At least have some tea,” Alex said.
The steward put their lunches on the table. She pushed hers away immediately.
“Bring the young lady some tea. Something English, if you have it. Not that damn Mexican herb tea,” Alex said. Then he tucked into his lunch. He was hungry.
He thought about his wife for a moment. He remembered her being even more beautiful than the young Arab woman sitting next to him. It didn’t seem possible that his wife could be sick. She’d always been so strong physically. Stronger than he was . . . he looked up at the girl. How long ago was that—that Helen had looked like that? He wished for a moment he could go back in time to that first day he’d met her and just look at her.
Helen had pretended to ignore him. It had been at a friend’s apartment in New York. He’d seen her from the top of the stairs. She was there visiting his friend’s sister. It was summer, and he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two.
“Do you remember Hansel and Gretel?” Alex said finally. The steward brought a pot of tea and a cup and left them alone again.
“I want to see the British Consul,” Dolores said.
“They left bread crumbs. Do you remember the story?” Alex asked.
“Yes.”
“Why did you write your mother? I have her address. That’s what led me back to you, really. I have your mother now in custody —well, the Brits have her.”
“What do you mean?” Dolores said.
“I’d drink that before it gets too dark.” Alex poured her a cup of tea. “She’s part of this, isn’t she? You were in communication with her. You are a bona fide member of al Qaeda. We can’t let your mother run about loose, can we? I’m afraid your sisters will be next. They’re standing by. The whole family will be arrested. Your older sister—Lillian—her children will have to go, too,” Alex said. He buttered a piece of bread.
“What do you want?” Dolores said. She was holding the tea cup and looking at the cup as if he weren’t there.
“I want the bloody bomb. Where is it?” Alex said. He put his butter knife down. It made a little sound on the china plate.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I never saw it.”
“But you were going to see it, weren’t you?”
“Yes. I don’t know. I don’t know what it was they wanted me to do. I just know I was going to die . . . I want my sisters and mother left alone. I want to talk to them on the phone. And leave the doctor out of it, too. He has nothing to do with it. I’ve only just met him,” she said in a monotone.
“I’m afraid it isn’t so easy, dear. What if I told you they will be released when I get the bomb?”
“How can I get it? Don’t you understand! I don’t know where it is, or who has it. Or where I was to take it. I don’t know anything about it.”
“You can go back to the Gobi and wait, can’t you? They still expect you to take it, don’t they? I would imagine so. There’s no reason to expect they won’t go forward with their little plan.”
“You’ve arrested Madani and his wife. Why would they go back to the Gobi? Certainly, they must suspect the police are watching the hotel,” she said.
“Because. Why shouldn’t they? Someone has to take it . . . north. Don’t they? I’m betting they want it to be a woman, a very pretty young woman, who will get people to help her all along the way,” Alex said. “That’s what I would do, if I were them.”
“Then will you let my family go? And the doctor? If I help you?”
“Yes,” Alex said.
She took a sip of tea. Her hand was shaking slightly.
“Why?” Alex said. He pushed his plate away.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Why would you do this? Mass murder. Do you really hate us that much? You were brought up a Christian. It isn’t religious with you.”
“Yes,” she said. She took another sip of tea. “Yes, I hate you that much.”
“I don’t believe you,” Alex said. “It’s something else, isn’t it? You blame us for your son’s death, I suppose.”
• • •
“I was worried about you,” Collin said. He let her pass him and he closed the door. “I’m glad you’re all right.”
He’d been sitting in the dark. He’d noticed her suitcase was lying out on the bed when he’d come in.
“Your hair is wet.”
“Is it?” she said. He nodded. She touched it.
They’d let her off a few blocks away. It was better, they’d said, that she walk the rest of the way.
“Can I ask you where you’ve been?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said. “I was with a friend. Someone I met here.”
“I was worried. I didn’t have a way of getting ahold of you,” Collin said. “Do they know Madani?”
“No,” she said.
“I thought it might have something to do with him. I don’t care if it does. But the police know. Suspicious, anyway. I was going to warn you. You see, I don’t believe you are a terrorist. Whatever it is you are . . . you aren’t that,” Collin said. “Are you?”
“Of course not,” she said.
“I’ve got you a new passport,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know someone . . . at the embassy. They arranged it. It was a favor. You won’t have to worry about not having one now.”
“Thank you,” she said. She walked into the bedroom.
“It’s on the desk,” he said, following her.
She took her coat off and laid it on the bed, then went to the desk and picked up the passport Law had left for her.
“There’s a plane ticket to Chicago, too—if you want it,” Collin said.
She turned and looked at him. “Do you want me to leave?” she asked.
“No. Of course not,” he said. “But I didn’t want you riding the damned bus if you did leave.”
“Thank you,” she said. She found the passport and opened it.
“I want you to go to Baja with Alfredo and me this weekend. I promise you you’ll love it. It’s beautiful . . . the town.”
She put the passport back on the desk. “I think I’m moving back to the hotel,” she said.
He watched her go to the closet and start to take out her things.
“I don’t understand,” Collin said.
“Thank you for all you’ve done. But I think it’s best.” She didn’t turn around.
“You don’t have to,” Collin said. He walked up to her and put his arm around her waist. She looked at the wall across from her. He’d tacked up the drawing of her lying on the bed. “I don’t want you to go,” he said quietly. “I’d like you to stay. I don’t want you to go to the Gobi, or to Chicago, or anywhere, for that matter. I’m in love with you.”
“I’m married,” she said suddenly. “I wanted to tell you . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it go this far.”
He let go of her. It was as if he’d been hit in the stomach. He didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say.
“Well, you can’t love him . . . or this wouldn’t have happened,” he said finally.
“No. I do love him. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I’m going back home. Going back to Chicago. In a day or two,” she said. She continued to pack her things. Her suitcase was still open where she’d left it when they’d come for her.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. She turned around. She was folding up a white sweater.
“It was just a holiday romance. Can’t you understand? I didn’t mean it to go this far. I’m going home to my husband. And that has to be the end of it; do you understand? I don’t want to see you again,” she said. She laid the sweater in the suitcase.
“All right.” He felt foolish. He looked for his coat. He was going to say something—that he didn’t believe her—but it was all sounding too ridiculous. Perhaps she’d just used him, he thought. He picked up his coat. She was a very beautiful woman. It must happen all the time. All the time.
He put his coat on and walked out onto the street. He’d never really been in love before. He’d been sexually infatuated, of course, but never in love. He thought that in a day or two it would go away, the pain he felt in the pit of his stomach.
He went down the sidewalk, not really looking up until he got to the bar on the corner. Then he went in and ordered a mescal. It was an awful place, but he didn’t notice any of the pathetic loathsome types sitting in the shadows or at the bar near him. Instead, he saw only her holding the sweater and laying it in the suitcase. He relived it, again and again. He felt an utter fool for getting involved.
When she walked into the Gobi, she was surprised to see Madani’s wife at the desk. The old woman greeted her in Arabic. They looked at each other for a moment, each one unsure of what to say.
“Would you like the same room?” Madani’s wife asked, deci-ding to avoid everything.
“I’m sorry,” Dolores said. “About your husband.”
“We had a life; it doesn’t matter. We have children,” was all she said. She handed her the key. “Are you going to be here long?” she asked.
“A few days, perhaps. Do you want me to pay?” Dolores said.
“It’s paid already,” the wife said. “They’ve paid everything. Meals, everything.” Dolores was going to ask who had paid, but didn’t.
• • •
“Leave the girl,” Butch said.
“But I thought. . . .”
“I said, leave the girl,” Butch said. The Mexican from their intelligence service nodded. “You can take her parents,” Butch said, “but leave the girl.”
Nickels was sitting in the kitchen. Dirty plates from their fast food lay on the counter and on the table. The mother and father spoke to their daughter in Arabic. The daughter, frightened, answered her parents in Spanish. Butch went to the kitchen door and watched the parents and the boyfriend led away. He waited, drinking coffee until that was over and it was quiet in the living room.
It was almost six when he walked into the room. His neck hurt, but he didn’t care. He’d gotten used to all kinds of pain in his life, and something about this pain was reassuring. This pain fit, and he was glad for it. Why hadn’t I just let the kid kill me? He’d been asking himself that question all afternoon and didn’t have an answer. Training? Or was it something else—hope? He was 60 years old. Why hadn’t he just let the kid kill him? He was heading for that empty apartment in Virginia, and frighteningly empty days with no one to talk to. Long walks where he would remember his days of derring-do. Park benches? A dog, perhaps.
No, he didn’t think so. It would never get to that point. He would never see the inside of that horrible place.
The daughter was sitting on the couch with the hood over her head. She heard him coming and he saw her draw herself up, terrified and probably exhausted. He reached over and pulled the hood off of her head.
“Mi nombre es Tom,” he said. He asked her name in Spanish.
“Sofia,” she said. She looked around the living room. Then she asked him where her parents had been taken.
“Jail,” he said.
“Why?” she said. “Why?”
He looked at her, then. She was just a kid. She wore the ubiquitous uniform of Catholic school girls in the city: pleated skirt and white shirt, her hair in pigtails. She was maybe 16, he guessed. He’d always wanted a daughter. It was never going to happen, now.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Where is what?”
“The bomb,” he said. “Please tell me. I can help you if you tell me where it is. Everything will be all right if you tell me that. Or just show me where it is.”
“You killed my brother,” she said.
“He tried to shoot me . . . it wasn’t my fault.” He was surprised he answered her that way, defensively. He sat down next to her. He could see the smashed door jamb in the hallway from where he sat.
“Who are you? What do you want?” she said.
“I’m Tom,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“That’s a good age.” She just stared at him, terrified. “Sixteen. You have to tell me where it is.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Your brother. Did he bring something home? Turn around.” He dug into his pocket and got a short-bladed policeman’s knife. He touched her shoulder. “I’m going to take off the handcuffs. Las esposas,” he said.
She shifted on the couch and he cut off the plastic cuffs. Her wrists were red where they’d cut into her flesh.
“Do you want something to drink? You can’t run, do you understand that? I would have to shoot you. I don’t want to do that. Do you understand me? I want you to answer me,” Butch said. He knew he couldn’t shoot her. It was the first time he’d had that thought in almost forty years. Always before, something had been in front of all that. Duty, whatever—a horrible misguided loyalty, perhaps. He’d been able to do things that he knew now, since the moment he saw her sitting there with a hood over her head, he couldn’t do anymore.
He sliced easily through the plastic handcuffs, the blade razor sharp. He’d sharpened it himself with a small whetstone he’d carried since Viet Nam. He enjoyed that, sitting at a kitchen table wherever he happened to be in the world and sharpening it in a circular motion, listening to the rasping sound the blade made. He’d done it all his adult life.
He felt suddenly different about everything. He was sure he’d never see that apartment in Virginia, and he was happy.
“Get out,” Butch said. “Go on. Get out,” he said in Spanish. She stood up, confused.
“What about my father and mother?”
“Get out,” he said. “Go on before I change my mind. Don’t come back here, whatever you do. Do you understand me?” He said that in English. She looked at him a moment, then left.