I Am India Fox
Page 12
But India began clearing the dishes from the table when he left. How was this going to play out, she wondered. More to the point, what would happen after they both woke up?
She walked to the bedroom, but Jack Spear wasn’t asleep on the bed. He’d gone to the living room and was stretched out on the sofa, his arm over his eyes, dead to the world. She watched him for several minutes, her mind going over what had transpired and what would happen next. He’d unbuttoned his shirt and taken his belt and shoes off. He looked taller lying on the couch than he did when he was awake. Funny.
She went back to the kitchen and finished cleaning up, then went to the bedroom, shoved her suitcase to the floor and curled up. Her eye felt better and her headache was gone.
THE SHADOWS WERE long in the room when India opened her eyes. Jack Spear sat on the bed next to her. “I thought you could get dressed and we can go get something to eat. My larder is pretty empty. Then I can take you home…but only if you feel good about being alone. ”
“All right.” She didn’t stir, then raised her hand and touched his face. “Would you make love to me?” She wound a lock of his dark hair around her finger.
Seconds passed before he spoke. “Yes. But not now. Not right away.” He caught her hand. “Right now you’re grateful to me. I don’t want to make love to you when you think you owe me something.” He rubbed her fingers over his mouth. “When I make love to you it will be for no reason. No reason at all.” He stood, then bent down and gave her a brief kiss. “Now get up. I’ve taken care of you long enough.”
The next morning
INDIA’S MIND SWAM out of sleep before her body became attached. Scenes from the last maybe thirty-six hours or so flitted around in her head as she tried to pin them down. She had spun around in a Ferris wheel doing the sexy with a CIA guy she’d played with back in Washington ten years ago, gotten a cryptic message from Jack Spear, in the morning rushed to catch that plane to Aleppo, felt herself looking at the constricted world from inside a burqa in a dingy souq room with some nervous terrorists, had tea and lemon pudding with the Syrian dictator Bashar Assad, where she’d gotten a little pushy. Had a blow up with Jack Spear, then played hide and seek with him before getting a black eye and a fat lip in a fake taxi, wound up in a Damascus jail, cooling her heels for a scary eternity. A couple of hours-long car trips with Jack Spear thrown into the mix. She sat up and tried to click all those crazy dramas into place.
Jack Spear figured very large in all the scenes. He’d sprung her from the Syrian jailers, taken her to his place back in Beirut and had been very gentle fixing up her bruises. He’d rebuffed her invitation to make love, then been downright charming at dinner in a little neighborhood dive. She still felt a little addled when he took her home, gave her a brotherly kiss on her forehead, put her inside her door, then left without a hint when he’d see her again.
India jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom mirror. Yes, she had a nasty black eye, though the redness in the eyes itself had gone away. For a few minutes when she woke up it had seemed too bizarre to have all actually happened. The feeling of unreality lingered. That and the realization that she couldn’t figure out Jack Spear, or what he wanted from her. She knew what she had wanted from him last night, though, and she didn’t get it. A kiss that brushed her forehead wasn’t it. When he’d torn off the burqa at the souq and kissed her. That’s what she wanted again. To start with. He wanted her, he’d as much said that. When she didn’t feel, as he said, like she owed him something.
I’ve never been this mixed up over a man. And I don’t like being so out of control of what’s next. He was right that I was grateful to him. The hours in the Syrian prison frightened me more than I like to admit. He said when he makes love to me, it will be for no reason at all. Now, how does one do that?
India made a strong coffee and went to look at her messages, feeling she’d been out of touch for days.
She jumped up, nearly spilling her coffee at a text message from New York. They wanted her to do analysis of the Mideast situation in light of the last weeks’ region-wide unrest. What had she found in her two or three months there? Send some questions she’d like to answer—to be on the air for the prime time news tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lobby, Four Seasons Hotel
INDIA AND EMILE studied the setting for the live remote with New York. The six o’clock evening news fell seven hours later in Beirut. The manager of the Four Seasons was an old friend of Emile’s family, so he was able to arrange her broadcast on a glass-doored balcony of the hotel that jutted out two stories over the busy central city, its lights still bright at one o’clock in the morning. Emile set up his tripod and centered the camera where she would stand.
“Don’t worry, India, I’ll shoot so your eye won’t show very much. You’ve covered it up pretty well, but cameras pick up things. I’ll be careful.”
She patted his cheek gratefully and fitted the earpieces, heard the director in New York saying they would go live in ten seconds.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two… The satellite signal came through. The red light on the camera went on as she connected to New York.
“Good evening, India. I understand you’re overlooking the commercial center of Beirut, Lebanon. Things are still lively at one in the morning your time.”
“Good morning Beirut, Tom. And yes, this city is an international metropolis. It never really shuts down. One o’clock is still fairly early evening here. People dine at ten o’clock and later. Some theaters let out close to midnight. Beiruters are still out and about. Hard core night life will go on for several more hours.”
“India, you’ve been in Lebanon coming up on three months. What can you say concerning the local feelings about the country vis à vis the turmoil in neighboring states? Hezbollah in particular.”
“Tom, Hezbollah is a fact of life here in Lebanon. In Beirut it’s simply a shared, official part of the national government and, people don’t think about it much and life goes on.
“Lebanon is a consociational republic…which simply means it guarantees the social and cultural rights of each of its seventeen official religions. And each of those is represented in the government. It sounds complicated and it is, but it’s worked reasonably well since civil war ended in 1990.”
And the country feels calm to you? You lived here a few years ago, around two thousand?
Yes, I did. Lebanon is enjoying some peace and prosperity at the moment. The city is bursting with activity. Restaurants are thriving. Stores are full of shoppers with fashionable designer clothing, the latest merchandise. Apartments and condos are going up night and day. Tourists are everywhere, in the city and on the beautiful beaches. People are doing well. If I look down on the street I see mostly late model cars.”
Emile panned the busy street below for a couple of seconds, then back to India.
“Out in the country it’s a little different. I visited an old friend not long ago. She tells me people there feel Hezbollah is an organizing force in their lives…that national government isn’t strong enough to keep order. In rural Lebanon, Hezbollah is the quasi- government. Hemp-growing for hashish is the principle money crop for farmers, and that brings in foreign elements that can get quarrelsome. People are armed. They’re struggling. Sheep are raised in the less fertile areas, there are still some orchards and vineyards, but the productive fields are taken over with what brings the highest profit. And that’s hemp. Hezbollah likes the cash it brings, but those profits have to be protected. With force, if necessary.”
The news anchor continued. “Is there a feeling with what is now called the Arab Spring, al Qaeda and splinter terrorist groups will take control of the national unrest in several neighboring countries?”
“I spoke with a militant group in Aleppo, Syria. There they were stockpiling weapons for an eventual opportunity. I don’t know how sophisticated, but there were boxes of arms of some sort all around the walls of the small room where
I was. The leader spoke French. The others Arabic. The leader wondered if they would have allies in the West, but he didn’t elaborate for what eventuality. If not, he said, they will find support elsewhere. I suspect by ‘elsewhere’ that the United States would not be happy with whom or what that would be.”
“India, the situation is getting out of hand in Egypt. Libya has deposed Gaddafi. Will trouble spill over into Syria? Will Syria experience the people’s open revolt against the regime. Would Assad capitulate like Gaddafi, for instance?”
“I had the opportunity to question Bashar Assad just two days ago. He assured me that…and I quote here…'Syria is an island of calm. The people are content.’ Others say Assad is whistling in the dark. That perhaps time is running out for Assad as well as other dictators. Incidentally, I was detained for several hours by the police and interrogated, apparently because Mr. Assad was affronted by my questions.”
“You say you were detained? Were you concerned for your safety?”
“Not really. I was man-handled a bit and I can’t say the mood was friendly. But, no. I was released after maybe seven or eight hours. I might add that my phone and very nice watch were confiscated.”
“The American embassy in Beirut was torched, bombed if you will, just six years ago. Is there any chance of a repeat to the present embassy?”
“The new embassy was built over the old one…it’s a big modern complex, pretty state-of-the-art. I met a member of the tech team the United States has sent to assure the readiness and impregnability of the new embassy compound. I have been there several times, spoken with the ambassador. She is confidant the mission is safe. There are contingency plans, of course.”
“Thank you for your insights, India. Stay safe.”
“Thank you and good night, Tom. I’m India Fox, reporting from Beirut, Lebanon.”
“That wraps up World Broadcast News, where America’s news begins. I’m Tom Bradshaw. Goodnight.”
The light went off. India leaned against the balcony railing and laughed. “Wow! That was fun. How’d I do?”
Emile folded up his tripod and grinned. “Great. We’ll be a good team. Were you really questioned by Assad’s police? How’d you happen to be there?”
“It’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to do it again.” She walked over and picked up Emile’s camera. “This is new?”
“Yeah. It’s not the latest, latest. But it’s pretty up-to-date.”
“I want you to show me how it works. What it does.”
“Why would you want to know that? I’m happy to show you, but I’ll always be here.”
“That’s just it. Maybe you won’t. It would be a good thing to know. I had a cameraman once who was being a real pussy during an earthquake. I had to offer him a free feel to get him out on the street to shoot the story. If I’d known how to work the camera I’d have left him behind.”
He grinned. “Would you offer me a free feel if I show you how it works?”
She winked. “I’d never have to bribe you, now would I, Emile. “
“Nah. Here. See this little screen here? That shows what you’re recording. You can turn it on yourself. You could operate the camera on a tripod and do the whole operation, broadcasting at the scene, if you had to.”
“Let me practice sometime. Are you at all free this week? I want to do an interview with Rohbani. I’ll try to set a meeting up. Give it a couple of hours. I want it to be very casual…then we can edit what we don’t want.” She ran her fingers over the camera. “I’d like to have something in the can to follow this broadcast. New York must be paying attention.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
New York, Broadcast World News Headquarters
THE CHROME, GLASS and rosewood office of Sumner Hardwick, high over Fifth Avenue, was silent as the assembled network staff watched the feed from Beirut on the bank of wall monitors. Hardwick smiled slightly as the assembled staff murmured among themselves.
Affiliate Manager Hamilton Ivorson spoke. “I know you said India had some inside chops, Sumner, but she got into see Assad? Good God…and apparently pissed him off enough that he had her picked up. Our guy in Damascus has been trying to see Assad for months. Is she okay? Those guys chop off balls for sneezing wrong!”
Hardwick leaned back and rolled a cigar in his fingers. “I haven’t talked to her, but that was a good report. I had a feeling about her. Lebanon was reasonably quiet. She’s been getting around and that’s what we need. She speaks the language, she has connections. Since that guy torched himself on the street in Tunisia, the whole area is seething and nobody knows who’ll come out on top or where. I’m sensing there’s a vacuum forming and the militants are just milling around, too unorganized. It’s what will flow into the vacuum is what’s worrying me and I don’t think it’s worrying Washington enough. There’s some damned euphoria that Iraq is going to be in the vanguard of a democratic Garden of Eden and I think the whole fucking Middle East is at the gates of hell. If Syria blows up, Lebanon will be swallowed up with refugees. Then they’ll start dispersing. Europe, Britain, the U.S. Assad is a monster…he’ll hang on and will do everything he can to keep hanging on and will wreck the country doing it.”
Hamilton Ivorson growled. “His old man bombed some Kurd villages in the past. Innocents, women, children. Assad’s crud. He’ll gas his own people, I’d guess. Are you sure India Fox is experienced enough to handle herself in all this. Hell, she’s practically a kid. Don’t we need an old pro there? ”
Hardwick took his time lighting the cigar. Puffing until he was sure it was lit. “India Fox learns fast. Hell, look at what she’s just come up with. She’s got ‘ins’ we can’t buy…and anybody who brings harm to a popular former ambassador’s daughter will bring a boatload of bad press. Will she take chances? I sure hope so.”
The Director of News Programming half-raised her hand. “I must admit I was against her going to Lebanon. I know she’s fluent in the languages and she’s got friends, but she’s movie star blonde in a part of the world that doesn’t find movie star blondes all that appealing.”
“Oh, c’mon, Krista.”
“Okay, Okay. However, she does seem to be getting around.”
The rotund local station manager ran his hands through his hair. “We’re farting around in Iran, tiptoeing through the nuclear daisies…and the Russian Bear is sniffing around the Crimea and who the hell knows what square miles and dinky little pieces of dirt in the South China Sea China is going to claim next.” He pulled a ringlet from his already mussed curly hair. “I think I want to go home and pull the covers over my head.”
Sumner Hardwick’s voice boomed. “I agree. India Fox could use some of the background we’re getting from our stringers in the region. She can use one of those self-contained cameras, for that matter. See to it, will you. Get her here back here in New York, but not for too long. I want her eyes back in the Middle East before the whole place blows up.” He stood up. “Stay behind a minute, will you Ham?”
When the room had cleared Hardwick turned to Hamilton Ivorson. “You’re not married, are you Ham?”
“No, sir.”
“Got anything significant going?”
“No, sir.”
“When India Fox gets here. See if you can get close to her. I’d like to find out how she’s getting her information. I don’t need her in any more prisons. Jesus, what a mess that would be.”
“Uh, how close?”
“That, my boy, is up to you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel
INDIA AND EMILE shoved two sofas to either side of a smoked glass topped coffee table, setting up to interview Nadia Rohbani in a quiet corner of the Four Seasons Hotel lobby. It was mid-morning and Emile’s assistant manager friend agreed it would be good advertising to have the famous star seen talking to World Broadcast News in the Four Seasons. Better still, it would be seen in America. Through the big glass window at street level, Beirut citizens hurried by, traff
ic silently made its way up busy Wafic Sinno Street, with glimpses of the harbor beyond.
“People are going to be interested in us, Emile. Especially after Nadia gets here. Ask if we can have that big console table angled across to keep them back a little.”
“Oh, sure. He said anything would be fine that we wanted to set up. The concierge will kind of warn people away. Shouldn’t be much of a problem. It’s not a busy time and Four Seasons’ guests are used to this sort of thing. Famous people stay here. Somebody being interviewed is pretty common.”
India moved a leafy plant to the coffee table. “I want to get this interview done so I can take the footage to New York with me. I have an early flight out tomorrow. Head office wants to see me.”
“Nadia wants us to set up coffee and cakes to make the scene look more impromptu. Got the waiter bringing the stuff in a few minutes.” He looked at his watch. “I got a couple of shots of the hotel outside. It’s almost time. Nadia’s never late.”
As if on cue Nadia Rohbani breezed through the lobby entrance door, dark hair flying. She wore a hot pink jacket, blue jeans with ripped knees, and sky high pink snakeskin stilettos. Emile’s comment about blasé guests didn’t acknowledge that a gorgeous woman will always draw stares, a fact of life that Nadia Rohbani was obviously accustomed to. She tossed her long hair back as her glance traveled over the lobby, acknowledging stares with a nod and smile. She quickly spotted the set-up where India and Emile were waving to her.
She rushed over, with breathless embraces and air kisses, first India then Emile, “Oh, I hope I’m not late.”
“Right on time,” India said. “Why don’t you sit there, with your back to the window. Then Emile can adjust the light so there are no shadows. I’ll be here, across from you. We’ll just chat for a minute while you catch your breath and Emile can do his magic. He’s ordered some coffee, which is on its way.”