India and Marcus waited in line for the giant, light-bejeweled Ferris wheel, which spun around and around, with excited shrieks coming from the candy-colored cars. The sweating, tattooed, under-shirted carny finally heaved the long-handled brake and the wheel wheezed to a stop. The passengers surged off each gondola as the new crop of passengers were loaded onto the oval cars.
The gondola’s lock bar snapped closed and India and Marcus began to climb, inch by inch as each car filled, finally up to the top of the wheel. The lights of the city glittered for miles around. Pleasure boats in the harbor twinkled and farther to the north ocean-going freighters showed their running lights against the blackness of the night water.
“I love to be up high, over a seaport city,” India said. “There’s nothing like it.”
The car rocked gently. The wind was stronger at the top and whipped her hair around. The cars had apparently all loaded as the wheel jerked and started around. The twangy music became louder as they swooped down to the ground.
India laughed at the sensation. “Don’t you love it! This ride always went so fast you could feel your ears pop.”
Marcus put his arm around her. “Are you cold?”
“Not a bit.”
“Neither am I.” He kissed her ear. “I keep thinking about your dress. And what’s under it. Or not under it.” The car started its upward swing.
The car sailed down to earth, to the sounds and smells of the park, then up again into the sky.
The car swung, the tinkly tunes of the midway grew as they dropped and faded as they soared into the sky, then down to the ground and up again, around and around, down up, down up, down up, down up, over, over again, then gradually slowed as the ride came to an end.
The Ferris wheel screeched to a jerky halt, riders crowded the platform as each car unloaded.
India tugged and pulled her dress straight. Their car came to a stop and the bar lifted for them to get out. Other couples moved to climb into the cars as the two made their way down the exit ramp.
India ran her fingers though her hair, breathless. “I’ll be able to walk straight in a minute. Do I look like someone who just had a birthday Ferris wheel ride?”
“Let me look.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her nose. “Cheeks nice and rosy, as is proper. I would say it was a transcendent birthday Ferris wheel ride. A ride for the ages.”
She grinned. “Is my dress presentable?”
“Looks perfect. I was moderately careful.”
“There was nothing careful about that.”
“Why thanks.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Now. Was it a shawarma that mademoiselle wanted?”
“One lafa, not pita, with lamb and extra tahini. Maybe two…” India slowed her steps. Ahead Jack Spear and Nadia Rohbani strolled down the midway, arm in arm. A small eager crowd followed them.
Marcus looked to see what stopped her. “Somebody you know?”
“Um…yes. The girl is a Lebanese movie star…thus, as you can see, the excited people following her. I just met her at an embassy party and had a chance to visit the set of her latest film. She starred in a film nominated for an Oscar. It didn’t win, but she has been shown in America. She’s quite delightful. She promised me an interview when she’s finished shooting.”
“Know who she’s with?” He looked at India carefully.
“Um…yes. He’s the Reuters man here. Jack Spear.”
“I guess you’ve met him, too?”
“Yes, professionally.”
“Ah. I see.” He was watching her. “Professionally.”
India glanced over. “Yes.”
“Let’s go say hello. I don’t get to meet many movie stars in my line of work.”
She took his arm. “Sure. Let’s do.” She broke away from him, waving and calling. “Nadia! Jack! Over here!”
After the flurry of introductions, Nadia suggested they all ride the Ferris wheel together.
“Oh, no. You go ahead. We just did and it’s wonderful …you can see the whole city…and lights in the harbor. It goes really fast, I hope that doesn’t bother you. I’d love to do it in the daytime.”
Marcus was making a point of engaging Nadia like an appreciative fan, pretending he knew of her Oscar-nominated film. Nadia seemed pleased that a good-looking American recognized her and was eagerly inviting him to the set.
Jack’s voice was low in India’s ear. “That’s some dress for Luna Park. Did you forget some of it?”
India bit her tongue. “We just came from a birthday party. The Midway and the rides seemed like a fun idea. I didn’t realize there was a dress code here.”
He dropped his voice again. “You look like a lady who has just been up to some mischief. I wonder where. And how?”
“What a bastard you are.” She put on her most dazzling smile and turned to the other two. “Marcus, I’m still starving. Why don’t we let Nadia and Jack do their Ferris wheel and we go to dinner. Such fun running into you both. Give me a call, Nadia, when you’re free. I’ll line up Emile.”
Nadia nodded. “Let’s have lunch or something. We can talk casually. That’s always so much more interesting, don’t you think?”
“What a good idea,” India said.
Nadia held out her hand to Marcus. “How nice to have run into you. Be sure to see my next movie.”
“A real pleasure to meet you, Nadia.” Marcus shook hands with Jack. “You, too, Jack. Sorry I’m not going to be around longer. Leaving Sunday.”
“Ah. India can let us know if you get here again.”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll do that,” she said, wanting to be away. As they moved off, Marcus said, “The guy seemed a little snarky seeing you with…someone else, perhaps?”
“He’s just snarky in general. I’ve been here three months and seen him maybe three times. Americans seem to rub him the wrong way.” She took his arm feigning a gaiety she didn’t feel. “Now, let’s get my shawarma. Then I’m going to win a stuffed bear for you.”
He took her arm. “I can’t wait.”
Later
AT HER DOOR Marcus pulled her close with one arm, the other balancing a jumbo neon-pink bear. He kissed her lightly. “I won’t come in. It isn’t working any more, is it?”
India started to protest, then thought better of it. “Not as much. No.” She smiled. “But it was terrific fun while it lasted. The birthday cake was pure genius.” She reached up and ruffled his hair. “I think we made up for the last time we met.”
He grinned. “We did at that. And I don’t think I’ll forget the Ferris wheel high over Beirut any time soon.” He put the fluffy stuffed bear in her arms. “Thanks for Teddy. You throw a mean ball into milk bottles, but you take him. I can’t imagine what the guys would say if I showed up with a stuffed bear the size of a Buick.”
After he’d gone, India let herself into the apartment and tossed the huge bear across the room. The crumbled birthday cake caught her eye. She scraped the sugary confection and the five unlit candles into its box, dumped it in the trash and headed into the bedroom, slipping out of the white slinky dress as she walked. The blinking message light on her phone stopped her. A call from New York? She pressed the button.
Jack Spear’s voice drawled lazily. “I hope I’m not destroying a perfect evening with your CIA man, but I’ve had some rumblings from Aleppo that might interest you. I’ve already gone, but there’s a Qatar Air flight at six a.m.”
That was all.
India stood with the phone in her hand. What was that about? He assumed she’d just pick up and go with no more information than that?
And, of course, he had to get in that little dig about Marcus. And how did he know he was CIA? Damn him. She wouldn’t go. What a shitty crack.
“Oh get real, India. Of course you’re going. A chance to get in on some ‘rumblings’?” She hurried into the bedroom and threw her suitcase on the bed and went to the closet.
It was difficult to get to sleep. The evening with Marcus faded
, replaced with an excitement about what might be in Aleppo.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Aleppo International Airport
THE FLIGHT FROM Beirut to Aleppo was only an hour long, so India arrived in the middle of seven o’clock morning rush hour. The airport was a noisy madhouse—of men with briefcases dressed in the tailored suit and tie of businessmen everywhere, more businessmen in the white robes of the Middle East, women in makeup, wearing western skirts and high heels, other women shrouded in burqas or najibs. In the swirling crowds were the swarms of tourists from everywhere in the world.
India retrieved her suitcase from the carousel and headed to the exit. It suddenly hit her that she didn’t know where to go. In doubt, she decided to get a taxi to the main hotel in town. And wait. Jack Spear had her cell phone number because he’d called it last night. He hadn’t given her much information, but she was here now. She found the sign that directed her to Transportation and headed for the taxi line.
Without warning her suitcase was whisked from her hand. Jack Spear took her arm with his free hand. “My car is outside.”
India glanced at him as he hurried her along, intent on making their way through the crowd. A stab of annoyance shot through her. “Damned sure I was going to be on that plane, weren’t you?”
His Land Rover was parked in a No Parking Zone, watched with great seriousness by a young Syrian boy. Jack tossed him a hundred lira coin hurried to the rear of the car and threw her suitcase in the back. As the lid thunked closed he slid into the driver’s seat. India stood by the passenger door until he finally leaned across and pushed it open. India rolled her eyes at him, tossed her handbag on the seat and climbed in. He ignored her pointed unspoken comment and peeled the Rover into the bawling horns and malodorous exhausts of the milling, hectic traffic of arrivals and departures of Aleppo International Airport.
She rested her arm along the seat back and studied him. “How’d you know I’d be on that plane? Just because you left a rather abrupt message?”
He turned. “I thought at first you probably wouldn’t. Then I said to myself, ‘Get real. Ambitious girl like that? Her curiosity will get the better of her despite the fact it’s me telling her.’ After that I thought you probably would.”
India drummed her fingers on the seat back. “Nice. Really nice. You’re shitty, you know that?”
He whipped the car around a busload of tourists. “Oh, quite. Been told that.”
“So you drove here last night. You didn’t mention that. Only that you’d already gone.”
“Needed to have a car here. It’s not that much of a trip. The roads are pretty good.”
“May I ask where we’re going?”
“Into the souq. You wouldn’t know even if I told you.”
“How do you know? I’ve been to Aleppo a number of times.”
“Ah. I forget myself. The ambassador’s daughter.”
“Okay. I’m here. Can we just forget the snarky tone.”
He glanced at her. “You’re right. I’m glad you came. I may need you to listen for me. Interpret. Where we’re going is hush, hush. The Middle East is getting ready to blow. I can feel it. That Tunisian chap setting himself on fire has unleashed a lot of pent up anger all over the region. Economy everywhere is crap. There are legions of educated young men without jobs and nothing to do, itching to foment trouble. Mubarak’s gone in Egypt. You saw Lebanon is getting restless. Assad is a thug…has his foot on the throat of Syria. It’s a cauldron just waiting to boil. If Syrians cut loose, the Middle East will be a real dog’s dinner. Assad won’t go quietly. Miss Fox, you’ve been sent into a Middle East lion’s den, I’m afraid.”
India felt a thrill go down her spine. What luck she was here now.
Above the city the ancient cream-colored Citadel brooded over a hectic metropolis that was the largest in Syria and the center of its commerce. The March day was hot, the scorching sun making the monochromatic buildings begin to shimmer. The centuries old city was once an important stop on the Ancient Silk Road—an historical, fragile treasure and, like all the Middle East, ever vulnerable to a fuse that might be lit at any minute.
The Land Rover shimmied over cobblestone streets brimming with color and noise. Dilapidated buses and sleek modern cars choked traffic, along with pokey horse-drawn carts and donkey-riding couriers. Aleppo had seemingly avoided much of the modernization taking place in other Levantine cities. When Spear approached the souq, he reached into the back seat and pulled up a dark bundle and tossed it into her lap. “While I find a place to park, put this on. I don’t need a glam-looking blonde where we’re going.”
India unfolded the black garment. It was a burqa, the shroud Islamic women covered themselves with from head to foot. Made of a silky georgette, it was the most restrictive of the coverings that fell from the top of the head to the feet, with not a slit for the eyes as in the najib, but rather an embroidery window that allowed only a small square of territory visible to the wearer.
“Why this? Many women wear Western dress here.”
“I don’t need a woman in Western dress.”
India shook out the burqa. She’d tried native dress on, of course, back when she had lived here, but that was only a game. Was this a game? She turned to Spear. “You need? What movie are we in, if I may ask?”
His expression was unreadable as he gazed back at her. How about ‘To Have…and Have Not.’?”
She looked away and pulled the burqa over her head. It made her gasp. Her world shrank to the small lacy square in front of her eyes—her peripheral vision starkly limited. A chill settled over her. The cruelty of the shroud’s limitations, visited on hundreds of thousands Islamic women in this stifling climate every day of their lives. She felt suffocated, powerless.
“I can’t do this. I’ll smother in here.” Her voice came out muffled and angry.
He reached over and patted her shoulder. “You’ll be fine. I need you to wear it.”
“Oh, yes. You need. Isn’t it about time you told me why I’m here?”
“We’re meeting some not-very-nice chaps. One is a Frenchie. Unsavory sort. An arms dealer. I don’t speak French very well. I have to know what he’s going to say when he thinks I can’t understand.”
“And you’re sure I speak French.”
“Righto. Expected of you.”
“And why is that?”
“You’re an ambassador’s daughter. They all speak French. Besides, you went to school in Switzerland. You lived in Lebanon.”
“And you’re sure about all this?”
“I looked you up.”
“For the record, how many diplomatic daughters have you…how many have been fortunate enough to know you?”
He thought for a moment. “I’d say maybe three. Not counting you.”
Arrogant shit. “I do hope one day you’ll run out of assumptions about me. It’s been one after another. I’m not what you think.”
The web of lace in front of her eyes didn’t keep her from seeing him grin at her.
Jack stopped the car, negotiated with a Syrian boy to keep watch over it, then waited for her to get out.
India straightened the long folds of the burqa, cursing under her breath at the voluminous garment and muttered. “You’re awfully trusting of those children you pay. Those are my necessaries in that suitcase. They’re all I have with me.”
“It works pretty well. I’ve only had a few disappointments.”
“A few, he says. This better not be one of those disappointments.” She stumbled on the long fabric as she stepped up the curb.
He caught her arm. “Careful. And from here, walk a step behind me…and try to look subservient. I know that’s hard for you, but you walk like an American. Like you own the world. Well you do, of course, but that’s not what I want from you.”
“You are a bastard.” A loose end from the burqa poked her eye. Exasperated she jerked at the lace, caught the thread between her teeth and yanked it loose. “Damn this thing.�
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“Don’t be so brassed off. This could be fun.”
“I’ll remember you said that.”
Subservient, he says. How do I do that? She tried rounding her shoulders, leaning forward. Slumping. Turning her steps into a sort of glide. It felt strange. She didn’t like it.
Over his shoulder he spoke. “Good show. Like a truly obedient female.”
She gnashed her teeth under the hot robe.
The Aleppo souq was the longest covered market in the world—a shopping mall with every imaginable thing for sale or barter, from American appliances to musical instruments and caged birds. Through her small window she watched Jack study a piece of paper as they threaded their way through the shopping frenzy. Gradually they left the larger shops and found their way into narrow alleyways with fewer and fewer people. At last they came to a door, dark with age, set back in a centuries-old wall. A street-battered ginger cat sat washing its paws by the carcass of a half-eaten rat.
Jack consulted his paper. “I’m sure this is it.” He looked over his shoulder. “How are you doing in there?”
“I’m hot and sweaty and getting meaner by the minute.”
“Good. Hold that thought. It’ll only be a bit longer.” He knocked.” They could hear the din of the main souq in the distance, but all was still here. He knocked again, louder. The door cracked open. One dark eye peered out.
The voice spoke in Arabic. “What do you want?”
Spear replied in kind. “I’m Spear.”
“You are late. We are waiting for you. Who is the woman?” The dark eye spoke in a dialect. The accent was not unfamiliar to India, but slightly different than Beirut. More how they spoke in Tripoli.
I Am India Fox Page 9