Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  A small crowd had gathered outside. Laila drew her veil. The driver forced their way through. Back at the hotel, Laila used a credit card for more cash and tipped the taxi man exorbitantly.

  From her room, she called California. She needed David’s voice, his calm- ness, his love. The marina manager told her he was on a weeklong cruise down the Baja.

  She reserved a seat on the morning flight to Paris, went to bed early, slept fitfully, and was at the airport two hours before departure time. While she waited, two men, who were obviously police, approached.

  “Laila Badir?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come with us, please.”

  They took her to the little room, where she met the man with the oddly familiar name: Prince Ali al-Rashad.

  O

  “You are Laila Badir, and your father is Malik Badir?” “Yes. What’s all this about?”

  “About violations of our law, Miss Badir.” The prince, a short, slight, distinguished man about her father’s age, seemed pleased with himself.

  “What violations? What laws?” “That will become clear later.”

  He would say nothing more definite, and after taking her passport, he left her alone in the room.

  What had she done? Was it that she had violated the dress codes? No, they wouldn’t send a prince for that. It had to be something big, something about her visit to the village. But why should that bother anyone? It came to her that she was the daughter of an executed criminal—if the village woman had told the truth. Maybe that was all it amounted to—she was being detained while they checked her out.

  None of it felt right. She tapped at the door. A guard opened it. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  He thought it over, then accompanied her and stationed himself outside while she went in.

  Thank God, there was another woman there. Laila scrawled her name and the number of Malik’s office in Marseilles on a one-thousand-rial bill.

  She handed the bill to the woman. “There’ll be much more if you call this number and tell whoever answers that I’m in trouble here,” she said.

  The woman took the money without a word.

  Back in the detention room, Laila waited for what seemed like hours. The guard brought her tea, but nothing to eat.

  At last, Prince Ali swept in again. He smiled and tossed her thousand- rial note on the table. “You may keep your money. And don’t worry about your father. He’s on his way. It’s so very like him to come in person.” “You know my father?”

  “We are old … acquaintances.”

  At last, she realized where she had heard his name before. Malik had spoken it with anger and contempt. So this man was an enemy of her father’s.

  “I want a lawyer,” she said. “I demand to know why I’m being kept here.” “Why would you need a lawyer? You’re not accused of a crime. You’re being held more in the nature of … evidence.” “Evidence of what?”

  “Of various crimes. Kidnapping, for example.” “What kidnapping?”

  “Your own.” He smiled again. “I see that you are confused. Let me explain. Long ago, a crime was committed in our country. It was a crime that requires two criminals, a male and a female. The female was caught and executed. The male was never found out. For years, I’ve had my suspicions as to the guilty party, and by your coming here and going where you went, you’ve allowed me to confirm them. So now we’re awaiting the arrival of the second criminal.”

  So that was it: she was being used as bait to draw in her father. “I’m a citizen of France, as well as of al-Remal,” she said as haughtily as she could. “I have the right to contact the French embassy.”

  The prince waved a hand. “In good time.”

  One of the guards entered. “The control tower says he’s coming in, Highness.”

  “Good. Come with me, Miss Badir. You’ll want to remember this event.”

  They went to an arrival bay with a view of the runways. Several aides joined the prince. On the tarmac, a dozen men, who appeared to be plain- clothes police, waited in a loose knot.

  “There,” pointed one of the aides. Laila recognized the flamboyant markings of her father’s private 747 as it touched down.

  “Always show, always extravagance,” said Ali to the aide. “We’ll confiscate the plane, of course.”

  The jet was taxiing toward the terminal. The plainclothesmen spread out in a semicircle.

  There was nothing Laila could do.

  A truck rolled onto the tarmac and pulled to a stop just as the big jet did.

  Soldiers piled out and formed a line facing the plainclothesmen. “What is this?” said Ali.

  “I don’t know, Highness.”

  Behind them, there was a disturbance. A group of men in military uniform approached.

  “General, what is the meaning of this?” Ali demanded of their leader. “Your Highness, I am ordered to escort this woman to that aircraft.” “Ordered! By whom?”

  “By the king, Highness.”

  “The king!” Laila saw the prince’s lips tighten with rage, but he said nothing more.

  “This way, mademoiselle,” said the general. He led her down a ramp to the waiting 747. An attendant sealed the door behind her. The pilot had never cut the engines, and the plane was moving immediately.

  Laila saw Malik coming toward her, his face a sculpture of fatherly concern. As he tried to hold her, she half responded, half pushed him away. “Oh, Papa!” she heard herself saying. “Oh, Papa, I hate you!”

  O

  In the terminal, Ali was on the secret line to the palace. His brother Ahmad—the king since their father’s death—answered immediately.

  “I demand an explanation, Brother,” fumed Ali. “I’ve been humiliated here.

  Absolutely humiliated. And a criminal has been allowed to go free.”

  Ahmad’s tone was dry. “You are too eager in your duty sometimes, Brother. I should have been informed of this, instead of having to hear it secondhand.”

  “And what would you have done, then?”

  “Just what I have done now. Do you remember the Mirages, Brother? We wanted those planes badly, and a certain individual helped us to get them— against your counsel, if I recall correctly. And in a year or two, God willing, he will help us to buy some American F-fourteens. So I do not wish for him to be interfered with.”

  “But—”

  “Come to dinner this evening, Brother. We can talk. It’s been too long since I’ve had a private hour with you.”

  The phone clicked dead. Distantly, Ali could hear the roar of the 747 as it began its takeoff run.

  Part

  Seven

  Truth

  The thump of the plane’s tires on a runway woke Jenna.

  The red-haired man sat across the aisle watching her.

  “Sleep well, Princess? Get you something? A cup of coffee for the ride?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Some orange juice, maybe?” “No.”

  The jet taxied to a halt.

  “Well, here we are. End of the line. Steady there—legs not quite awake yet, huh? Wouldn’t want a lawsuit, now would we?”

  She ignored his offer of help but followed him to the door. What else was there to do?

  The sunlight was blinding as they stepped from the jet. The surroundings confirmed Jenna’s fears: a private airstrip in the desert. A limousine was waiting. The red-haired man opened the back door for her. A glance at the driver told her that he was an Arab. Of course.

  The redhead climbed into the front. “Off we go,” he said cheerily.

  “How much is he paying you?” she asked. Idle conversation. Whatever it was, it was more than she could match. Not that it mattered now.

  He laughed. “Enough. I never thought I’d hear myself say that, but this client pays enough.”

  Was Karim safe? Of course, he was. No one was out to hurt him. What would he hear of this, what would he know? Would he hear anything at all?

  They were
speeding along a two-lane highway. She recognized neither the road nor the landscape. In fact, there was something distinctly off-kilter about the whole scene. The desert itself didn’t look right—not the sand, nor the scraggly plants. And now ahead, there were houses. Big, American-style ranch houses. Even in the oil enclave, there had been no such houses in al-Remal. Could it have changed so much?

  In the mirror, she caught the driver’s eyes. A hint of a smile. Something familiar … It couldn’t be. But he would be older, and—

  “Jabr? Jabr!”

  “At your service, Highness.’’

  “What are you—?” She turned to the red-haired man. “What is this? Where are we?”

  “The right side of the tracks, Princess. Palm Springs, California. We’re just coming in the back way.”

  “Jabr, you tell me, please—what are we doing here? I’m afraid.”

  The amusement in his eyes turned instantly to concern. “But don’t you know, Highness? We’re bringing you to your brother.”

  “Malik? He’s here?”

  “You didn’t tell her?” Jabr demanded of the redhead. “Hey, I’ve got orders. I work for him same as you.”

  Jabr muttered a few words in Arabic that Jenna had no intention of translating. Evidently, there was no love lost between the two men—but that hardly concerned her at the moment.

  “Malik’s here?” she repeated. She felt light-headed. The whole thing had the surrealistic aura of a dream.

  “That’s his humble abode straight ahead,” said the red-haired man, nodding toward an enormous contemporary wood-and-glass house. They pulled through a gate and up a long drive.

  A short, roly-poly man, obviously Remali, hurried down the steps to meet them.

  “Oh, this is crazy,” said Jenna. “Farid? Is that you, Farid?” She was out of the car, hugging her cousin for all she was worth.

  “You’ve brought the wrong woman,” Farid scolded Jabr and the redhead. “Far too young. Besides, Amira was beautiful, but nothing like this.” “Liar! My God, this is too much. Where is Malik?”

  “So soon you wish to leave me for your tiresome brother? Very well. This way.”

  He escorted her into the house. “In there, Little Cousin. Surprise him—he doesn’t know you’re here yet.”

  The door he indicated led to a large room opening onto a vast patio and swimming pool.

  Malik was standing with his back to her at the sliding glass door, looking out, apparently lost in thought. It had to be Malik, even though his black hair had gone to salt-and-pepper.

  “Brother?”

  He turned. “Little Sister!”

  He rushed to her, and they held each other close. Suddenly, she was crying.

  So was he.

  “When I doubt that God is merciful, let me remember this moment,” Malik said fervently. “Ah, Amira!”

  She pushed him away. “But wait, but wait. Why did you drag me here like this? You scared me to death! Until ten minutes ago, I thought Ali had caught me.”

  “I had a reason—ten minutes ago, you say?” “Yes. Until I recognized Jabr, I thought—”

  “Well, that’s not right. You were supposed to be told while you were on the way, in the air.”

  “I wasn’t told anything. I was asleep most of the time. They gave me some sort of sedative, I think.”

  Malik frowned. “Ryan was supposed to tell you. Maybe I should have given more specific orders. These guys love to act like they’re in the movies. On the other hand, I didn’t want him to tell you right away. I meant to show you some- thing—to teach you a lesson.”

  “You mean you terrorized me on purpose? I should slap you, Brother.” She half meant it.

  “The lesson,” he said seriously, “is that if I can do this so easily, others can, too.”

  She thought it over. “And exactly how did you find me?”

  “It wasn’t easy. Your letter—sending it from Toronto was a master stroke. So many Arab expatriates end up there. We spent months, years combing Canada—and finding nothing, of course. Then one day, Ryan—he’s a private detective, in case you haven’t guessed—said maybe we should try the United States. I told him, ‘Canada’s been a silver mine for you. Now you want a gold mine, too.’ Maybe that’s why he gave you a hard time. He made a fortune looking for you. Once you were found …” Malik laughed a little ruefully.

  “But how did he find me?”

  “We had two main things to go on. One, of course, was that you had a son—although we never dreamed he’d still have the same name. The other was what you said about ‘success in work I love.’ I knew it had to be something that called for education—those books you were always reading, even as a kid. So Ryan started with the colleges, alumni publications, yearbooks, stuff like that. He and his whole agency. Give him credit: even with computers, it was a massive job. I must have looked at a thousand pictures. No luck. Then, just when we were both ready to give up, he had the idea of finding out what professional conventions were in Toronto when the letter was mailed. There were a dozen, but the psychologists were the ones who seemed most likely. And … voila!” He laughed.

  “When he showed me photographs of you, I told him he was crazy. He had to explain about plastic surgery. I was naive, I suppose. We went to Boston, and I spied on you from a distance. I knew right away that it was you—something in the way you walk, more than anything else. That was two years ago.” “Two years! Then why did you wait till now—with all this nonsense that I still may slap you for? Why didn’t you say anything, contact me?”

  “I almost ran up to you right there on the street. But something told me to wait. ‘She’s been hiding for this long,’ I thought. ‘She must have a reason.’ I didn’t know what it might be. To tell the truth, I thought it might have something to do with Philippe’s death. So I waited.”

  “Then why now?”

  “Partly, because I couldn’t wait any longer. But partly, because things have changed.”

  “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  He waved a hand. “Later. Let it wait a bit, now that you’re here. Relax. You must be tired.”

  “I slept well enough, thanks to your man Ryan.” She realized that she was staring at the empty sleeve. “Your poor arm, Malik. I saw the Sandra Waters interview. I felt so—I don’t know: I just wanted to take care of you.

  His dark eyes smiled. “The usual reaction. Don’t worry, Baby Sister, it hasn’t cramped my style. The illustrious Dr. Kissinger was wrong: power isn’t the ultimate aphrodisiac—pity is. The maternal instinct. I was never able to excite it before. Now I can hardly shut it off.”

  “Idiot,” she said hugging him again. “Dear idiot.”

  “One piece of bad news,” he said quietly. “I may as well tell you now: Father died.”

  “No! Oh, my God!”

  “Yes. A bad stroke, and then he just slowly … fell to pieces.”

  A terrible wave of guilt swept over Jenna. “Oh, Malik, he never knew that Karim and I were alive.”

  “Yes, he did. We had reconciled—at least partly. When he was near the end, I told him … what I could. I’m not sure he understood it all, but he did know that his grandson and daughter were alive and well. Ah, but Amira, how I wish you had come to me for help, back then. Why did you go to the Frenchman instead? And what went wrong?”

  She told him as much as she dared. Even now, she feared igniting a vendetta against Ali, a fight that Malik could only lose. She settled for describing the murder in Alexandria, including the circumstances that led up to it. “I couldn’t live with him after that. But I just couldn’t leave, either—he would have hunted me down. Then Philippe came up with this idea.”

  “It must have been brilliant, seeing that it got him killed.” “Please, Brother, don’t be sarcastic. Just listen for a while.”

  She told the story of Philippe’s help and heroism. When she had finished, Malik sat quiet for a moment, reflexively rubbing the empty sleeve. “This makes a difference—a great
difference,” he said at last. “I had come to hate Philippe. Now I see that … well, what can I say?”

  “No need to say anything, Brother. How could you have known?”

  “As for Ali, I knew about his preferences, of course. Such things can’t be kept totally secret. But of this killing—nothing, not even a whisper. I’m glad to know of it—it may be useful someday. But right now, we need to deal with the present.” He leaned forward. “Listen carefully, Baby Sister: You can’t hide much longer. Ali knows that you and Karim are alive. He’s known it for some time. And all that time, he’s been searching for you, quietly but very persistently.” He smiled grimly. “I haven’t been much help to him, I’m afraid. I have certain … contacts in his camp—Jabr was one of them, before he came under suspicion and I had to get him out—and I’ve been able to feed Ali false clues now and then. But it’s only a matter of time until he finds you, just as I did. The question is, what will he do then?”

  “You’re asking me?” “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. For years, I assumed he’d take Karim and have me killed. Or maybe drag me back to al-Remal to be tried for stealing his son—I thought that was what Ryan was doing. But to tell the truth, I don’t know. It’s all gone on for so long.”

  “Do you think he would settle for having Karim back?” “I won’t give him back. Never.”

  “Karim is almost a grown man, Little Sister,” said Malik gently. “Before long, he’ll go where he wants.”

  “Then he can go. But not till then.” She heard the childishness in her reply. Jenna, the psychologist, knew quite well that Jenna, the mother, was in denial on the whole matter of growing independence.

  “All right, then. Let me give you my ideas. First, you and Karim could live with me, under my protection. I’ve become very rich, Little Sister—ten times richer than Onassis ever was. I can hire all the security you’d ever need, give you anything else you might want, and never miss the money.”

  “I know it, Brother. But I have my own life. I wouldn’t want to give it up.