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Paris, France
April 1983
A jumbo Air France 747 joined a queue of aircraft circling Charles de Gaulle International Airport. It awaited clearance to begin its final approach. Adah awoke, prone in her first class seat, yawned, and stretched her arms high above her head. Then she uncovered herself and placed the blanket and the pillow on the empty seat next to her. The 747 had left J.F.K. late last night. It arrived in Paris on this Saturday morning. She had flown in comfort. When the Soviet Union paid for the tickets, no way would she accept coach. This visit to the City of Lights would be a short one.
After landing, she went to a locker where Siaeed, her Egyptian case officer, had left instructions along with a little something extra for her personal protection. Adah knew she was more than capable of defending herself with or without a weapon. But things with John had not gone well these last two months, so the thought of having to shoot someone felt cathartic.
Siaeed had selected a bar in the northeastern suburb of Sevran for a debriefing. Sevran was an impoverished, predominantly Muslim suburb of Paris near the airport. (In another thirty years, Sevran would become a neighborhood whose chief export would be jihadists. In the 1980s, however, it merely incubated them.)
She checked into a five-star hotel, and later that afternoon, Adah ordered the concierge to have someone hail her a taxicab. When she got inside and told the driver her destination, his thick, bushy eyebrows arched all the way up to his curly, black hairline. He was an Arab, Adah guessed a Moroccan, and he said to her in French: “Mademoiselle... Sevran is a very dangerous place; especially for a young European girl alone.”
She snickered. Why didn’t he recognize she was as Arab like him? Was it her blue eyes?
Adah, ever willing to display superiority, replied in French: “I assure you, monsieur, I can take care of myself. And I’m not a girl. Now get going, I don’t want to be late.”
He huffed and puffed and threw the cab into gear. He mumbled to himself in Arabic, comparing her to a garbuuaaa, a small jumping rodent that lived in the desert. For this mild insult, specific to women, this son of a shoe had forfeited a tip.
The taxi pulled up in front of a sports bar, The Red Fox Inn. She paid the driver, sans tip, of course. As she was getting out, he cursed at her in Arabic: “ ‘ulalaat il-haya eahira!” He had called her a shameless whore.
She turned around, shined her withering malevolence on him, leaned in the passenger-side window, and replied in Arabic: “Kuss ummak.” (Your mother’s filthy cunt.)
The driver was beyond shocked. When he regained his senses, he slammed the cab into gear and roared off leaving Adah standing outside of the Red Fox, laughing. Adah, who felt the blood of Cleopatra pulse in her veins, opened the front door and strode confidently into the dark and dingy bar. The place was crowded with angry young men and even angrier old men; therefore, in addition to stale tobacco, the interior stunk of angry testosterone.
These peasants should learn the joys of regular bathing.
Apparently the Red Fox was one of those no-go zones as far as women were concerned. The place had been quite loud with incensed discussions in Arabic; politics no doubt. But when she entered, every hard face turned on her in silent contempt. She returned their stares with a smile that said:
Maluus zobr (men with no dicks), I have entered your precious pig sty. Now what are you going to do about it?
She felt like Clint Eastwood. Any man who dared to hassle her would meet the little friend she carried in her shoulder bag. Then she heard Siaeed’s voice. He was seated at a rear table. Then he stood up and called to the men in the bar:
“Please, friends, she is my sister. Please treat her with respect.”
One especially grizzled old man seated at the bar told the bartender, “I never would let my sister come to a shit hole like this.”
An eruption of laughter, and then the men went back to grumbling about whatever they’d been grumbling about.
Adah sat down across from Siaeed: “Sister? Really?”
“I had to think quick Adah; you had that murderous look in your eyes.” Then he ordered them two Turkish coffees. “Best not to speak English in this place, that will get us both killed.”
“Not to worry, dear brother, I shall protect you,” she replied in Russian.
“Russian, good, I doubt any of these moodaks speak Russian.”
“Unless of course they’re spies like us.” Her high-pitched laughter rose above the din.
“Careful, Sister, I like coming to this place when I’m in Paris. I like to watch the football matches.”
They would continue to speak in Russian until they left the pub.
Once the Turkish coffees were served by the bartender, it was down to business. Siaeed wore a smug smile like he was about to pat himself on the back. Men in general were so prone to self-congratulation that she often wondered how it was that evolution did not bless them with an extra arm between their shoulder blades.
“I have wonderful news,” he said, his smile now a crescent. “I had to work hard to convince our GRU friends...”
She snickered. “You mean your GRU masters.”
“Adah, what’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like a... Why are you so angry?”
Whatever he thought she was acting like, lucky for him he kept it to himself.
“The Russians are sending you to Geneva,” he announced. He looked like he expected her to jump into his lap and smother him with kisses.
Instead, a matter-of-factly: “Good. When do I leave?”
“You can be on a plane as early as next week.”
“Good. Tell the Russians I’m taking Fatima with me.”
Siaeed face read: Who is Fatima?
Sharply: “My cat, Siaeed, my cat.”
“Oh, but of course. If your cat means that much to you, so be it.”
That cat meant more to her than he could ever imagine. Fatima was the only other living creature she allowed inside her castle.
When the debriefing was over, Siaeed said he’d walk her to the avenue where she could hail a taxi. The Red Fox Inn was located on an out-of-the-way Sevran backstreet. They left the bar and Adah was not surprised when she saw a black, Soviet Lada parked at the end of the block. It faced them. One of those ugly French Citrons pulled up behind it wanting to pass, but there was no room. The Russians had blocked off the street. The Citron driver tapped his horn. The Lada did not move. Then he leaned on it. The Lada still did not move. Finally, the Citron backed up and drove away.
Given that Siaeed had chosen this seedy neighborhood for a debriefing, and given he was, as John would say, “a pussy,” she was not surprised that inside the Lada sat their armed GRU screen. Most likely Siaeed was armed, too, but no doubt he would foul his underpants if he ever had to draw a weapon.
Suddenly, the taxi driver whose mother she had so viciously insulted stepped out from an alley in front of them. He blocked the sidewalk just as the Lada blocked the street. To get passed him they’d have to step into the road, something Adah would not do. The taxi driver grinned maliciously. He held a lead pipe in his right hand, and he tapped it on the palm of his left hand.
“Whore,” he said to Adah in Arabic, “I see you found a customer.” Then to Siaeed in Arabic, “Move along, friend, and find yourself another garbuuaaa.”
Despite a cool facade, Adah heard fear crack Siaeed’s voice: “Friend, this woman is my sister. Please do not speak about her like that,” he replied in Arabic.
“Your sister,” the taxi driver said, clearly not seeing a family resemblance, “has insulted my mother’s honor! Now I’m going to break her legs!”
Siaeed grabbed Adah by the arm. “Quick! The other way!”
She shook him off and stood her ground. Her antennae had been up, so she knew that two of the driver’s thug-friends had sneaked up behind them, blocking their retreat. They also held pipes and looked like they were eager to shatter Adah’s bones. There was no doubt in her mind that the intent of all three Moroccans was to smash her body into a gelatinous mass. Yes, her life was an unhappy one, but she had no desire to let go of it just yet. Adah aimed a cold stare at the driver. Sensing this might be the end to his days, the swarthy coloring in the man’s face slowly drained away until it was like a white death mask.
Meanwhile, Siaeed waved frantically to the Lada that squatted thirty meters away like a fat, black slug.
“HELP! HELP!” Siaeed screamed in Russian to the Lada.
It jerked forward, flashing its headlights while the Lada’s driver leaned on the horn. The taxi-thug was distracted. Enough time for Adah to reach into her shoulder bag and pull out her little friend. When he turned back to Adah, he was now facing the business end of a small pistol. Adah could hear his bowels loosen and smell his stink. He dropped the pipe and raised his hands.
Pop! A single shot right between the eyes dropped him like a bag of shit on the pavement. His comrades dropped their pipes and ran away. The Lada screeched to a halt right in front of them. A burly GRU officer jumped out of the front passenger seat and tried to push Adah into the backseat; she resisted.
“Get your hands off me! I am a lady!” she yelled in Russian.
The GRU officer smiled, and then ushered her inside with his hands: “After you, madam.”
She calmly entered the sedan and slid across the backseat to make room for Siaeed. He jumped in right after her. Then the Lada calmly drove away.
Siaeed turned as purple as an eggplant, and, still trembling, “Do you think the police will come after us,” he asked no one in particular.
“This is Sevran, comrade,” said the GRU driver. “These animals murder each other all the time, no one cares.”
“I hope you are not suggesting that all Arabs are animals, comrade driver,” Adah hissed through her teeth.
“Not all, only the ones who live in Sevran,” said the driver, grinning.
“And now, thanks to you, Miss, there is one less,” the other Russian added wryly.
Siaeed’s sweaty face and his heavy breathing embarrassed Adah in front of these two cool and calm GRU men, both of whom must have seen action in Afghanistan.
Inside, she sneered: You’re no John, Siaeed.
***
THE OVERNIGHT AIR FRANCE flight from Paris to New York arrived early Sunday morning. Two days in the City of Lights had been so eventful that Adah slept-in all afternoon. That night the decent thing to do would be to call G.B. Wilton and tell them she was resigning. Instead, she heard John’s voice in her head: Fuck ‘em.
She smiled; so instead of doing the right thing, Adah pranced around the living room holding an empty glass of black Russian on the rocks. She was going to Geneva! The jolly mood she so desperately wanted to capture felt forced. A bucket of ice and a tumbler — three quarters empty by now — of one part Kailua and two parts Stolichnaya vodka had not been enough to drown all thoughts of that peasant, John. She was anxious to phone him to say that by next weekend she would be out of his life forever. But first, she poured herself another black Russian and stared at the ice. She smiled. “Shaken not stirred.”
That gave her an idea. She slid a VHS, A View To Kill, into the player, sat down on the sofa to watch her favorite spy, James Bond, cavort on the screen. Fatima jumped up on the sofa and snuggled next to her, purring. The nearly empty tumbler sat on the coffee table in front of her. She leaned back, put her feet up, and sipped her drink.
“We are going to Geneva, Fatima. Aren’t you excited?”
The cat purred.
“I assume that means yes.”
When she had drained the glass, she poured what little was left in the tumbler and polished that off, too. Her head was spinning by now, so she began to talk to the screen.
“A license to kill... Tell me about it... Oh Roger, you’re such a hunk!” she said, shimmying her hips.
When she finally noticed the tumbler was empty, she hit the pause bottom went over to the small bar on rollers to make more black Russians. She had a one-way conversation with Fatima.
“Vodka — about the only thing those damn Russians do well... Oh — and ballet. And classical music. And mathematics... They’re better than those fucking Americans. All they’re good for are hamburgers and pizza... Oh — and jazz. And rock and roll. And Elvis.”
She laughed.
She placed the full tumbler on the coffee table and poured herself another drink. To Fatima, “And don’t get me started on the bloody Egyptians. They’re good for nothing... Same for the Moroccans. The Saudis... All Arabs. To quote a dear friend, ‘Fuck ‘em all!’ “
The movie ended. She looked over at the clock that hung on the wall above the dinner table: eleven twenty three. John was probably asleep.
Too bad. When I want to talk, we talk.
She dialed his number. “John... I’m back... Who? Adah, John, Adah! Wake up!” She held the receiver off to the side allowing his brain a few more seconds to boot up. Then, “Take off from work tomorrow...Huh?...I’m sure the roofs will not collapse without you. We need to talk.” Then she gave him directions to a diner near her house. She said she’d meet him there.
John Tettouomo had been like a dock to which Adah Ameen had once been moored. But the strain of these last two months — since that first night when he’d come up short — had stretched those lines to the breaking point.
The time had come to cut them.
The next morning, she got into her black, 1981 BMW. The vehicle had been leased to an export company that was really a GRU front. When she got to Geneva, the Russians would provide her another BMW, cherry red this time — she would insist on it. Black bored her now.
When she pulled into the parking lot she saw John’s banger was already there. She grumbled something about his being a peasant and parked alongside. At a secluded booth in the diner, they placed their orders: John a cheeseburger deluxe and a coke, and Adah a Greek salad. Seated across from her, John was unusually silent. She read him like a page in a book: he was expecting bad news, so, with as much dispassion as she could muster, she told him that she was being reassigned to Geneva, Switzerland.
“I’ll be flying out of New York next Saturday.”
He fell back in his seat and kicked out both legs. “Geez, Adah! It’s like the Sphinx just broke up with me. Did you ever love me?”
“John, you kicked my shin.”
“Sorry.”
Whatever she once felt for this man, she felt no longer. He had become an irritation. “I told you at the very beginning, you and I can never be. I’m still in the army. I follow orders.”
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to!”
“Please, John, the whole eating room does not have to know our business... I go because I want to go.”
“Geez, Adah, you’re like your own island.”
“Not an island, a castle... Did you respond to that ad in the Special Libraries journal even after I warned you not to?”
Back when John had shown her his new computer equipment, he also handed her a clipping that came from the July ‘81 issue of the Bulletin of the Special Libraries Association.
“It’s a year old,” he’d said, “but I’m gonna answer it anyway.”
The ad had read:
“Attention Information Brokers: University library wants to contact information brokers for mutual benefit.”
Then it listed a SLA box to send contact information.
Adah knew she shouldn’t care. They were no longer together, so he was none of her business. Still, this man-child needed someone to dump a bucket of ice, cold reality onto his silly dream: “What university? Do you even know who these people are?”
A defensive, “I called the SLA, but they wouldn’t tell me, some shit about confidentiality. They told me the ad ran regularly. The SLA Bulletin is a quarterly.”
“How do you know the ad has been placed by a university? These people could be anybody? It could be — how do you say?”
“A scam. I doubt it. It’s the Special Libraries Association.” Clearly, he was annoyed that she would dare question such a golden opportunity.
“Oh John, please! Do you really think the Special Libraries Association bothers to vet their advertisers?” she said, flapping the clipping in his face. Then she sighed something that must have heated his blood: “You’re so naive.”
She knew in her heart that John Tettouomo was a man not afraid to take a risk. So she was not surprised when he said, sharply, “I’m in business, Adah. The ad is an opportunity.”
“Listen to me, John; these are bad people. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.”
“Who cares? If they are bad, I’ll deal with it.”
She sighed, “Oh John... Never mind. I’ll call you once I’m settled in Switzerland. If you ever find yourself in a bad situation, call me.” And then a large granite block dropped off her Sphinx-like facade. “If ever you need me, I will always be there for you,” she added.
She watched him take short, rapid breaths as he tried to hold back tears. Finally, a barely audible, “I will.”
His eyes were glassy red. Her heart was broken, but she would not cry.
John pushed his food away. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Neither am I.”
In the parking lot with their two cars sitting right next to each other, there was no hug, no final goodbye, and no last kiss. Each got into their own car and drove off in opposite directions.