The Witness

by Josh McDowell

  He was about to put it all back in the drawer and continue his quest to learn more about this mystery girl when he noticed that the dates Dalia had circled as the best time to go—and then had crossed out—were coming up soon, between Christmas and New Year’s. Just then he realized why Dalia wasn’t going. Dina and Mervat had been transferred. Dalia was barely going to be able to pay the rent on this flat, much less spend a fun-filled weekend in Sharm. And that got Tariq thinking. What if . . .

  By the time Dalia returned home, the plans were set, their tickets were bought, their suitcases were packed, everything—including Dalia’s snorkeling gear—was loaded into a waiting taxi, and Tariq was on the front steps of the apartment building with a big bouquet of flowers.

  She couldn’t believe it. Dalia’s eyes said it all: They were both going to Sharm? Really? Right then? All expenses paid? How had he known? How had he made all the arrangements so quickly? How could she be so lucky to be falling for a guy like this?

  Tariq answered all of her questions—except the last—as they boarded the one-hour flight to the Sinai Peninsula. He laughed at Dalia’s joyful, playful, amazed reaction. Tariq had never been so spontaneous in his life, but it felt right, and he suddenly hoped this was just the beginning. Getting out of Cairo would be good for so many reasons. He needed the sun and the sand and the surf to get his mind off all his troubles. And he needed as much time with Dalia as he could possibly get.

  “This is incredibly generous,” Dalia said at last. “I still don’t understand why you did it.”

  “I missed you,” he told her as their plane was coming in on final approach.

  She squeezed his arm and nestled close to him. “Really?” She smiled.

  “Really. You’ve got a great little place in Cairo, but it’s not the same without you. I was getting lonely in there, and then I found your calendar and noticed you had the next couple of days off. I couldn’t resist. I hope I wasn’t being too forward to plan this whole thing on the spur of the moment.”

  “You absolutely were,” she replied. “And I couldn’t be happier.”

  41

  They checked in at the Ritz-Carlton, and for the next two days they played like newlyweds. They slept in late and had breakfast in bed. They sunbathed by the pool. They spent their afternoons snorkeling in the Red Sea, just off Tiran Island, not far from the coast of Saudi Arabia, and then went to fancy restaurants before retiring to their suite for nights of unrestrained passion.

  The temperatures during the day hovered in the mideighties, with a slight breeze coming in from the north. At night, it never dipped below sixty. No clouds. No rain. No smog. No pollution. No phone calls. No e-mails. No guns. Nobody trying to kill me. It couldn’t be more perfect. Does this really ever have to end?

  On the third day, he got up early and went jogging in the cool morning air. His body was recovering nicely from the wounds he had sustained in Monte Carlo. He was steadily regaining his strength, and in many ways, he had never felt better. He was laughing. He was singing in the shower. He was flat-out drunk with love. It was the only explanation he could come up with.

  Tariq had never experienced anything like this with any other girl. Sure, there had been relationships in the past—even one brush with an engagement. But for some reason, it was different with Dalia. She wanted him. She needed him. And she made him feel special. He was falling for this girl, and it was all going so fast.

  After a four-mile run along the beach, Tariq got back to the Ritz and slipped into their room as quietly as he could. Dalia was still sleeping. She looked like an angel—so beautiful, so peaceful, it had to be a dream.

  He took a shower and then got dressed. Perhaps they could do a little sightseeing or a little shopping. Maybe they’d rent bikes or go parasailing. It didn’t really matter to him. Whatever she wanted, so long as they were together.

  “Hey, good morning,” Dalia said softly as he came out of the bathroom.

  “Good morning to you.” He kissed her gently. “How are you feeling?”

  “Great,” she replied with a smile. “Hungry.”

  “Me too. Why don’t you take a quick shower and then we’ll go down to breakfast and make a plan for the day?”

  “Sounds good,” she said, insisting on another kiss before slipping into the bathroom and closing the door behind her.

  While he waited for her, Tariq straightened up the room. He gathered some of Dalia’s clothes that had been drying on their balcony. He folded them neatly and tucked them into her suitcase. He also found her keys and her cell phone under the bed. But when he went to put them back into her purse, several pieces of paper tumbled out—mostly an assortment of old receipts and a few presumably unpaid bills. At the bottom of the stack, though, was an envelope that caught Tariq’s eye.

  It was a letter, not a bill, and it was postmarked from Jordan, just the week before. Unlike the others, this one was already opened. Curious, he slid the letter out. As he opened it, a little handmade lace cross slipped out and dropped to the bed. Tariq placed it on the nightstand, then sat on the bed and began reading.

  My dearest Dalia,

  Thank you so much for your recent letter.

  I can’t tell you how glad your mother and I are to hear that you are no longer dating Kalim. You know we didn’t care for his way of life—the drugs, the alcohol, all the late-night parties. He was not the kind of young man we raised you to marry. He was not a Christian or even a very kind or serious man. We are proud of you for breaking up with him and moving on with your life.

  Are you ready for us to find a good and godly man who will love you and care for you all the days of your life? What about Youssef? Did you know I hired him as my assistant pastor last month? He is doing wonderful work at the church, especially with the children—teaching Bible studies and Sunday school classes and running the youth group. I believe he still cares for you very much. Could we give him your number and ask him to call you? It would make your mother and me so happy.

  When are you coming home? We would love to see you. You could see Youssef. And all your cousins would love to see you again. So would I. Please write again soon.

  Love, Father

  The letter was carefully typed on the letterhead of something called “Petra Bible Church” with a post office box address in the town of Ma’an in southern Jordan.

  Tariq was surprised. Is Dalia’s father some kind of priest? She said she had been raised in a Christian home, but not this Christian!

  So how is this going to weigh in the scales—corrupting the daughter of a man of God? I’m drinking with her. I’m doing drugs with her. I’m sleeping with her. That feather is getting lighter and lighter, and my heart is getting heavier and heavier. And who is Kalim? Who is Youssef? What in the world is going on, and what else is she hiding?

  Determined to get some answers, Tariq approached the bathroom door. Then he stopped. You complain about her secrets? What about your own? Maybe it’s best just to let us each hold a bit of our lives back until we’re both ready to come completely clean.

  After putting the letter back, he waited for her to get herself ready. Then they went down to breakfast; Tariq held tightly to her hand the whole way.

  42

  Dalia excused herself so that she could freshen up before they began the day’s activities.

  Tariq, who had been hoping for such an opportunity, took the satellite phone out of his pocket, powered it up, and dialed his brother.

  “Marwan, where have you been?” his brother shouted when he answered the phone. “I’ve been calling you for the last several days. I was terrified. I thought you were dead.”

  “No, no, I’m fine,” Tariq said calmly. “I’ve just been . . . uh . . . I’ve been busy. Why? What’s happening?”

  “Busy?” Ramy asked. “Doing what?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Are you insane, Marwan? I’m risking my life to help you stay alive and out of jail, and you just disappear for a couple of days a
nd then have the nerve to say it’s none of my business?”

  “You’re right,” Tariq said, trying not to sound too defensive.

  “You better believe I’m right,” Ramy shot back, obviously furious but trying to control his emotions. “Look, a lot has been happening since you dropped off the face of the earth. I’m leaving Baghdad on the next flight and heading back to Beirut. The prosecutor in Monte Carlo has issued a subpoena for me to be interviewed by Inspector Goddard.”

  “I guess that’s to be expected,” Tariq said.

  There was a long pause, and Tariq knew something else was wrong.

  Finally Ramy came right out and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me Kadeen had moved to Casablanca?”

  Tariq was stunned. How could he have known? Quickly, he got up and walked out of the restaurant. He found a deserted corner of the lobby and tucked himself into it. “I’m not sure what you’re—”

  “Forget it, Marwan. It won’t work. I know you were there. What I want to know is why? You said you were going to lie low, no friends, nothing familiar. You promised.”

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” he admitted. “I needed his help.”

  “Why?” Ramy demanded.

  “Because I’d been shot, Ramy. There. You happy? I got hit by one of the assassins in Monte Carlo, but I couldn’t go to a hospital there or in France. I didn’t know who was after me. I didn’t know whom to trust. All I could think of was Kadeen. So I went to him. He took care of me, and I got out of there as quickly as I could.”

  “It was a stupid mistake, Marwan,” Ramy said.

  “You’re probably right,” he conceded. “But it worked out, didn’t it?”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kadeen is dead.”

  Tariq felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. All the terror of the nightmares he had been experiencing since being there came on him full force. “What are you . . . ? How did you . . . ?” Tariq couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

  “The police found his body in his house in Casablanca,” Ramy explained. “He had been beaten, then shot at point-blank range.”

  “What about Rania and the girls? Please tell me . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The picture of them with bullet holes in their heads caused his breakfast to rise to his throat.

  “They’re in hiding. They’re safe.”

  “What? How do you know they’re safe?”

  “Because she called me. Apparently Kadeen had given her our office number a long time ago in case she was ever in trouble.”

  The relief caused Tariq’s knees to buckle. He leaned against the wood paneled wall. Then guilt washed in and wiped the relief away.

  “Where is she? We need to do something. We have to help them.” Tariq felt frantic and helpless. “We need to get her to safety. We need to get her some money. We need to make sure she’s taken care of. We need—”

  “Marwan, stop! Stop!”

  Tariq stopped. But his mind was racing.

  “She said that she couldn’t say where she was, only that she and the girls were safe. She said that she would get in touch with you when the time was right. And she told me to tell you one other thing.”

  Tariq waited silently. Whatever words she had for him, he deserved. Whatever blame she was going to throw onto him, he was already putting on himself tenfold.

  Ramy took a deep breath, and when he spoke, Tariq could hear the emotion in his voice. “She told me to tell you that she forgives you.”

  Tariq was stunned. Tears began to pour down his face, and he tucked himself even deeper into the corner.

  “I . . . can’t . . . I don’t . . .”

  “Listen to me, Marwan. You can grieve later. Right now I need you here with me. Are you listening?”

  But he was far from with his brother. Images of his childhood with Kadeen were racing through his mind, interspersed with bits of their last conversation as well as the faces of Laila and little Maryam as they gave him their get-well card. What will become of them? How will they survive without Kadeen?

  “Ramy, I want you to—”

  “Shut up! Just shut up and listen. I will make sure Rania and the girls are taken care of, even if you do end up finding a way to get yourself killed. I need you to focus on what I’m saying to you so that we can keep that from happening. Are you with me?”

  Tariq took a deep breath and wiped his face with his sleeve. Ramy’s got it under control. I just need to trust Ramy. You can’t help Rania if you’re dead, so get focused.

  “I’m with you, Ramy,” he said.

  “Good. Now, Inspector Goddard left a message on my voice mail back at the office,” Ramy said. “That’s how I found out about Kadeen. He said they found your fingerprints all over the crime scene. He said they found your hair fibers on a pillow on the couch. A shopkeeper around the corner ID’d you, says he saw you walking around the neighborhood. They found your car a few kilometers away.

  “Inspector Lemieux insists you did it, and based on that evidence, I can see why he came to that conclusion. They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest, and Goddard says if you have an explanation, you’d better turn yourself in and give it now. Otherwise, there’s nothing anybody will be able to do to help you.”

  Tariq didn’t want to hear any more. He was sick. He was seething with anger and toggling back into disbelief and about to throw the phone across the room. And then Ramy said, “I’m afraid that’s not all. It gets worse.”

  “How?” Tariq managed to say. How could it possibly be worse?

  “If they’ve traced you to Morocco, it will only be a matter of time before the police follow you to Egypt. And if the police can find you in Egypt, you know that Claudette’s people will too. And they won’t just be looking to arrest you. They’ll be gunning for you with everything they’ve got. You’ve got to get out of there.”

  As much as he hated to admit it, Ramy was right. If Claudette Ramsey’s team of assassins could follow him to Kadeen’s home in Morocco, they could certainly find him in Egypt. He was being framed for crimes he hadn’t committed, and now every police force in Europe and North Africa would be looking for him.

  He certainly couldn’t go back to Cairo. But he couldn’t leave Dalia either. He knew he shouldn’t be falling in love with her, but it was too late. He couldn’t help himself. And he would never forgive himself if any harm were to come to her now.

  The dream Tariq had been living in for the past few days had been completely shattered. The nightmare was returning. It was time to run again.

  43

  Tariq took a few more moments to compose himself, then turned to face the lobby. When he did, he saw Dalia looking for him. She was wearing a pale blue sundress and matching shoes. From behind she looked absolutely amazing.

  Then she turned.

  On her face was a look that he had yet to see on her. Her eyebrows were knit together, and her normally olive skin had taken on a dark reddish hue. When she spotted him, her brows arched down even more, and she stormed toward him.

  “Do you want to explain this?” she demanded, holding out the lace cross that had been in her father’s letter.

  Still reeling from the news of Kadeen’s death, he was unprepared for this sudden onslaught. Instinctively, he went to his default mode, which was to attack back.

  “It’s an ancient symbol of Christianity,” he said sarcastically. “It seems you should recognize that better than I.”

  Not getting the reaction she expected, Dalia was momentarily flustered.

  Tariq stepped into the silence. “Listen, I was just straightening up the room and there was the letter. I was curious, so I read it. What’s the big deal?”

  “What’s the big deal? The big deal is that you had no right! This is a personal letter that you read without permission!”

  “Oh, please! We’ve been as intimate as two people can be, and you’re going to get uptight about a letter from your dad?”


  “Still, you had no right,” Dalia answered, dissolving into tears. “You had no right to snoop through my things, Tariq Jameel. You have no right to judge me. Do you hear me? You have no right.”

  “Judge you? What are you talking about?” he said, gaining control of his temper and stepping toward her. “I wasn’t snooping, and I’m not judging you. Why would I? I was just curious. That’s all. I want to find out all I can about you.”

  “Just go away,” Dalia said, moving away from him. “You’re going to do it eventually anyway. So you might as well do it now.”

  “Forget it,” Tariq replied as firmly but as calmly as he could. He stepped toward her again and reached out for her. This time she didn’t back away. “I’m not going anywhere, Dalia. I’m falling in love with you. I want to know everything about you. I want to know about your parents. I want to know about your faith, whatever it is. I want to know about this guy you were dating and why you broke up. Everything.”

  Dalia stood there staring at the ground. Tariq took one more step and wrapped her in his arms. Her arms stayed at her side, but she laid her head on his chest.

  “Dalia, please forgive me. Finding the letter was an accident, I swear to you, but you’re right; I shouldn’t have read it. But please believe me when I tell you that I wasn’t trying to hurt you. It never even occurred to me that you’d be upset. Let’s not let this ruin the magical time we’ve been having.”

  He was begging, he knew—not something he was used to. But it seemed to be having its desired effect. Slowly, Dalia seemed to be calming down. She was sniffling now, rather than crying, and her breathing had slowed considerably. Eventually her arms went around him.

  “Did you really mean what you just said?” she asked after a long pause.