Authors: Josh McDowell
What about Goddard?
He’s coming here to interrogate me.
You’re joking.
Wish I were.
Get out of the country. You can’t let them find you—not yet.
I can’t just disappear. I’ve got the business to run.
Run it from the road—you’ve done it before.
And where am I supposed to go?
Don’t we have a team in Baghdad right now with those execs from Exxon Mobil?
This time Tariq had to wait a full minute before the reply came back.
Have you completely lost your mind? You want me to fly all the way to Iraq to avoid talking to some cop from Monte Carlo?
Tariq answered immediately.
Absolutely. You can’t stay there. . . . If Goddard finds you and you don’t give him what he wants, he’ll have you arrested and extradited on obstruction of justice charges and hindering the prosecution. God only knows what might happen to you then. You absolutely can’t let that happen.
What if Goddard follows me to Baghdad?
He won’t. He’d rather stay alive.
25
For two days, Tariq Jameel did not emerge from the flat.
He still had a fever, but with no thermometer, he had no idea how high. It was obvious that Kadeen and Rania had saved his life. However, he was still a long way from well. He had no energy to go out and find a doctor. He had no appetite, so he simply sipped cans of soda and bottled water that he’d brought from the Sheraton Royal Gardens, trying desperately to rehydrate his body. He took the antibiotics that the al-Wadhis’ doctor friend had given him, but he tried to leave the painkillers in his backpack as much as possible.
Ramy was not kidding about the flat. It was large—much larger than he needed—with three bedrooms and three baths and an enormous living room. But to say that it needed “a little work” was putting it mildly. It had no doubt been a grand and lovely place back in the 1950s and ’60s, but Tariq wondered if it had been cleaned since.
Dust covered everything, floor to ceiling, and the kitchen table and counters were overlaid with a film of grease. Two of the three showers didn’t work. Two of the three toilets leaked. The kitchen sink didn’t work. The oven didn’t work. Only one of four burners on the stove worked. And at night it got quite cold, and Tariq couldn’t get any of the heaters to work.
The artwork left much to be desired as well. There was an array of paintings on the walls, including a miniature Mona Lisa and a life-size portrait Tariq dubbed,
Spanish Lady with an Attitude
. In the dining room hung two identical paintings of a young boy smoking, while in one of the hallways there was a three-dimensional picture of four kittens, one of which had its face punched in. The living room had three large brass statues of Asian dragon-men of some sort and an enormous painting of zoo animals hanging out at a bar. And they were all covered in dust.
Not that the decor mattered much. Most of the lightbulbs in the place had blown out so that even in the daytime Tariq couldn’t see that well anyway.
The landlord had promised to have everything cleaned and fixed immediately, but Tariq needed a few days to rest. Having workmen scrubbing and pounding and making all kinds of racket would certainly not be conducive to his recuperation. So he had asked the man not to send the cleaners until Monday. Until then, all he wanted was a thick blanket and a clean pillow and a couch on which to lay his head. Unable to find the first two, he had settled for the couch in the living room, where he had collapsed and slept almost around the clock.
On the third day, he was suddenly awakened by a knock on the door.
Instinctively Tariq reached for his gun, then remembered he no longer had one. He checked his watch. It was almost noon, though with the drapes closed and most of the lights not working, the flat was quite dark.
The knocking began again, louder this time. Tariq’s pulse quickened. No one knew he was in Cairo, much less Heliopolis, and it was only Thursday—no workmen should be there yet. But the knocking continued.
Tariq got up, grabbed a small lamp, and moved quietly to the door. Had they found him? If so, why were they knocking? His hand tensed around the midsection of the lamp. It would be little protection if someone was here to take him by force. But he refused to go down without a fight. He reached the door, looked out the peephole, and breathed again. It was a FedEx deliveryman with a stack of large boxes in his hands. He opened the door and saw the man’s startled expression.
“Are you Tariq Jameel?” the man asked.
“I am,” he said, realizing how awful he must look—unshaven, unshowered, and in the same clothes he’d had on since he left Casablanca.
“Sign here.”
Tariq did, then tipped the man and took the packages. Sure enough, they were all from Beirut. He ripped the first one open like a little kid on his birthday.
Inside was a brand-new satellite phone with batteries, a charger, and an instruction booklet. Also inside was an envelope containing ten thousand Egyptian pounds—plenty to get him started—and a stack of business cards that read,
Tariq Jameel, Managing Director, ICT Consulting, Brussels, Belgium
, complete with a Web site, an e-mail address, a post office box number, and a Brussels-area phone number.
Tariq powered up the sat phone and called the number.
“Thank you for calling ICT Consulting,” a woman’s voice said in French on the recording. “No one can take your call right now, but please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and someone will get back to you as soon as possible.” The message repeated in English and then again in German. Ramy had thought of everything.
Tariq ripped open the next box and found a large leather briefcase inside. He pulled it out, unzipped it, and found himself staring at a high-end notebook computer complete with fingerprint security access and a USB satellite hub. Digging further, he found several pairs of blue jeans, khaki trousers, several new shirts, socks, underwear, a couple of sweaters, a shaving kit, and toiletries—toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, soap, a nail clipper, and so forth.
But it was the third box that surprised Tariq the most. On the top layer was a brand-new handheld digital TV and radio receiver, still in its box. He assumed that was Ramy’s way of helping him keep up with the news, particularly of the intensifying hunt for him. Below that were maps of the city, a list of computer consulting companies based in Cairo, and a stack of newspaper stories—printed off the Internet—on the state of the computer industry in Egypt, all designed to help him build and maintain his new cover.
Finally, underneath everything else, there was a small, locked, lead-lined strongbox with a key taped to the top. He inserted the key, turned it, and opened the lid, revealing a .45-caliber pistol and ammunition.
26
Tariq Jameel was beginning to feel guilty for sending his little brother to Baghdad. Ramy obviously knew what he was doing. He would never have given him up to Jean-Claude Goddard or anyone else. He felt an ache in his stomach. If Ramy died in Iraq, he could never forgive himself. He had to find a way out of this nightmare, and quickly.
He booted up the computer, activated the sat hub, and logged on to the Internet. Then he ran a quick search for recent stories about the Ramsey family. As he had expected, the European and Egyptian media were awash with reports about Rafeeq’s and Brigitte’s deaths and the kidnapping of Claudette. And pictures of Marwan Accad, now wanted for murder, were everywhere. Perhaps coming to Cairo had been a mistake, but he still believed he’d had no choice.
The latest news was right at the top of the
Le Monde
home page. It boasted “exclusive” details of the events leading up to the assassination in Monte Carlo, including the fact that a ransom note had arrived at the Ramseys’ estate in Paris via a DHL package from Berlin the day after Claudette’s disappearance. The note had provided a Swiss bank account number and demanded one million euros be wired to the account within twenty-four hours “if Mr. Ramsey ever wanted to see his wife alive again.” Ramsey, the story reported, had promptly paid.
“Several days later,”
Le Monde
went on to say, “a second DHL package, this one from Brussels, arrived at the Ramsey home. It contained a video of Mrs. Ramsey, bound and gagged but still alive, and a note demanding 10 million euros or Mrs. Ramsey would be executed live on the Internet. The package directed Mr. Ramsey to wire the money within seventy-two hours and then come to Brussels and await further instructions.”
The story noted that “an anonymous package” was left at the front desk of Mr. Ramsey’s hotel, containing “a grainy new photo of his wife,” a note demanding 25 million euros, and details of where Mrs. Ramsey could be found in Madrid “in precisely one week, assuming the money is paid in full.”
It was all true. It was why Accad & Associates had been brought in by Rafeeq Ramsey in the first place. But what worried Tariq most was the next paragraph: “Police now believe Marwan Accad, the CEO of a Lebanon-based executive security company, may be the mastermind behind this shocking crime. Sources close to the investigation say they have hard evidence of Mr. Accad’s involvement and note that he fled the scene of the crime and has been missing ever since. Repeated phone calls yesterday by
Le Monde
to Accad & Associates in Beirut went unreturned, but an extensive manhunt for Mr. Accad is under way.”
Suddenly there was another knock at the door—a slight tap at first and then a hard pounding.
Tariq froze. It couldn’t be the FedEx man again. But who?
He quickly loaded the .45 and moved carefully to the door. But when he looked through the peephole, he was again stunned by what he saw. Outside his door stood three beautiful young women, each probably in her twenties. The one in the middle was holding a basket of fruit and sweets.
Baffled, he put the gun in his back pocket and covered it with his T-shirt. Then he opened the door a crack and said, “Good morning.”
The one on the right smiled. The one on the left giggled shyly. The one in the center did the talking.
“Good morning. My name is Dalia—Dalia Nour. These are my friends, Dina and Mervat. We live right above you, and we heard you were new.”
Tariq wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Dalia, ladies. May I help you somehow?”
“We just wanted to welcome you to the building,” Dalia said, “and to give you this little present from the social committee.”
She offered him the basket of fruit, which Tariq gratefully accepted. As he did, he found himself captivated by Dalia. She had the most gentle face and gorgeous brown eyes that twinkled when she smiled, as she was doing now. She was dressed like a European girl, not a local, and she obviously didn’t mind spending money on clothes. Her sweater was a soft pink cashmere. Her black jeans and designer shoes were more likely from London or Paris than Cairo or Alexandria. While the others wore all kinds of rings and bracelets and necklaces, the only jewelry Dalia wore were two small diamond earrings in gold settings and a gold watch that looked like a Cartier around her wrist.
“Well, this is very kind,” Tariq said, his eyes locked on Dalia’s. “Thank you.”
“Our pleasure,” Dalia said, her expression changing ever so slightly.
Was she as attracted to him as he was to her? Or was it the fever deceiving him? He sensed they were about to leave and remembered how horrible he looked.
“I would invite you ladies in for a cup of tea and to share these treats,” he said, trying to think of a way to keep the conversation going for a few more minutes, “but I’m afraid my place looks worse than I do at the moment.”
That elicted a laugh from Dalia and Dina and another giggle from Mervat.
“That’s okay,” Dalia said. “I’m afraid we can’t stay anyway, but we would like to invite you to a small party on the roof tonight. It starts at nine, and you don’t need to bring anything but yourself—and perhaps a clean shirt.”
Tariq wanted to accept. There was something about this woman that fascinated him. But he was supposed to be keeping his head down, maintaining a low profile, not partying with the neighbor girls.
Still, how could he turn them down? Refusing to go would only get the whole building talking about this rude new stranger, and the last thing he needed was people gossiping about him.
“I’d be delighted,” he said at last. “And for you, I’ll even scare up a clean shirt.”
27
Inspector Goddard was getting nowhere. He had arrived in Beirut the night before only to find Accad & Associates all but deserted. A lone receptionist informed him that no, Marwan Accad had not checked in; no, she did not know where he was; and sorry, but Ramy was out of the country until further notice. Everyone else in the company was scattered around the Middle East on assignment. Goddard left a number where he could be reached and went back to his hotel to check in with the Skeleton.
He called Lemieux at the Hyatt Regency in Casablanca and found—to his relief—that Lemieux was faring little better. Airport surveillance videos showed a Jack Cardell arriving on the Royal Air Maroc flight and promptly renting a car. But so far the APB that Casablanca police had put out on the car had turned up nothing.
Moroccan intelligence, meanwhile, said Accad had been there only twice before, each time with the Lebanese prime minister, and they had no known contacts in the country for him. They did not even have a file on Jack Cardell and had no record of such a person—alias or otherwise—ever being in the country. For the moment, Lemieux was at a dead end.
“Accad had to be headed to Morocco for a reason,” Lemieux said, thinking aloud. “He knew we’d pick up his trail. He knew he couldn’t use the Cardell alias for long. He had to be meeting someone.”
“Didn’t he tell the gendarme in Marseille that he was headed for the Hostel Rabat?” Goddard asked after a moment of pondering the impasse.
“That was just part of his cover,” Lemieux said.
“Maybe,” Goddard said. “But what if he really meant it?”