I Am India Fox

by Virginia Nosky

  The man who seemed to be the leader took India’s arm as she got out of the Audi and pushed her slightly toward a side door of the farm house. India gave him a cold look and swatted his hand away.

  The sun was midday bright and it took several minutes for India’s eyes to make out a windowless room. Five men sat around a table, a lantern cast long shadows against the wall. The man on the far left was Jamil, Mariam’s brother. India felt a puff of relief when she recognized him; however his expression was difficult to read. Maybe she shouldn’t greet him with any familiarity. She gave him a curt nod instead. Her earlier uneasiness had disappeared. She was doing her job, getting familiar with perhaps dangerous men. She waited for someone to speak.

  An older man with a thick, grizzled beard looked over his granny-type glasses at her. Some moments passed. India could hear a horse’s whinny. In the distance a goat baaed. India gazed steadily back at the bearded man, waiting for him to speak. She glanced briefly at Jamil, but the young man’s face was impassive.

  Finally the older man stirred and spoke, in Arabic. “I understand you followed our friends here. What do you want with us?”

  Puzzled, she answered, not hiding an irritation that came over her. So they know I speak Arabic. “Your friends waylaid me on the road as I was going to visit my friend Mariam Hariri. They made no secret that I was to go with them. I agreed because I am a journalist, eager for any opportunity to speak with the citizens of Lebanon.” She sharpened her voice. “Believe me I would be having an enjoyable day with my friend if I had not been convinced that it would be a better idea to see what you wanted with me. If I am mistaken in this impression, I will be on my way. On the other hand, we might have a useful discussion.” She folded her arms and waited.

  The man chuckled. “Sit down.” He indicated a chair, then snapped his fingers at one of the men who had stopped India on the road. “Go get coffee.” He turned to Jamil. “Aren’t you going to greet your old friend? Have you no manners?”

  Jamil’s tense face relaxed, then broke into a broad smile. “Mariam was so happy to hear you were in the country. We have many good memories of our different adventures when you were here before.”

  “It’s good to see you, Jamil. You look older, but so do I. We did have some good times.”

  The older man cleared his throat. “Now go call your sister and tell her Miss Fox will be along in an hour or two.” He turned to India as Jamil rose and left the room. “We are Hezbollah here, which I assume you are aware of. We are peaceable. Your government paints us as terrorists, which is nonsense. We are law-abiding citizens. The government in Lebanon is weak. Someone has to keep order. The countryside is at peace.”

  “But your organization has taken credit for the destruction of the American embassy. There are other incidents that have caused damage to property and the loss of lives of innocent people. Children. “

  His smile was beneficent as he waved his hand in dismissal. “There are rogue…isn’t that a word you Americans use?...there are rogue elements whose methods we decry. We wish for nothing but tranquility in our beautiful country. You have seen Beirut? It is thriving. Buildings are being repaired. New ones are going up. Here in the country we are building schools to educate the children. Hospitals, clinics. Look at Jamil. He is Maronite. We welcome him in our efforts as he does Hezbollah. Many of the farmers are happy we are here. The farms are growing crops. The vineyards are producing good wine. This is as it should be.”

  India spoke up. “But many of your farms are not growing crops other than hemp. Cannabis for the world drug trade. Does this not bother you? That the farmers cultivate these drugs because they cannot afford to grow useful crops?”

  The man’s face was serene. “Hezbollah has no jurisdiction as to what the farmers choose to grow. They are free to do as they think best.” He dropped his hands to the table. “Ah. Here is our coffee. Let us talk of more sociable things.” The woman who brought the coffee placed cups and a pot in front of him. As he poured a cup, he said conversationally. “I met your father several times when I was teaching at university. Fine man. I hope he is well. Give him my regards when you see him again.” He passed the coffee across the table to India.

  “I will tell him. Would you tell me your name so that I may deliver your good wishes?”

  “Ah! Just tell him he had several nice policy conversations with a colleague. He will remember, I am sure.” He sipped his coffee.

  India did the same. All this oh-so-cozy talk and I’m wondering when I can go. Can’t wait to tell Sumner in New York that I made this small chance happen. I’ll cultivate this opening today. Shouldn’t be too confrontational, but I did stick some barbs in. Smooth character, the leader.

  India’s eyes traveled around the room. She wanted to remember the way it all looked. And she wanted to come back with Emile. Have a real interview with this man. Would she be asked to come back if she brought it up now? Never hurts to try.

  “If I should want to talk to you again, may I?”

  “Mention it to our mutual friend, Mariam. It will get back to us.”

  LATER, AS INDIA continued on her way to the Hariri farm, she went over the leader’s last words, “Our mutual friend, Mariam.” He had wanted her to know that Mariam was now Hezbollah.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A week later, the American Embassy

  INDIA PLACED THE delicate porcelain cup on the coffee table, careful to conceal her annoyance at the ambassador’s gentle scolding. What she had thought would be a plus in her posting to Lebanon was, maybe, not such an advantage. An “in” with the ambassador. That ambassador, Mary Masterson, was sounding very motherly, not that India had had that much smothering motherwise.

  The woman leaned forward, her voice full of concern. “I wish, my dear, that you wouldn’t take off into the hinterlands so casually. Why do you suppose we run such a tight compound here? There are factions and factions of factions in this country and most of them do not wish American citizens well. Bear in mind they blew up this place not so long ago.”

  “I appreciate your worry about me, ma’am, but, I’m not a tourist. I know Lebanon. I lived here for three years. I have a degree in journalism and worked in the industry in both San Francisco and New York. I am a professional. Because I’m fluent in Arabic I was sent here by my network to see the country, assess its politics, make my superiors aware of the political situation. Be here to report events as they happen. They expect me to put myself where I can do just that. I’m a journalist, ma’am. It’s my job.”

  “Oh dear. I hope I wasn’t suggesting otherwise.” She leaned forward and patted India’s hand. “I guess I’m fussing because I know your family. It makes me feel a bit responsible for you.”

  India made herself smile. “I can understand that. I assure you my family is comfortable with my being here. Please don’t worry about me.”

  “It worries me that you were expected to be on that road to visit the Hariri farm. Hezbollah was informed of your plans. They were waiting for you. The man you were taken to, Ali Haddad, is a chief. A thug, really, but we keep a watch on him as much as we can.”

  “The man was Ali Haddad? He wouldn’t tell me his name. He mentioned he’d had a discussion with my father at one time. I assume it was when father was ambassador here. This Haddad seemed to have some power. The other men deferred to him.”

  “Yes. We’re pretty certain he and your chauffeur Youssef were responsible for blowing up our embassy. Neither of them admirable guys.” The ambassador tapped the arm of her chair. “So he knows your dad. Interesting.” She regarded India a moment. “I understand your job here, but still, I do hope you take some care.”

  “Ma’am, I’m doing just what I was sent here for. Lebanon and Beirut are relatively quiet now, which is why, because I’m new, I had the chance to be here. But, is it really so calm? Or is it just a lull before a storm? That’s what I want to find out.”

  The ambassador laughed. “Nicely put. If you learn which, would you be kin
d enough to let me know? You have a link to your former friend, Mariam, who now has links to Hezbollah. I’d appreciate it, if you wouldn’t be compromising your credentials, you could check in with Jed from time to time. Every little bit of information is a plus.”

  There was a light knock on the door. “Yes, come in.”

  India glanced at the lanky blond man who entered. He looked vaguely familiar. Her memory leafed through possibilities. Marcus something, something, something. S, S, Sh… Shield, Shield, Shawn. That’s it. Oh, boy.

  “India, I’d like you to meet Marcus Shawn. He’s been working here the past few days as a consultant for the CIA. Checking our security. India here is a journalist with Broadcast World News TV. I knew her father and mother. He was ambassador here before me.”

  Marcus Shawn’s glance skimmed over India, then he looked closely. “India. Ah. Carlton Fox, yes, I met him in Washington.” His eyes studied her face carefully. “I met you a while back, but you wouldn’t remember.” He grinned. ”You were just a little girl then.”

  India’s mind jerked back to a diplomatic reception when she was perhaps fifteen. No wonder he looked so fake-jolly. Yes, she’d met Marcus Shawn all right. It had been a bit sticky. “Yeeess…I think so.” She held out her hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Please give my regards to your father and mother when you see them.” He turned to the ambassador. “There are a few things to wrap up, ma’am. Jed and I will have a report for you in a couple of days. I just wanted to tell you I was leaving for the day.”

  “Thanks, Marcus. We can meet and go over your recommendations. When are you and your team flying out?”

  “Probably Sunday. I’ll let you know.”

  After he had gone, India said, “Imagine running into…um…Mr. Shawn. The world gets smaller every day.” She didn’t mention that seeing Marcus Shawn again had ruffled her a bit. Masters didn’t need to know that.

  AS INDIA STEPPED outside the embassy front door, Marcus Shawn strolled from the small garden by the entrance, thumbs hooked over the belt of his jeans.

  He grinned. “Waited for you. My, my. Imagine meeting India Fox at the American embassy in Beirut. It’s a long way from Washington. You’re always surprising me, it seems.”

  India’s eyebrow shot up. “Always? I only met you the one time. At the British embassy reception in the capital.”

  “Why yes. You do remember. You going to your car? I’ll walk you.” He fell into step beside her.

  “I, uh, thought we got along rather well that evening,” she said.

  “Now, so did I. Until I happened, in the heat of the moment, to ask the gorgeous blonde how old she was.”

  That evening was all coming back in bright colors. “And that put a quick stop to what we were doing, as I recall.” India smothered a smile.

  “Yes. It did. I’m not in the habit of ravishing fifteen-year-olds.”

  India stopped and faced him. “I was very disappointed.”

  “I can say that was roughly a fraction of how I felt. Fifteen-year-olds rarely wear dresses so well… that have no back and very little front. That slip off so easily. Your mother should have been ashamed to allow her daughter to wear that dress around horny old men.”

  “You were hardly a horny old man. Twenty-six?”

  “Roughly. But I was sure horny. Which the fifteen-year-old picked up on too fast for her tender years.”

  “Being a virgin had begun to bore me.”

  “Therefore, the very un-virginal sexy dress. You were lucky it was me instead of some old goat who’d have ripped it off you. Shame on your mother.”

  “My mother didn’t have many opinions as to my clothes.” India began to laugh. “You know, I always liked that dress. I think I still have it.”

  Shawn reached out and tipped up her chin. “It’s my opinion that we have some unfinished business. Assuming, of course that you’ve had several birthdays since then.”

  “You have a long memory.”

  His eyes drifted skyward, a slight breeze ruffling his corn-silk-colored hair. “The details of that evening are quite fresh in my mind.”

  “You’re leaving Sunday.”

  “That’s two and a half days away. I’ve always found that a lot can be accomplished in two and a half days. If one organizes one’s time well.” He grinned. “There’s today, tonight, Saturday, and part of Sunday.”

  India felt a warm rush. She walked on. She hadn’t had a man since Dewitt the night before she left for Lebanon. Marcus Shawn was certainly as attractive today as he was back at the British embassy when he’d jumped from her like a scalded cat after she admitted she was slightly underage. It had taken her the rest of the night to calm down her raging disappointment. “Here’s my car.” She rummaged in her bag for her keys and turned to unlock the door.

  Shawn dropped his hand to hers and turned the key and opened the door for her, then he pulled her close and kissed her hard. “I’ll pick you up at eight. We’ll have dinner.”

  India had to catch her breath. “How do you know I’m not busy?”

  “Are you busy?”

  She slid under the wheel. “Let me think.” She waited. “No.”

  “Eight?”

  “Apparently.”

  He stepped away from the car. “If you’ve still got that dress, wear it.”

  She put the car in gear. “You don’t know where I live.”

  He stepped back and grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”

  She grinned and gunned the engine. “I’m sure.” Without another glance, she spun the wheels in the gravel of the parking lot and drove out of the compound.

  As India wove through the crowded streets she went back over the scene. “My, my. He’s very sure of himself.” And you like that, don’t you, India. It was perfect. She’d have a little fling and he’d be gone on Sunday. Masters said he was CIA. In Washington she hadn’t been sure what he did and didn’t care much. She had just wanted to get laid by an older man and he looked promising.

  Interesting his crew is looking at the embassy security. Why? Was something brewing they’re worried about?

  India pulled up to her apartment. She did remember Marcus Shawn sure knew what he was doing, her-wise. Maybe she could I can also find out why he was here. Jack Spear could stay on the back burner for a little while longer. This was business. She smiled. Very pleasant business.

  India felt a small frisson that made her flush. She didn’t have that black number with her, but she did have one just as good.

  THE KNOCK ON the door came at precisely eight o’clock. India straightened her clinging white jersey dress, smoothed it over her hips, took a last look in the long bedroom mirror. The dress demurely covered her knees, but dived down the back and dipped snugly under her derriere. This creation was not modest. She gave an upward tug to her bra to make sure there was maximum cleavage and gave her long hair a swish that caught the light and she turned.

  When she opened the door, Shawn stood slouched against the stairway rail. A square box dangled from a ribbon in his hand. He grinned his approval. “I brought you something.” He moved through the door toward a table and untied the bow, then lifted out a glistening, syrupy looking cake, dark and Middle East sugary. On the cake were a number of small candles.

  He stepped back with a flourish. “I thought we could celebrate the passage of time. All those birthdays. Ten, as I recall.” He waited. “When we get back, I mean. After dinner.”

  “That’s so thoughtful.” After a moment she went to the kitchen. When she returned she had a box of matches. She struck each match and lit a candle. “Let’s do five, shall we. For now.” After five candles flared she walked over to Shawn. “We can do the other five later. We don’t want to rush into anything.” She blew out the match and stood in front of him.

  He watched as she began unbuttoning his shirt, slip it off his shoulders. He pulled her close. “I’m happy to see you haven’t changed much.”

  She murmured against his mouth.
“But I’m a big girl now.”

  “I’ll say.” His fingers found the small back zipper. Then he leaned over and blew out the candles as the delicate fabric slithered to the floor.

  Ten o’clock

  INDIA TURNED ON her back and stretched, the sheets silky against her skin.

  Marcus lay on his side, smiling, watching her, his head resting on his hand. “I must say that was worth the ten year…uh, hiatus.”

  She reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “And now, what should we do?”

  He caught her hand. “What would Miss India like to do?”

  “I’m starving.”

  “Want a piece of cake? We have five more candles to work through.”

  “So we do.” India ran her fingers over his chest and down, circling his navel.

  He pulled her close. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  India wiggled out of his arms and sat up. “I know what let’s do. Let’s go down to Luna Park and ride the Ferris wheel up high and look at the lights of the city. We’ll walk down the midway and eat gyros from the vendors. You can win a huge pink stuffed bear for me at one of the shooting galleries.”

  He groaned. “I was never any good at those things.”

  “I’m very good. I’ll win a bear for you.” She jumped out of the bed, slipping just out of reach of the hand that made a grab for her. She picked up a pillow and threw it at him. “Get up. Put your clothes on. I won’t wear any undies and you can think about what’s under my dress for the rest of the evening.”

  “And to think when I got assigned here, I didn’t realize Beirut was heaven.”

  THE GARISH NEON lights of Luna Park dazzled and blotted out the stars. Friday night the Midway crowd milled about—a heady mix of young couples, workers free for the weekend, tourists, families, sailors from the ships in dock. The music of the Middle East jangled from the rides and concessions—exotic to western ears, it was heavy on drumbeat rhythm, zither, lute, mandolin, a wailing reed pipe, and tambourine—alongside the stomach thumping western rock beats. The ubiquitous feral cats, seemingly everywhere in the city, were even more visible here, attracted by the readily available food scraps left by the concessions and carnival goers. Over all floated the spicy food smells of the Middle East, along with popcorn, pizza, tacos, pirogues, brats, gyros, and hamburgers. Beirut was an international city, with international tastes, salted with the scent of the sea that whispered at the sand beyond the boardwalk.