A World I Never Made (27 page)

“Yes.”

“That will give you time to make one more stop:”

“Yes.”

“Go to the pharmacist she has been visiting so much. She knows no one else in all of Morocco. Perhaps she is with him. If she is, call me and I will send someone to collect her. If not, talk to the pharmacist. He may know where she is. Call me if you learn anything from him. Then get on your plane. I will see you at home next week,
inshallah.
”

“Yes, emir,
inshallah.”

~26~

MOROCCO, MAY 16, 2003

An hour and a half after sunrise, Megan’s cab pulled into the two-hundred-year-old cobblestone dead-end street at the end of which was located Abdel al-Lahani’s apartment building. She told the driver to turn his cab around and to wait for her, giving him fifty euros and telling him that she would give him fifty more plus double his fare when she returned in thirty minutes, maybe less. She fingered the plastic vial in the slit pocket of her linen slacks as she rode up on the elevator. She had stopped at the Porte Rouge to shower, apply light makeup, change, and check out. She noted now, with grim satisfaction, the reflection, in the lift’s polished brass sidewall, of her classic features framed by her lustrous, reddish-blond hair. She wore the same pale green silk blouse and thin-strapped white sandals she had worn when she first met Lahani at the train siding on the way to Marrakech in January, just over four months ago. Before getting on the elevator she had stopped to listen at the door of Lalla’s first-floor apartment, hoping that the nosy and ever-present servant would not show up at the wrong time, as she always seemed to do. She heard nothing, but of course the mute but sharp-eyed Lalla could be anywhere, including somewhere in Lahani’s large and spacious penthouse. So be it. She knocked confidently on Lahani’s door, ready to be, one last time, the most beautiful woman the Saudi terrorist had ever met and would ever hope to meet.

“Abdel,” she said when he swung the door open.

“Megan.”

They stared at each other across the threshold for a moment, Lahani looking taller and stronger and more handsome than ever in his cream-colored silk shirt and dark slacks.
So confident,
Megan thought,
so supremely confident.

“Will you invite me in?” she said.

She watched carefully, half smiling, as Lahani hesitated before nodding and saying, “Yes, of course.” She knew that in that small pause he had begun assessing: her motive, her credibility, and, involuntarily, her beauty. She entered and stood for a moment in the foyer, facing him. He was about to speak, but she stopped him, placing two fingers on his lips and saying,“No, let me explain;” and then taking his hand and leading him into the living room, where she sat, her legs under her, on a plush lemon-yellow sofa that rested on the long edge of an oversized Persian rug of such intricacy and beauty that standing alone it was a piece of art. Lahani sat across from her on an aged leather easy chair. He stared at her, his face impassive, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“I came to celebrate with you,” Megan said.

“Celebrate?”

“Yes.”

“Celebrate what?”

No, Megan thought,
not your successful terrorist mission. What mission would that be?
And then out loud she said, “Our child, of course:”

“We had that celebration two nights ago. Where have you been, Megan. I have been calling you at the Hyatt. They tell me your bags are there but you never checked in. I’m confused:”

“I stayed at a small place in the old quarter last night. I wanted to be alone, to think. I should have called you, but you said you be busy all day yesterday and last night:”

“Air Maroc has you booked on their one PM flight today to New York:”

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Megan said. Then she paused, as any woman would before saying what she said next. “I was thinking of aborting the child. I changed my mind. I’d like to stay here with you:”

“Aborting the child?”

Megan hesitated again, and again it was part of her act, her act of contrition: for having fled, for having considered aborting—killing—the innocent child of the great slaughterer of innocents, Abdel al-Lahani, the Falcon of Andalus, returned from the dead to bring his people back to glory.

“I’m sorry, Abdel. I was frightened. You never mentioned marriage. Your culture and mine are not the same. I truly never thought I would be a mother. I have always been so independent. These thoughts overwhelmed me:”

“What made you change your mind?”

“You,” Megan replied, without hesitation this time.“I would be proud to have your child:”

Lahani’s face was still grimly set, but Megan could see the light of victory, easy victory, in his eyes.

“You would have to convert to Islam in order to marry me:”

“I will do it.”

“You would not make a good Muslim wife, Megan. It is very restricting.” Lahani allowed himself to smile as he said this, a sign, Megan thought, that he felt like he had totally regained control.
He probably already has a wife or two.

“Then I will remain your mistress,” she said.

Lahani rose and walked around the sofa to stand behind Megan. He placed his hands—large and brown and perfectly manicured—on her shoulders and gently kneaded them. Then he lifted her cascading hair and rubbed the nape of her neck with his thumbs, while slowly encircling her throat with his fingers, his touch light.

“You would not deceive me, Megan?” he said, squeezing her throat slightly harder.

“I have deceived other men, Abdel, but not you,” Megan replied, willing herself to remain cool and calm.

“It is an honor in my culture to acknowledge a bastard child. Do you feel honored?” He increased his hold—not by much, but enough to begin the restriction of air to the lungs.

“Yes,” Megan answered, suppressing by nerve she did not know she had the feral instinct of any human in these circumstances to twist and flinch. “I do.”

Lahani removed his hands from Megan’s neck, but stayed behind her. “I leave for Saudi Arabia on Monday,” he said.

“Oh,” Megan said, turning to face him.“Shall I come with you?”

“No, you must stay here:”

“Where? Here in the apartment?”

“No, in my house in Marrakech, with Lalla. She has two brothers who work for me. They will stay in the house as well. They will be with you at all times. A Western woman, pregnant, unwed, will draw attention. If you are seen as under my protection, you will be treated properly. Is this understood?”

“Yes. It is. When will you be back?”
I will miss you so, of course. What woman would not pine for the great Falcon?

“In two weeks, perhaps three:”

“And the child?”

“Lalla will deliver the child. She is an excellent midwife:”

“Will you be there?”

“I am a very busy man, as you know. I make no promises. But as I have made clear, the child will want for nothing. And he will know I am his father.”

That’s
one
thing he’ll never know,
Megan thought. Out loud, she said, “I am grateful. And now can we celebrate? In the bedroom?”

“Yes,” Lahani replied.“I am glad you are back.”

“Do you have champagne?”

“In the wine cooler, yes:”

“Go ahead,” Megan said with a smile.“I’ll meet you in bed:”

In the kitchen, Megan found and popped the champagne quickly, and just as quickly emptied the vial of white powder Abdullah had given her into Lahani’s glass, stirring it with her finger. In the bedroom, she set the fizzing glasses down on the window sill and then swiftly took off her clothes, her back to the bed. Lahani, in bed, naked, was smiling broadly when she turned to face him, holding up the two fluted champagne glasses. His smile got bigger when she dipped her finger in her glass and wiped it on his large erect penis, and even bigger when she bent and slowly licked it off. Rising to a kneeling position on the bed, she handed Lahani his glass, and, raising hers, said, “To us, and to our child:”

“To us,” Lahani said. Megan drank, watching over the edge of her glass as her lover of four months, the father of her child, a master terrorist about to die, lifted his glass to his lips.

He took one or two sips and then his cell phone, on the night table on his side of the bed, rang sharply. He put his glass down and picked up the phone. Megan put her glass down, too, and watched as Lahani, listening intently, stood up and walked out of the bedroom, the phone to his ear, saying, “Yes, yes,” in Arabic. A second or two later she heard a thud. Still naked, she ran out of the room and saw the Saudi’s body sprawled in the doorway to his study. The phone was on the floor nearby. She picked it up and held it to her ear, instantly recognizing Mohammed’s voice as he said, “Emir? Emir?” She clicked off the phone, threw it on the floor, and bent to check Lahani”s pulse, which was very shallow. Then she ran back into the bedroom, got dressed, and came back out carrying Abdel’s three-quarter full glass, the contents of which she tried to pour down his throat, forcing his mouth open with her free hand. It didn’t work. She could get the champagne into his mouth but couldn’t make him swallow. In fact, he gagged most of it up and out.

She checked his pulse again. Still shallow. As she was doing this, she heard the front door swing open. Turning, she saw Lalla walking swiftly toward her saying something loud and angry in Arabic. Before Megan could react, Lalla shoved her aside and knelt down over Lahani, putting her ear to his chest and then his mouth. Lalla’s shove had been surprisingly strong, knocking Megan against the hallway wall. When she recovered and saw Lalla bent over Abdel, she ran into the kitchen, grabbed the three-quarter-full bottle of Dom Perignon, ran back, and smashed it over Lalla’s head. Lalla went down amidst a shower of broken glass and fizzing champagne. Megan then ran to the bedroom, grabbed her bag, and left the apartment. In the elevator, willing it to move faster, she remembered her idea of the kitchen knife, but going back now would be too scary. Lalla may have recovered and called the police, or Mohammed, sensing trouble, could be rushing to the apartment. The cab was still there, but the driver was not. Looking around, she saw him at the corner talking to two other men outside a tobacco shop. She waved to him and he saw her. She tried to stay calm as he walked toward her at a normal pace.“Money,” he said when they were in the cab.“Euros. Dollars.” She handed him a wad that was way too much and they were on their way.

The cab driver refused to drive into the Carrières Thomas neighborhood, leaving Megan off at the ancient stone portal that marked one of the four entrances to the market square. She walked around the outside of the market and turned into the old souk on the first available street. She decided not to ask Yasmine’s son to guide her because she feared that anyone coming into her orbit now would be suspected of complicity in what she hoped was Lahani’s death. On this issue she was not confident. He had sipped only a small amount of the poisonous champagne. Perhaps he was paralyzed or had had a severe stroke, as this was, according to Abdullah, the physiology of the curare-based concoction he had hastily put together for her. She feared though that he was alive and well and that there would be hell, or worse, to pay.

The door to Abdullah’s shop was open, only the colorful bead curtain separating the street from the interior. Megan was comforted, as the door was always open in the heat of the day. Inside, the shop was quiet. She called Abdullah’s name, thinking he was in the back room, but there was no response. Something made her step around the counter. Perhaps Abdullah was sleeping, or had gone out and left her a note. As she made the turn, her foot struck something and, looking down, she saw Abdullah lying on his back on the floor behind the counter. His throat was slit and a large nail had been driven through his right wrist—through his Coptic cross tattoo—into the floor. His eyes were wide open, and for a second she thought he was alive. She knelt beside him and touched his chest, which was still warm, but he was not breathing and his face was a death mask. She closed his eyes, gently kissing each lid to keep it closed. Then she placed her face against his chest and whispered, “I did this to you, Abdullah. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Please forgive me:” Her tears stained his cotton djellaba and the blood from his neck wound coated her hair.

Before getting up, she took hold of the nail in Abdullah’s wrist and tried to pull it out, not thinking why, just that she had to do it. But it was impossible. The nail was more like a large spike, and had been driven deeply into the hardwood floor. Numb, she remained kneeling, trying to collect herself and think what to do. As she was thinking, she heard a rustling sound in the back room, whose entrance, covered by a thick cotton curtain, was only a step away. She rose and pulled the curtain aside slowly and there, sitting on Abdullah’s bed, his knees drawn into his chest, his large brown eyes wide with fear, was Hakim, Yasmine’s boy. She sat down next to him and put her arms around him, and he leaned into her but did not cry or speak.