A yellow taxi rounded the corner and pulled over to the outside table where she was finishing her coffee. She gathered her handbag and walked over. The driver held the door for her. Feeling rather pleased with herself that she was managing her situation very well, she looked back and smiled her thanks at the proprietor and gave him a tiny wave.
As she stepped into the car she felt herself shoved abruptly and the “driver” slid in after her, his hand darted to grip her wrist. It took a moment for her head to register what had happened. There at the wheel was another man. The one who had beckoned her with the taxi door was in the seat beside her—Syrian, dark-skinned, with a bristling moustache. The car jerked into gear and threw her against the seat.
Angry, she spoke in Arabic. “What is this? What are you thinking of? I am an American journalist. This is an outrage.”
The man tightened his hold on her wrist. “Akhris!” Then in accented English. “Shut the fuck up.”
The taxi was going fast, careening around corners, scattering pedestrians.
A stab of panic shot through her stomach. The café proprietor had obviously checked with someone. Something had been arranged to come to get her. Had word of her insinuations with Assad travelled this fast—enough to sic some sort of police on her? Where were they taking her? There was a brief wish that she hadn’t run away from Jack Spear so quickly. Would she be able to get in touch with him? With anyone?
Get hold of yourself. I’m not a nobody they can shove around. Hang tough.
“I demand to know what this is all about. I’m a television journalist. This will certainly look very bad for you with my network.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
The backhand to her mouth stunned her, another blow struck her eye. White streaks flashed behind her eyelids. No one had ever hit her before and she was shocked as much as reeling. She moved as far away from the Syrian as she could, squeezed herself into the corner until her head cleared. She had no idea where she was in the strange city except she could see the white marble palace on its hilltop, shining, rose-colored in the setting sun.
Her mind raced over the instructions she’d been given about journalists abroad in the twenty-first century. They no longer walked in an aura of safety. Many had been tortured and killed in the line of duty. No one here knew or cared that India Fox had up ‘til now lived a charmed life and was going to be admired and famous one day.
They turned onto another busy street, to a large gray, stone building with barred windows. There were long steps that led up to heavy glass doors, over which a sign proclaimed this to be, in Arabic letters, CENTRAL POLICE STATION. But the driver didn’t stop there. He slowed and halted the car in front of an iron gate that opened slowly. The “taxi” drove into a large cobble-stoned courtyard. The driver parked, got out and opened the door where she sat.
“Out, bitch.”
India felt wobbly, but determined to keep her poise. It was some kind of mistake. She staggered slightly when she got out of the car, but powerful hands gripped her shoulders and propelled her toward a heavy door, the toes of her shoes only brushing the worn cobblestones. The heavy door closed with a metallic thunk behind her. Garish lights had been turned on at approaching twilight that filtered through high, dirty clerestory windows. There was an overpowering smell of sweat, inefficient plumbing, disinfectant and antiquity. And fear?
The man who gripped her arm threw her handbag on the desk, manned by a grim-faced uniformed woman. India’s hand flew out as if to retrieve her bag, her only connection to the outside world—with her phone, her money and credentials. Her stomach plummeted as her arm was lifted and her watch wrenched off her wrist.
She briefly struggled with the hands that held her, against the forced march down a long poorly lit corridor. At the end stood a slightly open door. The man shoved her roughly inside. The door slammed, a lock clicked into place.
India stood, shaky and disoriented. In the center of the room sat a beat-up looking table with a straight chair on either side. She managed to get to a chair and fell into it. A single bulb over the table was the only illumination in the windowless room that measured perhaps twenty feet by twenty feet. India glanced at where her watch had been. What time was it? How long had these past events taken? It had been close to six o’clock the last time she’d looked. Was it about seven now? Despair settled over her and she buried her face in her hands. She could taste blood in her mouth where her teeth had cut her lip, her eye slightly blurred.
For the first time in her life she did not know what to do.
TIME DRAGGED. WAS it one hour? Maybe two? Her stomach felt empty though she wasn’t hungry. The last thing she’d eaten was the pistachio sprinkled lemon pudding at the Assad house at maybe four o’clock? That was really all she’d had since yesterday. She’d rushed off to the airport this morning to catch the six o’clock plane to Aleppo. Jack Spear had driven fast to Damascus to make an appointment with Assad at two that afternoon.
Was it only last evening that she’d been at Luna Park with the CIA man? What was his name?
She felt disembodied for a moment at this surreal turn.
A numbness crept over her. She would nod off and then the dread would sneak through and send her into a panic that became more difficult to tamp down.
More time passed. Then India heard the lock click. A smallish uniformed man hurried in. He was dark, a Syrian, with a short, sooty beard and full moustache. India watched him, anxious to see what he was going to do. India spoke in Arabic. “I’m being held here with no idea why. I have been mistreated. I demand to be allowed to speak to my embassy.”
The man ignored her and sat. He held a notebook that he opened, sighing deeply and took a pen from his pocket. “You are India Fox?” He looked up at her and spoke in only slightly accented English. “Please answer my inquiries with a ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
“Yes, of course that is my name. I am an American journalist and I…”
He interrupted her. “Please answer my questions with a yes or no. It will go easier for you if you do what I ask.”
India felt chilled. Go easier for her? “Yes.”
“Did you come here as a spy?”
“A spy? You’re absolutely mad! I am an American TV journalist sent to Beirut by my network to broadcast…”
“Answer yes or no. We can find no instance of an India Fox broadcasting anything from Beirut. Did you come here as a spy?”
“No! I’ve only just arrived. There has been…”
He wrote in his notebook. “I am recording your answer as a no. Did you come here expressly to insult our president?”
India’s mouth opened. “Insult your president? That’s crazy…”
“Yes or no please.”
“No!”
“Did you arrive in Damascus in the company of a Reuters correspondent named…” He checked his notebook. “Jack Spear.”
She slumped in the hard chair. “Yes.”
“Is he a lover?”
Her head shot up. “No.”
“What is your relationship with Mr. Spear?”
“I…he’s a…friend…a colleague. He invited me to come with him to a meeting with…Mr. Assad. I am fluent in Arabic and he thought I might be helpful.”
He looked directly at her and spoke primly. “Our leader speaks perfect English.” He consulted his notebook. “Your father was the envoy to Lebanon several years ago, was he not?”
She felt a surge of hope. “Yes.”
“You lived in the American embassy in Beirut at the time?”
“Yes.”
“It is a pity that an ambassador’s daughter would become embroiled in a…controversy here.”
India stared at the man. So they knew all about her. Would that help her?
At that moment the man stood, gathered his notebook and with a slight nod to her, left the room.
The lock sounded louder this time.
Controversy? What controversy?
The room felt suddenly very co
ld and India pulled her denim jacket closer. She felt her teeth start to chatter. Was that nerves as well as the chilly room? Was she in shock? The side of her face throbbed where her captor had hit her. Her bottom lip felt cut and swollen. Her eye hurt. Her head hurt. What would happen next?
More time inched by. She had to pee. Her stomach felt sick.
The silence of the building roared in her ears. Was that a cry somewhere? Someone being tortured? India got up and began to pace. Her bladder was screaming. She sat down and tried to think of something else.
The lock clicked again and this time the grim-faced woman at the desk came in. She motioned India to follow her. Bewildered, India stumbled from the table.
She stammered in Arabic. “Madame, could you let me use a restroom. Please?” The face was blank. “Please, madame.”
The desk-woman stared at her, finally grunted, nodded. They stopped at a door and with a big jingling of keys turned the lock and gestured to India to go inside.
It was a greasy white-tiled restroom that smelled of stale urine and Lysol. India nodded her gratitude to the woman, thanking her in Arabic. After relieving herself in the rusty toilet, India washed her face and hands, grateful for the tepid, chloriney water to drink and splash on her face to ease the pain of her mouth and eye. The woman watched impassively, then pointed to a dispenser that rattled out one coarse brown towel.
When they left, the woman re-locked the door and directed India down the hall she’d followed when she came in. Uneasy at what would happen next, she complied, carefully noting the blank noncommittal doors lining the hallway. Were they interrogation rooms like the one she had been in?
Out by the front desk Jack Spear paced impatiently. When he turned and saw her his face relaxed in relief for a moment, then became tense again. India’s head whirled. Was the nightmare over?
The woman bent behind the desk and retrieved India’s handbag and threw it on top for her to pick up. “You are free to go.”
India hurriedly snatched up her bag, then hesitated. “May I have my watch?”
The woman’ face showed nothing as she answered, “There was no watch.”
India started to protest.
“Oh, bugger.” Jack grabbed India’s arm and pulled her to the door, “I’ll buy you another bloody watch.”
The Range Rover was parked outside. Spear hurried India to the passenger side, then jumped behind the wheel and spun the tires in his hurry to be gone. The guard at the gate motioned the car through as the sped out into the street.
India felt limp, tears beginning to sting her eyes. But she never cried, for anything. She wouldn’t now. How did Jack Spear find her? How had he gotten her freed from a situation her own naiveté had gotten her into? She checked her handbag. Her phone was gone.
Spear concentrated on driving, glancing at her from time to time. “Sorry she nicked your watch.”
“My phone, too.”
“Not surprising. You’ve got quite a shiner there, love. Are you all right?”
Her hand flew to her face and she pulled the sunshade mirror down. Her heart sank at the bluish color now darkening around her cheek and eye. Her bottom lip puffed unevenly. She looked over at Spear and nodded, her voice somehow wouldn’t work. She wanted to thank him, but didn’t know what words to use.
“They didn’t…coerce you in any other way?”
She smiled weakly. “Just to be quiet.” She touched her mouth.
He smiled slightly, reached over and patted her knee.
India looked out at the black, star-studded sky. “What time is it? There’s no traffic. No people on the road.”
“It’s three in the morning. Depending on how much time you spent running around brassed off at me, so I couldn’t find you, you were detained about seven, maybe eight hours.”
She didn’t look at him. “It seemed much longer. How did you do it? Get me out?”
“We’ll talk about it another time. I want to get us back to Lebanon. You must be zonked. Grab a kip if you want. That was a bit of a near thing. ”
As India began to relax from her ordeal her eyes began to droop, then her head would snap up and she’d watch the dark landscape rush by. But after a while her consciousness left her and she gradually curled up on the seat and slept.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Beirut
SLOWLY INDIA BECAME aware that the motion of the car had stopped. She struggled to wake up to find Jack Spear looking down at her.
“Good, you’re awake. I was of two minds about disturbing you—was analyzing whether I could wrestle you up two flights of stairs.”
She sat up, confused. “Where are we?” The sun was just coming up over tops of trees and buildings.
“We’re safe and sound in Beirut. I’ve brought you to my place. I’ve got something for your eye and your cheek then I’ll get you something to eat and then you can sleep. You’ve had enough adventure, my girl.”
Groggy, India started to protest, then didn’t have the energy. All she wanted to do was go back to sleep.
“Your suitcase is still in the back. I’ll bring it up so you have a change of clothes.”
He pointed her up the two flights of stairs. In his apartment, India looked around, curious through her fog. A living room/office was moderately messy, with books and papers strewn over the desk and sofa.
He pointed to a bathroom. “Go in there. Sit.” He followed her in, opened a cabinet and took out some gauze squares and a bottle.
“What’s that?”
“Something to help.” He sprinkled the square, tipped up India’s face and gently blotted her cheek and around her eye. Then he retrieved another bottle and took out a dropper. “This will sting a bit, but it’s first-rate for a banged up eye.”
She winced as the drops hit her eye, but it gradually cleared.
He shook two pills from another bottle. “If your head hurts, take these. It’s good stuff. From a Turkish woman in the souq. She’s an herbalist. I highly recommend her. You can mention my name if you’re ever in the need for fix-me-ups.” He handed her a glass of water. “She loves me.”
“My, my. Part of the admiring crowd.” She looked at the two mustard colored pills, then swallowed them quickly. “Why do you need all this stuff?” she asked, blinking as the drops made her eye tear copiously.
He blotted her cheek again and touched her bottom lip. “Can’t do much about the fat lip, but it’s getting smaller.” He turned her lip down and examined the cut. “Not too bad. He walloped you pretty hard. You yammering away as usual?”
She ignored the remark. “You didn’t answer my question. Why do you have all this medical paraphernalia? It’s like an infirmary.”
He turned and put away the bottles. “My job sometimes has its downsides. How do some scrambled eggs and toast sound?”
“Like heaven. I’m starved.”
“You can stay in here, take a shower if you want. It’ll take me a few minutes to get our breakfast going. I’ll put your suitcase in the bedroom.” He pointed. “That way.”
India stood and the room swam. She leaned against the wall in the hallway. “I’m sorry. What did you say? I lost it there for a minute.”
He took her arm and led her to the bedroom and put her suitcase on the bed and opened it. “Here is the bed. You just came from the bathroom. Your suitcase will have, I assume, what you’ll need. I will be in the kitchen over there, cooking us something to eat. When you’re through taking a shower, come out there.”
“Oh.”
Spear turned her toward the bathroom.
India let the shower stream over her head, rinsing the last of the shampoo. She needed to wash off all the memories and unpleasant smells of the police station in Damascus. When she got out and dried herself she looked for a robe, but there was only a T-shirt hanging on the back of the door. She put that on and, with the towel wrapped around her head went out to the kitchen. Jack Spear was setting out plates of scrambled eggs and orange juice. “I’ll butter some toast. Do
you like marmalade?”
“No, not very much. But this looks wonderful.”
“It does at that. We Brits are first-rate at breakfast. Sorry I’m out of bangers.”
When they were finished eating, India unwrapped the towel from her head and ran her fingers through the damp strands, then wound them into a loose knot at the back. “Now will you tell me how you got me released? How did you manage that? They obviously knew about our visit to Assad. He probably was the one who wanted to scare me.”
“It’s never sure what those detentions mean. What did I do? When I couldn’t find you I began to get very worried. I called the British Embassy. With some machinations on their part I got through to Assad’s house. I finally went through enough people to speak to him, only because we’d just been there. He was annoyed, but denied he’d had you picked up. I nattered on and on about you were American, young and inexperienced, new and unaccustomed to the protocols in this part of the world.” He cleared his throat. “I apologized for your untactful questions. He finally said he’d look into it. I knew I’d won then. ”
“Ouch. Okay. Okay. I get it. I was a dope. Thank you for finding me. I was getting very…uncomfortable.”
“I’ll wager you were. Middle Eastern jails are terrifying. Were you questioned…uh…harshly?”
She shook her head. “They knew about me. Being here with my father.”
“Actually, I think he did just want to scare you. I’m sure he’s not as calm about this Arab Spring situation as he claimed to be. I don’t think he feels it wise to antagonize anybody, the U.S. included. I’m sure your father’s position helped. Important fathers generally do.”
India didn’t have an answer for that, so she said, “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you let me clean this up and you go sleep.”
“Actually, that’s a very attractive idea. But just leave these. Cleaning up can wait.”
I Am India Fox Page 11