“My dad kind of hurt my mom. He’s gone now, and she asked me to call you. I—can you hurry?”
Jenna did. At the Chandler house, she took one look at Carolyn’s face and went to the phone. Apparently, Cameron had forgotten his “little trick” of hitting where it didn’t show.
“What are you doing?” “Calling 911.”
“No.” Carolyn pulled the receiver from Jenna’s hand and hung it up.
“Carolyn, please try to understand. You may be badly hurt. You’re certainly in danger. Will he be back tonight?”
Carolyn shrugged. “Probably.” At least she didn’t appear to be in shock. Jenna tried to think. “Was he drinking?”
Carolyn didn’t answer. Jenna turned to Josh. He looked at his mother and said, “Yes, ma’am. He was.”
“All right. What I should do is walk out of here and call the police and an ambulance from the first pay phone. But you don’t wish me to, and I’ll respect your wishes. You respect mine. You’re spending the night at my place, both of you. Get whatever you need, right now, and let’s go. In the morning, we can deal with this better.”
To her surprise, Carolyn simply nodded and said, “Okay. That’s not a bad idea.”
At her apartment, Jenna doctored her friend’s face as best she could. The wounds were mainly bruises and welts. There seemed to be no broken bones, no cuts that required stitches.
Carolyn talked about Cameron in an oddly matter-of-fact way that troubled Jenna. “He just needs something that he can control, that he can dominate. Unluckily, that happens to be me.”
In the kitchen, Josh and Karim sat exchanging a quiet word now and then—almost like grown men already, their closeness expressed more through silence than through speech.
It was two in the morning before everyone was ready for sleep. Carolyn shared Jenna’s bed; Karim gave his to Josh and took the sofa.
A half hour later, Cameron rang the bell.
“I know my wife’s here, Jenna. Let me talk with her.” “Go home, Cameron.” She kept the chain on the door.
“Jenna, Jenna, please. I know I screwed up. It’s all my fault, I admit it.
Just let me talk with her.”
“It’s really late, Cameron. Go home. Tomorrow, you can talk.” “Jenna, I’ll go down on my knees.” To her horror, he did. “Just let me talk with her.”
“Cameron, if you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police.”
He got to his feet. Something about him made her close the door and lock it.
“Go ahead,” he said loudly. “You call the police. I’ll call my lawyers. And they’ll slap a lawsuit on you so fast your head will spin. How does alienation of affection sound?”
“What are you talking about?” “You and my wife, lady.”
“You know better than that, Cameron.”
“This isn’t France, or Egypt, or wherever the hell you come from. This is my town. You interfere with my life, you’ll regret it.”
Call the police, she told herself, but she hesitated, ashamed of the fear she felt. It was his town, and she wasn’t from France, or from Egypt, either. What would happen if he carried out his threat?
At that moment, Carolyn swept by her with Josh in tow. “Thank you, Jenna, but it’s best that you stay out of this.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going home with my son and my husband.” “Carolyn—”
“Jenna, I appreciate your kindness and your good intentions. But this is between Cameron and me. It’s really none of your business.”
She unlocked the door, fought with the chain, and went out into the hallway.
“Oh, babe, I’m so sorry,” said Cameron in a wheedling voice. “Are you Okay? Are you Okay? My love, I’m so sorry.”
Josh turned back and looked helplessly at Jenna and Karim, then followed his parents.
It was the end of Jenna’s first real friendship in her new life. Jenna stood silently and watched Carolyn go. There was a wall between them, put in place by Carolyn and never to be breached, like the glass between prisoner and visitor in a jail.
It was a turning point for Jenna, although it took months for her to see it. It gave direction to her work. She might have failed her best friend, but if she worked hard enough, studied hard enough, learned enough, perhaps she could help other women facing the same agony.
One morning, she woke with the theme and the title of the next book she would write: Prisons of the Heart: Women in Denial.
She even had a dedication, although she could never use it: To Ali A. and Cameron C., who made it all possible.
Meanwhile, unknown to her and in a corner of the world she preferred to forget, a man to whom she was truly thankful was about to touch her life again, for the last time but with fateful effect.
Mustafa
Brother Peter was dying. He had gone to Zaire to explore the possibility of establishing a mission there, but an epidemic of some kind had broken out, and he had not been permitted to visit the town where the brothers hoped to work. Back in Van, he had suddenly developed a blinding headache, followed by nausea, fever, and fierce thirst.
A local doctor, unable even to diagnose the illness, loaded Peter with anti- biotics and advised wrapping him in wet sheets during the worst of the fever, but it was clear that he had no hope for his patient.
Brother Peter knew nothing of this: he was lost in delusions by the time the doctor was summoned.
The mission was nearly deserted. Another earthquake had struck to the north, and most of the little detachment of brothers had gone there on their work of faith and mercy. The deathwatch over Brother Peter fell mainly to Mustafa, a native of Van who served as a handyman and local factotum for the mission. He wore a surgeon’s mask and gown given to him by the doctor along with emphatic instructions on sanitary measures. No telling what kind of African plague this might be.
It was ten o’clock at night. For hours, Mustafa had watched and listened while Brother Peter slipped in and out of intelligibility. At the moment, the dying man was raving again. Something about Joseph, Mary, and Jesus’s flight into Egypt. Hard to follow, even though the name of Jesus, an early prophet of God, was certainly familiar to Mustafa.
“Herod, Herod sent his men after them. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember? But Herod was a Jew, wasn’t he? These were Arabs. Remember them, mate? Rich, rich Arabs.’’
Mustafa listened more closely. He remembered when there had been rich Arabs in Van, asking questions.
“Running from them. Mary and baby Jesus. No more Joseph. Joseph died on Mount Ararat looking for the Ark.’’ Brother Peter shook his head fiercely. “Not Joseph. French name. Philippe! Yes, great man. My savior. Where is he?”
Mustafa sat very still. The Arabs, he recalled, had offered large amounts of money for information about a woman and child who had been with a man named Philippe.
“Then Joseph died,” Peter went on wildly. “So Peter had to take them. Peter. On this rock will I build my church. Took them in the van, remember the van we had? The van from Van.”
“Where did you take them?” ventured Mustafa.
“Egypt! Herod’s men hot after us. Was it Egypt? Bloody ugly city, it was.” For a while, Mustafa interjected questions, trying to channel Peter’s ramblings. It was like conversing with a sleepwalker, but at last, he had the bones of the tale. It was Brother Peter who had smuggled the rich man’s wife and son out of Van those many years ago, taking them to Erzurum—or maybe Ankara—in the mission’s old panel truck. No one around Van would have thought twice about seeing it on the road; it was as familiar as dust. To the airport in Erzurum. Or Ankara. Something about papers, new papers.
That was all Peter had to tell, now or ever. Toward midnight, with one last shout for Jesus, he fell silent. Then he was gone.
Mustafa did as he had been told. He did not touch the body, but locked the room behind him, removed the mask and gown, drenched himself in a fluid that smelled of alcohol, and called the hospital. Told to wai
t, he did. Hours later, to his astonishment and great fear, two foreigners—European doctors working for something called the U.N.—arrived. They praised him for following orders; he might have saved many lives, they said. Then they confined him to a room in the mission.
He was there for a month, wondering often if he would die in this infidel place. Sent home at last, he tried to ignore his wife’s cries of gratitude to God and went to search for the card that one of the rich Arabs had given him—“in case you think of anything later,” the man had said. Praise God, there it was. Never throw anything from such a rich man away. The name of a local hotel on one side; on the other, a phone number in al-Remal. Mustafa stared at the number for a long time. The call would cost him a month’s pay. He hoped that what Brother Peter had said was still worth something.
Ali
Abdallah Rashad, head of the agency that most Remalis called simply Falcon and which combined the functions fulfilled in America by the CIA, FBI, and Secret Service, closed the folder on his desk and waited for his nephew’s reaction.
“You believe this peasant, this Turk?” said Ali.
“He might be lying in hope of a reward, but so far as it can be checked, his story holds up.”
“So, the bitch is alive,” said Ali.
“It seems probable,” Abdallah replied quietly. “And my son, as well.”
“God willing.”
“Where are they?”
Abdallah decided to ignore the tone of demand. “That, of course, is the question, Nephew. I’ve reviewed the entire file in light of the new information. I’ve also initiated new inquiries. It seems likely that she and the boy went to Paris. They probably stayed in a certain hotel there. She may have seen a lawyer named Cheverny, but he died two years ago. So far, that is where the trail ends. They could be anywhere in the world now, under almost any identity.”
“Find her.”
Abdallah looked aside in embarrassment; Ali’s terseness verged on disrespect. “If she makes a mistake, we will,” he said more quietly than ever. “If not … time is like the sand, Nephew. In the end, it covers everything.” “I don’t need—” Ali controlled himself with visible effort. “Thank you, Uncle. God willing, she’ll make that mistake, and you’ll find my son. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”
“God willing, we will.”
Ali rose. “I thank you again, Uncle. It’s been good to see you. Unfortunately, I must go. Another appointment …”
“Of course, of course. I know how busy your schedule is. But perhaps just one more word, while I have the pleasure of your company.” “Certainly.” Ali did not sit down. “What is it?”
“Just this, nephew. It is my deepest wish that you be reunited with your son. At the same time, if he and his mother are found, it would reflect badly on al-Re- mal—and on the royal family itself—if anything … untoward happened.”
“What do you mean, Uncle?”
“Appearances, Nephew. Sometimes it seems as if the great world revolves on them. Imagine the talk if something happened to the woman after we located her. Even something as innocent as, say, a car accident.” “Well, that seems obvi- ous. But what does it have to do with me?” Ali’s face was a portrait of surprised innocence—like many guilty men’s, reflected his uncle.
“Nothing at all,” said Abdallah. “Just a thought that came while we were talking. Please, I’ve kept you long enough. Peace to you, Nephew. May we see more of one another.”
“God willing. Peace to you, Uncle. Oh, by the way, does anyone else know of this?”
“No.”
“Not even the king?” “No one.”
“Good. Probably best not to trouble him, in his present condition.” “Of course.” The king, after a lifetime of self-indulgence, was at the edge of death, his heart, kidneys, and liver failing together as if in a conspiracy.
Abdallah saw his nephew to the door. He disliked Ali’s quick temper, his duplicity, and much else of what he knew about him—and he knew a great deal. At the same time, he did not want Ali for an enemy.
O
There were many things to think about. Decisions to make. Returning to his office, Abdallah opened the safe that contained his most secret files.
In the hall, Ali cursed under his breath. That strange little warning at the end of the conversation—had the old goat been saying what he seemed to be saying? And if so, where had his information come from?
Oh, well, did it really matter? So what if the old man knew, as long as he did his job and found Karim—and the bitch. Once that happened, who cared what his opinion might be? His whole generation was coming to its end.
Finding Karim. Ali savored the thought. His second wife, although he had come to detest her, had at least given him two more sons, as well as a daughter. But the loss of his firstborn had been the greatest of his life. And now there was a chance that he would get him back. What would the boy—almost a man—be like now? Ali could only picture a younger version of himself.
As for Amira—yes, let Abdallah find her. And then let him choke on his warnings. Ali had a right to punish the bitch. With deep pleasure, he began to imagine the details of his vengeance.
O
Abdallah pressed the tape deck’s Play button. He had not listened to the cassette in many months, but his talk with Ali caused him to want to hear it again.
“God’s peace be with you, Highness.”
“And with you, Tamer. How good to see you again.” “And to see you, too, Highness.”
The voices were those of Ali and Tamer Sibai, who sounded nervous even in ordinary greetings. An interesting fellow, thought Abdallah. Everyone knew him, of course, as the brother of a woman—Laila Sibai—executed in a famous adultery case. Tamer, the oldest brother, had thrown the first stone.
Abdallah compressed his lips in sympathy and respect for a man who could carry out such a duty.
“Please—no need for formalities when it’s just the two of us. Call me Ali.” “As you wish, Highn—Ali.”
Abdallah knew that Tamer had reason to be nervous. The man’s present was considerably murkier than his past. He owned several businesses—his card described him as an investor—but by far, the most profitable of them had come to Abdallah’s attention by way of requests for information from various drug-enforcement agencies in Europe and the United States.
“You’ll do me the honor of having coffee with me?” “The honor is mine.”
“I'll ring. You know, I was thinking the other day of you—how we used to play together as boys.”
“I can’t imagine that you’d remember me. I remember you, of course.”
“And I thought, ?How is it that I don’t see my old friend Tamer anymore?’ Ah, the coffee.”
Abdallah fast-forwarded the tape through the small talk and coffee that Remali custom required before any discussion of serious business.
“… and yet, as great as the pleasure of seeing you again, my friend Tamer, I’m afraid I must spoil it with bad news.”
“Bad news?”
“I hope you won’t blame the messenger for the message.” “No, of course not.”
“Very well, my friend, here it is: Through no wish of my own, I have had the misfortune to learn who dishonored your sister.”
“Name him, and he dies, even now.”
Abdallah nodded in approval. Whatever else Tamer Sibai might be, he was a man of honor. Nervousness and servility had vanished completely from his voice.
“Ah, my friend, you speak like a man, as anyone who knows you would expect. Yet, forgive me for saying that even honorable courage must be tempered, as a blade is tempered in the fire. Otherwise, it may betray you. One must not forget all caution, even in matters of this kind. A man like you must not needlessly expose himself—and his country—to the prejudice of the great world that does not understand the Remali meaning of honor.”
“I thank you for your concern. Who is he?” “Malik Badir.”
A pause on the tape before Tamer spoke again.
“I always thought it was him.” “You did?”
Even on tape, Ali’s surprise was palpable. Abdallah almost laughed, recognizing what had happened: Ali had invented the story about Badir, probably expecting to have to convince Tamer, who instead had leaped to the bait. Abdal- lah had seen the same thing happen in interrogations.
“Yes. And now I know. Again, I thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me for doing what friendship and respect require. But I hope you understood what I said just now. Badir is a citizen of the world these days. I ask you not to … handle the matter in a way that compromises our country.”
I know of only one way to handle the matter. What did you have in mind?”
“Ah. You cut to the heart of the matter. I thought that perhaps a third party, an independent contractor, as it were, could be engaged. Forgive me for saying it, but I’ve heard that you have certain … contacts in Corsica.”
“My business takes me to many places.”
“Of course. Again, forgive me. I know that I'm asking you to forgo a duty that may seem purely personal. But I ask it for al-Remal. And for that reason, I will gladly pay any costs that … engaging someone might involve.”
“That’s appreciated, but unnecessary. I can take care of the arrangements myself.”
“As you wish, of course. But if any extra expenses arise, please allow me to help meet them. Meanwhile, I’ve taken the liberty of making certain inquiries that may save you some time and effort. For example, I’ve learned that, at this time of year, Badir and his wife vacation at a villa in the south of France, and that twice a week they drive to a bistro in a nearby small town. His car is easily recognized—I’ll give you all the details—and the road is lightly traveled. If there were an accident … a shame, of course, since an act of honor cries out to be known. But there is the country to think of.”
“I understand. A third time, I thank you, Ali Rashad. I'll never forget this.”
Abdallah stopped the tape. He could easily imagine how it might have been done: an assassin who won the confidence of some poor truck driver, got him drunk, crashed his heavy vehicle into an oncoming Mercedes, expertly broke the passed-out trucker’s neck, and simply walked away across country.
Mirage Page 32