Terminal Rage

  These superficial feelings of guilt didn’t help him heal any faster. Sam was forced to concede the choices he had taken that led to his predicament had all been random.

  He took it a step further and sought culpability at a deeper, more philosophical level. Our actions are like waves of energy that circulate and find their way back to us. Scrutinizing his life under a moral microscope, Sam tried to recall if he had done anything in the past that was terrible enough to earn him the loss of his wife and children, but of course he found nothing.

  At his core, Sam was an honest man who up to that point at least had never lied, stolen or harmed anyone else to get further in life. Never so much as looked at another woman with desire, let alone cheated on Angela. He’d been a loving father, a loyal son, a dependable friend and a supportive boss to his staff. Never fired, sued or fought with anyone. His was a charitable disposition and he empathized with those less fortunate than him.

  This was not about karma.

  The grinding process of self-immolation went on for a long time until there was nowhere else to go with it.

  Then he remembered the epiphany he had that day when he almost allowed himself to die in the swimming pool. Back then a rage had echoed within him, mobilizing him to stay alive to pursue justice for his slain family.

  This was it. And the first port of call was the trial.

  Sam never doubted Nabulsi and Madi were just cogs in a larger machine. A more powerful, better-funded force had planned and bankrolled this attack.

  Initially, he was naive enough to hope the swift trial of the two Jordanians would reveal the masterminds behind the explosions. Sam had faith in his own government’s war on terror to bring the real culprits to justice, once the trial unearthed the real bloodied hands behind the explosion.

  He traveled to Egypt to follow the proceedings of the case, rented a small apartment in Cairo, and hired a local law firm to arrange for him to attend the trial. But the Egyptian government had restricted access to the courtroom to avoid a media circus. As a compromise, families of the victims who had traveled to Egypt for the trial were allowed to watch via a closed-circuit telecast in a meeting space adjacent to the courtroom.

  Along with hundreds of other relatives of the victims, Sam watched every single session of Nabulsi and Madi’s trial. The Egyptian ministry of justice had also arranged for simultaneous interpretation of the proceedings for the benefit of foreign family members like Sam who didn’t speak Arabic.

  On the thirty-eighth and penultimate day of the trial, he saw someone on the television screen who turned his world upside down. A man who went by the name of Adly Sarhan, who Sam had worked with. He appeared for a few seconds at the end of the session, brushing by Nabulsi and Madi as they were being escorted out of their cage back to prison. Sarhan tapped Nabulsi on the shoulder, smiled at him, hugged Madi, and then walked away.

  Sam had first met Adly Sarhan in Los Angeles, and then on numerous occasions in New York. He was the last person he expected to see in this courtroom, consorting with the Jordanian terrorists.

  The next day, Sam asked his lawyers to check the court security logs for the previous day, but Adly Sarhan wasn’t listed as an attendant. No one from Sam’s law firm could identify the man he had seen.

  But there was no question in his mind it was Adly Sarhan.

  He went back to scrutinize the footage with his Arabic translator, this time with better audio. Right before he appeared in the frame, Adly had spoken. Sam recognized his voice. Adly had asked if the camera was switched off, to which someone, presumably the camera man, had responded affirmatively. But fate had intervened and the camera remained rolling all along for Sam to ultimately connect Adly to the attacks.

  Seeing him at the trial answered, at least in part, the burning question of who really was behind the explosions. The man he had worked with and trusted was connected to the murder of his family. His head spun and his chest was tight all day. The implications of this revelation pointed to a heartless betrayal of his trust.

  When the guilty verdict and death sentences for Nabulsi and Madi were handed down, they were all but inconsequential. The trial had failed to implicate any other parties, even though Sam knew better.

  He was now hot on the trail of Adly Sarhan.

  He returned to America and tried but failed to meet with any government official to disclose his knowledge of the real culprit. All attempts to engage the State Department, the FBI, the CIA and Homeland Security fell on deaf ears. His government’s terror strategy was myopic and obsessed with expensive overseas wars. Anything else, no matter how damning or incriminating, was B-roll. The US administration, in collusion with the Egyptians, had only paid lip service to the families of the victims, with no attempt to actually mete out justice.

  When he tried to trace Adly Sarhan back to 200 Park Avenue in New York, where he had first met him, there was no record of the name or the man, like he had never existed.

  And to make matters worse, even Nabulsi and Madi, the trigger-men, were not going to see the gallows for decades, Sam’s lawyers had explained to him.

  After six months of internal conflict, Sam finally reached a decision. His path perfectly illuminated to the extent he admonished himself for having wasted time considering other possibilities. His life’s mission would be to seek justice and retribution for the death of his wife and children, on his own terms and regardless of how long it would take.

  “Who died in your family?”

  He turned his head toward the voice coming from behind and found the woman he had been standing next to during the speech, the one he had come for.

  “My wife Angela, my daughter Maya, and my son Ryan.”

  “How’d you survive?”

  “I was at a pharmacy getting Tylenol for my son when it happened.” He moved to one side of the bench to make room for her.

  She took his cue and sat down next to him and drifted with her eyes out to the water.

  “Let me guess. Every day you wake up wishing you had died with them?”

  “I used to.”

  “What happened? You upped the meds?”

  Sam smiled. “Not quite. I found a purpose in life.”

  “Now you go. Who’d you lose?” He already knew the answer to that question.

  “My boyfriend. An Italian man. We were supposed to meet in Cyprus to elope.”

  “What happened?”

  “I backed out at the last minute. I broke his heart and he took the first job he found as an electrical engineer at the Spring Roy in Sharm El Sheikh.”

  “Why did you leave him?”

  “My father thought he was unworthy of me. He lacked the right passport or Ivy League degree.” She sniffled to cut back her tears.

  “That explains your father, but how about you?”

  She hesitated for a beat and stared at Sam, as if his features would reveal exactly how much she cared to share.

  “My father turned my whole family against me, and threatened to disown me if I didn’t leave him. I was a coward.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “What we had was beyond love. He saved me, over and over again, and how did I repay him? I abandoned him and screwed him over.” Her voice quivered a little.

  “Who would you choose, your parents and siblings, or the one you love?” She couldn’t keep back the tears any longer.

  “Why aren’t you out there ‘celebrating his life?’”

  They both turned their faces away from the water and fixed their eyes on each other.

  “‘Celebrate his life?’ How’s that going to bring him back to me or make me feel any less dead inside?”

  “It won’t.”

  “Do you think this touchy-feely puke is worthy of your wife and kids?”

  Sam shook his head. “Why did you come then?”

  “I feel him here at all
these events, as lame as they are. I feed off the energy the other family members give off. Pathetic, right?”

  Sam thought a beat before speaking. He had wanted to lay a firmer foundation before making his proposal, but she was ripe for the plucking. It was now or never.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. You didn’t kill him, and there’s no point pretending you did. I tried that trick, but it doesn’t get you anywhere quick.”

  She wiped back the lone tear that managed to escape her eyes, and composed herself.

  “What if you had a chance to punish those who killed him?”

  “The two Jordanians?”

  “They’re just the henchmen who took the fall for it.”

  He studied the movement of every muscle of her face. While preparing for this, Sam had accounted for all possible reactions from her and had thought of an appropriate response for each. The trick was to read her correctly.

  “I’m talking more about the people who planned the attacks and paid for it. What if you could avenge his death and bring him the justice he deserved?”

  Sam’s rhetorical tone was intentional, part of a contingency plan to protect himself just in case she spat the bait.

  A smirk on her face evolved into a snigger.

  “You think I haven’t thought about this every day since he died?”

  “You tell me.”

  “These thoughts are dangerous, temporary fixes like drugs. God only knows I’m already taking plenty of those.”

  Sam felt he was getting closer to laying down the final pitch, so he pushed on.

  “Humor me. If you had a real opportunity to do something, would you do it? Not just talk about it or fantasize, but actually do it.”

  She looked away, then turned to face him. There was a dark intensity in her eyes he hadn’t noticed before.

  “Yes. Happy now? I would shoot every fucking one of them in the brains even if I had to die for it.”

  “What if we didn’t have to die?”

  “Prison?”

  “Not even. What if we could avenge their deaths and then start a new life? Have the resources to reinvent yourself on your own terms. A new name, a new identity and a new nationality. A clean slate. With enough money to disappear forever. Do whatever you want. Buy whatever you want. Be whomever you want. Escape the poisonous grip your father has had on you ever since you were born. Maybe one day meet someone else you can fall in love with. How’s that for a different narrative?”

  “Move to the Hamptons. Have babies. Get a dog. Write a book then meet Oprah and bare my soul?”

  She shot to her feet, ready to leave.

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “The one who’s acting upon the thoughts every single person here has had, but is too weak or too scared to pursue. I intend to settle the score and ensure justice is served.”

  He motioned her to sit down, but she ignored him.

  “I know who killed them.”

  Her eyes swelled but she didn’t blink once.

  “I have a plan to bring them down and take their money in the process. It took me some time to figure out, but I know now exactly how to clean them out.”

  Sam paused for her to absorb everything. There was no way of telling if he sounded convincing or if it came across as the ramblings of a tortured or insane man.

  She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t leave either, which he took as a good sign.

  “I can’t do this on my own. I would if I could, but I just can’t. I have a plan and it requires a team of five men, other than me, and a woman. I’ve recruited the guys. They’re here today.”

  “Where?”

  Sam pointed with his head in the direction of a group of men hovering nearby, looking all innocuous. He nodded with a faint smile in their direction. Fritz was a tall German who had lost his girlfriend. Albert from Greece had lost his parents, his children and his wife. Farahat and Ibrahim, two Omani brothers living in the UK, had lost their wives and kids. And Kenji from Japan. He was supposed to have been in Sharm El Sheikh on his honeymoon but a business meeting in Beijing forced him to arrive a day later than his bride, who perished in the attack.

  “These five guys also lost the people they love the most. I chose them because, like me, they cannot conceive of life without justice for their spilled blood. Retribution is not a dirty word. Rage is not shameful. Not when our government was neither able to protect us nor bring us justice. Join us. We can only do it with your help. We need you, and I think you need us too.”

  She pointed to the thinning crowd of people on the Ocean Lawn. Most of the attendees were trickling back to the Island House to take their seats for dinner.

  “Good luck with your plan. I’m sure you’ll find hundreds of desperate women here today who you can manipulate for your little criminal racket.”

  “It cannot be any woman. It has to be you.”

  “Why me?”

  “I can explain later, but not here.” Sam scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper and placed it inside her palm.

  “Think about it, and call me if you change your mind. That’s all I ask.”

  She observed it as if she was about to throw it back in his face. But she didn’t. She stuffed it in her bag and turned and dashed away.

  Sam glanced at his crew of five men staring back at him anxiously. He held his thumb up discreetly, to reassure them that even though she had stormed away, he had succeeded.

  Later that night she called him and left a message, confirming his gut instinct had been right about her all along.

  “Hi there. We met today in Rhode Island. I never got your name, by the way. I am not saying I am interested in your plan, but I am intrigued to know why it has to be me, and no one else.

  “Curiosity could kill the cat, but I have nothing to lose. I am willing to meet you and your friends in Boston this week. Give me a call if you are up for it. I am guessing you probably know it already, but just in case, my name is Julia. Julia Price.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Friday, June 24, 2005—11:00 a.m.

  Manhattan, NY

  He was typing feverishly on his BlackBerry and barely heard Suzie Greiss in the background.

  “Sam, dear?”

  She must have been trying to get his attention for a few minutes now.

  He raised his head.

  “Huh?”

  “He’ll see you in five minutes, dear.”

  “Okay. Wait, did I just totally ignore you?”

  Suzie giggled. “You boys and your fancy phones.”

  He got up and held her hand affectionately. They’d grown fond of each other over the last year since he’d started coming to the office. Her eyes reminded him of his mother, and she had conferred upon him the title of ‘honorary Egyptian,’ for his dark features and warm character.

  He felt he owed her an explanation.

  “Angela and I are in the midst of an email war on where to vacation this summer. It’ll be our first time away as a family since Ryan was born.”

  “Really? Where does she want to go?”

  “Somewhere safe, which means somewhere boring. She worries Ryan and Maya will get sick just by breathing third-world air.”

  “How about you, Sam?”

  “I’m dying to go someplace warm, pulsating with life and culture. Thailand, Bali or Goa. Our kids live in LA. They need to experience something real for a change.”

  “How about a compromise, like Sardinia? You get the pretty beaches and vibrant culture, and Angela gets the safety and convenience of southern Europe. My daughters took me there for my sixtieth two years ago. More breathtaking than the Caribbean, Sam.”

  “You’re sixty-two, Suzie? Get out of town.”

  She smiled and stroked his cheek to accept his compliment.

  “That’s actually not th
e worst idea I heard today. Haven’t been back to Italy in donkey’s years. You know my mom was Sicilian, right?”

  “That I didn’t, but it would explain the charming little Mafioso I see in you!”

  Suzie put her hand on her mouth as if she had just remembered pivotal information. “Oh, forget I even mentioned Sardinia.” She pointed to the master office and whispered, “I think the boss has something special in store for you.”

  “Well, I better go in then. I’m delivering today and need to get back to LA tonight.”

  Adly Sarhan was leaning back in his chair and puffing on a huge Cuban cigar when Sam walked into his office. Who else but this man would casually break both New York law and the strict tenancy regulations of 200 Park Avenue at the same time, and still make it appear innocent. He was always smoking something in that room. Even a hookah once.

  In his late fifties, Adly Sarhan was a colorful character who spent most of his time private jetting around the world managing his employers’ business empire. He always wore light-colored suits and bow ties. Sam never saw him without malachite Muslim prayer beads in his hand, even when they were out drinking hard liquor. When he was outdoors, his eyes were always covered with John Lennon sunglasses and his head with a Panama hat.

  Eighteen months ago, Adly had ambushed Sam while he was having a solitary lunch at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica. He walked up to his table, sat down and started conversing with Sam like they were uncle and nephew. Adly spoke in colloquial English, like a native speaker but with traces of an refined, exotic accent.

  “Mr. Morgan. I’ve been told Entertainment Sciences produces software magic under your leadership. Is there any truth to that rumor?” As if he wasn’t expecting an answer from Sam, Adly turned to the waiter and signaled him to come.

  “Put this gentleman’s bill on my tab. And bring us a nice bottle of—” Adly paused as if he was recalling from memory the drinks menu, and skimming through it in search of either the most exquisite or expensive choice. “A bottle of your finest Blanc de Blancs with two glasses, if you will.”