Authors: Josh McDowell
As he raised his hand, the door flew open, and Dalia wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him hard enough to cut off his air supply for a moment.
She finally stood back. “I’ve been watching you through the peephole. We were wondering when you were going to knock.”
Tariq looked over Dalia’s shoulder and saw her two roommates, whose names he had already forgotten.
“Hi, girls,” he said sheepishly.
“Hi, Tariq,” they said in unison.
“Nice flowers,” the darker of the two said.
“Oh yeah,” Dalia said, kissing him once again. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone sent me flowers?”
“Really? I would think a beauty like you would be receiving flowers on a daily basis,” Tariq said, seeing an opening and taking advantage of it.
“Ooooo,” one of the roommates said.
“He’s smooth,” the other said.
“Ta ta, girls,” Dalia said, slipping her arm through Tariq’s. “Don’t wait up for me.”
They took the taxi Tariq had waiting and traveled through town until they crossed the bridge to Zamalek, a large island in the middle of the Nile. Once there, they pulled in front of La Trattoria, a trendy Italian eatery located in the heart of the restaurant and coffee shop district. Earlier in the day, acquiring the reservation had taken a promise of some significant cash, which Tariq slipped to the maître d’.
When they were situated at their cozy corner table, Tariq said, “You know, only in today’s world could a Lebanese man and a Jordanian woman enjoy a romantic Italian dinner in Egypt.”
Dalia laughed. “Welcome to the world of a flight attendant. Half my life I spend wondering what country I’m in, trying to find foods that remind me of home.”
“What foods are those?”
“Oh, there’s
kanafeh
,
mansaf
, but my favorite has to be
mrouzia
. My mother spent some time in northwestern Africa and came back with an amazing
mrouzia
recipe.”
Tariq sensed a cloud sweeping across Dalia. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered, forcing back her mood. “I just don’t really want to talk about home.”
“Fine with me,” Tariq said, reaching across the table to take Dalia’s hand. “Instead, why don’t we talk about you and me and us?”
“The very things I had in mind,” Dalia said playfully.
The dinner progressed nicely. The food was wonderful and the company was better. As they ate, Tariq watched the people entering and exiting the restaurant—a habit he had picked up early in his career.
As they waited for their dessert of caramelized pears in red wine sauce, two men entered the restaurant. It was past the time when reservations mattered, so they were shown to a table across the room from Tariq and Dalia. They were obviously European by their appearance. Tariq watched as they took their seats; then he stiffened. Both were sporting the subtle, telltale bulge of a shoulder holster.
“Tariq? Tariq, are you with me?” Dalia followed his gaze to the other table just as the two men looked their way. The larger of the two nodded; then they turned back.
“Do you know them?” Dalia asked.
“No. Do you?”
“I don’t think so,” Dalia said. “So, I was telling you about Prague. We had a three-day layover, and each day we walked up to the castle to take a tour. And each time we arrived, they were just closing it down for one reason or another. The first day, they had to . . .”
Tariq watched Dalia as she continued to talk, but his mind was far gone from the conversation. He didn’t have his gun because he’d thought they would be totally safe.
Be honest. You didn’t bring it because you didn’t want to have to explain it to Dalia later tonight if things go how you hope they’ll go.
He didn’t even have his SOG pocketknife with him—an absolutely inexcusable mistake.
Dalia was now talking about walking Wenceslas Square and eating Stroganoff in the downstairs restaurant at the National Museum. Tariq hoped he was giving the requisite
wow
s and
huh
s at the right times. Twice he had again caught the two men looking at their table.
He still had the steak knife from his veal dish, and now as he pretended to listen to Dalia, he carefully palmed it and slid it into his lap.
“Am I boring you?” Dalia asked.
“Boring me? You? Never,” Tariq protested. “It’s just that sometimes I get lost in the deep, rich brown of your eyes.”
“Oh, you’re good,” Dalia laughed. “You’re really good. So, my girlfriend and I are on the Charles Bridge . . .”
Tariq’s body tensed. Both men were standing up. They started on their way toward Tariq and Dalia’s table. Tariq gripped the steak knife. He watched the men’s hands. The moment one of them reached into his jacket, Tariq would have a split second to react.
The table’s going to have to go into Dalia. Then drive the first one into the second and go wild with the knife until you get one of their guns.
The men were getting near. Adrenaline was surging through Tariq’s veins.
“Tariq? Earth to Tariq?”
“Excuse me,” the first man said.
Tariq had one hand on the knife and one hand on the table.
Seeing that Tariq wasn’t going to answer, Dalia said, “Yes?”
“I’m so sorry to disturb you, but maybe you can settle a bet for my friend and myself.”
“I can try,” Dalia said, totally unaware of the potential danger.
“Do you fly for British Air?”
A smile spread across Dalia’s face. “Yes, I do.”
The second man’s hand went into his jacket.
Do it! Do it!
Tariq shouted to himself. But something didn’t feel right. He held still a moment longer.
The man’s hand came out with his wallet. He pulled out a twenty-euro note and passed it to his friend, who accepted it with a laugh and an “I told you so.”
“Were you on one of my flights?” Dalia asked.
The second man said, “We’ve each been on a couple. We’re air marshals for British Air.”
“I thought I recognized you,” Dalia said, laughing. “I’m Dalia, and this is my friend Tariq.”
Tariq let go of the knife and reached his hand out. As he shook their hands, the men introduced themselves.
“Nervous?” the first man said, wiping his hand on his jacket.
“First date,” Tariq admitted.
“Well, congratulations. I know a few guys who have been after her for a while—to no avail.”
After a little more small talk, the men returned to their table.
“Are you really that nervous?” Dalia asked.
“I am not used to being in the presence of such loveliness,” Tariq answered very formally.
“Oh, you’re so full of it.”
They finished their dessert, and while Tariq had a couple other activities planned, Dalia said she was ready to head home. Her roommates had another late-night flight.
The night ended as Tariq had hoped it would, and the next morning when he woke up, it was in the nicely decorated bedroom of Dalia’s flat.
30
Accad & Associates was located in a small office building near the American University of Beirut.
In many ways it’s suggestive of its founder,
thought Goddard, now back for his second visit. Discreet, unassuming, and a bit mysterious, just like Marwan Accad.
The sign on the door gave the company’s name but offered no logo, no Web address, no hint of what its employees did. The furniture in the waiting room was tasteful, even on the expensive side, but there were no brochures, no pictures on the wall, nothing to suggest the millions of dollars that poured into its coffers every month from clients worth billions. Only the thick, bulletproof street-side windows and the surveillance cameras positioned over the main entrance, in the hallways, and in the company’s lobby provided any clue as to the security-conscious mind-set of its owners.
But for all Marwan and Ramy Accad’s precautions, there was one weak link—Jasmine Zeitoun.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle Jasmine.” Goddard smiled as he sidled up to the reception desk. “So good to see you again.”
Jasmine, an attractive young graduate student, smiled back and batted her eyes at Goddard, as if he were the first good-looking man who had walked through these doors in months, if not years.
“Welcome back, Inspector Goddard. What can I do for you today?”
“I’m heading home, but I just wanted to check again to see if either Monsieur Accad—or any of their associates—has checked in today.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, seeming to be genuinely disappointed she could not help him. “It’s been very quiet.”
“Very well,” he said. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“Not at all,” she said. “It is my pleasure.”
“And you still have my number?”
“I do,” she said, finding his card on her desk and showing it to him. “I will have one of the Accad brothers call you as soon as I hear from them.”
“You’re most kind,” he replied, preparing to leave. “Oh yes, one more thing.”
“What is that?” she asked.
“Marwan’s old friend in Morocco,” he said. “I need to talk to him—part of the routine investigation, you know—but I seem to have misplaced his number. Do you have a number where I can reach him?”
“You must mean Kadeen al-Wadhi,” she said innocently, typing a name into her computer. “He’s the only friend of Marwan’s that I know of there. It’s a shame that he and Ramy don’t get along. He always seems so nice on the phone.”
“I thought so too. Ramy and Kadeen didn’t get along? I wonder why,” Goddard said, mining Mademoiselle Zeitoun for all she had.
“Well, the story is, monsieur,” she confirmed in a whisper, though no one but the two of them were in the office, “it all goes back to when they were kids and Mr. al-Wadhi was always mean to Ramy. Ramy just never forgave him and never forgot.”
“What a shame.”
“Oh, it is. Whenever a letter or something comes from Mr. al-Wadhi for Marwan, I always have to hide it so that Ramy won’t know about it. Such silly games for grown men. From how Marwan describes Mr. al-Wadhi and his family, they seem like wonderful people.” Jasmine handed a Post-it note to Goddard with a number neatly printed across it.
“They certainly do. Thank you so much, my dear. You have been most helpful.”
Ten minutes later Goddard was in his car, racing for the airport and speed-dialing the Skeleton.
“The friend’s name is Kadeen al-Wadhi,” Goddard said breathlessly when he had gotten Lemieux on the line. “They’ve known each other since they were kids. He lives in Casablanca with a wife and two daughters.”
“What does he do there?” Lemieux asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” Goddard said. “I’ve got DuVall working on that right now. I’ll know soon.”
“Good work, Goddard,” Lemieux said, sounding genuinely happy for the first time in days. “You might just end up making a fine detective after all.”
31
“My poor Tariq. Was the other driver hurt badly as well?”
Tariq heard the question but had no interest in answering it. He pretended he was still sleeping, but Dalia asked him again.
After a few moments, he rolled over and slowly opened his eyes to the golden morning sunshine pouring through the curtains. Dalia snuggled her warm body close to his, waiting for an answer. He was used to lying. It didn’t usually bother him. But for some reason lying to this girl on this day made him feel ashamed, though he couldn’t imagine why or how to get around it.
“I’m afraid he was,” he said at last. “The police said he had been drinking a lot. He’d just come from a party, wasn’t paying attention, and then—
wham!
—I never even saw him.”
Dalia winced. “You could have been killed.”
Tariq hesitated again. “I don’t like to think about that.” He scooped his shirt off the floor and put it on.
“Dying or the accident?” she asked.
“Both,” he said, then slipped out of bed and pulled on his khakis.
“Is that what you were having a nightmare about last night?”
“Nightmare?” he asked.
She nodded. “You don’t remember?”
“No, I don’t,” he lied again. What had he said? How much had she heard?
“It was around three,” she recalled. “You were grinding your teeth, tossing and turning, and then you started mumbling something.”
“Like what?”
Dalia pulled the sheet up to cover herself. “It was something like ‘No, stop, it wasn’t my fault! I didn’t know!’ But I couldn’t get it all. I was still half-asleep myself.”
Thank God,
he thought. But what he said was “And then what?”
“And then it was over. You rolled over and went back to sleep. You don’t remember any of that?”
The truth was he did. It was a nightly occurrence, only this was the first time he had actually seen the bullets being shot into the little girls’ heads.
It was a terrible dream, and he was still a bit shaken over it. But there was no way he was going to tell her. His only chance of survival at this point was living a double life. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes. More mistakes meant a higher chance of people getting killed. And while he wasn’t squeamish about killing when it needed to be done, neither did he relish pulling the trigger.
“Sorry, I don’t.” He leaned down and kissed her. “Now I’ve got a question for you.”
“Okay.”
“When’s your next flight?”
“Not until Monday night,” she said. “Why?”
“So you’ve got the whole weekend free?”
“I was going to go to Alex to visit a friend.”
“A guy?”
“No.” She smiled. “A girlfriend.”
“Cancel,” Tariq said.
“Why?”
“Let’s do something together this weekend.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “But let me take you to breakfast and we’ll come up with something, anything you want.”
“Anything?” she asked, looking a bit suspicious.
“Anything,” he said, desperately hoping she’d say yes. He knew the risks of starting a relationship now of all times, but he was sure he could manage them, and he couldn’t bear the thought of going back to his dingy, filthy flat all by himself. Dalia was beautiful and fun and full of life, and the way he figured it, every minute he spent with her was time he wasn’t thinking about Ramsey and Goddard and Lemieux.