“I don’t know, frankly. But it will be interesting. That leaves your father.”
Hoda sighed. “Yes. Baba. We can’t see this through without his blessing. No Muslim marriage is sanctioned without the bride’s father’s consent. And he might b the toughest part.”
“You leave Baba to me.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because we’re both men.”
Jake hesitated. Then, he put forth both his hands, palms up. Hoda hesitated, too. But in the end she placed her hands in his, and they lightly touched fingers. Her head bowed, and he saw a tear catch candlelight as it fell from her lowered cheek.
***
Early Sunday afternoon about a week later, the doorbell rang at a handsome house in the Westover Parkway neighborhood of Norwood, Massachusetts. Abdul Hassan answered it to find a well-dressed, fair-skinned and clean-shaven young man.
“Doctor Hassan, I am James A. Holman, and I am here to speak with you about Hoda Abdelal.”
Abdul Hassan knew full well the name Holman. It never occurred to him to refuse entry; to do so would be discourteous, which the doctor could never be. “Come in, Mistair Holman,” he said with more than a trace of accent. His English was very good though, Jake had to admit. Still, Jake had the edge: they’d speak in English; Jake Holman was an articulate man when he cared, and at that moment he had never cared more in his life.
Jake slipped past the doctor and removed his shoes, put them on the mat by the door. Hassan led the short way to the living room. “Please sit down,” he offered.
“You know why I am here?” Jake asked.
Hassan smiled thinly. “I think so.” Holman was wasting his breath.
“I came to answer questions,” Jake said. “And perhaps get some answers. Answers that make common sense.”
“Yes?” Hassan offered, raising an eyebrow.
“No father wants less for his daughter than the best,” Jake plunged. “Surely I wouldn’t. But there is such a thing as judging a book by its cover. And there are other professions besides medical doctor. Those doctors need to be guarded. A country must look after its citizens. That’s what I do. I protect this country from those who would do it harm—whoever they might be.”
“Go on.”
“That’s what Hoda does, too.”
“She will eventually certify as a doctor,” Hassan said.
“She’s a doctor now.”
Hassan smiled that patent smile. “If you say so.”
Condescending bastard. But Jake Holman had negotiated with bandits and terrorists; for the moment, he considered Baba—it helped to call him that in his mind, it humanized him—little more than an intellectual thug. An arrogant thug. Always hold onto the cool.
“I say so,” Jake continued. “She wants to be a psychiatrist. That’s a physician, Doctor, and you know it. You can’t be one without being an M.D. To say otherwise is to fly in the face of facts. Worse, it’s disingenuous. It’s an exercise in control.” Jake paused, holding out his index finger—much as a Muslim would during the Tashahud of prayer—pantomiming that he wasn’t finished.
“I know you think me unworthy. Just another heathen American, and a playboy spy in the bargain. But I have fought hard for a country that’s been good to you and your family—good to you, specifically, in terms of your medical career. You didn’t emigrate to England or France, you came here. And to Boston, a world-renowned medical city.” Jake nearly slipped, saying “Medical Mecca” in the American slang, but that would never do. “You might do to think of my contributions in that regard. And there’s more.”
“I love your daughter, Doctor Hassan. Now I don’t know whether you think something sexual”—he didn’t shy from the word—“has gone on. Let me assure you, nothing of the sort has. Nor will it, ever, without marriage. Which requires your blessing, as you well know. There is religion, too. You cannot have Hoda marry an infidel. Well, I am prepared to convert. Do my shahada at any time, and receive instruction in prayer. ‘To worship Allah, perform regular prayer, and perform regular charity. And that is the religion, right and straight.’” Those words were lifted directly from the Holy Quran. “I don’t know what else I can do.”
“Mistair Holman…”
Jake noticed a woman, in hijab, had entered the room. He stood. Hassan changed what he was going to say. “May I present my wife.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Abdelal,” Jake said, nodding. He did not offer his hand, as he would to an American woman.
“My dear,” said Hassan to Maryam, “would you excuse us?”
Jake said, “Yes, I’d be grateful. I have something else to say that might be better said in confidence.”
Maryam glided away. She’d gotten what she came for: an in-close look at the man who had captured her daughter’s heart. Her place was elsewhere, out of sight.
“You were saying?” Hassan said, imperiously.
“Two things. First, and less important, I think you’re a little too used to having your own way. And I think in the past, if there have been any other men interested in Hoda—no surprise considering what a beauty she is—they’ve been little boys you’ve dispatched with no trouble. I assure you, Doctor, I do not propose to fade away. Men have tried to kill me, and I am still here.”
Jake had to admit, he had the man’s attention. What was that flicker across the face? Outrage? Plain rage? Hard to say.
“And second, there’s this. You have leverage in the matter before this little court. You are the father of the prospective bride. But I am not without influence myself. I’ve done some digging, Doctor, and digging is what I do for a living. I’m an intelligence operative. I find things out. That’s what I do. And I have found out some things about you.”
“I had some very knowledgeable people look at your records, from when you applied to be a physician in the USA. Based on your records in Egypt, not everything adds up. Pieces don’t fit. Now, you wouldn’t have stretched the truth here and there, would you? Of course not. Allah wouldn’t like it. Muslims aren’t supposed to lie. But a desperate man might take desperate measures on behalf of his family. I don’t think less of you for that. I’d do it, to protect my family. I’m desperate now. We all have secrets, Doctor. I know I do. I’ll tell you mine, Baba, if you’ll tell me yours. Oh, wait! I think I already know them.” Jake paused, rising from the couch.
“You think this over, Doctor. If your blessing isn’t forthcoming, you just might find yourself practicing in a clinic filled with Native Americans in North Dakota. That is, if you can practice in the States at all. You’re not dealing with a little boy anymore. Am I clear?”
Hoda had never seen this side of Jake, either. He hoped she never would.
“It’s all right,” Holman said. I’ll see myself out.”
***
“Jake!” It was Hoda, calling on her cell, which she hardly ever did. “Can you hear me? I have great news! Baba just called. He says he’s changed his mind! Can you believe it! He’s blessing us!”
“You’re joking. What made him change his mind?”
“He said my mother convinced him. They liked you. You didn’t tell me you were going to visit them! You really impressed them.”
I’ll bet I impressed Baba, Jake thought. But he put it out of his mind. If Hoda ever discovered the real conversation, there was no telling what might happen. Jake would live in fear of that for years, but there was no way around it. He was damned if he’d let that old tyrant destroy his chance for happiness. It wasn’t the first time Jake’s blackmail had brought a petty dictator to his knees.
But that was Hard Jake talking. Soft Jake melted, hearing Hoda’s voice.
“We should celebrate.”
“Right. I’m free tomorrow night.”
“Jake, let’s spend tomorrow together. What shall we do?”
“Well, I need help shopping for a diamond. Up for it?”
Back to Work
The phone was ringing as Jake Holman came through the door from work. H
oda had had a rare day off, and the house smelled like his favorite, chicken pot poe. Hoda made it as often as she could, because it pleased Jake. And she wanted to please her new husband as much—and as often—as he pleased her.
“I‘ll get it,” Jake called.
“Do you know who this is?” the phone voice said.
“Yes.” It was the admin for his boss, John Robinson, an assistant director of operations for the Central Intelligence Agency. Holman was an operator. Some would say spy, but that wasn’t exactly what he did. He was a kind of trouble-shooter, although he could snoop with the best of them.
“Be in his office tomorrow zero eight hundred, class alpha Army dress, packed for Army travel.”
“Got it.” In his business, people only said things once. Jake rang off.
“Who was it?”
“My office. I may be traveling.”
“Ohhh, Jake! We just got home from our honeymoon!”
“Yes, and ‘home’ is the operative word. We’re back at work, remember?” He sauntered into the kitchen of the little condo, closing on Hoda from behind and embracing her waist. He kissed her neck. She sighed. He tried to kiss her again, but she wriggled.
“Shoo! Shoo! Go ’way! Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“You’re not starting that already, are you?”
Hoda turned to him, ready to scold, but saw instantly he was teasing. “This has to bake,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Her pouty lips parted. Jake felt electricity surge through him.
“How long?”
“Half an hour.”
“It’ll be tight, but we can make it.” Jake went to her, and she laughed as he easily lifted her in his arms, sweeping her legs from the floor. He turned toward the stairs, and Hoda buried her face in his shoulder to hide her blush. Jake easily trod the stairs, Hoda weightless in his powerful arms.
***
Jake sat across Robinson’s desk, wearing his Army uniform. So many of the agent’s adventures had started here, he reflected.
“How’s married life?” Robinson asked.
“Good,” Jake said, hiding his enthusiasm well in businesslike demeanor.
“And Islam?”
That caught Jake by surprise.
“Coming along, sir.”
“You’re lucky I’m ecumenical. Not everyone around here is, you know.”
“That’s their problem, sir. Not mine.”
“Hope you can tough it out. Learn all you can. We can’t have too many Islamic minds.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Now. You speak Spanish, yes?”
“Fairly well. It was my Special Forces language.” Every Special Forces soldier received training in at least one non-English language.
“Communications and operations, it says here.” Those were Jake’s specialties, in the five categories Special Forces soldiers trained.
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s Costa Rica. Town on the Caribbean coast, called Limon.”
So that was it!
“We’ve had a B team and a couple of A teams down there for awhile, doing their own training and working with the locals. Usual green beanie stuff. But lately a couple of mishaps have happened and the Army asked me to send you for a look. Their CID people are already down there, but they thought you might see something theirs don’t. They do it by the book.”
“I see, sir.”
“I couldn’t very well refuse loaning you, seeing that we kidnapped your wife from Army clutches.”
Jake smiled. When he met her—and Robinson introduced them—Hoda was an Intelligence branch officer who had graduated from medical school on the Medical Corps’ dime. Neither branch was happy about giving her up to the CIA, which was now paying for her to do a residency in psychiatry at Johns Hopkins.
“They had some M72 LAW rockets turning over to the Costa Ricans,” Robinson went on. “They vanished. Fifty-six of them. Any revolutionary or terror cell would give their eye teeth for those.”
“I agree, sir.”
“But wait, there’s more,” Robinson continued, trying his best to imitate an infomercial pitch man. It didn’t suit a Princeton man of his age and distinguished demeanor, falling flat. Jake of course didn’t say so.
“They had a live-fire training accident. Killed three men and a woman. More specifically, one of the four killed the others, then himself. Or herself. That’s the CID’s primary interest. Whether the two incidents are related, we don’t know yet. Here’s the file.” He tossed it across the desk. “Read it on the plane.”
“When am I due there?”
“In about five hours. There’s a C-130 waiting at Andrews. She’s got a car waiting.” She, Jake knew, was the trusty, if attractive, dragon outside Robinson’s office.
Robinson waved his hand. Jake stood and left, file in hand.
***
The ramp opened on the back of the C-130, and Jake stepped into Costa Rica’s tropical heat. Jake could tolerate tropical climates—Rangers and Special Forces had to tolerate anything—but that didn’t mean he liked it. He felt conspicuous in his Class A dress uniform, but that’s what his orders said. He was halfway down the ramp when a sergeant first class approached him.
“Mister Holman?” Warrant officers rated a “mister.” It went back in the mists of military time.
Jake returned the salute. “That’s me.”
“I have a jeep waiting.” The sergeant led the way. Ordinarily, livery duty was beneath a senior sergeant, but Special Forces was heavy with senior sergeants: you had to be E-5 to even apply.
It was a jeep, too, one of the old pre-Hummer ones, and it gave Jake a pang of nostalgia. “Where’d you find this antique?” he asked.
“The locals have a bunch. We unload them by the freighter full every so often, and small countries snap them up. Sometimes they wind up on the black market, but this one made it to the Costa Rican Guardia.”
“Is there someplace I can change?”
“Oh, sure. You must be hot in that zoot suit.”
“It’s a little more than that. I stick out.”
“Yes, sir. I think you can use the back room at Rosa’s place.”
Now why did Jake just know there had to be a Rosa’s Place? Sergeant Heymer—it was on his name tape—pulled into the bodega and picked up Jake’s duffel. They went inside, Heymer said something to the bar maid, and she ushered Jake into an anteroom. He smiled: there were two bunks. He suspected Rosa’s Place was multi-purpose.
Back out in five minutes, they climbed into the goat and were off. “How are the roads here?” Jake asked.
“Oh, good, sir. Some macadam, lot of dirts, but they’re packed. A little dicey in the rainy season, if you don’t know where the soft spots are.”
“That’s not what I meant. Do you get shot at? IEDs?”
“Oh, nossir. The locals like us. Anything that brings the yankee dollar they like. And this isn’t tourist country. We’re disciplined, not arrogant. They like that.”
It was about a twenty minute drive to the compound. Typical Special Forces: concertina wire, sentries and dogs. The sentries were local. “Do you trust them?” Jake asked, nodding back at the gate guards.
“Mostly. You’ll pick it up, sir. You can check in there. That’s the Old Man’s office. The XO is standing in today, the top dog is out of town.” Jake suspected Sergeant Heymer knew where, but information was compartmentalized, need-to-know.
Jake hefted his duffel out of the back, the sergeant saluted and drove off. Jake didn’t return it because he was already eyeing the HQ building. A neatly lettered sign out front said it was that, for the B team, and gave its numerical designation. He walked in the front door.
“May I help you, sir?” Jake was surprised to find a female sergeant, E-5, on charge of quarters. He told her who he was. “I’ll inform the colonel you’re here.”
She wasn’t Special Forces, Jake noticed. And not much to look at, stocky and plain.
She was back almost instantly.
“The colonel will see you now.” Jake went into the office at the rear of the building, stepped smartly to the desk, snapped to gentle attention and said, “Warrant Officer Four James A. Holman reporting as ordered, sir.”
Behind the desk sat a lieutenant colonel, not a full bird. He looked haggard when he returned Jake’s salute. He motioned for Jake to sit down.
“Welcome to Training Base Limon, Mister Holman. Ever been to Costa Rica before?”
“No, sir. Nicaragua and Panama, but this completes the trifecta.”
“Well, you’ve landed in it now. Place is crawling with CID types. Seems we hit a streak of bad luck. Had four troops killed in a training accident. That shouldn’t concern you. Another matter, now, that might concern you very much.”
“Sir?”
“I’m making you my supply officer. Mine just left, and I need a new one. An independent one. I hope you’re up for the job, because you’ve got it. Sorry you won’t have an ops job. I’ll try getting you one when this other thing blows over.”
“What other thing would that be?”
“We were holding a cache of M72 rockets for dispersal to the guardia here. They vanished. Paperwork says they’re here, but they’re not. I was hoping you could get your hands dirty, and shed some light on it.”
“Yessir.”
“Well, we’re a little on the informal side here, like a lot of SF places,” the Colonel—Mason, his desk plaque said—told Jake. “So I’ll let Sergeant Gillis direct you to supply and give you a free hand.”
“Sergeant Gillis?”
“She showed you in.”
“Yessir.” Jake rose to leave. He saluted, waited until the colonel returned it, seated, and walked back to the outer office. Gillis turned to him when she heard the colonel’s door open.
“Sir, let me get a local to help you with your bag.”
“Is there a lot of that?”
“Yes, sir. It’s good for the economy, it doesn’t cost much, and we don’t have any privates to do that kind of thing. Esteban?” she called more loudly. In the front door came a wiry-looking Costa Rican. Gillis spoke to him in machinegun Spanish; Jake recognized it was a local dialect, and very sharp.
“Take this to the BOQ,” Gillis ordered. To Holman she said, “It’ll be there when you want it.” Jake thought yes, but will all its contents?
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