“Now I have some advice for you,” she said as she rinsed the mugs. “Leave Kamalia. Immediately.” She turned to face him and looked intently into his eyes.
“I wasn’t planning on staying.”
“It is dangerous for you here, and your presence will draw more attention to me, which I do not want. There’s a flight out this afternoon. I will drive you.”
“That’s not necessary, I’ll—”
“I want to. It feels good to speak English, like exercising a muscle you haven’t used in a long time. I…” She touched his arm, as if making sure he was real. “I miss him so much.”
Tears began spilling from her eyes. He embraced her until she stopped trembling. When she pulled away, her face had regained its resolve.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Most of the people here who knew Matthew are either in jail or missing or confirmed dead. I never talk about him.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 60
The call came through on Julian’s private office line. Fewer than six people had that number.
“Monsieur Mellow? C’est moi, Claude DuMarier.”
The connection was poor, even by Kamalian standards. Julian had a momentary and painful memory of similarly fuzzy calls from Matthew.
“Speak English,” he said.
“Oui, bien sûr. Very well. How are you, Monsieur Mellow?”
“What is it you want?” He hoped it wasn’t more money. He would not deposit a penny more than the six million dollars he’d already transferred to Swiss accounts in DuMarier’s name, but he was in no mood for an argument.
“Toujours les affaires,” DuMarier said. “You asked me to contact you whenever Mademoiselle DuVal had a visitor from overseas. She has one today, as we speak. He arrived from New York, via Johannesburg.”
“Who is he?”
“His passport says Richard Legard. Do you know this person?”
“Describe him.”
“He is white, tall, athletic physique, brown hair in need of a cut.”
“He cannot leave Kamalia until we confirm his identity. Take his photograph and email it to me as soon as you can.”
“You do understand, Monsieur Mellow, that I cannot go to Mademoiselle’s house personally. We have an arrangement concerning this Saturday, and she must continue to trust me. I will send a trusted lieutenant to handle this, with two associates.”
“Will your lieutenant have a camera?”
“On his cell phone, of course. You will have the photograph immediately. What email address shall I have him send it to, and phone number, to confirm?”
Julian told him. “If it is the person I’m looking for, he can’t leave the country. You will have to stop him.”
“I will have him detained at the airport.”
“He must not return to this country.”
“I can hold him as long as you want. Of course, after our scheduled event I will not be here to see that he remains in custody.” DuMarier chuckled.
“He cannot return to this country.”
“Then you are suggesting a more permanent solution?”
“Yes.”
“Très bien, that can be arranged aussi. Of course, this was not part of our original arrangement. I will need to take care of a few people. You do not expect me to do this personally, I hope?”
“How much?”
A long, staticky silence. Julian pictured DuMarier rubbing his fat hands in greedy calculation.
“One million dollars.”
It was worth ten times that, a hundred, to have Zach taken care of once and for all.
“I will transfer two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into your account once I receive confirmation that the visitor will no longer be returning to this country. Ever.”
“Monsieur Mellow, you cannot—”
“I will not negotiate.”
Another long pause. “Eh bien, I accept. I must move quickly, while he is still chez DuVal.”
Julian was about to hang up when he had a thought. “Wait.”
“Monsieur Mellow?”
“If it is him, and before you are finished with him, I want you to ask him a few questions.”
“My lieutenant will ask him a few questions.”
“Yes, yes. Your lieutenant will ask the questions.”
“Will he want to answer these questions?”
“No.”
“Ah, then this is a more complex assignment.”
“If you get me the information I need, I will double your fee.”
“Très bien. What is the information you need?”
“Your visitor, if he is in fact who I’m looking for, has a girlfriend,” he said.
Chapter 61
While Sophie retrieved her car keys from the bedroom, Zach considered the futility of his trip. He’d come to convince Sophie to call off the rebellion and to find more evidence of the connection between Julian Mellow and the insurgency in Kamalia. He’d failed at the first and most important aim, though perhaps he’d had some success with the second: Sophie had as much as admitted to an ongoing, possibly financial relationship with Julian—a man who never backed a loser.
“I wish you would tell me what’s really going on,” he said when she rejoined him in the living room. “You seem completely confident, but you have only a hundred people on your side at most. The State Department is very close to this situation.”
“Then how can we lose?” she said lightly. “Come, I want to get you back to the airport as soon as possible.” She grabbed her purse.
They were halfway across the living room when the front door exploded.
A large man in army fatigues, who appeared to have simply walked through the wooden door, charged at them, a rifle held before him. Two similarly dressed men were right behind him.
“What are you—” Before Sophie could finish the lead man shoved her onto her sofa.
“Ne parlez pas,” he said as the other two men trained their rifles on Zach.
“If this is about me…” he managed to say despite the pounding in his chest. “Don’t hurt her; I came because we are friends from New York.”
In one smooth movement the lead man flipped his rifle around and swung the butt into the side of Zach’s head, throwing him on top of a small end table, which crumpled under his weight. The right side of his head throbbed, and he felt a warm trickle of blood behind his ear.
Inexplicably, the man took out his phone, held it at arm’s length in front of him, and took two photos. He waited a long moment or so, then began typing on the phone.
“Have you received the photograph?” he spoke into the phone a minute later. “Good. Will you confirm that this is the man you are seeking? Yes, I have my instructions. Au revoir.”
The man hung up and turned to Zach. “Where is Sarah Pearlman?”
Hearing her name, in that house, in that country, from the lips of that man, was surreal and horrifying.
“I don’t know who—”
The lead man flipped his rifle back into position and turned it on Sophie, still on the sofa.
“Tell us where is Sarah Pearlman or I will shoot this woman.”
“Don’t tell them!” she said. “They won’t kill me, they can’t. I’m too famous.”
“Tell us or we will kill her,” the lead man said, but a tremor of irresolution had crept into his voice.
“Don’t, Zach. They won’t harm me. They have had opportunities before and they never did anything. Don’t tell them.”
The lead man considered her for a beat, then turned to his comrades.
“Levez-t’il.”
They each took one of his arms and yanked him off the broken table. The lead man stepped closer to him. His breath smelled of cigarettes and coffee and his eyes seemed not to blink.
“Tell us where is she and we will not hurt her or you,” he said.
Zach was trying to weigh his options, to think the situation through, when the lead man put down his rifle and grabb
ed his left hand. Before Zach could register what he was doing he bent back his pinky and broke it at the first knuckle.
He howled as his legs buckled. The pain burned up through his arm to the rest of his body.
“You have ten fingers. I will break each one until you tell me where is Sarah Pearlman, then I will move on to larger bones.” He still held Zach’s left hand in his own, much larger hands.
“She’s in New York.”
“Where?”
“I…don’t know, I…”
The lead man gripped Zach’s ring finger and started to pull it back.
“Wait! Wait. Okay, I’ll tell you. She’s at the Apthorp Hotel.” It was the name of the hotel he’d stayed in two nights ago.
The lead man took his cell phone from his belt holster. He said something in French—Zach recognized only the words Apthorp Hotel and New York—and hung up.
“We wait,” he said.
Chapter 62
It seemed safest and easiest to call Marcella Lightstone.
“I’m about to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to a group of six-year-olds in Canton, Ohio. Actually, ‘read’ is a misstatement. I’ve memorized the fucking thing. What do you want?”
Her insolence was both offensive and vaguely attractive.
“I need the Secret Service to do a room-to-room search at a hotel in Manhattan.”
“What?”
“The Apthorp Hotel. Her name is Sarah Pearlman, but she may be using an alias. A single woman, by herself. I need to know if she’s registered there.”
“What is this about?”
“This must be done immediately.”
“I can’t just order the Secret Service to—”
“Tell the head of your security detail that you’ve received threats from a woman who appears to be registered at the hotel. They’ll be over there in an instant.”
“Julian, you’re going too far, this is—”
“DO IT.”
He heard her gasp. She, too, was unused to being contradicted. After a few moments she quietly said, “Give me the details again.”
After he repeated his instructions he added one more: “They are to report back to you and only you, and they are not to harm the girl or take her into custody. You, of course, will call me as soon as you know anything.”
He hung up and waited.
• • •
Two hours later and half a world away, the leader’s cell phone chirped. After a brief conversation in French he hung up and stepped closer to Zach.
“She is not at the Apthorp Hotel in New York City.”
He’d been expecting it. The two hours had been endless, throbbing pain from his left hand mixing with confusion and uncertainty and panic.
“She’s using another name. I don’t know what it is, but she’s there.”
“The Secret Service searched every room.”
The Secret Service was looking for Sarah? Julian had managed to enlist the Secret Service to his cause?
The leader took Zach’s injured hand and squeezed it, sending spasms of pain up through his arm.
“One more chance. Where is the girl?”
“I told you, the Apthorp Hotel, she—”
He heard the knuckle of his left ring finger crack and then felt the pain surge like molten lead from his hand to his shoulder. He may have briefly lost consciousness because the next thing he knew the two other men were propping him up by the arms, as if he’d fallen to the floor.
“You have eight fingers left,” the leader said. “But I think I will proceed with two at one time for the sake of efficiency. Where is the girl?”
“I DON’T KNOW!” he wailed. “I DON’T KNOW WHERE SHE IS. I DON’T KNOW.”
The leader shook his head, feigning disappointed, but his unblinking eyes looked eager as he stepped toward Zach, still supported by the other two men.
“Maybe your fingers are not important to you. Perhaps a larger bone.” He picked up his rifle, released the safety, and aimed it at Zach’s legs.
“I DON’T KNOW WHERE SHE IS,” he shouted through sobs. “I DON’T—“
A shot rang out. He braced himself for the inevitable pain, and when it didn’t register he thought, for a moment, that he might be dead. Then the leader dropped his rifle and, a moment later, fell to the floor, a red circle on his back. Zach turned to Sophie, who held a handgun in front of her.
“Drop your rifles,” she said.
The two men each held a rifle in one hand, Zach’s arms in the other. In the time it would take to let go of Zach and raise their rifles, Sophie could easily shoot them booth. Neither moved.
“Drop them,” she said.
They released Zach’s arms but neither man let go of his rifle. Zach, still standing between the men, reached with his unharmed right hand for the rifle carried by the man on his right. Before he could grab it the man raised it in front of him, his finger on the trigger. Sophie shot him squarely in the chest. He got off a shot, which pierced the ceiling over his head, before collapsing. The other man dropped his rifle at once.
“There is rope in the closet in the kitchen—get it,” she said to Zach. He did nothing, still trying to take in what had happened. “Get it!”
Less than five minutes later they had the surviving soldier tied up and gagged.
“I need to get you out of the country,” she said when they were done. “My car is in front of the house.” Before leaving she grabbed some surgical tape, bandages, and disinfectant from a small first aid kit in the kitchen.
Out front, a small crowd had gathered. They emitted a collective gasp when Sophie emerged, and with a white man, no less, having seen the soldiers enter. She walked quickly across the street to a battered old Renault station wagon and got in behind the wheel. He got in next to her.
“Au revoir, ma petite maison,” she said quietly as she pulled away from the curb. “I won’t be coming back here. Perhaps I will see you again, after…”
His head was throbbing, almost more than his left hand. Every time he tried to speak he found himself choking, as if unable to breathe. He had no idea what her plan was, where they were going, but he felt safe with her. She had just killed two men, after all. She had already saved him.
A few miles outside the city she pulled over and began to bandage his hand.
“This will hurt, but it’s important to immobilize the joints.” She bound his left pinky and ring finger tightly to his second and third fingers, wrapping layer after layer of tape around them. The pain was exquisite. He forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying.
“In Kamalia, everyone learns to administer their own healthcare. I am sorry I couldn’t use my gun sooner, I had to wait until all three were distracted. After I’m finished with your hand I will make a phone call to some people I know who will take you across the border, where they won’t be looking for you.”
“And you?”
“I will stay with friends until…”
“You should come with me.”
“You insult me when you ask me to leave. You see that I can take care of myself.”
After bandaging his hand, she got back on the road. A few minutes into the drive she made a phone call, talking in French. Zach felt dizzy as he listened to the conversation that he couldn’t understand and watched the passing landscape that he didn’t recognize—dry, dun-colored hills interrupted every few miles by clusters of small huts and grazing cattle. His heart still beat so emphatically that he found it hard to sit still, and his hand burned as if it had been dipped in hot oil. And yet, sometime later, vaguely aware of the car slowing and then stopping completely, he opened his eyes and realized he’d been sleeping, or unconscious.
“We’re at the border,” Sophie said. “You slept for almost forty minutes.”
They got out of the Renault. A few yards away was a small hut surrounded by dense underbrush. The air was thick with dust and heat and the insistent, kazoolike whining of some sort of cricket. Another car, an old Jeep, was park
ed nearby. Two men got out.
“These men will take you across the border and to the airport. They do it all the time, though it’s usually weapons they’re smuggling, and in the other direction.”
The two men, dressed in baggy jeans and stained T-shirts, did not inspire much confidence, and their sneering expressions did little to soothe Zach’s nerves.
“The last time, she fire at my friend,” one of them said in French-accented English. “He is still not walking properly.”
“His ‘friend’ attacked me,” she said to Zach, then turned back to the men. “Alors, here is the situation. You will take this man across the border and to the airport, make any arrangements you need to ensure he gets onto a flight. When I have received confirmation that he is safely on his way, we will make plans to meet again to give you your second payment. Here is the first.” From her pocketbook she extracted a thick wad of bills. “Ten thousand US dollars.”
The two men divided the wad and counted the twenty-dollar bills. It occurred to Zach that he was being rescued by money provided by Julian Mellow.
“These men are scumbags, but they will do anything for US currency,” Sophie said as they counted. One of the men smiled at her characterization. “You will be safe with them.”
“And you? I feel as if I’m abandoning you.”
“There’s nothing you can do. Things are going to work out well for us.” She seemed so confident he could only nod. “Even so…” She looked around, as if seeing the small clearing for the first time. “Even so, the idea that we’re standing here, in the middle of nowhere, and that in half a day you will be in New York. It would be nice to see New York again, to be that person again.”
“You will. I’ll…” He tried to think of something he could do for her in New York that would in some small way repay her for what she’d done that day for him, and failed. “We’ll meet in New York.”
“Yes, I know we will.”
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