A World I Never Made

by James Lepore

  “The Falcon:”

  “Yes, the Falcon:”

  “Does he say who the Falcon is?”

  “No.”

  “How about this one?” Megan asked, slipping the cassette from the recorder and replacing it with the one from the previous night. Again Abdullah listened intently, his eyes closed, his ten fingers forming a temple of his hands in front of him.

  “It is our friend Mohammed,” he said when the tape ended, “and another man.”

  “Lahani:”

  “I see,” Abdullah replied, “the Saudi businessman.”

  “Yes. Go on:”

  “Mohammed says that all is in readiness, that the day’s final salat will be one of gratitude to Allah for the success of their mission:” Abdullah stopped to look at Megan.

  “What?” she said, meeting his gaze.

  “Mohammed is to follow you, to bring you to Lahani when he gives the order. Lahani’s friends in the Interior Ministry will see to it that you do not leave the country. Your passport has been flagged. You are carrying his child, and you will be made to bear it, and then you will be discarded, killed. The child will be raised to be a great leader of the jihad, a half-American spilling American blood. A fitting heir to the Falcon of Andalus.”

  Megan reached into her bag for her cigarettes, but they weren’t there. She threw the bag on the cot and sat back in her chair, bringing her hands to cover her face.

  “Megan ... ,” said Abdullah.

  “I”m not crying,” she said.“I’m thinking:”

  “Megan, child. There is a remedy. I can make it for you tonight:”

  “Kill the baby? What about your own salvation?”

  “This man is evil. I will do whatever penance is necessary.”

  “No, Abdullah, I will have this child. But I do need you to make me something:”

  “Of course. What?”

  “As soon as possible. Tonight:”

  “What is it you want?”

  “A poison. I will kill Lahani and then I’ll run. I’ll go south into the Sahara. No one will ask me for a passport there:”

  “Megan, my dear Megan,” said Abdullah, “I would gladly help you kill Lahani, but it is too dangerous. If something goes wrong, you will be killed. He will find another American woman to breed with. I can get you a passport and drive you to Tangier, where you can get on the ferry to Spain. Once in Europe, you can use your own passport. We can leave within the hour. You must save yourself and your baby.”

  “No,” Megan replied.“He thinks that I love him, that I have acquiesced to his control over me. I will go to him as a lover, a supplicant. He will not be suspicious, and I will kill him.”

  “Megan, please. I am an old man. I cannot protect you:”

  “You don’t have to protect me. Just make me the poison:”

  Abdullah was silent. Megan did not change the expression on her face or look away. “I will kill him with a kitchen knife;” she said, “if you won’t help me. I will find a way.”

  Abdullah shook his head and rose to pour them both tea.“I suppose we have crossed paths for a reason,” he said, his back to Megan.

  “I suppose,” she answered.

  “When do you plan on doing this?” The pharmacist had turned to face her, and now handed her a cup.

  “Today, daybreak:”

  “Come back here when it is done. You would not last long in the desert. I will have your passport. But you must do as I say: wear a djellaba, and cut and dye your hair. I have henna here that you can use. Then I will drive you to Tangier. You must do it this way.”

  Megan nodded.“I will,” she said.

  “Good. Now try to sleep. It is two hours until dawn, and what I am making will take some thinking, and some time:”

  While Megan slept and Abdullah worked, Abdel al-Lahani and his trusted lieutenant, Mohammed Abdul-Rafi, known as the Silent One among his family and friends, sat in the near-dark of Lahani’s living room on the same handsome English-made chairs that they had sat on the night before. A teapot and two finely made china teacups were on the inlaid table between them. They had prayed together just before midnight, and Mohammed had been right, it had been a prayer of thanksgiving. In another hour they would pray again, and then Mohammed would leave for Saudi Arabia. The fires around the city had died out—the fires they had set—but the glow of the successful fanatic remained in their eyes. They had spilled blood like this before, and each time the surge of omnipotence that had filled their hearts had taken days to subside. They thought it was Allah’s approval, what they felt, and that as a result they could not be harmed or make a mistake. They were themselves gods while this surge lasted. For this reason, the fact that Sirhan al-Majid had been captured did not bother them. Al-Majid had only met Mohammed once, and knew neither his real name nor anything else about him. The two mujahideen who had done the real recruiting, both Moroccans trained in Afghanistan before the Taliban were ousted, had blown themselves up in the attacks. In any event, Mohammed would soon be home, where he would have the full protection of the royal family.

  It was Megan Nolan that they were worried about. It appeared that she had deliberately hidden herself from them, and that, if Lalla was to be believed, she had been spying on them. Lalla had also told her husband that she had seen a small tape recorder in Megan’s bag. With Lahani’s consent, Lalla had kept such tabs on all of his women over the years, especially the Western women he favored so much, as there was no telling what they would say or do or carry in their bags.

  “Why this child, emir?” Mohammed said.“There have been others:”

  Lahani looked at his longtime aide-de-camp and raised his eyebrows. Only Mohammed could get away with asking him a question like this. It was, he admitted to himself, a question worth asking. Why this child and not another? If not for the child, Megan could be found and killed immediately. She did not speak Arabic, and it was highly doubtful that she had learned anything, either deliberately or inadvertently, about his covert life, his true business. Yet why take a chance? She was intelligent, and perhaps guessed or had somehow confirmed that he was the one who had forced her to leave the Farah before it was bombed. Both Mohammed and Lalla, whose experience of Americans was one of unfailing naïvité and stupidity, had been highly suspicious of Megan from the beginning. So why hesitate? Because he had been suspicious, too. Not of her motives; she could never hurt him. But of her core, which was, he believed—despite her quite good attempts to fool him with displays of Western femininity and softness—inaccessible, cold, and unsympathetic, much like his own. There would never be another one to breed a son with quite like Megan Nolan. And of course there was the wonderful irony. The coup de grace. A half-American son raised as a Wahabi killer of Americans. He could not pass up such an opportunity. Megan would have to be found and, if necessary, made a prisoner until the child was born. There was no need, however, to articulate any of this to Mohammed.

  “I have decided,” he said.

  “Yes, emir.”

  “Your flight is at eleven?”

  “Yes.”

  “That will give you time to make one more stop:”

  “Yes.”

  “Go to the pharmacist she has been visiting so much. She knows no one else in all of Morocco. Perhaps she is with him. If she is, call me and I will send someone to collect her. If not, talk to the pharmacist. He may know where she is. Call me if you learn anything from him. Then get on your plane. I will see you at home next week, inshallah.”

  “Yes, emir, inshallah.”

  ~26~

  MOROCCO, MAY 16, 2003

  An hour and a half after sunrise, Megan’s cab pulled into the two-hundred-year-old cobblestone dead-end street at the end of which was located Abdel al-Lahani’s apartment building. She told the driver to turn his cab around and to wait for her, giving him fifty euros and telling him that she would give him fifty more plus double his fare when she returned in thirty minutes, maybe less. She fingered the plastic vial in the slit pocket of her
linen slacks as she rode up on the elevator. She had stopped at the Porte Rouge to shower, apply light makeup, change, and check out. She noted now, with grim satisfaction, the reflection, in the lift’s polished brass sidewall, of her classic features framed by her lustrous, reddish-blond hair. She wore the same pale green silk blouse and thin-strapped white sandals she had worn when she first met Lahani at the train siding on the way to Marrakech in January, just over four months ago. Before getting on the elevator she had stopped to listen at the door of Lalla’s first-floor apartment, hoping that the nosy and ever-present servant would not show up at the wrong time, as she always seemed to do. She heard nothing, but of course the mute but sharp-eyed Lalla could be anywhere, including somewhere in Lahani’s large and spacious penthouse. So be it. She knocked confidently on Lahani’s door, ready to be, one last time, the most beautiful woman the Saudi terrorist had ever met and would ever hope to meet.

  “Abdel,” she said when he swung the door open.

  “Megan.”

  They stared at each other across the threshold for a moment, Lahani looking taller and stronger and more handsome than ever in his cream-colored silk shirt and dark slacks. So confident, Megan thought, so supremely confident.

  “Will you invite me in?” she said.

  She watched carefully, half smiling, as Lahani hesitated before nodding and saying, “Yes, of course.” She knew that in that small pause he had begun assessing: her motive, her credibility, and, involuntarily, her beauty. She entered and stood for a moment in the foyer, facing him. He was about to speak, but she stopped him, placing two fingers on his lips and saying,“No, let me explain;” and then taking his hand and leading him into the living room, where she sat, her legs under her, on a plush lemon-yellow sofa that rested on the long edge of an oversized Persian rug of such intricacy and beauty that standing alone it was a piece of art. Lahani sat across from her on an aged leather easy chair. He stared at her, his face impassive, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  “I came to celebrate with you,” Megan said.

  “Celebrate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  No, Megan thought, not your successful terrorist mission. What mission would that be? And then out loud she said, “Our child, of course:”

  “We had that celebration two nights ago. Where have you been, Megan. I have been calling you at the Hyatt. They tell me your bags are there but you never checked in. I’m confused:”

  “I stayed at a small place in the old quarter last night. I wanted to be alone, to think. I should have called you, but you said you be busy all day yesterday and last night:”

  “Air Maroc has you booked on their one PM flight today to New York:”

  “Yes. I’m sorry,” Megan said. Then she paused, as any woman would before saying what she said next. “I was thinking of aborting the child. I changed my mind. I’d like to stay here with you:”

  “Aborting the child?”

  Megan hesitated again, and again it was part of her act, her act of contrition: for having fled, for having considered aborting—killing—the innocent child of the great slaughterer of innocents, Abdel al-Lahani, the Falcon of Andalus, returned from the dead to bring his people back to glory.

  “I’m sorry, Abdel. I was frightened. You never mentioned marriage. Your culture and mine are not the same. I truly never thought I would be a mother. I have always been so independent. These thoughts overwhelmed me:”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “You,” Megan replied, without hesitation this time.“I would be proud to have your child:”

  Lahani’s face was still grimly set, but Megan could see the light of victory, easy victory, in his eyes.

  “You would have to convert to Islam in order to marry me:”

  “I will do it.”

  “You would not make a good Muslim wife, Megan. It is very restricting.” Lahani allowed himself to smile as he said this, a sign, Megan thought, that he felt like he had totally regained control. He probably already has a wife or two.

  “Then I will remain your mistress,” she said.

  Lahani rose and walked around the sofa to stand behind Megan. He placed his hands—large and brown and perfectly manicured—on her shoulders and gently kneaded them. Then he lifted her cascading hair and rubbed the nape of her neck with his thumbs, while slowly encircling her throat with his fingers, his touch light.

  “You would not deceive me, Megan?” he said, squeezing her throat slightly harder.

  “I have deceived other men, Abdel, but not you,” Megan replied, willing herself to remain cool and calm.

  “It is an honor in my culture to acknowledge a bastard child. Do you feel honored?” He increased his hold—not by much, but enough to begin the restriction of air to the lungs.

  “Yes,” Megan answered, suppressing by nerve she did not know she had the feral instinct of any human in these circumstances to twist and flinch. “I do.”

  Lahani removed his hands from Megan’s neck, but stayed behind her. “I leave for Saudi Arabia on Monday,” he said.

  “Oh,” Megan said, turning to face him.“Shall I come with you?”

  “No, you must stay here:”

  “Where? Here in the apartment?”

  “No, in my house in Marrakech, with Lalla. She has two brothers who work for me. They will stay in the house as well. They will be with you at all times. A Western woman, pregnant, unwed, will draw attention. If you are seen as under my protection, you will be treated properly. Is this understood?”

  “Yes. It is. When will you be back?” I will miss you so, of course. What woman would not pine for the great Falcon?

  “In two weeks, perhaps three:”

  “And the child?”

  “Lalla will deliver the child. She is an excellent midwife:”

  “Will you be there?”

  “I am a very busy man, as you know. I make no promises. But as I have made clear, the child will want for nothing. And he will know I am his father.”

  That’s one thing he’ll never know, Megan thought. Out loud, she said, “I am grateful. And now can we celebrate? In the bedroom?”

  “Yes,” Lahani replied.“I am glad you are back.”

  “Do you have champagne?”

  “In the wine cooler, yes:”

  “Go ahead,” Megan said with a smile.“I’ll meet you in bed:”

  In the kitchen, Megan found and popped the champagne quickly, and just as quickly emptied the vial of white powder Abdullah had given her into Lahani’s glass, stirring it with her finger. In the bedroom, she set the fizzing glasses down on the window sill and then swiftly took off her clothes, her back to the bed. Lahani, in bed, naked, was smiling broadly when she turned to face him, holding up the two fluted champagne glasses. His smile got bigger when she dipped her finger in her glass and wiped it on his large erect penis, and even bigger when she bent and slowly licked it off. Rising to a kneeling position on the bed, she handed Lahani his glass, and, raising hers, said, “To us, and to our child:”

  “To us,” Lahani said. Megan drank, watching over the edge of her glass as her lover of four months, the father of her child, a master terrorist about to die, lifted his glass to his lips.

  He took one or two sips and then his cell phone, on the night table on his side of the bed, rang sharply. He put his glass down and picked up the phone. Megan put her glass down, too, and watched as Lahani, listening intently, stood up and walked out of the bedroom, the phone to his ear, saying, “Yes, yes,” in Arabic. A second or two later she heard a thud. Still naked, she ran out of the room and saw the Saudi’s body sprawled in the doorway to his study. The phone was on the floor nearby. She picked it up and held it to her ear, instantly recognizing Mohammed’s voice as he said, “Emir? Emir?” She clicked off the phone, threw it on the floor, and bent to check Lahani”s pulse, which was very shallow. Then she ran back into the bedroom, got dressed, and came back out carrying Abdel’s three-quarter
full glass, the contents of which she tried to pour down his throat, forcing his mouth open with her free hand. It didn’t work. She could get the champagne into his mouth but couldn’t make him swallow. In fact, he gagged most of it up and out.

  She checked his pulse again. Still shallow. As she was doing this, she heard the front door swing open. Turning, she saw Lalla walking swiftly toward her saying something loud and angry in Arabic. Before Megan could react, Lalla shoved her aside and knelt down over Lahani, putting her ear to his chest and then his mouth. Lalla’s shove had been surprisingly strong, knocking Megan against the hallway wall. When she recovered and saw Lalla bent over Abdel, she ran into the kitchen, grabbed the three-quarter-full bottle of Dom Perignon, ran back, and smashed it over Lalla’s head. Lalla went down amidst a shower of broken glass and fizzing champagne. Megan then ran to the bedroom, grabbed her bag, and left the apartment. In the elevator, willing it to move faster, she remembered her idea of the kitchen knife, but going back now would be too scary. Lalla may have recovered and called the police, or Mohammed, sensing trouble, could be rushing to the apartment. The cab was still there, but the driver was not. Looking around, she saw him at the corner talking to two other men outside a tobacco shop. She waved to him and he saw her. She tried to stay calm as he walked toward her at a normal pace.“Money,” he said when they were in the cab.“Euros. Dollars.” She handed him a wad that was way too much and they were on their way.