On a Clear Day (12 page)

“Something like that,” I answered.

“Dahlia, you think Sayeed is just mysterious?”

“We know more or less who he is,” I said. “Like Tristan and Drego were saying, if we add in other pieces of information, we can plot him out. If the stuff he’s done in the past is more or less consistent with what he’s done recently, we can make pretty good predictions.”

“Drego?” Michael pointed toward where Drego and Mei-Mei sat together.

“Can’t tell right now,” Drego said. “Like Tristan said, if we know how many people he’s got, we can figure the size of his move. If we know where he’s planning a move, we’ll know even more. The best thing to do might be just to beat the crap out of the Brits to make sure they’re giving us everything they got and not just using us.”

“Javier?”

“I can optimize our resources, get things moving,” Javier said. “It’s really iffy if you have to pick up the information as you go along.”

“Mei-Mei?”

Her face twisted and then hardened. She cut her eyes toward me and exhaled heavily. She had dissed Michael, and now he was asking her opinion. I could feel her thinking about what she should do.

She exhaled.

“I know the difference between just making moves, or
just doing computer models, and a real endgame,” Mei-Mei said. “All the computer models in the world won’t get you a bowl of soup if they’re not right and on time. I don’t see Sayeed passing out any terrorist manuals.”

“Anja?”

“If he meets with us, he won’t be able to resist trying to impress us.” Anja rested her chin on her fist. “And every time he opens his mouth, he’ll give something up if we read it right.”

Mei-Mei was staring daggers at Anja. I could see how she would be a good chess player. She had a killer instinct, and she turned it against anybody and everybody.

“Tristan?”

“I do what I do,” Tristan said. “And I do it good.”

It wasn’t the right answer, or even a clear answer, but people didn’t mess with Tristan.

“You sure?” Drego asked.

“I’m sure I can bring whatever fight we need to engage in together,” Tristan said. “What you guys decide you want to do with Sayeed, I’ll make happen.”

We rode the next forty-five minutes in silence. Getting into London was brutal. The Underground was shut down and buses were being rerouted away from the Central Zone, which meant that to get anywhere, you had to circle the outskirts of the city and wait until some traffic officer let you down a path you hoped would lead you to where you wanted to go. Everything was rerouted around Hyde Park, and we were all getting hungry and I had to go to the bathroom.

“Do we want to vote on meeting Sayeed?” Michael
asked. We were sitting in traffic in Bayswater. There were a lot of small hotels along the way, and people bent like question marks under black umbrellas moving through the mist.

At first nobody answered; then Drego said that he voted yes.

One by one we all voted yes.

Why? I thought the guys were eager to fight, especially Drego and Tristan. Michael was doing what he thought was right, and I wasn’t 100 percent sure what that meant. I didn’t know anything about Javier. Mei-Mei—I expected her to go along with Drego.

Anja. I didn’t think of her as a fighter, but I didn’t think of her as someone who would back down either. She was good people. Period.

Me, I voted yes and then asked myself if I had voted just to support Michael.

I thought he was pulling it off. Pulling the band together, getting all the right people into all the right places and giving us freedom to do our own thing. He was definitely working it.

What I didn’t know was why the hell Sayeed wanted to meet with us. Why were we so important to everybody?

“A
re you still feeling good about meeting with this Sayeed character?” I was pouring two capfuls of something called Persil into the washing machine.

“He’s a big-time creep,” Anja said. She was popping seedless grapes into her mouth at record speed. “But I want to do something. You know, storm the barricades or march through Valley Forge. Maybe we’re all in that boat. We watch good people do nothing—didn’t somebody say something about that? Some poet talking about good people doing nothing while the bad guys jig around?”

“Could be,” I said. “I’ve never been into poetry. You try this washing machine yet?”

Each of our apartments had a small washing machine
that looked like it was a hundred years old. Somebody had dropped the instructions on how to use it in water, so I was playing it by ear.

“I washed some things by hand,” Anja said. “The guys and Mei-Mei sent their stuff out.”

“They told you that?”

“Mei-Mei told me,” Anja said.

“She didn’t tell me,” I said.

“That’s because she’s competing with you,” Anja said, pushing the grapes away. “She needs to cover up that nagging feeling she has that she’s only as good as her last review, or her last chess ranking. She doesn’t see me as much competition. Don’t let her bother you.”

“I just don’t want to be the one who screws up,” I said.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah—we’re beginning to feel like a team, right?”

“Now I
really
don’t want to screw up,” I said. “And don’t say ‘good’ again.”

“You won’t screw up,” Anja said. “We’re feeling our way in the dark. Everybody knows that. But you don’t have a mean streak. Sometimes I think it’s good to have a mean streak—it lets you cover up your doubts.”

“That’s deep.”

“I read it someplace,” Anja said. “Usually, if I read something good, I remember it. But I never remember where I read it. If I could do that, I’d be like—I don’t know—smart sounding or something.”

“You’re smart enough,” I said. “Michael wouldn’t have you here if you weren’t.”

“More team stuff, Dahlia.” Anja smiled and reached for the grapes again. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t know. I started a model based on all the news items I found about Sayeed. With all the crap he’s done—shooting up villages, taking food supplies—how come he was under the radar for so long?”

“Maybe because he was just one more foul thing happening in a sea of bad things,” Anja said. “You can’t keep up with everything. Did you find anything interesting?”

“No.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “You’ll get it together.”

The washing machine started shaking like it was going to take off through the ceiling, and we both went over and looked at it. I thought about pulling out the plug, then changed my mind. We watched it for another twenty seconds, and then it stopped shaking and started humming.

“E-flat,” Anja said. “It’s got soul!”

“Take the grapes,” I said as Anja was leaving. She had made me feel good about myself when I’d hoped I wasn’t letting my mouth lead me to places I couldn’t really get to.

I
t was all settled. We were going to meet with Sayeed. Michael was giving us details about what Victor wanted to know about Sayeed’s strength. Drego and Tristan were listening to every word, but Mei-Mei looked distant. I knew she was recording the conversation in her little brain, taking it down syllable by syllable. Later, she’d play it back for Drego and criticize Michael. I was already nervous, as much for Michael as for myself. He didn’t look as confident as Drego, or Tristan, or even Mei-Mei.

Edgeware Road. There were rows of shops with Arabic signs, and restaurants with dark guys and light-skinned girls at tables in front of them smoking hookahs. I didn’t think all the girls were Middle Eastern, but it was hard to
tell. London wasn’t nearly as white as I’d thought it would be. We went to a narrow building next to what looked like a club of some sort. Victor had asked if one of his people could “tag along,” but Michael had said no.

“Their working with British intelligence makes me jumpy,” he said.

The way Javier talked, I felt that the group Michael had put together hadn’t been formed very long ago. I also wondered if Michael really knew Mei-Mei and Drego anymore. They were very much a team. She hung out with him all the time, making sure that some part of her body was touching his. I wondered how they touched when they were alone.

Crap! There was no access for Javier’s chair! Drego and Tristan offered to carry him up the stairs, but he was dead set against it.

“I’ll wait in the van,” he said.

It was a sad moment. The team was being split up by something as stupid as wheelchair access. I was immediately pissed at England. Nobody wanted to make a big deal of it, but it was a big deal for all of us.

Up a narrow flight of stairs. The room we entered was illuminated by yellowish lanterns set into the ceiling. There was a red couch against one wall. Against another was a table with what looked like a damask tablecloth. It caught the light from the ceiling and from the candles placed at either end. There were chairs around the table, high backed and tufted. It was all very dramatic. Drama is always about trying to put something fake on
the table, and I relaxed when I saw it. The adjoining room was set off from us by four stained-glass panels. A delicate balance of colors showed an orange tree surrounded by peacocks.

In my head, I went over the dossier the Brits had supplied about Sayeed. He had emerged from a village in the High Atlas Mountains some three years earlier. He was between the ages of seventeen and twenty and had put together a force of some eight hundred to twelve hundred young fighters. He had no known family. To some Moroccans he was heroic, but to the Brits he was just a terrorist being raised on the pedestal of his crimes.

The room was empty except for the sounds of the rhythmic music drifting up from the floor below. A fan turned lazily in a corner, barely moving the heavy air.

For a moment we all stood awkwardly, waiting while our eyes grew accustomed to the low light. Then we positioned ourselves on one side of the table, our backs toward the door. In my paranoia, I channeled an old cowboy movie I once saw where a sheriff said to always sit with your back to a wall.

Tristan was sitting at one end of the table and Drego near the middle. Mei-Mei was next to Drego, and Michael was still standing. Anja and I were sitting at the other end.

Minutes went by. Sayeed was late. More drama, or maybe he wasn’t coming. Then there was a shuffling on the stairway, and I turned as Sayeed’s crew entered the room. There were only four people. They came in, took a moment to see how we were situated, and took seats across from us.

One of their people was a heavy-shouldered guy who looked as if he could have been an American football player. Muscle.

The second was a very nervous-looking kid who was drumming his fingers almost before he was fully seated. Nervous Guy was yellowish brown. Brains.

The third was brown-skinned with round cheeks and heavy glasses. He looked out of place.

Then there was Sayeed. He was very tall and stood for a moment to show off his height. He was dressed in a white, loose-fitting robe with the headdress of an Arab chieftain. His broad forehead and dark eyes topped a classic bone structure that tapered down into a neat goatee. It was Black Jesus time.

“So, you have arranged a meeting with Sayeed,” he said. His voice was deep, resonant. The accent was slight but there. “What information are you digging for, my American friends?”

“We thought that people with common interests should get to know each other,” Michael said as he sat down.

“The entertainer!” Sayeed gestured at Michael as he spoke to his guys. Then, slowly, he turned toward him. “Do you want to exchange dance moves?”

The challenge.

Michael put his hand to his chin and shrugged. “We don’t have a lot of time to waste,” he said. “If you’re not interested …”

“Don’t be impatient,” Sayeed said. Then to his own guys, as if he was interpreting us, “That’s an American habit—impatience.”

Michael leaned back in his chair. We heard more steps on the stairs, and I imagined they were more of Sayeed’s crew. I was relieved to see three young boys bringing bowls of fruit and small cakes. No one spoke as they placed them on the table before us, then quickly left.

“What shall I call you?” Sayeed looked at Michael. “When you performed with your band—was it called The Cave?”