His blessed life seemed to extend to his job as well. As I read his work e-mails, it was clear that he was very high up in the United Nations. He had a tremendous amount of authority; most e-mails involved delegating various tasks to a slew of subordinates. He communicated with high-level government officials from around the region—not just the UAE. There were discussions about refugees and the logistics involved with delivering food and humanitarian assistance to various locations around the world.
The more I looked through the phone, the more I thought about something my grandfather once told me: “A man with a big belly will only give away his fat when he is afraid for his life.” I considered these words as I made myself watch the video of everything Mike the American had done to me that night.
* * *
It took one incident for everything to unravel. I was in the garden shack emptying garbage bins when Almaz came in carrying the broken shards of a vase. I recognized the pieces immediately; it was a particularly prized piece from Madam Kassab’s extensive collection of vases, which were on display throughout the house. The side of Almaz’s face was red, and a trickle of blood flowed from her lip and onto her chin. Drops of blood spattered the front of her work apron.
I rushed to my friend. “What has happened?” I asked. “Are you all right?”
Almaz brushed past me, tossed the broken shards into the trash bin, and launched into a long diatribe in Amharic, stopping only after she had reduced herself to tears.
Suddenly, Madam Dua rushed in. She snatched a small wooden stake from the gardener’s workbench and began beating Almaz on the back of the head with it. Almaz screamed and doubled over, desperately trying to shield herself. But the old lady was in a mad fury and continued to rain down blows with astonishing speed and force. Almaz slumped against the back wall, leaning directly against the bricks where we hid our secret stash of food. I watched in shock as the bricks toppled in, revealing the large stash of items we had pilfered from the kitchen. Even more terrifying, the stolen phone sat in plain sight.
Madam Dua paused in midswing, her arm raised menacingly above her head. She hissed, “What is this?” Her head swung back and forth between the phone and me. She repeated herself, this time punctuating each word with a single, vicious swing of the stake. “WHAT—IS—THIS?” The blows came down hard against the back of Almaz’s head and hands as she made feeble attempts to shield herself.
And then the old lady wheeled around and directly confronted me. Her thin lips were twisted into an angry snarl and her eyes were wide and set, as if she were under some kind of spell, conscious only of the need to inflict pain. Her whole body shook as she raised the stake high above her head and brought it down.
But I was ready for it. I stepped under the blow and drove my shoulder as hard as I could into Madam Dua’s chest. As she fell backward, the old lady tripped over Almaz’s crumpled body and, with a dull, sickening thud, struck the back of her head on the corner of the gardener’s workbench. She landed in an awkward position beside Almaz, moaning and moving her head slightly. She appeared seriously hurt.
I helped Almaz back to her feet. My friend stood over Madam Dua’s prone body for several seconds, staring down at her. Finally, she spat on the old lady and viciously kicked her in the side. She turned toward me and we simply stared at each other, trying to digest everything that had just happened in the span of a few minutes.
“We must go,” Almaz said at last. I nodded and began to follow my friend out the door.
“Wait!” I exclaimed, suddenly remembering the phone. “We will need this.” Almaz also snatched the keys to the front gate, which Madam Dua always kept on a small chain around her neck.
We set out through neighborhoods similar to our own, passing houses that were set well back from the street and concealed behind high walls and security fences. In most cases, the only thing visible above the wall was a thick nest of satellite dishes, antennae, and surveillance cameras. We felt painfully conspicuous against the indistinguishable landscape of neat, orderly streets and generic facades. I found a plastic bag and used it to wipe away the blood on Almaz’s head and hands. I thought my friend looked unsteady on her feet. Even I felt a little light-headed in the midday sun.
Almaz believed our best chance was to hide in one of the migrant labor camps on the edge of the city. There, we would be anonymous, just two among thousands of runaways and invisible absconders with no real identity or documentation. We could then seek help from the twins, who would also keep us apprised of what was happening at the Kassab household. With that vague plan in mind, we set out toward the city center, where we would try to hitch a ride on one of the many buses that shuttled workers to and from the camps.
We tried to stay off the main streets and avoid the suspicious stares of people. But two unveiled black women walking around such neighborhoods in the middle of the day was an unusual sight. Every car that drove past slowed down so its occupants could gawk at us. On three different occasions, a car pulled up and a man leaned out the window to proposition us. One man in particular would not give up; he followed us for several blocks in his black BMW, whistling and calling after us from inside his car. He clearly assumed we were prostitutes.
We spotted the first police car as we scrambled through an alleyway and it sped past the entrance just ahead of us. We continued to stick to the back alleys as much as possible, dashing across streets and open spaces as quickly as we could. But after a while, we realized that the police were searching for us, patrol cars crossing back and forth as if in a coordinated search pattern. The empty, sterile surroundings of Dubai’s wealthier neighborhoods made it difficult to hide or blend in, and we knew it was a matter of time before they discovered us. I cursed the blinding sun, which seemed to bear down on us like a spotlight.
Almaz seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Ech,” she exclaimed, shielding her eyes and pressing her back against the wall in a vain attempt to retreat into the shade. “We need to get out of these neighborhoods,” she muttered as the sweat trickled down the side of her face. “We are too obvious here. Everyone will see us.”
I was just about to suggest that we climb over a wall and take our chances hiding in someone’s yard when a car turned swiftly into the alley and roared toward us. We froze. There was nowhere to run. It was over.
But it was not the police. And it was not over. It was the man in the black BMW who had called out to us earlier. He rolled down a tinted window and said, “You two beauties can either come with me or you can go with the police. So which one will it be?”
* * *
The man drove us to a neighborhood close to the city center. At one point in time, it probably had been a pleasant residential part of town, but it had been neglected and was now noticeably run-down. Clusters of warehouses and industrial plants encroached on what was left of the residential area, leaving behind a few isolated and forlorn-looking apartment buildings in their wake. The man drove us to one such building, a bleak two-story cement structure that hugged the ground and looked more like a bunker than an apartment complex. I could not help but notice that every window had its shades drawn, as if the people inside were sheltering themselves from the industrial onslaught around them. Or perhaps, I thought, they had something to hide.
The interior of the man’s apartment did little to negate the general atmosphere of neglect and decay. It was almost completely devoid of furniture other than a shabby couch, a flat-screen TV, and several large mattresses strewn about the place as if dropped there with no care or attention at all. There were no pictures on the walls, no knickknacks or personal items, nothing to suggest that this was somebody’s home. Given the expensive nature of the man’s clothes and car, I immediately suspected that this apartment was some kind of hideout or sex den. I exchanged glances with Almaz, who seemed to be thinking the same thing, but there was nothing we could do at this point, not until an opportunity presented itself.
The man never introduced himself or told us his name. Neverth
eless, he spoke to us in an easy, open manner, as if we were old friends. “You are safe here, my beauties,” he said, pouring us each a large glass of an unknown alcoholic beverage from the kitchen. I took a sip and almost gagged—it was very strong. I hoped the man would not make us drink it, but he prodded us repeatedly, even taking our glasses and putting them to our mouths himself. I felt light-headed even before my first glass was finished. I could see it was having an impact Almaz as well.
We settled down on the couch and continued to drink. The man seemed content to do little else. He took off his suit jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and loosened his belt, allowing his substantial stomach to spill out over the top of his trousers. Though he was Arab, he did not dress in the traditional robe, looking and behaving like a Western man more than anything else.
He took our glasses to the kitchen and made us another drink. Almaz tried to object, but the man would not hear of it. I shot my friend a look meant to discourage her from pressing the issue, but she already seemed to understand. We both knew that if we upset our peculiar host we risked being turned over to the police. The man himself underscored this point, reminding us at regular intervals that he knew we were somehow in trouble. He warned us that we did not want to fall into the hands of the Dubai police. And while he said everything in his friendly, offhand manner, I detected an underlying threat. Clearly, we were there to have fun and drink with our new benefactor. Otherwise, it could go very badly for us.
Over the course of the afternoon, the man rambled on about a variety of topics. Eventually, however, the subject of sex began to dominate the one-sided conversation. He told us all about his sexual preferences, divulging things that, prior to my time with the Jackal, would have shocked me. As he spoke, it became clear that the apartment was a place that he and several other men rented so they could fulfill their sexual fantasies. It seemed like many women had passed through the place prior to us, undergoing all kinds of sexual ordeals, most of which revolved around bondage, dominance, and various acts of sadism.
After we had almost finished our second drink and my head was swimming, the man produced several pills from his pocket. “Take them, my beauties,” he said. He claimed they would counter the effects of the alcohol and help us sleep through the night. I shot Almaz a warning look, but it was too late. My friend blithely swallowed the pills before I could stop her. I wanted to scream at her for being so stupid. How could she simply trust this strange man whose name we did not even know? If I had learned anything since my abduction, it was to always question everyone’s motives, no matter who they were or how long I had known them or how much I trusted them. Suspicion was critical to survival.
As the man eyed me, I made a show of putting the pills in my mouth, trying to do so as nonchalantly as Almaz had just done. In reality, however, I cupped them in my hands and stuffed them between the couch cushions when he turned away. It was easy to fool him, I thought. But now I was unsure of my next move.
In a matter of minutes, Almaz went from looking drunk to almost completely dazed. She had trouble keeping her head up and then slumped over slightly to her side. Her hands rested on either side of her in unnatural positions. She tried to speak, but her words merged into a continuous slur that was impossible to understand. It was frightening to watch her sudden transformation.
I had to think fast. I mimicked the stages of impairment I had just witnessed Almaz go through, hoping the man did not notice how rapidly I progressed through them in order to catch up with my friend’s current condition. The man, sipping his drink in eerie silence now, studied us closely but did not seem to suspect anything. Eventually, he stood up and walked into the kitchen. My mind raced as I scanned the room, looking for anything I could use as a weapon. But the apartment was so sparsely furnished that I saw nothing. As the man reentered the room, I just barely had time to return to my slumping position and feign unconsciousness once again.
When the man returned to the kitchen for the second time, I opened my eyes and spotted a dead plant in the corner of the room. It was in a medium-sized clay pot that looked just heavy enough to make a decent weapon. If I caught the man by surprise when he emerged from the kitchen, I might be able to knock him out by smashing it over his head. It was my only chance, I thought, as I observed my friend, who was now totally unconscious and open to whatever fate the man had in store for us.
I heard the man continue to move about in the kitchen, so I stood up and quickly crossed the room. My head was spinning from the alcohol, and I felt unsteady on my feet, but my body buzzed with adrenaline. The potted plant was heavier than I expected, so I yanked out the dead plant, taking a large chunk of dirt with it, and carried the pot as quietly as possible to the kitchen doorway. Carefully positioning myself to one side, I lifted the pot high above my head with both hands and waited.
At that moment, there was a knock at the front door. My heart leapt into my throat as I realized I was on the wrong side of the doorway; the man would be turning toward me as he emerged from the kitchen to answer the door. I vaulted across the entrance to the other side but it was too late; the man appeared directly in front of me just as I was midstride. Still holding the pot above my head, I brought it down with everything I had, but it was an awkward, off-balance attempt that the man partially blocked by throwing up his arms at the last second. The pot slipped from my hands and flipped over, raining clods of dirt down on our heads before smashing to pieces on the floor between us.
I fought like a wild animal, violently kicking and punching and scratching the man, knowing that my life, as well as my friend’s, depended on it. I screamed and cried out, hoping against my better judgment that whoever was on the other side of the front door might somehow help. We crossed the room as we struggled and fought each other, eventually toppling over the back of the couch and onto the floor. The man, landing on top of me, quickly took advantage of his sheer size and bulk to pin me down. He wrapped both hands around my neck and started to strangle me. I clawed at his arms and face as I choked under the intense pressure of his grip, which only tightened under my feeble efforts to break free. I felt one last spike of adrenaline and fear before the darkness closed in and I lost consciousness.
* * *
I awoke to a loud bang. Slowly opening my eyes, I tried to focus on something solid but could only make out a fuzzy, drab whiteness. Eventually, I realized that I was lying flat on my back and staring up at the ceiling. I tried to remember exactly where I was or what had happened, and for a few more moments I thought I had awoken from a deep sleep inside the back of a truck. Turning my head, I saw that I was lying at the base of a couch, and after a few more moments, I remembered where I was. Everything came flooding back in a sudden rush of awareness, and I sat up with a start and gulped for air, as if I had been drowning and had just managed to break the surface of the water.
As I gradually recovered, I took in my surroundings. Almaz and, strangely enough, another girl lay naked and passed out on the couch. Their clothes were strewn about the room. As for myself, I remained fully clothed; it seemed like I had not been touched at all. In fact, I had not even been moved from the same location where the man had choked me unconscious. Perhaps he did not want anything to do with me, I thought, after I’d demonstrated such a willingness to fight. Whatever the explanation, all I knew was that I had resisted and was not stripped naked like Almaz and this other girl. Those were the facts. It paid off to fight back.
I suddenly realized that the bang I had heard must have been the front door slamming shut. I carefully stood up and, still unsteady on my feet, cautiously searched the apartment to make sure it was empty. Then I peeked out the window. There, in the parking lot, the man was leaning against his car and speaking on his cell phone. Determined to fight back once again, I ran to the kitchen and grabbed an empty wine bottle. This time I would not fail, I told myself, as I returned to the window. But to my relief, I saw the man had climbed into his car. I watched as he exited the parking lot and drove out of sight.
I took out the American’s phone from the inside pocket of my pants, where I had hidden it, only to discover that the battery was dead once again. I dressed Almaz with whatever clothes I could find. After peeking out the window and scanning the parking lot again, I decided it was as good a time as any to make a break for it. It was now or never. I grabbed Almaz, who was still so dazed and unsteady that I was forced to hold her around the waist as we stumbled out the door. Fortunately, in this neighborhood, being more of an industrial area, we were less conspicuous. I also remembered that it was Sunday, which explained why the streets were so empty. Supporting Almaz, I made my way toward a cluster of tall buildings near the downtown area. I knew that if I could get close to the less glamorous sections of the city near the central business district, we had a good chance of running into a side street with nightclubs and brothels. Perhaps there we would find someone who could hide us temporarily or help us contact the twins. As we approached the city center, however, I grew increasingly nervous that we would draw more attention. We had to get as near to the area as possible without being noticed.
I Am Not Your Slave Page 18
