At an intersection, he turned left. In minutes, they were out of Agri, heading south.
A university student! It was a far better dream than hiding away in a chateau or finca. It was something she had wanted almost as long as she could remember.
But it was so far away, in so unknown a place. “Come with me, Philippe.” There, she had said it.
He smiled sadly. “I wish I could, my love, but I can’t. Someday you’ll under- stand—trust me.” He uncapped and sniffed the bottle that the man in Agri had given them. “Raki. One swallow and I’d be comatose. Well, maybe just one.” He took a drink and fell into a coughing fit. “God—just as bad as I remembered it.”
A few minutes later, he was humming softly.
In midafternoon, they reached a small town with a vast sheet of blue stretching beyond it.
“Is that the ocean?” Amira wondered, as she had forgotten her geography. “Van Golu—Lake Van. It’s salty; that’s why there’s nothing growing along the shore.” He talked for some time about the saltiness of the lake. Amira had seen the effects of amphetamines; she knew that the pills were wearing off.
Van, a city of perhaps a hundred thousand people, lay an hour down the road. Philippe had trouble finding the hotel he wanted. Finally, they happened on it almost by chance. They registered as M. And Mme. Rochon and child, and turned over their passports. The hotel, a pleasant medium-sized place called the Akdamar, apparently had few other guests.
“Cold,” said Philippe. “You’re cold?”
“Too cold for tourists. They come for the lake. But not until summer.”
In the room, he tipped the porter, closed the door, leaned against it, and fainted. Amira gasped, but knew intuitively that she must not call for help. Some- how she lifted him onto the bed. Karim watched awestruck: this, with absolute certainty, was a matter for adults. A damp cloth to Philippe’s forehead opened his eyes. “Amira, my love. I’m sorry. I wanted to spend these last few hours … you know: talking, listening. But I have to sleep. Or I won’t make it to Ararat. Wake me when it’s dark.”
“Just sleep.”
“At dark: promise me.”
He slept. Karim climbed onto the bed. “I take care of Uncle Ph’lipe.” Soon, he was asleep, too. Amira allowed herself to lie down beside them— just to rest a little, she told herself.
She woke with a start. A glance at the window told her that night had come. Philippe was dead to the world. Trying to rouse him was like trying to wake Ali when he had drunk too much. After a long effort, she got him to a sitting position.
“What time is it?” he mumbled. “I don’t know.”
He looked at his watch, as if it contained a great mystery. “Ten o’clock,” he finally said. “Not too late.” He pushed himself to his feet, went to the washstand, and splashed water on his face.
“Not too late for what?”
“I have to go out in the town and make my presence known. Then we’ll have a visitor.” He found his medical bag and took a pill. “Two left,” he said to himself. “That should do.”
“Philippe, you’re exhausted. Can’t whatever you’re planning wait till morning?”
“No. This is the dangerous time. It’s possible that they’re already looking for us in this country. We have to move fast.”
He pulled his coat on and left. He was gone for an hour. When he returned, he seemed to have regained his energy.
“Brother Peter will be here soon. You’ll go with him tonight. By morn- ing, you’ll be in Erzurum. There’s an airport—one flight a day to Ankara.” He tore loose the lining of his coat and produced some papers. “Your plane tickets. Erzurum to Ankara, Ankara to Istanbul, Istanbul to Paris. All return tickets. And here is your new passport, and some papers for Karim.”
She looked at the passport: Jihan Sonnier, Spouse of Dr. Claude Sonnier. “Not quite two years ago,” said Philippe, “an earthquake killed fifty thousand people in the district north of Lake Van. There are many orphans.
Karim is one of them. You’re here to adopt him and take him home to France. You … you can’t have children of your own.”
Amira nodded. That much, at least, was true.
“Brother Peter has been closely involved in helping the earthquake victims, especially the children. He can answer any questions that anyone in authority may raise. And he will never betray you.”
Amira looked at the passport again. “Jihan Sonnier?”
“Your mother’s name came to me when I was instructing the forger. Is it all right?”
“Yes.”
There was an almost inaudible knock at the door.
The man who entered was small and wiry, with thinning brown hair, sun- burnt skin, and faded blue eyes. His clothes resembled those of the Turkish man Amira had seen. He and Philippe embraced like long- separated brothers. “I thank you for this, my friend,” said Philippe in English. “You know I wouldn’t have asked if it weren’t life or death.” “No apologies, mate. I’m a grown man.”
Philippe introduced Brother Peter to Amira. “Forgive his abominable English—he’s Australian.”
“Australian,” said Brother Peter amiably. Then he turned serious. “I hate to rush things, but we need to get started.”
“Ah. Yes, of course. Well, we’re on your ground. How do you want to do it?” “I don’t want Amira—Jihan—or the boy to be seen with me anywhere near Van. Too many people know me. Too much chance someone will notice and make a connection. As we get west of Agri, it won’t matter.” “You’re saying that she and Karim should stay hidden?”
“I’m using the mission’s panel truck. I’ve made a cubbyhole in back under some blankets and cartons. It won’t be comfortable, but it’s only for a few hours. Can you keep the boy quiet if need be?” he asked Amira.
“I’ll give him a mild sedative,” said Philippe. “He’ll sleep for at least eight hours. Will that be enough?”
“Should be plenty.” “Good. What else?” “What are you driving?” “A tan Land Rover.”
“Go north, back toward Agri. Take it slow, so I can catch up—I’ll leave twenty minutes behind you. If anyone stops you, you’re tourists enjoying a lovely moonlight drive along the lake.”
“All right.”
“Somewhere north of the lake and south of Agri, I’ll blink my headers three times. Pull over, and we’ll make the switch.” He looked at both of them. “Any questions?”
“Why are you called ‘Brother’?” said Amira.
Peter smiled almost bashfully. “Philippe didn’t tell you? I’m with a mission. A service order, actually. Very small.”
“You mean Christian?”
“Yes. I know it’s odd, but we’ve been here since Atatiirk, and they still tolerate us. We’re quiet. We don’t proselytize. We just try to help. Well, then— are we ready?”
“Why not?” said Philippe.
O
With the headlights cutting the night, Van was a dream, Tabriz a distant memory, al-Remal forgotten. The road was familiar, the road was home. She had been in the Land Rover all her life.
Karim slept, having taken a spoonful of sweet red liquid from Philippe’s bag. Philippe kept thinking of things to caution her against. “Remember: call Maurice Cheverny before anything else. And try to be sure no one follows you from Orly—they won’t do anything in the airport itself. If they try something in the city, scream for the police. If the truth comes out, ask for political asylum. It’s the best chance. My God, I almost forgot: here’s money—more than enough to get you to Paris.”
At two o’clock in the morning, Brother Peter blinked his signal. Philippe stopped and opened the door. In the cabin light, his face was sickly gray. “Are you all right?”
“What? Yes. A bit worn out. Don’t worry.”
Brother Peter pulled up alongside and got out. “Well, old frog,” he said, “this seems to be it. I don’t know what you’ve got planned, but be careful about it.”
“And you. Thanks again—for everything.”
Philippe turned to Amira. To her surprise, tears were streaming down her face. He held her so tightly it hurt. “Good-bye, my love. I wish … I wish it had been different.”
“It will be different. Everything will be different. But don’t say goodbye, my heart. It’s only au ’voir, isn’t it? We won’t lose each other, will we? Promise me?” “We won’t lose each other. We can’t. Au ’voir. Au ’voir, Amira.” Brother Peter carried Karim to the panel truck. “In here, my lady.” Her eyes met Philippe’s one last time as she wedged herself in with her sleeping son. Then Brother Peter rearranged boxes and blankets, shutting out the world.
“Go first and go fast,” he told Philippe. “I want to be well behind you at Agri.”
She couldn’t make out Philippe’s reply, only the sound of the Land Rover pulling away. In a moment, the panel truck grumbled to life. “Comfy?” called Brother Peter.
“I’m all right.”
“Good. Next stop, Erzurum.”
It was pitch black in Amira’s little cave. Time lost its shape. Had ten min- utes passed? An hour?
“Brother Peter?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you doing this?”
A silence. “Because I believe it’s what God wants me to do.” “You and Philippe must be very good friends.”
Another silence. “I owe him my life—and a great deal more.”
That was all. Much later, Brother Peter said, “Agri,” and the motion of the vehicle changed. After that, there was only a dark eternity.
She woke because they had stopped. A door opened, the blankets flew back, and blinding light flooded in: morning.
“Up front quickly,” ordered Brother Peter. “We’re nearly to Erzurum. There’ll be a checkpoint in a few miles.”
Karim had wet himself in his sleep, but there was nothing to do about it here. Amira, using the truck’s side mirror, freshened up as best as she could.
“Do you have a scarf ?”
“Yes.”
“Use it like a veil. Cover your hair and part of your face. Don’t worry: European women often do it out here. When in Rome, you know.”
Armed soldiers manned the checkpoint. Brother Peter answered their questions in Turkish. One of the men gave an order. Brother Peter slid over on the seat. A soldier opened the door and climbed behind the wheel.
“No fear, Mme. Sonnier,” said Brother Peter, seeing, Amira’s expression. “Erzurum’s a military zone. All foreigners have to be escorted by a soldier. So we have a chauffeur.”
At the airport, she changed an irritable, half-asleep Karim into his one fresh set of clothes. A crackly loudspeaker announced the Ankara flight.
“On time,” said Brother Peter. “I’ve always wanted to witness a real miracle, and here it is. A good sign, Mme. Sonnier.”
He and the soldier saw her to the plane. “Sagol” said the soldier.
“Sagol to you, too. And you, Brother Peter.”
She was in Ankara by noon, in Istanbul by evening. That night, she slept seven miles above the earth on a jet bound for Paris.
Mr. Cheverny
Customs at Orly came as a welcome anticlimax; a yawning official barely glanced at her papers before stamping them.
She was in France.
The airport teemed with arriving passengers. Amira towed Karim with one hand, clutching the bag containing all she owned in the other. If they were hunting her, they would be here. Who might be a hunter? A Turk- ish-looking man scanning the crowd—had he lost someone, or was it an act? A couple who might be Iranian conversing near a ticket counter—did the woman glance Amira’s way? A blue-jeaned young man lounging on a bench, reading a textbook—wasn’t he a little old for a student?
She found a telephone, changed a ten-franc note, and tried to remember which coin was needed. Suddenly, someone was beside her.
The man in blue jeans. “Mme. Sonnier?”
Should she deny it? Run? What?
He smiled. “My name is Paul. I work for Maurice Cheverny. You are calling him?”
“Yes.” Thank God.
“Go ahead.” He inserted a coin for her.
Cheverny’s voice was rich and cautiously cordial. “Welcome to Paris, Mme. Sonnier. You had a safe journey?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We have work to do, but there’s no rush now that you’re here. Will tomorrow be soon enough? I imagine you need rest. Paul is with you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me speak with him.”
She handed over the receiver. Paul listened and said, “Ça va,” then “Non,” then “Oui, m’sieur” and hung up.
He had a car. As they pulled away from the airport, Amira could not help glancing over her shoulder.
“No one is following,” said Paul. “There was no one watching you in the airport, either.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged. “Part of my job.” He was tall and thin, almost frail, but somehow he reminded her of Jabr.
“What do you know about me?”
“Only that someone is looking for you—someone with the full resources of a foreign government—and that M. Cheverny does not wish for you to be found.”
“Where are we going?”
“A hotel that M. Cheverny sometimes uses for clients who require … privacy. Small, very discreet, quite nice.”
It was more than nice; it was a quietly elegant jewel a few blocks north of the Seine.
“It’s a pity to miss spring in Paris,” said Paul, after checking the security of her suite, “but please don’t leave the hotel. Call the concierge if you need anything. By the way, the room service is the best in the city.” When he was gone, Amira kicked off her shoes and luxuriated on the bed.
The phone rang. It was the concierge.
“What a shame, madame, that the airline should lose your luggage. All your wardrobe? If you will tell me your sizes and needs, I will have some things brought over for your selection.”
“How kind. But I’m carrying only a few thousand francs.”
“Do not disturb yourself over such matters, madame. It’s all arranged.” Coffee. She would have coffee. And a real meal. And a long, lazy rest. But before any of that, a long, hot bath. “Come on, young man,” she told Karim. For once, he didn’t object.
O
A gourmet lunch. New clothes for herself and Karim. A visit from Paul, who played with Karim and told amusing stories about Paris. A delicious dinner. Television—not readings from the Koran, as in al-Remal, but little movies, including an inscrutable American dream called Dallas.
Where was Philippe now? Was he safe? Had he made his way out of the wilds around Mount Ararat? That night she dreamed that she was drinking tea with him in a peasant’s mountain hut, snow everywhere around. The peasant smiled like J.R. on Dallas.
Maurice Cheverny called at nine in the morning. Could she meet with him at eleven? Good; he would send Paul.
A maid brought coffee, croissants, and Le Monde. As Amira spooned jam onto Karim’s plate, a headline caught her eye: “French Physician, Philanthropist Dies in Eastern Turkey.”
She dropped the spoon and ignored her son’s outcry.
Dr. Philippe Rochon … died Tuesday in an apparent accident south of Kars, Turkey … body found in a wild mountain river downstream from his wrecked car … search efforts under way for a woman and child believed to be traveling with him … extremely rugged terrain … Dr. Rochon, in addition to being one of the most esteemed members of his profession, endowed more than 100 scholarships to universities in France and abroad.
It couldn’t be true. It had to be a mistake. What had happened? What had gone wrong?
She called Cheverny.
“I’ve just seen it myself, madame. Paul is on the way. I’ve canceled my other appointments.”
O
Maurice Cheverny’s office overlooked Paris from one of the city’s new sky- scrapers. The attorney was a b
alding heavyset man in his early sixties. What remained of his hair was still black, slicked straight back. He wore bifocals.
“I tell you frankly, madame, that I am uncomfortable in this situation. I do not know if Jihan Sonnier is your true name—do not tell me—but I believe I can guess. In strict duty, I ought perhaps to alert the authorities to your presence. But I have my client to think of, and his instructions were quite specific.”
He unlocked a drawer and brought out a large envelope and a small one. He handed her the large one. ‘‘Dr. Rochon left this for you. He told me openly that it is a substantial sum of money, in cash—American dollars—and that I was to advise you to be very careful with it. He also instructed me to put you in touch with a plastic surgeon whose name he gave me. If you wish, I will call the man, and Paul can take you to him. Finally, there is this letter for you.” He handed over the smaller envelope.
The letter explained everything. “Pancreatic cancer … six months, no more—not good months, either … and this way, they will believe it.” Through her tears, Amira read the end of the letter. “I do not believe in an afterlife, but who knows? I’m not one of those doctors who can never be wrong. Perhaps we will meet again after all. Meanwhile, keep me alive in your heart. Be safe and happy, with your son. Good-bye, my love., ”
“Do you want to read it?” she asked the attorney. “No. But tell me what you can. Use general terms.”
“He was dying. He gave his life to help me and my son escape from … from great danger.”
“You were there when it happened?” “No.”
“Ah.” He removed his glasses and wiped them with a tissue. “Philippe Rochon was like a son to me,” he said simply, the lawyerly tone gone for an instant. He cleared his throat. “There is one more thing, madame.
Philippe—Dr. Rochon asked me to see to your acceptance at an American school, Harvard. I’ve corresponded with an old friend of mine, an assistant dean. I know nothing of your academic abilities, of course … Well, that’s neither here nor there. In this and all else, I’ll help you in any way I can. Do you want to see this surgeon?”
Mirage Page 27