Secrets From the Past (31 page)

I also understood why he was insisting Yusuf Aronson was with me at all times. He was my protection. Not Zac’s or anyone else’s. Mine. And Harry didn’t care that Zac might resent the intrusion. There would be no privacy with Yusuf around.

But I wasn’t going to argue with Harry. His rules were my rules. They always had been. Also, I had another problem to contend with. I was fairly certain I was pregnant. Several days ago I had realized, with a shock, that I had just missed my second period. I had also experienced certain changes in my body this past week; my breasts were not only larger, but tender. And I felt queasy at different times during the day. But no morning sickness as yet.

On my way home I stopped off at a Duane Reade pharmacy to pick up various items I needed for the trip. And a pregnancy home-test kit. I bought two in the end, wanting to make doubly sure of the results.

A short while later, back at the apartment, I used the first kit, which showed
positive
. And so did the second. There was no question about it any more. I was pregnant. And going to the front line in Libya.

Or should I tell Zac about the baby, and stay at home?

I was now facing another dilemma and I didn’t know what to do. Go or stay? If I went was I risking the baby? If I stayed here would I lose Zac?

Y
usuf Aronson was ten feet tall. Well, not really. He was only six feet five inches in his stockinged feet, to be precise. However, he frequently stood on a set of small folding steps that instantly shoved him up higher than everyone else. But he only ever made use of them in a situation like this.

So naturally, I saw him first.

Then he suddenly spotted me, shouted, ‘Pidge! Pidge!’ at the top of his voice, and began to wave his large white hankie, which he always used to attract attention to himself. He had once told me he never waved a red one, in case it attracted a bull; he had a great sense of humour.

Zac and I were standing in the arrivals area of Tripoli’s international airport. We had passed through passport control, and collected our checked luggage, which wasn’t much, and now we were in the middle of a wobbling mass of human flesh. Crowds of people, waiting for family and friends, I supposed. And in a sense we were trapped. Yusuf was on the outer edge of the crowds.

He was shouting to me once more. ‘Pidge! Start moving! Go to the right, to your right! As far as you can go.’

‘Okay!’ I screamed back, waving my scarf, and grabbed Zac’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s try and do what he wants. He always has a reason.’

‘He’s a good guy,’ Zac muttered, and walked ahead of me, squeezing, pushing, wriggling, shoving, getting through the people somehow, and following Yusuf’s instructions, we kept on moving to the right. It seemed to take forever, but finally we had gone as far as we could – we were now at a wall. There was a metal door set in it at one end; I tried the handle, but the door was locked from the other side. No way out.

It swung open a moment later, and there was Yusuf, a wide grin on his face, and behind him stood Ahmed and Jamal, his two sidekicks. That’s what I called them. He said they were his handlers – because they handled anything and everything for him. Zac had dubbed them gofers. I noticed Jamal was holding the folded steps, and smiled to myself.

Yusuf opened his arms to me, and I stepped into them. He hugged me tightly for a few seconds, and then released me, turned to Zac. ‘Well, hello, old chap, it’s great to see you,’ he said, in his lovely English voice, thrusting out his hand, still grinning. With a Lebanese mother, a Swedish father, and an English-Swedish-Arabic-French education, I considered Yusuf to be an international polyglot of the first order.

Glancing around, Zac said, ‘Where the hell are we, Yusuf?’

‘In a corner of the parking lot. Through a connection I have a key. Come on, my van is over there.’ Leading the way, Yusuf took us quickly to a large black van, and as Jamal and Ahmed handled the luggage he helped me inside and onto the back seat. Zac followed, and then Yusuf got in himself. A moment later, Ahmed jumped in the front, took the wheel, with Jamal next to him, and we were driven out of the airport, heading for Tripoli.

‘We’ll be staying at the Rixos Hotel,’ Yusuf said. ‘It’s one of the best. You’ll like it, and the good thing is, it’s not too near the fighting.’

‘I’ve heard of the Rixos,’ Zac said. ‘It’s very luxurious, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. I like it because there’re quite a lot of journos staying there, and it’s good to mingle, have a drink. You can pick up a lot of information. Mind you, I’m usually ahead of the game.’

‘Who’s staying there – anyone we know?’ I asked, hoping that he might pinpoint the group of six women war correspondents and photographers I’d seen in the
New York Times
a few days ago.

‘Quite a few TV correspondents. CNN guys, BBC and ITV chaps from London, some French and Italian correspondents. It’s quite an international lot, and all the wire services are here, naturally.’

‘Is Marie Colvin staying at the Rixos?’ Zac asked, always interested in her whereabouts, really thrilled if he ran into her. She was not only charismatic but very friendly, and helpful to all of us. A good woman as well as a brilliant war correspondent.

Yusuf shook his head. ‘No, she’s not. I don’t know where Marie stays, actually. A lot of women correspondents are in Libya, though. By the way, I’ve got stuff at the hotel for you. Flak jackets, helmets, the usual – and you’re going to need it all. The fighting’s non-stop now, around the clock, and personally I think it’s going to get worse. This is one hell of a revolution, and the rebels are intent on winning – determined, you know, and they’re extremely well armed. A lot of foreign weaponry.’

‘What do you think will happen?’ I asked, well aware that Yusuf had great judgement, and could call it as it was, or how it might be.

‘I don’t know, to be honest. Frankly, Gaddafi is as tough as an old boot, a wily bugger, and he’s got the army and the guns and the determination. Equally, the rebels are deadly, and out to get him. They want him ousted, want a new government.’

‘And how different will it be in the end, if the rebels win?’ Zac asked in a low voice. ‘How much is going to be different? Look at Egypt.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean, the Brotherhood has a strong foothold there.’ Yusuf shook his head. ‘The Arab Spring, they’re calling it. It might run into the Arab Winter, in point of fact. There’s a strong feeling here that Gaddafi will fight to the bitter end; that he’ll sustain the conflict forever.’

‘So you don’t think he’ll be defeated?’ I asked.

‘I just don’t know. No one does. I’ll tell you this, there’s great hatred for him, and the family, and especially his sons. Most especially Saif.’ Yusuf chuckled. ‘They call him the Playboy of London, you know … in the streets. That’s where you learn a lot. On the Arab street.’

The Rixos Hotel was indeed palatial. The huge lobby and the atrium were all marble, mirror and glass, with glittering crystal chandeliers everywhere. A wide staircase with red carpeting and a brass handrail led up to the higher floors; there were potted trees standing next to the balconies of the atrium – a truly grand open area.

Once we had registered, Yusuf took us up in the elevator to our rooms, followed by the bellboy with the luggage cart. Yusuf tipped him, and the bellboy deposited the bags and left.

‘My God, you’ve gone mad!’ I exclaimed, as we walked into the sitting room of the suite, which was enormous. My eyes swung around the room, and I noted the handsome furnishings, the beautiful fabrics, the antiques, the luxury in general. ‘Has Harry gone mad also?’ I wondered aloud.

Yusuf chuckled, ‘No, and to be truthful, I didn’t have much option but to book us all in here. The other hotels are jammed, and, anyway, since I was instructed not to take my eyes off you, Serena, I absolutely needed this set of rooms.’ He waved a hand at the double doors at the far end, then went and threw them open. ‘This is the bedroom. For you and Zac. And I shall sleep on that divan over there in the sitting room. Actually, it’s a single bed.’

‘I see,’ I murmured.

Zac was silent. He walked over to another door, and opened it, looked inside. ‘But here’s another bedroom,’ he said, swinging around, staring at Yusuf. ‘With two single beds.’

‘Yes, I know. That room’s for my lads.’

‘We’re going to be quite a crowd, now aren’t we just?’ Zac said, a little too sharply.

Whatever he thought, Yusuf ignored the tone and answered in his cultured, Oxford-educated voice, ‘We are, but those are Harry’s instructions, and he’s the boss. And remember, he can pull us all out of here whenever he wishes. He’s in charge long distance. And I’m in charge here.’

‘And I’m glad you are,’ I said swiftly. ‘You know this place far better than we do, and we’ll listen to you, Yusuf, please be assured of that. We couldn’t manage without you.’

‘Oh you could, Serena. However, I can help make things easier for you, and I’ve got a lot of access to a lot of people. In the government and the military, so you’ve nothing to worry about. I’ve even got some good contacts in the rebel army.’

I nodded, then asked, ‘By the way, why were you calling me Pidge? You’ve never used Jessica’s nickname for me before. Why today?’

His blue eyes sparkled and he looked mischievous for a moment. Then he explained. ‘I didn’t want to be shouting out Serena. Everyone knows that’s a girl’s name. It suddenly occurred to me that no one would understand what Pidge meant, but that you would recognize it immediately.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t even know what Pidge actually means.’

‘Nobody does,’ Zac said in a nicer voice, and walked into the bedroom, looking around, then disappearing into what obviously must be the bathroom.

I sat down and said, ‘Are you going to be comfortable out here on that divan? It looks awfully short.’ I made a face.

‘I’ll be fine, and there’s nothing I can do about this situation. Harry has entrusted me with your life, Serena. I daren’t leave anything to chance. But obviously you can close the bedroom door at night.’ Yusuf suddenly grinned at me. ‘Even though Harry told me I must not take my eyes off you.’

I burst out laughing. ‘He’s just too much.’

‘He loves you like a father,’ Yusuf said.

‘I know, and I feel the same way. About him.’ I looked around, frowned. ‘What happened to Jamal and Ahmed?’

‘They’ve gone to do a few errands for me. Now, what about something to eat? You must be famished.’

‘I am, even though we had a good breakfast in Venice before we left this morning. I’m glad you suggested we should spend the night there, break the trip from New York. I’m much less jet-lagged.’

‘I always do that when I come to the Middle East from New York – it makes life easier. Let’s order the food, and then I’d like to go over a few things with you and Zac, ready for tomorrow.’

‘Aren’t we going out this afternoon?’ Zac asked from the doorway of the bedroom.

‘There’s no reason to go now, or later. I want you fed and rested before we venture out,’ Yusuf said in a careful tone.

‘Fine by me,’ I replied.

Zac was silent, went over to get his camera bag and his roller suitcase.

It struck me that he was being a sourpuss, and I instantly realized why. He didn’t like the idea of Yusuf being with us all the time. But there was nothing I could do about that. I was following Harry’s rules and conditions. And I aimed to continue doing that, whatever Zac thought. I’d managed to get him where he wanted to be, and he was going to have to live with the conditions, no matter what.

Yusuf suggested we order club sandwiches, explaining they were one of the best things on the menu, and hot lemon tea. Zac nodded, as did I, and asked Yusuf to also order me a Coke. I then excused myself.

I left the two men talking about the situation in Libya, and rolled my suitcase into the bedroom and closed the door.

I unpacked, putting items in the chest of drawers. Everything I had brought with me was made of cotton because of the extreme heat in this country. Lots of underwear, two pairs of strong but comfortable trainers and white ankle socks, plus five pairs of black cotton trousers and ten black T-shirts. Following Dad’s instructions, I always wore black on the front lines, because light or bright colours drew attention. I had also packed a few pieces of khaki clothing, just in case I needed them.

Picking up my shoulder bag, I took out my satellite phone, two BlackBerrys and two cell phones, put them on my bedside table, then checked my camera bag. Everything was in order. Once I’d taken my toilet bag to the bathroom, I went to lie down on the bed. I felt a little queasy, maybe from the heat, although the air conditioning was working. I was also hungry. Hopefully I would feel better after some food.

I smiled to myself when I thought of Harry and all of his instructions to Yusuf; I would talk to Yusuf later. I had decided it would be wiser if he found a room elsewhere in the hotel for Jamal and Ahmed; he could then move into the other bedroom. It would make Zac happier, and I would prefer this myself.

I had soon realized that Yusuf was teasing Zac a little about not taking his eyes off me. Obviously, Harry had meant out in the war zone, not here in the hotel. I was perfectly safe in this suite, and we all knew it.

I focused on Yusuf Aronson. He was a good man. He was forty-one and had worked for Global Images for seventeen years, had started as an assistant to Harry when he was twenty-four, after graduating from Oxford. He was a great photojournalist, and because he spoke English, Swedish, Arabic, French, Spanish and Italian he was an enormous asset.

There was something extremely cosmopolitan about him. His mother, who had been born in Beirut, had spent her youth in Paris, where her father owned various businesses. Very beautiful, she had been a Dior model for a time, had married Sven Aronson in 1970. He was a Swedish diplomat. Yusuf was their only son; he had a sister Leyla, who created beautiful handmade clothes, which were works of art almost, and very costly. They were a close family, like ours.

Yusuf and his wife Carlotta lived in Paris, but Yusuf travelled the world a lot of the time. Harry called him Global’s roving ambassador, but I was well aware he was Global’s major troubleshooter. He was a good manager, as well as an excellent photojournalist, and when it was necessary Harry sent him in to other countries to take over one of our bureaus, usually to get it back into shape.