Forsaken (33 page)

“What kind of promise?”

“I want you to hold onto this envelope. If I get back from Lebanon okay, you can return it to me—unopened. If something happens to me, I want you to open it. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“This is a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. I need you to promise me, though. I know it will be tempting to open it as soon as you walk out that door tonight, and I can’t stop you from doing that. But I’m giving it to you because I trust you. I’m asking you to prove that I have reason to. Will you do it?”

I turned the envelope over in my hands. Then I held it up to the porch light and squinted.

“Very funny,” he said.

I pulled it back down. “Okay, I give you my word that I won’t open it unless you don’t come back. But you will come back, right? And when you do, you’ll tell me what’s in the envelope. Otherwise, I’d have a rather unbecoming rooting interest in your trip.”

He chuckled. “Thank you for promising.” He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly ten. I’ve got to get down to the campus to meet Kacey.” He reached down and slipped on his shoes.

We stood and picked up our glasses. Sadie trotted to the back door and looked at us over her shoulder.

Simon touched my arm. “Before you go, there is one more thing I’d like.”

“What’s that?”

He leaned toward me, stretched out his arms, and hugged me.

THE MORNING AFTER SIMON left for Beirut, I was squeezing my toes into a pump in the shoe department at Nordstrom when my phone rang. It was my pilot friend, Roger.

“The package has been delivered.”

“Is that some sort of secret pilot code?”

“Yeah. Sounded cool, huh?”

“As cool as you’re likely to get. Were there any problems?”

“None that I could see.”

“Great. Are you staying over there for a while?”

“No. I’ll be back tonight. I have another job the day after tomorrow.”

“Thank you. I’ll make sure you get paid promptly.”

“My pleasure. Maybe this is something that I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren about.”

“Don’t you have to have children before you can have grandchildren?”

“I’m working on that.”

“That’s more information than I needed. Thanks again.”

He laughed. “Any time.”

I clicked the phone off, found Hakim’s number, and punched the buttons. After a few rings Hakim answered, huffing and puffing.

“This is Taylor. Are you all right? You sound out of breath.”

“I’m jogging. Here, let me get off to the side of the track.” There was a shuffling sound, and several car horns blew in the background.

“Where are you, on Michigan Avenue?”

“Close. I’m at the track at Northwestern University, the downtown campus. “What you’re hearing is Lake Shore Drive. Have you talked to Simon?”

“I just got a call from the pilot. Simon got to Amman okay.”

“I know. I talked to my cousin Kalil. Simon is fine. In fact, Kalil and Jibran have already gotten him to Beirut, and he’s checked into his hotel. It’s a nice hotel, near the water.”

“That’s what I wanted to know. They’re staying with him, aren’t they?”

“Oh, yes. One of them will be with him at all times.
Jibran is staying right there in the room with him. They are both experienced men. Militia.”

“That’s all I wanted to know. Thanks, Hakim. Bye.”

I had never been a worrier, and I gave myself a mental kick for acting like such a grandmother. I put the pumps back in their box and resolved to relax. Simon was going to be just fine without me.

THAT NIGHT I DREAMED that Kacey was standing in front of me, in the isosceles firing stance, aiming her pistol at my recovery partner, Brandon. I tried to tell her not to shoot, but my mouth was stuck shut with something like super bubble gum. I watched helplessly as she sighted the pistol and closed her finger over the trigger. Instead of a gun shot, her pistol rang, and rang, and rang again.

I sat up in bed. My phone. I leaned over and hit the speaker button. “Hello.”

“Taylor, it’s Hakim.”

I clicked off the speaker and held the phone to my ear. I looked at the clock. Two-thirty in the morning. “What’s wrong?”

“Something’s happened to Simon.”

My shoulders sagged. “Oh, no. What?”

“Jibran is dead. He and Simon were supposed to meet Kalil for breakfast at 9:30 in the hotel. When they didn’t show up, Kalil went to their room. He knocked on the door and there was no answer. He got the hotel manager to open the door. Jibran was sitting on the floor, propped against the wall beside the door. He had a bullet through his head.”

I sat back against the headboard. “What about Simon?”

“He wasn’t there. There was no other blood or sign of a struggle, just Jibran lying there.”

“I’m sorry, Hakim.”

“So am I.”

“How can we find out what happened to Simon? Has anyone contacted the authorities?”

“One might question who the authorities are in Lebanon right now. We cannot rely on the police. No one knows for sure who is loyal to what faction these days.”

“What can we do?”

“My family has many connections, and not just in the Christian community. There are back channels to be worked, things to be done to obtain information. Lebanon is a country with a chaotic political climate. In some ways that may help us. Allegiances can change day to day. Often money is the thing that changes them. They will let me know as soon as they hear something.”

“I want to go over there.”

“That is not a good idea. An American woman traveling alone in Lebanon could be in danger.”

“I get the idea that anyone traveling in Lebanon could be in danger. I’m pretty good at taking care of myself.”

“I suspect that you are. If you insist on going, I wish you would allow me to have my uncle arrange an escort you can trust, someone to drive you around who knows the area, the customs. You’ll want to blend in as much as possible.”

“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

“When do you intend to leave?”

“I know a pilot. As soon as I can get him on the phone and make visa arrangements.”

“Your visa should not be a problem. You can get it at the Beirut airport when you arrive. You will find Lebanon a relatively easy country to get into for that region of the world. Our goal is to make sure that you come out again.”

“Yes, of course.”

“One more thing: I understand the type of work you are in. I have a tip for you. You may be accustomed to traveling with a weapon in your luggage. I wouldn’t attempt that. My uncle can arrange for anything you need in that regard once you arrive in Lebanon.”

“Thank you for the tip.”

I clicked the phone off and put my head in my hands. This couldn’t really be happening. Why didn’t Simon listen to us? I grabbed my hair and pulled it until it hurt. I wanted to punch him, hurt him. He had
no right to throw away his life. There were people who needed him.

I needed him.

And what chance did I have of helping him in Beirut?

I sat up straight and took a deep breath. One thing was certain: Whining would accomplish nothing. I might not be able to do much, but I had to do what I could. I swung my feet over the side of the bed. Before I stood, I looked up at the ceiling.

“God, if you’re up there, please keep an eye on Simon. And give me some luck.”

AS I WALKED TOWARD the baggage claim area at the Beirut airport, I saw a man in a New York Yankees T-shirt holding up a cardboard sign with black lettering: “Taylor Pasbury.”

I waved at him as I approached. “Sakir?”

He put the sign under his arm. “Miss Pasbury? I was worried that your flight would be delayed. Look at the sky.” He pointed out the plate-glass windows at dark clouds rumbling a mile or so from the airport. “They might have sent your plane back to Amman. Follow me. The baggage claim is this way.”

“I don’t have any other baggage. This is it.” I nodded at the wheeled suitcase I was pulling. “I came in on a private jet. Any news about Simon?”

He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “We will wait and talk about that in the car.”

I looked around at the passengers attending to their luggage, although I had no idea what I was looking for. A fellow in a trench coat and dark glasses?

As the automatic doors opened to let us out of the terminal, the first raindrops were splattering on the pavement. Sakir led me across the terminal drive to a silver Mercedes parked in one of the first stalls in the parking garage.

“Is this your car?”

“You expected a bombed out 4-Runner? This isn’t Iraq. We’ve had our problems for the past few decades, and certainly during the Israeli fight with Hezbollah. Even in the days when Syria was running things, though, there were ways to make a good living in this country. Our family has been here many years. We adapt.” He tossed my suitcase into the trunk and opened the passenger door for me.

“You will be staying at the Seafarer Hotel under the name Tia Gemaldi. We know many of the staff there. You will be safe, and we will be able to communicate easily. Here is a passport in case you are ever asked for identification around the hotel. Do not use this with any of the authorities, though—only with staff at the hotel and nongovernment people. If anyone in authority asks for your passport, give them your real one. You do not want to get yourself in unnecessary trouble.”

I took the passport and put it in my travel bag. “Your English is very good. Better than mine, I’d say.”

We ducked into the car. “I’m a graduate of Columbia University,” he said as he turned the key. “Good English is a valuable asset there. You should teach it to more New Yorkers.”

I laughed.

As he backed out of the parking space, he glanced at me. “We think we have news of Simon.”

“What is it?”

“We believe we know who is holding him. Now we are working on finding out where.”

“Who has him?”

“A small group of Shiite thugs. They have ties to Iranian security forces, but not at any official level. It appears that they are attempting to make a name for themselves.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“This is not Texas, Miss Pasbury. There is no way of knowing who can be trusted in the police or the government. Allegiances are fluid these days.”

“So if you find him, what can we do?”

“We’re not sure. That will depend on the circumstances. Have you ever heard Lebanese music?”

“No.”

He reached for the radio and turned it on. The Beach Boys were singing “Help Me, Rhonda.” He smiled.

Twenty minutes later he pulled into the circular drive of a gleaming glass high-rise with a giant fountain
in the drive. “This is the Seafarer. Four Stars. I think you will find it satisfactory. Let’s get you checked in.”

He walked past the bellman and led me into the hotel lobby. I headed for the check-in desk. He held up a hand. “Wait, one moment, please.”

We stood about thirty feet from the desk. From the corner of his eye he watched a heavyset man behind the desk who was handing a key to a customer. When the customer left, the man looked at Sakir and nodded.

“Now.” Sakir led me to the desk. He did not speak to the man as I registered but stood next to my suitcase a few feet away.

I’d already been told that most of the service employees who deal with the public in Beirut speak English. That proved to be true. Check-in was no more difficult than if I’d been in Kansas City. Sakir rode with me in the elevator to the seventh floor. My room was halfway down the long hallway.

“Right in the middle, lots of people around,” he said. “That’s good.”

I pulled out the card key.

“May I come in with you?” he said. “I have something to show you.”

I paused. “Sure.” I handed him the key. “You first.”

He smiled. “Smart. You should do well in Beirut.” He slid the key into the slot, swung the door open, and walked into the room. When he got to the foot of the bed, he dropped onto his stomach.

I took a quick step back toward the door. “What are you doing?”

“Just a minute.” He rolled onto his back and scooted his head to where he could see beneath the bed. Then he reached under it and moved his hand back and forth in wide swipes. His hand stopped. “There.” He swept his hand again. “And there! Thank you.” When he pulled his hand from beneath the bed, he was gripping a pistol.

I lifted my suitcase in front of me and backed toward the doorway, my eyes on the pistol.

He laughed. “No, no, come back. This is for you. Sig Sauer .357 is your preference, I believe?” He flipped it so he was gripping the barrel and held it out to me.

I walked back into the room and took it. Still on his back, he reached under the bed again and dragged out three twelve-round magazines. He sat up, his back against the bed, the magazines on the carpet beside him.