Come Home

by Patricia Gussin

  * * *

  When the Keystone private jet landed in Philadelphia that Friday afternoon, Natalie had not proceeded according to her CEO boss’ orders. She’d ordered a separate limo to meet her at the airport. She gave no explanation. So far, the public—except for her boss and Nicole’s surgery boss at the hospital—did not know her nephew had been abducted. Her staff had been trying desperately to figure out why she kept disappearing—so unlike her at any time—but during a crisis? How long would it be before Barney Black fired her? She didn’t think he really would. She was too good at her job. But with his volatile temperament, who knew?

  Natalie’s driver had taken her directly to Nicole’s medical office. Her role: to make it seem to anyone observing Nicole’s practice that Dr. Nicole Nelson was in. When they were young, she and Nicole sometimes switched identities, mostly as a joke, but occasionally to take each other’s test or cover for each other’s absence. Each still could pull off the other’s mannerisms and style. Of course, Nicole’s office staff, sworn to secrecy, knew of the charade—though they had not been told of Alex’s abduction. They knew only that both of their doctor-bosses were absent. Office speculation about possible reasons included a marriage retreat scenario. But no matter how much they gossiped, nobody could credibly explain these weird departures from the office routine.

  The sisters had natural blond hair, still close enough in color, never mind Nicole’s highlights. Natalie’s hair was shorter than her sister’s so she’d pulled a scarf around her neck, put on Nicole-style three-inch heels, wrapped herself in Nicole’s white lab coat, and sat at Nicole’s desk, visible through the open door. While she was there, the office secretary answered the phone, and the nurse saw a couple of routine post-op patients, making sure that a blond female doctor was visible in her office.

  Natalie made use of the time, checking in with her Keystone staff; in the middle of a call, the secretary interrupted. “A call for you, Dr. Nelson. I think it’s from Egypt.”

  “Dr. Nelson,” she said, going for a depressed effect. Would it be Ahmed? Could she fake her sister’s voice, her approach?

  “This is Jafari,” the deep voice said, with a pronounced accent. “Ahmed wanted me to call. To make sure you’re doing well.”

  “I want my son back. Tell Ahmed to bring him back.” Natalie held her breath. Could she fake out Archy’s brother?

  “You have a job. You are busy woman. Wati is here. With his father. With Aurera.”

  “But …” Aurera? Was that Jafari’s wife … or maybe his sister?

  “Everything good here. You don’t worry.”

  “Can you ask Ahmed to call me?” she asked. “I—”

  He’d hung up. She noted the time: three p.m. She called Berk. Reported the phone call.

  Her assignment completed, Natalie went home to an empty house.

  She called each of her brothers, brought them up to date, commiserated a bit, then went back to her Zomera files. She needed to be sure …

  If her theory was right, it was feasible for cancer patients to again have access to Zomera almost immediately. At Nicole’s office earlier, Natalie had taken a call from Keystone’s government affairs office in Washington DC. The gist of it—absolutely confidentially—the Vice President’s—of the United States—wife was taking Zomera for an undisclosed malignancy. Could Keystone provide her with the drug—even though it had been temporarily withdrawn? Her answer had been yes. All drugs can be made available through a compassionate IND—investigational new drug—route, a tedious process, but yes, she could expedite for the Vice President’s wife … and leak it to the FDA.

  Natalie fell asleep at her desk, computer on, open to the spreadsheet she’d been organizing.

  She woke up to Dan Booker’s midnight call. His message: “We’ll have all that data you asked for by eight a.m.”

  Good news. Natalie shut down her computer, thought about grabbing something to eat, but didn’t have an appetite. She took a hot bath before going to bed, but she couldn’t sleep—unusual for her, a heavy sleeper. No matter how hard she tried to keep the mental file cabinets closed, her thoughts kept flying from little Alex—how scared he must be with this Aurera woman—to Nicole’s distress, to her own husband, Rob, volunteering to help Nicole—and to her job. With her position went responsibility. She had to do everything in her power to keep Zomera cancer patients alive.

  * * *

  Please, God, let the data prove my point so we can get Zomera back on the market before we allow a single patient to relapse. Saturday morning Natalie arrived at her office at six thirty, before her staff. The analysis she’d requested was on her desk. She’d just opened the pack when her “Berk” cell phone buzzed.

  “Hello?” She could feel her face light up at the sound of Rob’s voice.

  “We got to Egypt okay,” he said. “Interesting place.”

  “Thank God,” Natalie said. “Rob, I can’t tell you how worried I am. Did Berk tell you that Ahmed’s brother called Nicole’s office yesterday and I picked up and …”

  “Yes, he listened to the recording. You’ve always told me how you and Nicole could change places.”

  “How is she?” Natalie asked.

  “On edge. Want to get this done. It’s just after noon here. And we have a few hours just to wait. That’s the worst part. But Berk says we’ll be home by tonight, your time. This time change thing makes me nuts.”

  “Just get Alex and stay safe. And, Rob, I am so proud of you.”

  “Yeah, well, I wish I could sneak off and see the pyramids.”

  “Maybe we can go back. You and me. Once this is all over.”

  “Sounds good, babe. You get to work on Zomera. I heard Keystone took a big stock market hit. Gotta get that fixed. We’re counting on you—considering my business is in the toilet.” With that, he actually laughed. When was the last time Natalie had heard Rob laugh? Maybe this hero-thing was a way to climb back out of the doldrums? She’d have preferred a safer way. She told him to take care, please—of himself, as well as of her sister and Alex.

  Natalie tore into her charts and graphs. A pattern seemed to be emerging. A favorable pattern that she might be able to take to the FDA. She wanted to discuss it with her mom. Eleven p.m. in New Zealand, not too late. She put in the call, Laura answered, and soon Natalie was e-mailing files.

  By eight o’clock, the large conference room attached to her office was full of exhausted yet eager medical staff. She was proud of her staff’s teamwork. Natalie was confident that they’d pulled together the data necessary to assure Zomera’s return to the marketplace—with a new warning to protect patients from the constipation scourge.

  “Let’s get started,” she said to the team. “Who’s going to keep a tally of the, shall we say, ‘defecation’ jokes?”

  Before Natalie closed her “family” mental compartment, she allowed herself one last thought. Tonight, I’ll see my darling nephew, kiss my sister, and sleep with my hero husband.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 22, 2011

  MONROVIA, LIBERIA

  WHEN AHMED HAD admitted to Alex that they were not on their way home, his little boy just dissolved into tears. Ahmed did his best to console him—a task, Ahmed now realized, usually relegated to Nicole. When finally, Alex had fallen asleep in his lap, Ahmed just held him for the first six hours of the flight—plenty of time to think before he, too, dozed off. The seats adjusted to a prone position, but he wouldn’t disturb his boy. Maybe for the first time since the magical day when he and Nicole had taken their baby home from the hospital, Ahmed realized that this child meant the world to him. Nothing else mattered. And if Alex needed to be with Nicole to be happy, so be it. He would see to it that their reunion happened—nothing could be more important.

  They were scheduled to land in Montevideo, Uruguay. From there he would take Alex out on the first commercial flight to the United States—probably to Miami—and make their way to Philadelphia. Today was Saturday. He’d ha
ve all day Sunday to travel. He would deliver Alex to Nicole, explain that he had to finish some family business in South America, and tell her he’d be back within a couple of weeks. Nicole would be irate, but if he made a sincere apology—an uncommon gesture for an Arabic man—she’d be okay, he thought. At the very least they were business partners, and being that close to each other, how could they not end up together again? Nicole put a lot of emphasis on family. Wouldn’t she want Alex to have both his mother and father with him every day?

  The family needed Ahmed—Jafari had made that clear enough. But how could a one-day delay matter? In no time he’d be back in Uruguay, negotiating for that Punta del Este property the Masuds wanted to acquire. He’d run the banking errands in Montevideo and Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro and as the last transaction cleared, he’d be on a plane to the US. He’d return to practicing medicine—settle the damn lawsuits—and hope for the best on the Nicole front.

  Ahmed dozed off until his bladder woke him. Carefully, he lifted Alex into the seat next to him, hoping he’d stay asleep. According to the flight monitor, they’d been in the air for six hours. Mohamed told him that there’d be two stops for fuel. Made sense to him. Cairo was 7,000 miles from Montevideo. Nobody wanted to run out of petrol.

  Alex stirred but didn’t awaken, and Ahmed headed to the toilet in the back of the plane. Maybe he should have roused the boy, taken him along, but since he’d had little to drink and the environment in planes tended to be dehydrating, Ahmed figured he could hold off.

  Still sitting across the aisle, Mohamed kept watch. The big, bearded man now wore black slacks and a pullover black shirt. He seemed alert, no signs of fatigue.

  “In the back.” Mohamed motioned Ahmed with a jerk of his head. “Your Western clothes are back there. Change into them. You need to blend in when you get there.”

  On his way back to the toilet, Ahmed found Dennu, in Arab garb, stretched out in the back, seemingly asleep. Again, Ahmed thought, why did Jafari send two men? What kind of trouble was he expecting in South America?

  Ahmed changed into casual clothes, those he had brought from Philadelphia. Khaki pants, a golf shirt. He was happy to get out of the jellabiya, and Alex would be, too.

  Returning to his seat, he picked up an apple and a bottle of fruit juice, plus a couple of granola bars, and a package of mixed nuts. He noticed that Dennu was now awake, following him with his eyes.

  Up the aisle, Ahmed could see Mohamed in his seat, blocking Ahmed’s view of his son’s face. Alex would be frightened. Ahmed hurried forward.

  “Little Wati woke up,” Mohamed said. “I didn’t want the kid to be scared.”

  Right. Like you wouldn’t scare the hell out of him. And you know what? From now on my son’s name is Alex.

  “Daddy,” Alex said, pushing aside the blanket that enveloped him. “Where were you?”

  “Went to the bathroom. Bet you have to go, too.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Do we have one on this airplane?”

  “Sure do,” Ahmed said. “Come with me.”

  “Daddy, you changed your clothes. I want to wear my regular clothes, too.”

  “No.” Mohamed sounded unnecessarily stern. Then he said, “We didn’t bring any extras for the kid.”

  As Ahmed set down the bottle and the food he still carried, he sensed a slight descent of the plane. The monitor flashed the distance to destination: 100 miles. His stomach lurched when he saw the destination on the monitor: Monrovia, Liberia.

  After ushering Alex back from the toilet and fetching him a juice and a handful of cookies, Ahmed asked Mohamed, “We’re close to Monrovia—to refuel? There must be a safer place to gas up.”

  “Pilots don’t consult me,” Mohamed said, refusing to meet Ahmed’s eyes. “Better sit down. Some of these landings can be rough.”

  Ahmed turned to buckle Alex in. “Want another cookie?” he asked, noting the empty plate. He was about to get up and find one when the plane lurched. “Oops, too late. We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”

  Landing in Monrovia, Liberia—that lawless place? But when Ahmed looked at the map of Africa, it made geographical sense. Cairo on the Mediterranean coast to the east; Monrovia on the South Atlantic Ocean, to the far west. Ahmed was accustomed to the flight from Cairo to Europe or North America, right over the North Atlantic. This route already had taken them over some sketchy countries, he thought. Libya, Niger, Ghana … but they’d soon be out of Africa. He drew a tentative sigh of relief.

  Ahmed cinched Alex’s seat belt, took a sidelong look at the flight-status monitor next to the seat, sat back, and buckled up. The automated program zoomed in and Ahmed saw the airport below, designated “Roberts International Airport.” But the aircraft continued toward the town, descending lower and lower. When the monitor zoomed again, he could see a different set of runways ahead and the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. The plane started to drop at a rather acute angle. The monitor read out: Spriggs Payne Airport. Located in what seemed to be the middle of urban Monrovia—on a peninsula between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mesurado River.

  As they got closer, Ahmed saw that the airport facility consisted of a collection of small, rinky-dink single-story buildings. Even less encouragingly, he couldn’t ignore the committee of paramilitary runway guardians with their menacing submachine guns. This was not a safe place; but for a fast refuel, it would have to do. Jafari probably often used this site on long flights across Africa. Ahmed was distracted from his speculation by the violent jolt of wheels hitting tarmac accompanied by Alex’s squeal of alarm. More jarring bumps as the aircraft trundled along the crumbling asphalt runway toward the buildings and the armed men.

  “Daddy, did we crash?” Alex asked. Ahmed and Nicole had taken their son on many trips, all smooth landings.

  “No, we just have to stop and get some gas for the airplane,” he explained, and Alex seemed calm. Nevertheless, Ahmed gave the small hand a reassuring squeeze. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” Alex said. “I miss Mom, but I’m okay if I’m with you, Daddy.”

  The jet came to a stop in front of the largest building, even more dilapidated-looking from up close. A fuel truck approached from a couple of hundred yards away. Ahmed hoped they would not have to deplane. Liberia was not a stable place, though the country had been pretty solid at one time.

  Bits of Liberian history stuck with Ahmed. His African History teacher had been among the most engaging at his prep school in Cairo, and the class had extensively studied the Continent. Liberia had the distinction of being founded at the initiative of US citizens and Caribbean ex-slaves—colonized by liberated slaves and their descendants. When Liberia later proclaimed its independence from the American Colonization Society, it stayed within the American sphere of influence and protection.

  The fuel truck still lumbered toward their jet. Alex watched its slow progress with a certain curiosity.

  Dependent on the rubber industry, the young Liberian nation had been dominated by Firestone, Ahmed recalled—until rubber tanked as a commodity. Vast US aid donations had helped support the country. Franklin Roosevelt and Jimmy Carter both had visited … Ahmed wondered if his son, growing up in the US, would study any African history. Americo-Liberian control ended with a series of coups and counter-coups, and the civil wars that followed. Decades of conflict, tribal and brutal and devastating, only recently had subsided—this dismal airfield being a graphic example. The sooner he and Alex were out of here, the better.

  As Ahmed had hoped, they were able to stay on the plane. No direct contact with the armed runway protection committee. Mohamed unbuckled his seat belt and stood up, but told them to stay in their seats. Okay with him. During the refueling operation, Alex asked questions about where they were, and Ahmed was tempted to teach him a little African geography, but what would a five-year-old understand? Once they got in the air, he’d pull out the map tucked in the compartment between them and at least teach him about how Cairo was in one corner of Africa and—
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br />   Ahmed’s thoughts were short-circuited by members of the armed runway protection committee taking positions to surround the plane. The fuel truck had just pulled away. Alex had just asked, “Do the people here talk Egypt like Tata and Gido—Grandma and Grandpa?”

  “Can you get up?” Dennu, Mohamed’s security helper, asked in Arabic as he stood in the aisle next to Ahmed’s seat. “I dropped something under your seat.”

  The jet engines started; Ahmed hurriedly tried to stand while he could—he’d have to buckle in again soon—before the plane began to taxi down this wretched excuse for an airstrip.

  “Sure,” he answered. But in his haste, Ahmed forgot to unbuckle his seat belt. Embarrassed by the belt jerking him backward, he leaned back, flipped open the belt buckle, and moved out of the way, to just behind his seat. As he did, Dennu reached over and unbuckled Alex’s seat belt.

  Then the big man with the brown jacket open to expose the gun inside scooped Alex out of his window seat, enclosed him in a ruthless bear hug, and rushed for the front door.

  Shocked, Ahmed froze for an instant before he charged forward. He yelled, “Come back!” only to have Mohamed shove him back into his seat. Beefy arms held Ahmed fast as he writhed desperately to free himself, to go after his son. Where could they be taking him? And why?

  “Daddy!” was the last word Ahmed heard as engines revved, the jetway door slamming shut.

  The engines fired, the plane taxied, and within a few seconds was barreling down the runway. Ahmed, struggling with all his might, had zero impact. Mohamed’s powerful arms held him fast, pinned, into the seat.

  “No! Don’t take him!” His scream sounded hysterical. “Alex! Alex!” Mohamed held him fast.

  The jet started to rise at a steep angle. Ahmed caught a brief glimpse of Alex still in the enveloping grasp of the man who’d grabbed him. Surrounded by paramilitary personnel, they headed in the direction of the decrepit airport buildings.