Authors: Josh McDowell
Upon seeing Dalia, he stopped midsentence. His jaw dropped. His eyes began to well up with tears. And then, without saying a word, he held out his arms. Dalia rushed into them, and the two began to hug and weep.
“My little girl has come home,” he sobbed. “My Dalia has come home at last. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. You truly are a prayer-hearing and a prayer-answering God. Blessed be your name!”
Marwan felt a lump forming in his throat. If he had let himself, he would have burst into tears as well. He had not yet been in this home a full minute, and already he could feel a depth of love he had never experienced in his entire life.
Dalia’s father would not stop kissing and hugging his daughter. Nor would he stop praising the name of Jesus. It was as if their daughter had suddenly come back to them from the grave, and in some ways, Marwan guessed she had.
“Dalia,” her mother said after a few moments.
“Yes, Mama?” Dalia wiped the tears from her eyes to see her more clearly.
Rima glanced at Marwan and raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, of course.” Dalia turned back to her father, who was busy wiping his eyes with a now-soaked handkerchief. “Daddy, I want you to meet someone who has become very special to me. This is Tariq Jameel. He insisted that I come home and see you again. I wanted to, but I was a little . . . well . . . scared, I guess. I wasn’t sure how you’d react at seeing me again. I guess I wasn’t sure just how mad you are at me. But Tariq said that nothing is more important than family. He offered to escort me and make sure I got here safely.”
Pastor Nour looked deep into Marwan’s eyes. Marwan braced himself. But as he searched the older man’s eyes, the anger and suspicion and condemnation he expected to see simply weren’t there. Instead, he saw gratitude and love.
His surprise was compounded when the pastor stepped forward and wrapped him in a deep embrace. Marwan hadn’t experienced an older man hugging him since his father died. Instantly, he was transported back to that final day of his dad’s life, that final hug, that last “I love you.” Tears began streaming down his face as he held tightly to this stranger.
“I do not yet know you, young man,” the pastor said as he pulled away, holding Marwan’s arms. “But I can see that you have a great heart. You have given me a great gift today. You have brought my daughter back to me at long last, and for that I am eternally grateful. May God richly bless you for that, my son. Now, please, you will eat with us tonight. You must stay with us also. Our home is your home. You are most welcome here.”
“Thank you, sir,” was all that Marwan could choke out. He turned to Dalia, who had a huge grin on her face. All in all, this couldn’t possibly have gone any better. But at the same time he was smiling, he knew his problems were far from resolved. He was still wanted for murder, and there were still people out to kill him. And now he had brought that to these good people’s house.
Smile while you can because there are still a lot of tears in your future. And not only in your future, but in the future of Dalia and her wonderful family.
55
Inspector Goddard sat across a small table from Ramy Accad in a nondescript interrogation room at the central police headquarters in downtown Beirut.
He smoked a cigarette but offered none to Ramy. He drank freshly brewed coffee but offered Ramy none of this, either. Instead, he waited as a technician hooked up the young man to a polygraph machine.
I have to get as much information out of this guy in as short a time as is humanly possible. And if he gives me any trouble, I have to be prepared to make his life miserable.
When the technician was ready, Goddard pressed a button on an audio recorder.
“Once again, so there are no misunderstandings, you realize that you are under oath, do you not?” Goddard began.
Ramy shrugged.
“Yes or no answers, please—and speak clearly so your answers can be properly recorded.”
“Fine—yes, I’m under oath.”
“Very well. Let us begin. Is your name Ramy Accad?”
“You know it is.”
“Yes or no.”
“Then yes.”
“Are you the co-owner of Accad & Associates?”
“Of course.”
“Yes or no answers, Mr. Accad.”
“Yep,” Ramy said belligerently.
“Is this an executive security firm?”
“It isn’t a beauty salon.”
Goddard slammed his hand on the table. “Perhaps you do not appreciate the gravity of this situation, Mr. Accad. I can throw you in jail for refusing to answer my questions. And I can throw you in jail for lying to me. So a little less attitude and a lot more cooperation, you got it?”
Ramy shrugged again.
“Now, does your firm provide security to executives working in and around the Middle East?”
“Yes.”
“Is your partner also your brother, Marwan Accad?”
“Yes.”
“Was your brother hired by Rafeeq Ramsey to investigate the murder of his daughter and the kidnapping of his wife?”
“Yes.”
“Was your firm paid an initial retainer of five hundred thousand euros, plus expenses, for this work?”
Ramy looked startled.
Gotcha,
Goddard thought.
“How did you—?”
“Yes or no answers, Mr. Accad—and I remind you, you’re under oath.”
“Yes,” Ramy said reluctantly.
“Was Marwan in any way involved in the murder or kidnapping of the Ramsey women?”
“Ridiculous!”
“Mr. Accad . . .”
“No!”
“Did he try to blackmail the Ramsey family?”
“No!”
“Is he currently trying to blackmail the Ramsey family?”
“No!”
“Really?” Goddard said, getting up and pacing about the room. “If that is true, then let me ask you this: did your brother know on the day of Rafeeq Ramsey’s murder what country Claudette Ramsey was in?”
Ramy winced. Seconds passed, but he did not answer. He simply closed his eyes.
“Well?” Goddard pressed. “Did he?”
Again, Ramy said nothing.
Standing right behind Ramy, Goddard whispered in his ear, “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Accad. Cooperate or go to prison—and we’ll seize all your assets. It’s that simple.”
Then, stepping away, he said in a voice loud enough for the recorder to pick up, “I ask you again, on the day Mr. Ramsey was killed, did your brother know what country Mrs. Ramsey was in?”
“Yes.”
“Was that country Brazil?”
Again Ramy looked startled by the information Goddard had compiled.
“Yes,” he said hesitantly.
“Did he have a photo of Mrs. Ramsey in a bank in São Paulo?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know the bank account that Mrs. Ramsey was accessing?”
“By that point he did, yes, but—”
“Just yes or no, Mr. Accad.”
“It’s not that simple!”
“I want a yes or no!”
“Then yes!”
“Do you currently have more than a dozen paid operatives of Accad & Associates in the mountains outside São Paulo, Brazil?”
Ramy said nothing. Goddard knew he had him rattled. His intel was good. His sources were right. He was about to crack Ramy like a piñata.
“I’m waiting, Mr. Accad.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Are these men carrying weapons?”
“Yes.”
“Did these men call you this morning and ask you what you wanted done with Mrs. Ramsey?”
The look of shock on Ramy’s face was priceless.
“You don’t understand, I—”
“Is that what they said when they called you? ‘What do you want us to do with her?’”
A look of realization appeared on Ramy’s face.
You can almost see the lightbulb over his head,
Goddard thought with a smile.
“You tapped my phones.”
“That is correct. Now, is that what they said?”
“Yes.”
“And did you say, ‘Nothing yet. It’s complicated. I’ll get back to you soon’?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Mr. Accad, did you and your brother mastermind the kidnapping of Claudette Ramsey?”
“No,” Ramy said emphatically.
“Did you do it on your own?”
“No.”
“Really? But you know where she is?”
“Yes.”
“And your men won’t let her leave the house she’s in, right?”
“True.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that you and your brother are innocent of all this?”
“One hundred percent,” Ramy answered with venom in his voice.
“That’s getting very difficult to do, Mr. Accad,” Goddard said, sitting down and pretending to leaf through some notes. “Let me ask you something else. Was your brother in Casablanca, Morocco, last week?”
“Yes.”
“Did he visit a man named Kadeen al-Wadhi?”
“Yes.”
“And is Mr. al-Wadhi now dead and his family missing?”
“Yes, but there’s no way Marwan did that! He loved Kadeen! You’ve got the wrong—”
“Silence!” Goddard shouted. “You will answer my questions and follow my instructions or you will remain in jail until you are prepared to do so! Do you understand?”
Ramy stared hard at Goddard, hatred in his eyes.
“Is your brother still in Egypt?” Goddard asked.
Ramy sat there defiantly, saying nothing.
“Is your brother living in Cairo?” Goddard asked again.
Again Ramy said nothing.
“Did your brother go down to Alexandria?”
Silence.
“Has your brother left Egypt and gone to another country?” Goddard pressed.
But Ramy adamantly refused to answer.
Okay, I’m done with this! Time to pull out the big guns.
Goddard threw down his notes and jumped up.
Leaning over so that his face was only inches from Ramy’s, he said, “Your only brother is wanted for murder, Mr. Accad. And you know what? We’re going to find him. And when we find him, it’s very likely that we’ll shoot him on sight. So if you’ve got information that might keep your brother alive, I suggest you cooperate with me. Until then, you’re going to jail.”
56
Naheem Nour was a large man with big eyes, big hands, and a big laugh. That laugh was helping Marwan to slowly relax.
While Rima disappeared out the front door to do some quick shopping for a now-expanded dinner menu, her husband showed Marwan around the small apartment. It was a simple, modest home with three bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a large combined living room and dining area with enough couches and chairs for at least fifteen to twenty guests. The walls were stacked from floor to ceiling with more books than Marwan had ever seen outside of a university library, and everywhere there were picture frames filled with snapshots of various family and church events over the years.
Naheem sat them down on one of the deep, comfortable couches and pulled out an album of photos of Dalia from when she was a baby up to her high school graduation. Some of the pictures caused shrieks of protest from her and laughter from the two men. But one thing was clear to Marwan as he watched Dalia grow.
This woman has been beautiful from the time she was born!
A second album showed them pictures of Dalia’s brother, Elias, who was now a fighter pilot currently receiving advanced training with the Royal Air Force in England. Marwan could feel Dalia’s mood change as she began to realize just how much she had missed by being away.
“I’m sorry I was gone for so long, Daddy. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your letters or e-mails. I don’t know. . . . I just . . .” Dalia began to cry again. This time, though, it was not out of joy at being reunited with her parents. These tears came from a heart broken by her own guilt and sorrow.
Naheem put his thick arm around her and pulled her close to him. “That’s all behind us,” he said as she wept into his chest. “Do you remember the story of the Prodigal Son? Remember the joy of the father when he saw his boy coming down the road? What did he do?”
Between sniffles, Dalia answered, “Ran to him.”
“And if I had known you were coming, you would have been amazed at how fast I could have gotten this old body to move. Coming home is not a time for sorrow and regrets. It’s a time for forgiveness and feasting. You’ve already received the forgiveness, and as soon as your mother is home, the feasting will begin!”
Marwan began feeling out of place again and wanted to give this father and daughter a little privacy, so he said, “Pastor Nour, I know that this breaks all rules of hospitality, but I could really use some coffee. Would you mind if . . . ?”
Naheem began to get up. “My apologies! Let me get it.”
But Marwan was up quicker. “Please, sir, allow me. This way you two can spend some time together, and I can impress you with what might potentially be the best cup of coffee you’ve ever tasted—apart from your wife’s, of course.”
The pastor laughed. “Okay, I’m convinced. Besides, I’ve already told you that my house is your house, so I suppose that extends to the kitchen, also.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said as Dalia mouthed a thank-you to him.
Marwan went to the kitchen and put a kettle of water on. It didn’t take long for him to find the coffee, and he deeply inhaled the aroma of the beans.
It’s not going to be too difficult to make good coffee out of this.
As he prepared the beans, he thought through the last hour. He was amazed at the reaction of Dalia’s parents. After so many years of neglect, still they instantly forgave and accepted their daughter back—no questions, no complaints, no I-told-you-sos.
Then he brings in that Prodigal Son story.
He wasn’t sure why he knew it—probably from another in-flight magazine or motivational book he had read over the years. And although the details were sketchy, he remembered a kid taking his dad’s money, wasting it all on wine and women, and there was something about pigs; then he went home to his father, who welcomed him with open arms. The story was supposed to show the love of God and the power of forgiveness.
Well, that’s great for him, but that son just wasted his dad’s money, got drunk, and slept around a bit. I’m guilty of two out of those three. But what he didn’t do was kill people. He never shot a man between the eyes. He never cut a man’s throat. Some things are just beyond forgiveness, even for God.
He arranged cups on a tray and filled them with the thick, hot liquid. As he was walking to the living room, the front door opened, causing him to jump and almost spill the coffee. Rima, who was returning from her shopping, jumped too and dropped one of her bags.