by David Lender
Someone knocked on the door. “Enter,” Yassar said.
Assad al-Anoud, the head of the Saudi Secret Police, came in and stood stiffly. “Still nothing,” he said. “We found one car—a BMW.”
“And the dead men?”
“We can’t identify them. Probably mercenaries. We’re checking now, but we don’t expect it to lead us anyplace soon.”
Yes, it would probably be a long hunt, but he would chase them down. He almost preferred it that way. A long hunt, let them fester with worry, always looking over their shoulders. Make it miserable for them until they’re caught. And Sasha, too. The ultimate betrayal.
“Keep checking.”
Sasha emerged from the safe house dressed in a black abaya and headscarf, an Arab man in full Saudi robe and headdress accompanying her. They walked toward the Royal Palace, through a mile of winding, dusty back streets lined with shopkeepers hawking their wares. She felt relief rather than tension. She’d be at the palace within minutes, and then whatever happened, so be it. She probed for the tape recorder inside the purse strapped around her waist, then for the key to the locker with the duplicates of all her tapes. She would play Tom’s tape for Yassar, and then…
The front entrance to the Royal Palace was now in sight. Guard stations were set up with makeshift barriers to keep pedestrians at least one hundred fifty feet away. She realized she’d encounter the Royal Guards well outside the perimeter walls. Despair flared in her breast, and she pushed it away, her commitment surging in her. She passed her escort, found a spot in the barricade between two guard stations, ducked under and was inside.
She walked across the courtyard, Royal Guards calling to her in Arabic, dust swirling in her face. She reached the perimeter wall and stopped in front of a Royal Guard. “I must see Yassar,” she said into the man’s astonished face. “I am Sasha.”
Yassar stood and paced. The low murmurs and occasional wails of his three other wives attending to Nibmar made him edgy. He gestured to a servant for more tea. His other children were here, sitting in formal mourning—all eleven of them—and at least they gave him some relief from his misery, especially little Assan, now three, his youngest, from his fourth wife, Liva.
He heard a sharp knock on the door, turned weary, hooded eyes and said, “Come.” Assad entered again. Yassar crossed the room. Assad said only one word: “Sasha.”
He shuddered at the wail Nibmar emitted at overhearing Sasha’s name, then palpably felt it as it rumbled into a growl and then a howl, a sound almost inhuman. He saw Nibmar standing, fists clenched and face contorted into a scowl of hatred, a face he couldn’t deny. He felt a tremor in his being, as if he now fully understood the new purpose of his life.
Sasha sat in a hard metal chair at a table in a hot interrogation room in the bowels of the Royal Palace. The concrete walls hadn’t seen paint in decades. No windows. Only a heavy wooden door, looking as if it had been constructed centuries ago. A room from another era, one less enlightened than that of the current Saudi Arabia. Or was it? She would soon find out. She wondered if Yassar would come to her. She’d been sitting here for fifteen minutes. They’d stripped-searched her, taken the shirt and slacks she’d worn underneath her abaya and left her to wait. No interrogation.
Sri Ganesha, she prayed to her Remover of Obstacles. She finished her prayers, heard sounds in the hallway, and tried to recapture the cool sense of determined composure with which she’d approached the palace, but couldn’t. She felt tension in her legs and knots in her neck. She wondered if she could face Yassar with her guilt.
Now her mind was working again, a semblance of the confidence she’d felt earlier filtering back. She knew it could work. They’d taken the tape and the recorder from her, as expected, but they’d undoubtedly play it, and that was her proof. Then a start. What if the guards played it and decided to destroy it? She’d murdered a number of their own. They’d want to see her killed as revenge. And what if someone else was on the inside, assisting the al-Mujari in their plans? Tom wasn’t available to her now; she had no backup.
She recognized the sounds from outside as footsteps in the hall, then the sound of metal against wood as the bolt of the door slid back. Yassar and two guards stepped in. He glared at Sasha, who raised her head to look at him and she felt the blood drain from her face. “Leave us,” Yassar said to the men. They closed the door behind them.
Sasha felt a blast of emotion, and then struggled for sanity. She saw the pain in Yassar’s face beneath the hatred. She needed to get through it to his heart, his mind. This was it. “Yassar. I came in voluntarily. I needed to see you.”
“The fact that you ran establishes your guilt. No doubt we will find your prints on the weapon. We found another gun in your bureau.” He stood by the door, his body rigid.
Now her heart was wailing. Forgive me!
“No doubt,” she said.
“Is that a confession?”
“Only to wanting to save you.”
“Preposterous! What are you talking about?”
“There was a plot to kill you.”
“That is ridiculous. Our secret police are well informed.”
“I can prove it.”
“How?”
“Hear me out.”
“The only thing I’m interested in hearing is the answer to one question: Why?”
She felt as if she were shrinking, and he became a giant looming over her. How could she say it now? That she loved him, what she’d done for him. It wasn’t happening as it should, but how could she have expected anything else? She forced herself to raise her head. She was going to tell him. And she knew he wouldn’t accept it. She saw it, heard it in his voice. And then, almost as if her words came from someone else, she heard herself say, “Ibrahim. Ibrahim and these people. They were planning to kill you.”
“What?” He took two quick steps toward her, leaning over her across the table. “Do you expect me to believe that my own son…!” he bellowed. The bolt slammed and the door flew open, two guards rushing in. Yassar turned. “Leave us!”
He turned back toward her, pausing as if he were forming his words. She leaned back in her chair, away from him. She could see the fatigue and stress in his face more clearly, the lines at the edges of the eyelids, and could smell the pungent scent of his body, as if he’d awakened from sleep and thrown on his clothes. Now she wanted to let him rage. Vent. Better to let him get past it so she could speak to the rational, contemplative Yassar once he was through. Then there’d be an opportunity to reason with him. She knew it, had confidence in him, and ultimately, how he felt about her. She needed to get to that. She felt her heart beginning to ache as she thought those words—the contemplative Yassar.
“What was your involvement in this?”
“I passed information.”
“To whom?”
“The Americans, the British, the Israelis. At least that’s who they said they were. They were tracking the al-Mujari.”
“How do you know this?”
She saw it register on his face. The al-Mujari. She remembered Tom said they’d contacted the Saudi government. Maybe, just maybe he’d connect it, believe her. Her heart soared. The first hopeful sign! She felt her hands trembling. “First they told me. Then I heard it for myself. Abdul, Waleed and Ibrahim. Talking, planning.” She saw anguish on his face, his great graying head sagging.
Yassar raised his chin. “I don’t believe you.”
She felt as if he’d slapped her with the back of his hand. “I know this is hard to believe. But Yassar, think of how much I care for you, do you honestly believe I’d do anything to hurt you?”
He snapped his head back as if at an affront. “Tell me why I shouldn’t have you killed on the spot,” he barked through clenched teeth.
It sucked the strength from her body again, her brain filled with a sense of doom. Focus! Get control of yourself! “Because I can prove it, if you’ll let me.”
“Let me understand this,” he said. “You helped a
team to assassinate my son, which you’re going to justify on the basis he was involved in a plot to kill me, his own father?” His face was awful; it tore at her heart to see him look at her that way.
Sasha plunged on. “Yes. He was involved—seduced—by these al-Mujari extremists, murderers, and sucked into their plans to overthrow the government, return the country to fundamentalist rule. And install Ibrahim as head of a puppet government.” She felt herself starting to break, and she leaned forward in the chair. “Yassar, you’re like my father. I came back for you. I could have run.” She heard the desperation in her voice but was unable to stop herself.
“Proof!” he said. His eyes were cold, distant now.
“The key in my purse. Did they tell you about it?”
“They did.”
“And the tape recorder and the tape?”
She got her voice back, “The key is to a locker at the bus station. All of my tapes, everything, duplicate copies are there. I saved them just in case. And the tape and the recorder I brought. That is the ultimate proof.”
Yassar walked back to the door, pounded on it. “The tape recorder,” he said, and it was immediately handed to him. Yassar waved them to close the door, crossed the room, and placed the recorder on the table.
He switched it on and Abdul’s voice filled the room. “Then, our holy friend, you must choose between the life of your own father or the preservation of the purity of the Islamic state! Either your father and his brethren in the Saudi government must die or the infidels will eventually pollute our holy land and destroy the nation of Islam!” Sasha watched Yassar’s face, her heart going out to him as belief crept across it.
Abdul went on: “Do you accept this grave challenge, this test that Allah has chosen for you? Do you choose the preservation of the nation of Islam? Do you choose the return of the holy Islamic sites to the Muslim people? Do you choose the expulsion of the infidels? Do you choose death for the Saudi royal family?”
“Yes!” Ibrahim’s voice rang out, seeming to knock the wind from Yassar. He slumped where he stood. She wanted to go to him, but restrained herself. He must hear the rest.
Abdul again: “Will you do it?”
Waleed now, urgently: “You are the only one who can! Nobody else can get close enough!”
Now unmistakably Ibrahim’s voice, his betrayal: “Yes! Yes, I’ll kill him!”
Yassar seemed as if he would topple to the floor like a giant tree. He moved forward, pulled one of the metal chairs out and slumped down into it.
Would his heart open to her now? She saw his eyes soften, then felt her hopes rise. Yes, they would get through this. Then his face went blank. “Why did you not come to me?”
“I tried,” she said, reaching for his hands across the table.
He pulled back. “You tried? My door was always open to you.”
“Yassar, please believe me. Think. I questioned the views of his friends, their influence on Ibrahim.” She saw him look away, as if considering. She went on. “Listen to the other tapes—their plans, Ibrahim’s involvement, it’s all there.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But you still betrayed me.”
“I did my best. I tried, but there wasn’t time to convince you. I had to save you.”
“And now what do you expect?” There was a hardness in his voice.
“I don’t have any expectations.” She was calm now, resigned. “I wanted to come back to you. Help you to get through this if you will allow me. Ask you to forgive me.”
“For your betrayal?”
She forced herself to find the same commitment that had gotten her through the horror of last night. “Was it any worse than your betrayal of me? Your tearing me from whatever life I had to bring me here the way you did? At least I had a reason to do what I did. What was yours? You wanted a good fuck for your wayward son?”
Yassar stood up.
“Yassar!” Sasha leaped up from her chair, sending it toppling to the floor. She arched her neck toward him in a fury. “I’m not letting you go!” She ran around the table and clutched his robe, pulled her face up to his. “All your teachings, all your prayers! For what? So that you can throw them aside and be consumed by hatred for the rest of your life?”
“You helped them kill my son!” he shouted.
“I killed your son! I did it to save you!” She saw his eyes go wide and he tried to force her away. “And if you want to hurt me back, do what you will! But I stand by what I did, because I love you! That’s what kept me coming back to you! Even after you betrayed me! And now you’re all I’ve got! So if you’re going to reject me, then just kill me and get it over with!”
Yassar stopped struggling against her, then pressed her to his breast. She felt his body convulsing, buried her head in his chest, and knew he was sobbing.
“I’ll help you find these people. We’ll do it together. Please—Father, let me stay, say you’ll forgive me.” She felt his hold grow tighter; it was her answer. She held him back, drew him against her soul, felt a fulfillment that made everything that had gone before in her life seem just.
BOOK 5
CHAPTER 30
AUGUST, THIS YEAR. NEW YORK City. Daniel paced from one end of the living room in his apartment to the other. His insides felt like they were gnawing on themselves. He looked at the bathroom door, behind which Lydia was freshening up, seemingly emotionally exhausted after her confession to him. And yet, she still hadn’t given him more than a sketchy overview. How many layers existed in peeling away the skin of this onion? And now to add to his tension and mental disorientation, he was worried about her.
It was surreal: he was involved with a woman who said she lived a life that was something out of the thrillers he read on vacation. A life of running from shadowy figures, using multiple passports, doing odd jobs—for whom? She hadn’t said. He wondered if she’d ever killed. Then he pushed the thought out of his mind.
Sasha looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. She was weepy, teary-eyed. Daniel’s words had moved her, not just because they were unexpected. He loves me. And he said we’ll figure it out together. How could she not be touched by hearing that from Daniel? Her head was erect; she felt proud.
And now she knew how she felt: she loved him. She knew now that was the real reason she’d come back after her blazing exit from his weekend house, after her cover had almost been blown. Not because of her mission, but because she was in love with him. How could she not have known that before? It was what she’d always wanted. Somebody who loved her and whom she loved back, something the two of them could believe in.
She took a deep breath, leaned back and felt the cool brass towel bar behind her, held onto it to ground her. I love him. After all these years she had what she wanted sitting in front of her, if only she could figure out how to make it happen. Funny how life knocks the legs out from under you when you least expect it. And oh, what a change it makes. Now everything’s different.
She called to mind the first day in Riyadh with Nafta, her fellow concubine, an unimaginable life just dawning. Childhood desires to experience “tempests in her heart” or “rivers of passion”—squelched. Now she prepared to go to the lover she’d chosen, and felt her love for him glowing. This was what she wanted, sending it hiding that day with Nafta, but waiting ever since. The sum total of her emotional life.
She knew what she had to do. Tell him everything, then let him decide. That and show him how she felt; be honest.
She opened the door, stood looking at Daniel for a moment, then started across the room to him.
Daniel was still pacing, slowly, like a boxer staying loose between rounds, when Lydia emerged from the bathroom. He turned at the sound of the door opening, thinking he’d cut right to it, when her countenance set him back on his heels with a thud.
She stood in the doorway beaming at him, as if she’d just awakened after their first night of lovemaking. Her eyes possessed a dreamy softness, and yet showed the steadiness of clarity and intent. She stood
with her head characteristically aloft, shoulders back. More than poised, in a state of grace.
“Thanks for letting me regroup, darling,” she said. “I’m better now.” Daniel took her in as she crossed the room toward him, her body language, the tone of her voice, her demeanor, everything, Svengali-like, telling him it was okay now. Soothing him. Her eyes now with the expressiveness of the night they met. No, Svengali-like was wrong; no sleight of hand, just Lydia. “I’m sorry for all the stress this has put you through.” He felt the warmth and firmness of her body as she embraced him, as if he were taking her in his arms for the first time. She kissed him, then led him by the hand to the sofa. Daniel complied, somehow quieted by her mixture of tranquility and purpose.
Sasha seated Daniel on the sofa, positioned herself in a chair diagonally from him, her knees touching his.
“You’re right,” she whispered, feeling herself beginning to tremble. This is the moment. “I have to tell you everything.”
She prepared to plunge on, ready to describe a mosaic of events in her life—kneeling for prayers to Ganesha at Swami Kripananda’s ashram, Islamic studies with Yassar, life with Ibrahim, Tom Goddard and the CIA…It was all coming down to this. Her trembling increased. “I’ve lived a lie with you from the start. First, Sophie wasn’t Sophie. It might not matter, but she was Christina, Countess Del Mira. My name is Sasha—”
“What?” he interjected.
She shook him off. “Sasha Del Mira. Christina raised me as her ward—never legally adopted me. She started taking drugs, then became desperate, actually. Addicted.” She swallowed hard. “She ‘sold’ me to Yassar.” Her heart was crying. “Sold me as a concubine to his son, Ibrahim.”
She saw Daniel’s head snap back, watched emotion flood into his cheeks.