Kayla nodded and smiled. “Maybe so. Do you have terrorists on Devon Avenue?”
“Point taken.”
Kiryat Arba, the town on the hill, was quiet when they arrived, though Liam felt an eerie sense of tension in the air. Kayla parked the car in front of a three-story building, similar to many of the other structures lining the streets of Kiryat Arba: cream-colored Jerusalem stone, boxlike window openings cut into the façade, many covered with iron gratings. The city looked bright, new, and clean, but nervous. No children were playing unguarded on the streets.
The Agency apartment was efficiently furnished with functional pieces. Three bedrooms surrounded a sitting area with leather couches and black, cube end tables. Wooden stools were tucked under the kitchenette bar.
“There are two wireless connections here,” Kayla said, handing Liam a note card. “You may use this one; the password is on the card. It’s secure. I’ll take the back bedroom.”
FORTY-FOUR
“I CONTACTED THE WILSON broad this afternoon.”
The cell phone connection was patchy, but the caller’s tough street dialect was clear enough.
“You saw her? Did you go into her house?”
“No, sir. I talked to her on the phone. She wouldn’t open the door for me.”
“And? Did she tell you where her brother was?”
“Nah.”
“What did you say to her?”
“Just like you told me. I said I had a package addressed to John Sommers. It was an oil painting made from a photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Sommers and their kid. I told her that Mrs. Sommers had ordered it over a year ago from our Chicago office, but she never picked it up and we were trying to find Mr. Sommers to deliver it. We were told that she was the sister. Could she give me his address so I could deliver it? It’s all prepaid. Very beautiful.”
“Exactly. What did Wilson say?”
“She said she hadn’t talked to her brother in years. As far as she knew, he lived in Chicago. I told her we went there but it didn’t look like anybody was still living there, and then I talked to the neighbor who gave us her address. So could she give me a forwarding address for her brother so I could send it there? Then she told me she had no idea, don’t bother her no more.”
Silence. Then: “She’s not telling the truth.”
“We can make her talk. She’s got kids. She’ll give up Sommers if I start to talk about her kids. Want me to make the call?”
Silence. Then: “Not yet, Yuri. Maybe later. Right now I have another idea.”
* * *
IN A SHOTGUN BUNGALOW on Chicago’s northwest side, a young man sat in front of a wall of electronic equipment. His tussled hair was omnidirectional, over his ears and badly in need of a scissors. A plaid shirt was buttoned to the neck, and his wide leather belt gathered the waist of his rumpled khakis.
Behind him, in designer casual-wear, a man stood looking over the young man’s shoulder at the computer screen. “Well, Marvin, is it something you can do or not?”
The young man nodded. “Should be,” he answered, though everything he said was qualified with a cautionary negative. “Unless he uses a sophisticated scrambler.”
“He’s not sophisticated; he’s just a paper pusher. I need to know where this man is when he goes online, when he leaves a message. Can you pinpoint his location?”
Marvin tilted back in his chair and shrugged boastfully. “It depends on how you define pinpoint. When he e-mails you, I can get his IP address. If he uses an Internet café, some public source, I can probably give you the location.” Marvin smiled smugly. “I have my ways of getting it from the ISP. Of course, if the man has installed a few security features that I sell … most people don’t know about them.” He shrugged. “He’d have to hire somebody like me.”
“Well, let’s assume he hasn’t hired someone like you, Marvin. How can you get this done? How can you tell us where he is when he posts?”
“It would be best if I were online at the time. When do think that will be?”
“I can prompt him. Stay by your computer. He’ll post later today, I guarantee it.”
* * *
SOMMERS STARED OUT OF the window of his second-story motel room. The kids across the street were kicking a soccer ball. Spaces between the parked cars served as goals. For a moment, just a snippet in time, Jack saw Sophie running toward the ball. All of her teammates, five-year-old girls in their oversize team T-shirts, were running, en masse, converging on the ball, kicking to beat the band. Jack stood on the sidelines with Alina and the other parents, cheering and laughing heartily.
The amped bass from the corner bar, booming thunder through the neighborhood, brought Jack back to the present. He checked his watch. In thirty minutes he was meeting Marcy at the Polynesian Room.
I’m standing here reminiscing about the three of us, Alina, and I’m about to go to dinner with Marcy Grant. And you know what? I can’t get the vision of her open robe out of my head. Would you scold me for that? Is it appropriate for me to have these thoughts? Answer me, Alina. Would you approve? Is the timing all wrong? For me? For her? Don’t answer, I know it is.
He grabbed his laptop and walked around the corner to the Internet café. One more disappointing check of his e-mail account before dinner. But to his absolute shock, a new message was posted: Happy to say that the deal is almost done. I need your help in signing parental authorizations to bring Sophie back into the country. US immigration regulations. That’s all that’s left. Can you meet with me? If not, can I e-mail the forms to you?
Sommers could barely contain his enthusiasm. His heart was beating like a hummingbird. He quickly typed, Wonderful news! Of course you can e-mail forms. Just attach them and I’ll scan and send them back right away. When are you going to get her? I need to arrange to have someone meet you and Sophie. Please give me all the details. I can’t thank you enough.
Sommers couldn’t wait to tell Marcy. Standing on the sidewalk outside the Polynesian Room, he felt like jumping up and down. He checked out every taxi that approached. Finally, she arrived.
“You didn’t have to wait on the curb,” she said with a smile. “I would have come inside.”
Sommers hugged her excitedly and swung her around. “It’s happening, Marcy. Sophie’s coming home. We didn’t need to talk to Taggart after all. My original plan is going to work.”
“That’s fabulous! I can’t believe it. When is she coming?”
“I just got the message on the e-mail account. They didn’t give me a date. They said they needed my parental authorization.”
Marcy’s smile lost some of its exuberance. “They didn’t ask you to show up personally, did they?”
“They asked me if I could meet them, but—”
“Oh, no, Jack. That’s what Taggart warned me about. You’re the third and final witness.”
“It’s not like that. They don’t know where I am. For all they know, I could still be in Chicago. They gave me the option of signing the parental authorization and scanning it back to them. I don’t have to meet with them personally.”
“How are they going to deliver Sophie?”
“We haven’t discussed the details, but I can have Deborah pick her up anywhere.”
“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but I’m worried about this e-mail.”
Jack put his arm around her. “You’re a worrywart. It’ll be fine. Sophie will be out here in no time. Let’s go inside and celebrate.”
Jack called the waiter over and ordered a pricey bottle of wine. He couldn’t stop smiling. His batteries were fully charged. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Marcy felt elated as well.
“I can’t wait to see Sophie,” Marcy said. “She’s such a special kid. I hope this ordeal hasn’t been too rough on her. You know, it’ll probably take a while for her to get readjusted.”
“I think she’ll do all right. She’s strong. And she’s solid emotionally. Alina was right—she’s unusual in that way.” Jack leaned forward and
spoke reflectively. “You want to know something about her that I never realized until after Alina was gone? Sophie has this uncanny sense of empathy, not just uncanny for a little girl, but for anyone. She can sense your emotion—what you’re experiencing. She can share in your joy or know when you’re unsure of yourself and give you the benefit of the doubt. And you can draw strength from her. When I was at the end of the road, she was strong for me. We were strong for each other. Just like we had promised Alina. How many people can do that? And she’s only six years old.” He swallowed hard. “Alina always said she was remarkable, that she would change the world. I teased her about it, but Alina was right.”
Marcy concurred with a nod.
Jack tilted his head. “You think I’m just a father blowing smoke?”
“Nope. Not at all. I know her. She’s just like her mother.”
He smiled, but after a moment sat back and shook his head. “This whole scenario, the kidnap, the rescue, it never had to happen. I failed her, Marcy. She trusted me and I let her down. I badly misjudged the al-Zahanis, and now Sophie’s the one who’s suffering, locked up on the other side of the world. What would become of her if she were forced to live under house arrest in Hebron? She deserved better than me. Alina told me to take care of her and I didn’t do it.”
“Stop, Jack. Why are you beating yourself up? We’re here to celebrate. Remember? She’s coming home. This is a night for gaiety.”
“You’re right.” He lifted his glass. “Here’s to Sophie’s return.”
They feasted on a three-pound lobster and banana flambé. When the plates had been cleared, Jack said, “Is there some place we can go? I want to celebrate. I want to dance.”
“You dance?”
“Like Astaire.”
“You dance like Fred Astaire?”
“No, I was thinking about Myron Astaire, his half cousin.”
Marcy picked up her purse. “I think they have a club across the street at the Hyatt.”
At the end of the long hotel lobby, behind the fountain, to the dismay of Jack and Marcy, a sign on the glass door read CLOSED FOR REMODELING.
“Doesn’t that figure?” Marcy said. “I finally have someone who will actually take me dancing and the club is closed.”
“Shhh. Listen.” The driving sound of a thumping bass came from the other end of the lobby. They followed the music to a large ballroom, where the kiosk announced RECEPTION FOR THE FISHMAN/DONOVAN WEDDING. Jack looked at the signboard and shrugged. “Okay, which one do we know, the bride or the groom?”
“Definitely the bride,” Marcy said, and they barged into the party.
The wooden dance floor in the middle of the room was packed—shoulder to shoulder. People laughing, spilling drinks, dancing exuberantly. From time to time, Jack and Marcy would sit one out, catch their breath, have a drink compliments of Fishman or Donovan, and then jump right back onto the floor. Toward the end of the evening, close to midnight, the band played its final number. Marcy rested her head softly on Jack’s chest; he clasped his arms around her waist and they swayed more than they danced.
The music ended, but not the moment, and they continued to sway to the silence. Their eyes met and Marcy whispered, “You’re wondering if all this is okay, aren’t you? The way you feel?”
Jack gave a slight nod. “Is it okay for either of us? Especially at this time?”
“Well, it’s okay for me. It’s more than okay. You have to decide for yourself if you can handle it, if you can move on with your life.”
When the dance floor cleared, they may not have been the only ones locked in an embrace, but they were the only crashers. As they stood there, Jack was tapped on the shoulder.
“You guys are a cute couple,” the woman said. “I’m Sue Fishman.” She held out her hand. “Pat’s sister.”
“We’re Jack and Marcy,” Jack replied, taking her hand. “Mazel tov.”
“On behalf of the Protestant Fishmans and the Catholic Donovans, I thank you. Do you guys know anybody at this wedding?”
“Just Sue Fishman, Pat’s sister.”
The young woman giggled. “There’s an afterparty around the corner at Kiki’s. Please come. There’s a band.”
Marcy looked at Jack. They both nodded. “Thanks so much. We’ll be there.”
They walked into the lobby and Marcy stopped. “Jack, we have to get a card.”
“Where are we going to get a card at midnight?”
“Then at least an envelope. We have to give them a wedding gift. They allowed us to celebrate with them. We can probably get an envelope at the front desk.”
Jack nodded. “There’s something else I can do at the front desk.”
Arm in arm, they walked across the lobby. “The Rubicon,” Jack mumbled.
“What?”
“The Rubicon. I was thinking out loud.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s a river in northern Italy.”
“On such a wonderful, romantic evening, you’re thinking of rivers in Italy? Really?”
“No, that’s not it.” Jack had a comfortable expression on his face. “Julius Caesar, in command of his army, crossed the Rubicon River into the state of Italy on his march toward Rome. It was a capital offense, an act of war. But from then on everything would change and nothing would be the same. The Rubicon’s always been a symbol for the point of no return. Take a step this way and things change. Before tonight, I wouldn’t let myself think about anything but Sophie. My personal life, my own future, was out of the question. You asked me if I could move on with my life. Now my butterfly is coming home, and, well…”
Marcy smiled, took his elbow, and walked toward the lobby desk.
“Here’s the couple I was telling you about,” Sue Fishman said when Jack and Marcy walked into Kiki’s. Jack was handed two glasses of champagne. A four-piece band was covering popular songs, and Marcy soon had Jack back on the dance floor. After a couple of numbers, she whispered, “Do you really want to stay here?”
Jack smiled and shook his head. He reached into his pocket and took out his room key.
“Perfect. Let’s go.”
FORTY-FIVE
IT WAS MORNING AND Liam sat on the apartment couch fiddling with the TV remote. “What are you searching for?” Kayla asked from behind as she entered the room.
“Something I can understand,” he said without looking up.
“The Bachelorette?”
“Do I look like someone who watches…” As he turned, he caught a look at Kayla. “Oh.” Unlike her previous stylish outfits, she now wore a flowing, paneled skirt, long enough to cover the tops of her shoes, a knit top with sleeves to her wrists, and a plum-colored hijab, which flattered the oval of her face.
Liam stared for a moment. “Where are we going that you need to pretend to be a Muslim woman?”
She smiled. “Who says I’m not?”
Liam shook his head. “Every day I’m with you, I know you less.”
“We’re going into H1, the Palestinian sector. I’d like to go to the Breadstone Bakery, and I don’t want to attract attention to myself.”
Liam smiled and shook his head. “I got news for you. You will turn heads wherever you go, in whatever you wear.”
“Why, thank you, Liam. That was sweet.”
“Just stating the obvious. You’re a beautiful woman.” He looked down at his cotton shirt, worn over a black T-shirt, shirttails outside his jeans. “How am I supposed to dress?”
“Just the way you are. Jeans are fine.”
Liam squinted in the bright sun as they left the building and started their walk toward Hebron. The desert wind blew an occasional puffy cloud across the sky. The Judean hills, with their scruff and untamed grasses, spread to the horizon on a palette of ecru, goldenrod, and brown. Rocky limestone outcroppings and ancient olive trees spotted the hills, all of which seemed to say, We are inhospitable. Yet Liam and Kayla strolled toward Hebron, one of the oldest and most dens
ely populated cities in the world.
As they reached the outer edge of Kiryat Arba, Kayla pointed to the hills in front of them, blanketed with thousands of square, white stone edifices, tightly packed together. “Hebron. Pronounced Chevron in Hebrew and called Al-Khalil in Arabic. It’s a city of nearly two hundred thousand people, largest in the West Bank.
“King David founded the Kingdom of Israel and ruled here for seven of his forty-one years. For thirty-seven hundred years, Hebron’s been important to Jews. In 1967, at the end of the bloody battle for the Temple Mount, Menachem Begin stood at the Western Wall and prayed. He said, ‘And we shall yet come to Hebron—Kiryat Arba—and there we shall prostrate ourselves at the graves of the patriarchs of our people.’ Hebron’s that important to Jews, Liam. Ben Gurion considered Israel’s right to Hebron to be indefeasible.”
A stone path through a small park took them down a hill and onto a narrow, paved street. The blacktop, broken and cracked in many places, wound its way along the Hebron H1/H2 border. A soldier in an olive IDF uniform, his Tavor TAR-21 strapped across his back, leaned against the door of a shuttered building and nodded as they crossed the street from Kiryat Arba. “We are now in H2 Hebron,” Kayla said. “In 1997, Yasser Arafat and Benjamin Netanyahu agreed to split the city into two sectors. They called it the Hebron Protocol. Israelis may not enter Palestinian Hebron without permission. To all intents and purposes, the IDF has withdrawn its soldiers from H1.”
Another IDF soldier passed them on the street, nodded, and said hello to Kayla in Hebrew. Liam looked at her. “Time to fess up. You know these people. You were stationed here, weren’t you? You’re not just some historical resource analyst in the State Department.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. I do work for the State Department.”
“But not just for the State Department?”
She shrugged.
“And before?”
“I thought we were going to leave those doors closed.”
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