically. Ordinarily she loved talking about Belle, but now she had the strongest possible feeling about that note. It was so silly, completely irrational, and even as she answered Billy, a part of her mind tried to suppress the feeling. But it only grew, no matter how much she told herself that it would have been wrong, unethical, unfair to Allen.

  She felt that she should have read the note before Jess gave it to Jimmy.

  » 42

  Tessa left Ruzbihan’s house a little after noon. Much earlier an old woman in traditional dress had come to the small anteroom, silently gestured for Tessa to remove all her clothes, and watched while Tessa did so. The woman then ran her hands through Tessa’s short, dirty hair, searching for, presumably, recording devices. Finally she handed Tessa a bundle, which turned out to be all men’s clothing: jockey shorts, jeans, T-shirt, socks, boots, and a hand-tailored jacket lined in fur. The boots were a bit too big, the jeans a bit too tight. Tessa managed. She guessed that the clothes belonged to the boy she had seen, Ruzbihan’s surly son. She and he were about the same height.

  The crone picked up Jess’s old parka, holding it by one finger, as if it were filth. In the pocket was Salah’s old laptop. Tessa had known she wouldn’t be allowed to keep it, there was no help for that, but she felt a pang. The woman also took Tessa’s purse but left her wallet. Great—she could continue to take out books from the D.C. Public Library.

  From some inner fold of her abbayah the unsmiling woman produced a small camera, snapped Tessa’s photo, and left. Shortly after, a younger Arab woman in a Western skirt and blouse entered with steaming coffee, hot rolls, and cheese.

  “Ahlan,” Tessa said. The girl put the food on the low table. “Bonjour,” Tessa tried. “Hello.” The girl ignored her and left.

  Hours of boredom and anxiety later, Ruzbihan returned with an envelope. “Tessa. Here is passport and money. Also your own credit card and driver’s license. You have waited for you at Heathrow an electronic ticket for flights to Toronto and Pittsburgh, as I have wrote here. A taxi is outside. You go now directly to Heathrow, no stops, and wait there. Yes?”

  “Thank you, Ruzbihan. I’ll get out of London, and you have my promise to say nothing about you to my government.”

  “Good-bye, Tessa. Marhaba.”

  Salah had taught her that word; it meant “Blessings be upon you.”

  “Marhaba, Ruzbihan.”

  “One more thing,” he said. “Do not visit Tunisia anytime soon. Maybe anytime ever.”

  That was unexpected. She peered at him, but his face gave away nothing. After a moment she nodded.

  The rain had stopped. London had produced a rarity, a sparklingly clear winter day. Children ran and shouted in several languages. The cab pulled away without asking her destination.

  She let it get several blocks away before she said, “Victoria Station, please.”

  “Not Heathrow?”

  “No. Victoria Station.”

  Once there, she immediately got into another cab. The first cabbie might very well have reported back to Ruzbihan. She said, “One six nine Ogilvie Road, please.”

  She had promised Ruzbihan to get out of London. She had not agreed to his statement that she would go directly to Heathrow.

  Les Frères de l’Espoir céleste occupied a crumbling brick building in a bad neighborhood. Tessa said to the man who opened the door, “Hello. My name is Jane Caldwell and I need to see your abbé on a matter of great importance. Will you please tell him it’s about a man named Richard Ebenfield?"

  The man studied her. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt, not at all monk-like, but les Frères de l’Espoir céleste, Tessa had discovered on the Internet, was an order devoted to helping the very poor. They cared for the dying, ran orphanages, dug wells in the poorest countries on Earth. Finally the monk said, “I may see identification, please?” His accent was German.

  Tessa produced her brand-new passport and he studied it. “Wait here.”

  The man who eventually came to the foyer did wear a rough brown robe. Seniority, or PR? But then she was ashamed of her cynicism.

  “Madame Caldwell, I am Abbé Guillaume LeFort. You wish to ask about Richard Ebenfield? And who are you?”

  “I’m an American who knew Richard a long time ago, at the Sorbonne. I’ve heard through mutual friends that he’s in trouble. They’ve been getting strange emails from him. But the last address any of them had for him was here. I was in London on business and I volunteered to see if he can be located. It’s a matter of some urgency, but I can’t tell you the details, I’m afraid.”

  “In London on business,” LeFort repeated. His French accent was very strong, and he had a remote, austere air. He studied Tessa’s expensive jacket and men’s boots. “What business is this?”

  She smiled slightly. “I’m with the World Bank. But later today I’m driving north to hike the Dales.”

  He shrugged, a very Gallic gesture, and Tessa could almost hear him think: Americans. “I do not know the present address for Richard Ebenfield. The last time I saw him was in Africa, in Mbandaka, six years ago."

  “In Congo? What was he doing there?”

  Again the abbé shrugged. “You must understand, madame, that a missionary order like ours attracts many kinds of people. There are the brothers, of course, committed to helping the suffering poor. So, also, are many others who have not a vocation but who are filled with the grace of compassion. But we also have…les partisans temporaires…”

  “Hangers-on?” Tessa suggested.

  “You speak French, madame?”

  “No. Only a little.”

  “Ah. Dis donc, Richard Ebenfield was such a one. They come and go, helping a little at one mission for some time, going into the bush, coming sometimes years later to another mission, drifting again down the river. Many are lost souls. Many drink. Eventually most die of diseases or are killed in civil fighting or robberies. Your friend may have drifted down the river to almost anywhere. In the jungle, borders disappear. Others of our order may have seen him since, or not. I cannot say.”

  “When he was with you,
did he ever mention Salah Mahjoub?”

  For the first time, the abbé’s remoteness disappeared. “Yes, he did. Very often. Salah Mahjoub was Richard’s besetting sin.”

  Startled, Tessa said, “His sin?”

  “Yes. We all have our besetting sin, and his was envy. He envied this man, talked about him with much bitterness. You are a friend of M’sieu Mahjoub?”

  “Yes,” Tessa said, her chest tightening. “Can you tell me anything more about what Ebenfield did in Africa?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Can anyone else here?”

  The remoteness was back. “Mademoiselle, we are an order charged by God to relieve suffering. We are not an information bureau.”

  “I understand. But here, this is my email address.” She thrust toward him a paper torn from the envelope Ruzbihan had given her, written on with a pencil borrowed from the cabbie. “If you or anyone else thinks of anything more about Ebenfield, would you please email me?”

  Reluctantly he took the paper. Tessa said, without knowing she was going to, “My late husband was a Catholic. Not very practicing, I’m afraid, but when he died… He was killed in a car crash and there was about twenty minutes before he… I’ve always hoped his religion was some comfort to him at the end.”

  “You were there with him, madame?”

  “No. I didn’t…I didn’t get there in time. No, please don’t…I’m all right. But I would appreciate it if you would email me anything you learn about Ebenfield.” Tessa moved quickly to the door, and the abbé didn’t try to stop her.

  The cab had, per instructions, waited for her. Moving toward it, Tessa was ashamed of herself. What had moved her to tell LeFort about Salah’s death? She had been using that monstrous tragedy. Or maybe not, the words had just seemed to well up out of her, as tears were doing now, fuck it—

  She didn’t even see the men in the racing black car until the first shot rang out.