Finally, underneath everything else, there was a small, locked, lead-lined strongbox with a key taped to the top. He inserted the key, turned it, and opened the lid, revealing a .45-caliber pistol and ammunition.
26
Tariq Jameel was beginning to feel guilty for sending his little brother to Baghdad. Ramy obviously knew what he was doing. He would never have given him up to Jean-Claude Goddard or anyone else. He felt an ache in his stomach. If Ramy died in Iraq, he could never forgive himself. He had to find a way out of this nightmare, and quickly.
He booted up the computer, activated the sat hub, and logged on to the Internet. Then he ran a quick search for recent stories about the Ramsey family. As he had expected, the European and Egyptian media were awash with reports about Rafeeq’s and Brigitte’s deaths and the kidnapping of Claudette. And pictures of Marwan Accad, now wanted for murder, were everywhere. Perhaps coming to Cairo had been a mistake, but he still believed he’d had no choice.
The latest news was right at the top of the Le Monde home page. It boasted “exclusive” details of the events leading up to the assassination in Monte Carlo, including the fact that a ransom note had arrived at the Ramseys’ estate in Paris via a DHL package from Berlin the day after Claudette’s disappearance. The note had provided a Swiss bank account number and demanded one million euros be wired to the account within twenty-four hours “if Mr. Ramsey ever wanted to see his wife alive again.” Ramsey, the story reported, had promptly paid.
“Several days later,” Le Monde went on to say, “a second DHL package, this one from Brussels, arrived at the Ramsey home. It contained a video of Mrs. Ramsey, bound and gagged but still alive, and a note demanding 10 million euros or Mrs. Ramsey would be executed live on the Internet. The package directed Mr. Ramsey to wire the money within seventy-two hours and then come to Brussels and await further instructions.”
The story noted that “an anonymous package” was left at the front desk of Mr. Ramsey’s hotel, containing “a grainy new photo of his wife,” a note demanding 25 million euros, and details of where Mrs. Ramsey could be found in Madrid “in precisely one week, assuming the money is paid in full.”
It was all true. It was why Accad & Associates had been brought in by Rafeeq Ramsey in the first place. But what worried Tariq most was the next paragraph: “Police now believe Marwan Accad, the CEO of a Lebanon-based executive security company, may be the mastermind behind this shocking crime. Sources close to the investigation say they have hard evidence of Mr. Accad’s involvement and note that he fled the scene of the crime and has been missing ever since. Repeated phone calls yesterday by Le Monde to Accad & Associates in Beirut went unreturned, but an extensive manhunt for Mr. Accad is under way.”
Suddenly there was another knock at the door—a slight tap at first and then a hard pounding.
Tariq froze. It couldn’t be the FedEx man again. But who?
He quickly loaded the .45 and moved carefully to the door. But when he looked through the peephole, he was again stunned by what he saw. Outside his door stood three beautiful young women, each probably in her twenties. The one in the middle was holding a basket of fruit and sweets.
Baffled, he put the gun in his back pocket and covered it with his T-shirt. Then he opened the door a crack and said, “Good morning.”
The one on the right smiled. The one on the left giggled shyly. The one in the center did the talking.
“Good morning. My name is Dalia—Dalia Nour. These are my friends, Dina and Mervat. We live right above you, and we heard you were new.”
Tariq wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Dalia, ladies. May I help you somehow?”
“We just wanted to welcome you to the building,” Dalia said, “and to give you this little present from the social committee.”
She offered him the basket of fruit, which Tariq gratefully accepted. As he did, he found himself captivated by Dalia. She had the most gentle face and gorgeous brown eyes that twinkled when she smiled, as she was doing now. She was dressed like a European girl, not a local, and she obviously didn’t mind spending money on clothes. Her sweater was a soft pink cashmere. Her black jeans and designer shoes were more likely from London or Paris than Cairo or Alexandria. While the others wore all kinds of rings and bracelets and necklaces, the only jewelry Dalia wore were two small diamond earrings in gold settings and a gold watch that looked like a Cartier around her wrist.
“Well, this is very kind,” Tariq said, his eyes locked on Dalia’s. “Thank you.”
“Our pleasure,” Dalia said, her expression changing ever so slightly.
Was she as attracted to him as he was to her? Or was it the fever deceiving him? He sensed they were about to leave and remembered how horrible he looked.
“I would invite you ladies in for a cup of tea and to share these treats,” he said, trying to think of a way to keep the conversation going for a few more minutes, “but I’m afraid my place looks worse than I do at the moment.”
That elicted a laugh from Dalia and Dina and another giggle from Mervat.
“That’s okay,” Dalia said. “I’m afraid we can’t stay anyway, but we would like to invite you to a small party on the roof tonight. It starts at nine, and you don’t need to bring anything but yourself—and perhaps a clean shirt.”
Tariq wanted to accept. There was something about this woman that fascinated him. But he was supposed to be keeping his head down, maintaining a low profile, not partying with the neighbor girls.
Still, how could he turn them down? Refusing to go would only get the whole building talking about this rude new stranger, and the last thing he needed was people gossiping about him.
“I’d be delighted,” he said at last. “And for you, I’ll even scare up a clean shirt.”
27
Inspector Goddard was getting nowhere. He had arrived in Beirut the night before only to find Accad & Associates all but deserted. A lone receptionist informed him that no, Marwan Accad had not checked in; no, she did not know where he was; and sorry, but Ramy was out of the country until further notice. Everyone else in the company was scattered around the Middle East on assignment. Goddard left a number where he could be reached and went back to his hotel to check in with the Skeleton.
He called Lemieux at the Hyatt Regency in Casablanca and found—to his relief—that Lemieux was faring little better. Airport surveillance videos showed a Jack Cardell arriving on the Royal Air Maroc flight and promptly renting a car. But so far the APB that Casablanca police had put out on the car had turned up nothing.
Moroccan intelligence, meanwhile, said Accad had been there only twice before, each time with the Lebanese prime minister, and they had no known contacts in the country for him. They did not even have a file on Jack Cardell and had no record of such a person—alias or otherwise—ever being in the country. For the moment, Lemieux was at a dead end.
“Accad had to be headed to Morocco for a reason,” Lemieux said, thinking aloud. “He knew we’d pick up his trail. He knew he couldn’t use the Cardell alias for long. He had to be meeting someone.”
“Didn’t he tell the gendarme in Marseille that he was headed for the Hostel Rabat?” Goddard asked after a moment of pondering the impasse.
“That was just part of his cover,” Lemieux said.
“Maybe,” Goddard said. “But what if he really meant it?”
“I told you,” Lemieux replied, “there’s no evidence Accad has been here in years, much less to any specific hostel.”
“Well, he must have stayed somewhere,” Goddard pressed. “Have you checked all his known business associates?”
“Don’t be a fool! Of course I have.”
Trying to let Lemieux’s insults slide off his back, Goddard continued, “Have you gone farther back? College roommates? High school chums? Childhood friends?”
“Hmmm. With his parents’ dying when he was so young, it’s possible he forged some very strong friendships. What do we
know of his childhood relationships?” Lemieux asked, curious now.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” Goddard admitted.
“Am I the only one with a functioning brain? Ask the brother,” Lemieux ordered.
Goddard explained why that wasn’t possible.
“You’re telling me Ramy Accad left the country just as you were heading there to interview him?” an incredulous Lemieux asked. “Where did he go?”
“The receptionist wouldn’t give me that information,” Goddard answered, “but I tracked his flight through airport manifests—he flew under his own name—and discovered him on a plane to Baghdad. On the surface, it does seem odd. But the receptionist said he typically travels three weeks out of four anyway.”
“How long ago was the trip planned?”
“She said it just came up.”
“I bet,” Lemieux said. “Go back to her. See what she knows about Marwan Accad’s childhood. Then contact me as soon as possible.”
28
Tariq couldn’t remember the last time he had been to a party—at least one when he was not carrying a gun and protecting a dignitary. His life in recent years had been so consumed with work—often dangerous work, at that—he didn’t even take vacations, much less mix and mingle with people he had never met before. But now he found himself actually looking forward to the evening.
Showering was no easy process, his shoulder wound was still raw. But the antibiotics were clearly working. He was feeling a bit better. He sensed his appetite was starting to come back, and he had already finished the big, juicy oranges in the fruit basket Dalia and her friends had given him earlier.
Dalia Nour.
Her face came to mind as he stared in the mirror and shaved. Who was she? What was her story? He saw no engagement ring on her finger. Was it possible a girl that attractive was still single?
Grateful for Ramy’s care package, Tariq finished dressing and slipped the gun into his waistband at the small of his back, then took the elevator to the rooftop terrace. There he found about two dozen people, all under thirty, laughing and dancing and chatting away. The latest Amr Diab album was playing loudly over a large sound system. Several tables were covered with hors d’oeuvres, baklava, and other various pastries, and there was a cash bar set up in the corner serving liquor of all kinds.
The sight and smell of the liquor actually reassured him. These were not religious people, and that was good. After the conversations with Kadeen, he had no interest in talking about God, whether the Christian one or the Muslim one. Using his own experience and his own ingenuity, he had made it to safety with no help from any God, thank you very much.
He walked over and bought a beer. He had tried to sleep away his pain the last few days. Maybe it was time to drink it away for the next few hours.
And then he felt a tap on his right shoulder. He tried not to let his grimace show.
“Nice shirt,” a soft voice behind him said.
He turned and found Dalia smiling up at him.
“You clean up nice,” she said, obviously flirting with him, but just as obviously high on pot. She took another drag on her joint and offered him one of his own. For a moment he wondered what his mother would say, but he quickly shook that off. Tonight was not about feeling sad or guilty, he decided. It was about forgetting his predicament and having some much-needed downtime.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the marijuana cigarette from her small, delicate hands and lighting it up. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s a Thursday,” Dalia said with a wink.
“And?”
“And it’s time to relax and enjoy a day off.”
“You guys do this every Thursday night?”
“Some people do.”
“What about you?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes I prefer to go dancing or to the movies.”
“And tonight?”
“I was curious to see if you’d show up.”
“You didn’t think I would?” Tariq asked.
“Honestly? No.”
“Why not?”
Dalia took another hit from her joint. “I don’t know. You just strike me as a loner.”
Tariq held up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged.”
“Really?” she laughed as she playfully put a hand on his chest and leaned into him. “And what else are you guilty of?”
The question cut deeper into his heart than she had intended or noticed.
“Name it,” Tariq said quietly.
She gazed into his eyes as if she were trying to read his thoughts. Tariq was captivated and couldn’t turn away.
Finally she broke into a wide smile. “Come here,” she said. “I want to show you something.”
She took him by the hand and led him through the crowd and around the corner to a quiet, private garden where they could look out over the twinkling lights of Heliopolis and the planes taking off and landing in the distance.
“It’s stunning,” he said.
“Isn’t it?” They stood there for a few minutes, just the two of them, savoring the view.
“So what’s your name, bad boy?” Dalia said at last.
“Tariq.”
“Tariq what?”
“Tariq Jameel.”
“And what’s your story, Tariq Jameel? Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
He could only imagine the look in her gorgeous eyes if he told her the truth.
“I’m a consultant,” he said, stomping out his cigarette, then taking a sip of beer.
“What kind of consultant?” she pressed.
“Computers.”
“It sounds boring.”
“It is.”
“So where are you from?”
“All over,” he said. “I’ve lived in Europe for most of the last five years.”
“Really?” she said, and her eyes lit up in anticipation. “Like where?”
“Madrid, Paris, Berlin, you name it. But my company’s based in Brussels.”
“Mmm, I love Paris, especially in the spring,” she said, ignoring any talk of business, for which he was grateful. “The air is so fresh and sweet, and the flowers are in bloom, and the streets are filled with couples in love.”
“Did you grow up there?” Tariq asked between sips.
“No; Jordan. But I’m a flight attendant for British Airways, and I sometimes get to fill in on flights to Paris.”
“Sounds like a fun job.”
“It can be,” she said a bit wistfully.
“But . . . ?”
“But it’s hard to have a life of your own.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean when they hire you, they make you these dazzling promises—not just the Brits, but all the airlines—free travel, see the world whenever you want, you know. But the truth is you work all the time, at crazy hours. You’re always living out of a suitcase. You barely know where you are when you wake up. You’re not sure where to call home. It’s hard to make friends, except with other employees. And unless you fall in love with a pilot—and they’re all married—or a flight attendant—and they’re all gay—then . . . well, whatever. At least it pays the bills.”
She took another drag on her cigarette.
“What about your roommates?” Tariq asked. “You’re all friends, aren’t you?”
“Not exactly,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“No, no, don’t get me wrong,” Dalia said. “They’re sweet girls. I’d do anything for them and vice versa. But we haven’t really known each other all that long. We’re just sharing an apartment because none of us could afford the rent on our own. And besides, they both work for Air France, so I hardly ever see them. And they just got transferred to New York. Now I’ll never get to see them.”
“That’s too bad.”
“That’s life,” Dalia sighed. “No rest for the wicked.”
“Why don’t you do something different?” Tariq asked.
&n
bsp; “Like what?” she said. “Computer consulting?”
“It pays the bills.”
“You like it?” Dalia asked.
“It’s okay,” he said. “But like you said, I’m a loner. It’s not so bad for me. But someone like you, well, I don’t know. You may need something more.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tariq noticed the quick defensiveness that often accompanies pot smoking. Gotta take it easy with her. It’s been a while since you’ve had someone this good-looking and this young interested in you.
“I just mean you’re so nice, beautiful, outgoing, vivacious—you need something better.”
She turned from the city and looked into his eyes, her head tilting to one side.
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“Why else would I be at this party?”
Tariq leaned down and kissed her gently. She responded instantly and with an intensity he had not expected. The two made out as a 747 roared overhead on approach to Cairo International. And before long, Dalia made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
“Dina and Mervat are leaving straight from the party to the airport,” she said softly as she kissed his ear. “I have the apartment all to myself until tomorrow afternoon.”
Tariq felt his temperature rising again.
“Care to join me?” she whispered in as seductive a voice as he had ever heard.
He wanted nothing more, but two hesitations rushed to the fore—Dalia’s safety and the festering wound in his shoulder. He pushed away both thoughts.
Nobody could possibly trace him to this flat. Ramy was too good to let that happen. The second issue was tougher. He’d need to come up with an excuse, an accident of some kind. But why let that stop him from a night with this gorgeous, willing young woman?
The Witness Page 10