AS THE SUN SLOWLY ROSE OVER THE HORIZON, HALA COULD SEE THAT they had arrived at the ocean, the powerful, very gray Atlantic. They were in Massachusetts, maybe. Or this could be Connecticut. Once they’d gotten off the highway, it had been much harder to track the road signs.
A row of shuttered cedar cabanas sat along the beach. Beyond that, waves broke onto an empty shore in the early morning light.
Actually, the beach wasn’t quite empty, Hala realized. A man was there, bent toward the water—toward Mecca—in prayer. She could see only the figure of him, no distinguishing characteristics. Presumably, it was his silver Mercedes parked next to their 4Runner. The rest of the dusty lot was deserted.
Tariq raised his head from her shoulder. His hand was still badly swollen, but he was at least hydrated, with a fresh bandage and the first course of antibiotics in his system.
“We’re… here,” Hala said. It was as much of an answer as she had. For that matter, where seemed less important than who they were here to see right now. Whoever this man was, they’d driven all night to get here.
Neither of the two in the front seat spoke. They waited for the stranger to finish his prayers and only then opened their car doors to get out. Hala and Tariq followed.
The four of them came around and stood by their vehicle while the man walked slowly up from the beach, shaking the sand from his prayer rug as he came.
He was elderly—older than Uncle had been, but fitter. His snowy hair was brushed straight back over his head, and he wore the kind of tracksuit an American businessman might wear on the weekend. Dark blue with a single white stripe. His feet were bare, and he carried a pair of Adidas scuffs in one hand.
Hala could feel the excitement rising in her chest. Before they’d come to America, no one had even suggested that advancement within The Family was possible. But that was before they’d met Uncle. Now, it seemed, anything was possible.
She grinned at the ground. America really was the land of opportunity, after all. The irony in this amused her.
The old man smiled as he came close. He walked right up and embraced Tariq, kissing him on each cheek. Then he shook Hala’s hand warmly but respectfully.
“It is good to meet our famous warriors from Washington, DC,” he said in a thick Najdi accent. “The Family owes you a tremendous debt of gratitude for what you’ve accomplished.”
“Thank you for the opportunity,” Hala said. She’d learned not to appear too proud. “And thank you for saving us. It was more than we deserved.”
“Psh!” The man waved a hand in the air. “You were clever to make that phone call. A risky move, yes? But here we are. It is good.”
He was even more ingratiating than Uncle had been, Hala thought. The fact that he addressed her more than Tariq said quite a bit about what he must already know.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but if I may ask—who are you, sir?”
“I would have thought someone as clever as you might have guessed,” he answered. “In any case, it is not important who I am. In this country, we are all just nameless, faceless monsters. Isn’t that so?”
Hala allowed herself to laugh. And before the man spoke again, she realized all at once who he was.
“You may call me Jiddo if you like,” he said.
Jiddo. It was the first word of Arabic any of these strangers had spoken to them, and exactly what she’d expected to hear.
It meant Grandfather.