by David Bruns
He shifted in his chair, breaking the silence with a creak of wood and leather. The nurse reprimanded him with her eyes. Rafiq ignored her.
Javier lay in the hospital bed, his face the color of the bedsheets. His eyes flickered and Rafiq realized the old man was awake, watching him. His fingers beckoned to Rafiq to come closer. The nurse stood and wiped a line of spittle from his chin. Javier whispered to her.
“Pardon?” she replied in Spanish.
“Leave us,” he said in a louder voice.
The nurse looked from Javier to Rafiq, opening her mouth to protest. Rafiq met her gaze, and she hurried to the door.
Javier patted the bed next to him; Rafiq sat and took the old man’s hand in his own.
“Do you know what today is?” Javier wheezed.
Rafiq shook his head.
“I asked Consuela to marry me, forty years ago today.” He paused for breath. The oxygen line under his nose had slipped down, and Rafiq adjusted it. “Today is the day I see her again.”
“Papa,” Rafiq said. It still amazed him how normal it felt to call this man his father. “Papa, don’t talk like that.”
Javier shook his head. “It is my choice. I want it this way. Today is the day.” He paused again for breath. “Open the drapes, my son. I want to see the mountains again.”
Rafiq rose and pulled the cord to open the heavy window coverings. Sunlight flooded the room, making both of them squint. Rafiq started to close them again.
“Leave it!” Javier called, with a cough. His hand found the controls for his bed and he raised his head up. He patted the bedside again.
For a long time, the two of them sat staring out the window. The ranch house was built on a bluff overlooking the hillside vineyard and a long valley. Mountains loomed in the distance, dappled by the shadows of clouds and dusted with snow.
“Nadine was an accident, you know,” Javier said. “We were told we could never have children . . . my Consuela lit so many candles in church I was afraid she would burn the place down!” He laughed, a deep, phlegmy burble in his chest.
The old man’s decline tore at Rafiq’s heart. Only a few months ago, he’d been a healthy, hearty soul drinking his red wine and smoking cigars in the dark of the nighttime veranda. Now he was a pasty imitation of Javier, an abomination. Rafiq was glad today was the day and his adopted father would leave this world on his own terms.
Javier lifted his hand toward the window then let it fall back to the bedding. “This, my daughter, my life’s work, everything I have, I leave to you, my son. My estancia is now yours.”
Rafiq said nothing. They had reviewed Javier’s will and the ranch finances together. He was a rich man.
“Your cargo,” Javier said finally. “What are your plans?”
Rafiq avoided his eyes. “It’s been more than seven years, Papa. If they were going to activate me, it would have happened by now.”
Javier was having none of it. He struggled to sit up higher, beckoning Rafiq to put another pillow behind his back so he could see him eye to eye. “No,” the old man said, when he had caught his breath. “They will call. They always call. You must tell them, son. You must walk away now. Give them a fortune, but walk away. For the sake of your family.”
His hand latched onto Rafiq’s forearm with a surprisingly strong grip. “Promise me,” he whispered.
Rafiq met his gaze and held it. He nodded. “I promise.”
Javier smiled and lay back against the pillows. “Gracias.”
A light knock at the door interrupted them, and the nurse peeked into the room. Javier waved at her to enter. “Bring in my grandchildren,” he called out in a loud voice.
Little Javi burst into the room in a flurry of energy, rushing to his namesake’s bedside. Rafiq stopped him before he leaped onto the bed. The old man reached out and buried his withered hand in the boy’s mass of dark curls. “So much like your mother, Javi. How is the riding coming?”
Javi babbled on about his latest exploit on horseback, but the old man’s attention was drawn to the doorway. Nadine entered, stooped over so that Consie could hold her hand as she toddled into the room. The baby let go of her mother’s fingers and made the last few steps to the bed on her own. The old man’s face lit up. “Oh, how I wish your mother could see these two, Deanie. She would be so proud.”
The expression on Nadine’s face sucked the breath out of Rafiq’s lungs. The strain of her father’s sudden illness had taken a toll on his beautiful wife. Her face had thinned and paled, sharpening her cheekbones and enlarging her dark eyes. A line of silver hair sprouted from her right temple, trailing down over her shoulder. Rafiq knew she had bought hair dye to hide it, but the package had lain in their bathroom cabinet for over a month, unopened.
Her eyes were dry. She knows, Rafiq thought. She knows today is the day.
Nadine’s arms trembled as she picked up Consie. “Children, it’s time to say goodbye to Tito now.” Her voice broke when she said the Spanish word for grandfather, and the baby turned sharply to study her mother’s face. Nadine placed her lips on Consie’s forehead and held them there until she had regained some control.
Javier leaned over so Javi could place a kiss on his cheek. The old man fluffed the boy’s dark curls. “You grow up to be as good a man as your father, understand, boy?”
Javi stopped short at the tone in his grandfather’s voice, then nodded. He looked up at Rafiq. “Can I ride Storm past Tito’s window?” Rafiq nodded automatically and the boy sped out of the room.
Nadine leaned in so Javier could reach his granddaughter. The little girl placed one palm on either cheek and studied the old man’s face, her smooth brow wrinkling with concentration. Javier smiled at her. “You have wise eyes, little one. Just like your grandmother.”
“Pa—pa,” replied Consie.
“Give Tito a kiss, Consie,” Nadine whispered.
The toddler wrapped her chubby arms around the old man’s whiskered neck and planted a kiss on his cheek. Rafiq’s vision went blurry for a few seconds. When he regained control of his emotions, Nadine had placed Consie in the care of the nurse and shooed the woman from the room.
Nadine stripped away the oxygen line from his nostrils and removed the other monitors from her father’s body. The machines beeped in protest, so she turned them off and pushed them roughly against the wall. Then she curled up next to her father on the bed. Rafiq sat on the other side, taking the old man’s hand in his own.
For a long time, the three of them just sat there, staring out the wide picture window. The sun painted the mountains in tones of gold and rippled across the grassy valley. Javi, seated astride his beloved Storm, burst into view. The boy was crouched close to the horse’s neck, his face almost in the animal’s mane, as he urged him faster across the yard.
“He rides almost as well as you did at that age, Deanie.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Rafiq saw Nadine nod. “Better.”
Rafiq was not much of a horseman, but he loved to watch his talented son ride. The boy swung the animal around for another pass in front of his grandfather’s window. Rafiq looked over at Javier to say something and stopped.
The old man’s gray eyes were fastened on the window, but all the life had gone out of them. Nadine, still curled up against her father’s shoulder, met Rafiq’s gaze. Her dry eyes held a haunted look.
Rafiq squeezed the cooling flesh of Javier’s hand. “I promise,” he whispered.
There were two funerals for Javier.
The first was at sunrise on the third day following his death, in the small chapel near the ranch. Fog clung to the gray stones of the old church and the interior was cold and damp. The priest, a gray-haired man, said mass in a plain cassock, the unfamiliar Spanish words rolling over Rafiq like a meditation. Javier had converted to Catholicism at the request of his beloved Consuela, and yet his whole life had been spent funneling money and support to the Muslim organization Hezbollah in his homeland. His entire existence was a carefull
y balanced commitment to two diametrically opposed causes.
How did you do it, old man?
Consie fussed in the pew next to him. Rafiq shifted the girl onto his lap, where she snuggled against his chest and went to sleep. He kissed the back of her head. His promise to Javier burned in his ears.
Despite the hour, the building was full to bursting with plainly dressed ranch hands, vineyard workers, and local shopkeepers. Rafiq was shocked at the turnout and touched by the sincerity of the people as he shook their hands following the mass. Nadine stood at his side, veiled in black but hauntingly beautiful at the same time.
The second mass, held at the Basilica in Ciudad Del Este, was for the elite—and they turned out in force. Mayors, politicians, police chiefs, military officers, anyone who was anyone from as far away as Buenos Aires was there, all saying the same thing to Rafiq: Whatever you need, just ask.
And then they were alone, just he and Nadine, in the massive ranch house. The children were with their nanny and the servants had all been given the night off.
They sat on the veranda as darkness fell, until the black of Nadine’s dress made her body disappear and all he could see of his wife was the pale moon of her face.
“Are you forgetting something?” she asked.
“What?”
“The cargo. You haven’t checked on the cargo today.”
Rafiq reached for her in the dark.
“Not today.”
CHAPTER 33
Minneapolis, Minnesota
04 July 2015 – 1800 local
Liz sliced the packing tape on the last box.
Finally! Her favorite Chemex coffeepot was at the top of the box, swaddled in bubble wrap. She looked at the side of the box; the label said “books.” She let out a snort. So much for the government move.
She added the empty box to the pile by the door that needed to be flattened and taken downstairs to the recycling bin. Liz carefully placed the coffeepot on the counter next to the sink, amid the sea of cups and plates she had yet to put away. It occurred to her that James had always done the organizing whenever they moved . . . and he wasn’t here this time. She looked around the cluttered counters; this was all her responsibility now.
Be careful what you wish for, girl. It might come true.
She hadn’t really fallen out of love, she was just never really in love with James in the first place. She cared for him—that was the truth—but it was more like the way you cared for your brother.
Liz had begun looking into a transfer over six months ago, before she’d even decided she was leaving James. Almost as if she was creating an excuse to leave him. Her personnel officer had shown her some great assignments—Hawaii, Florida, DC—but she chose Minneapolis.
When she’d finally told James, he was . . . well, he was James. Kind, understanding, gentle, rational. And all of a sudden she was the one who was crying and emotional and all the things she wasn’t.
He’d held her in that way he had, with just the right amount of tightness around her shoulders, and she fit her face into the crook of his neck. At that moment, she knew she was leaving him for good. Not because he wasn’t right for her, but because he was too good for her. He deserved better than she was able to give him—than she’d ever be able to give him.
Liz left that night. She just threw a pile of clothes in a suitcase and drove until the sky grew light in the east and she could barely keep her eyes open. She pulled into a rest stop in Utah and slept for a few hours, then she drove some more.
She made it to Minneapolis on the morning of the second day, a Sunday. The city sweltered under a summer sun and the humidity clung to her skin when she left the car. The sign said Lake Calhoun, and a fair number of early morning runners were out on the paved trail around the lake. Somewhere on the car trip she’d switched into shorts and a T-shirt. She rooted through the trunk until she found a pair of running shoes and laced them on her feet.
The coffee and hot dog she’d gotten from a gas station in Iowa a few hours ago made a solid lump in her stomach, but she ignored it. As she found her pace among the runners, her breathing evened out and she broke into a free sweat.
The trail was paved, flat and fast. Liz ran hard, letting the grime of the last day’s ride in the car slicken on her skin. The trail split, and she followed the arrow that pointed to Lake Harriet.
When Liz returned to her BMW an hour later, she was drenched in sweat, had a stitch in her side, and was happier than she’d been in months.
She pulled a toiletry kit and a fresh change of light clothes from the trunk and headed across the street to a storefront labeled Calhoun Beach Athletic Club. The AC raised gooseflesh on her arms as she approached the desk. The kid behind the desk stood up, a smile on his face.
“Good morning, may I see your membership, please?’
Liz realized she looked like a wreck. “Good morning . . .” She focused on his nametag. “Aaron. I’m new in town and was hoping to use your shower.”
Aaron colored. “Sorry, ma’am, this is a members-only club—”
“Who can I talk to about getting a membership?”
Aaron glanced at the clock. “They don’t get in for another hour on Sundays, ma’am.”
Liz put out her hand. “I’m Liz, Aaron, and I’d like to buy a membership here—the most expensive membership you offer—but I need a shower first. I need one now. Can you help me out?”
“Well, if you’re a prospective member, I could give you a guest pass . . .”
“Now we’re talking, Aaron.”
Just as the run around Lake Calhoun had been somehow cleansing for her spirit, the shower did the same for her body. She let the warm water cascade over her as she scrubbed her skin clean—clean of her failed marriage, clean of the two-day drive, clean of the sweat from her run. Liz dressed in a light cotton blouse, a short print skirt, and sandals. As she stood in front of the mirror brushing her hair, her wedding ring glinted in the reflection. It was a plain gold band, the one she’d insisted that James give her. His plan had been a diamond-encrusted affair to match her massive engagement ring, but she’d put her foot down. Liz only wore two pieces of jewelry on her fingers: her Academy ring and the plain gold band.
She slipped off the wedding ring and left it in her toiletry kit.
On the walk back through the lobby, she noticed a bulletin board with a FOR RENT posting. Two-bedroom apartment, top floor, view of Lake Calhoun.
“What’s the address here, Aaron?”
Aaron had been eyeing her legs behind the desk and he gave a start when she called his name.
“Umm . . . 2750 Lake Street.”
Liz tapped the advertisement. “So this apartment is the top floor of this building?”
Aaron nodded. Liz pulled the page off the bulletin board. Aaron opened his mouth to stop her, but she held up a hand. “Relax, Aaron, it’s off the market. I just rented it.”
Liz sighed as she pulled a bottle of Chardonnay out of the fridge. At least she had wineglasses now. She hunted through the mess of kitchen items until she found the one she wanted and rinsed it out before filling it with wine.
Glass in hand, she stepped onto the balcony and sank into a chair. After the arid atmosphere of LA, the steamy heat of a Minneapolis summer felt luxurious on her skin. White triangles of sails dotted the lake and the shores were crowded with families, couples, lovers . . . everyone seemed to have someone this holiday evening.
She sipped the wine, letting the crisp sweetness linger on her tongue. Everyone but me, that is.
Maybe she’d go sailing tomorrow. That would be something to occupy her time. She hadn’t been on the water since the Academy—had it been that long? A smile curled her lips when she thought about Mark and Don. And Brendan.
Brendan . . . what was he doing now? That whole job at the naval station in Annapolis—what a joke! It had to be some sort of classified project, but he really was working on a sailboat, so that didn’t add up either. And now, according to Don, he wa
s deployed somewhere.
She should have called him after the dinner at Marjorie’s. Just having him that close again made her realize what she’d given up, how badly she’d messed up her life—and James’s. If her husband hadn’t called at that moment, who knows what she would have done.
What was the saying? The truth shall set you free . . .
That night at Marjorie’s was the first time she’d ever said the truth out loud: James was a good man, but she didn’t love him.
Brendan had every right to be disgusted with her. She’d created this mess in the first place, and she knew she should respect his unwillingness to get involved with a married woman.
She stilled her thoughts and put her feet up on the balcony railing.
I’m here, Bren. And I won’t make the same mistake twice.
CHAPTER 34
Zagros Mountains, south of Gerash, Iran
15 October 2015 – 0200 local
It was a perfect desert night, with only a sliver of crescent moon, just enough to allow him to find his way without headlights.
Aban sat in the passenger seat of the Range Rover, his bearded face lit a ghostly green by the instrument panel. His brother was dressed in civilian clothes for this trip, an added precaution to avoid curious eyes.
Hashem had always thought of his older brother as a stout man, but one who carried his weight with authority. But in civilian clothes, Aban looked dumpy, and much older. Hashem noted the slump in his shoulders, the haggardness behind the bushy gray beard of his office. The look in his eyes spoke of tiredness and something else . . . resignation?
For months, Aban had led the fight against Rouhani and the forces of moderation, the path leading the country away from the old ways. Now in the last weeks before the election, Aban’s posture told Hashem that his brother feared the outcome of the coming election.
For a few years, Aban had been able to stem the tide of change that simmered under the surface of public sentiment for the last decade. The so-called Arab Spring had perversely worked in the favor of the old guard—the Iranian people saw Egypt, Libya, Syria, and others rise up and throw out the established leaders, then promptly fall into chaos. They didn’t want chaos, but they also didn’t want the unyielding rule of the ayatollahs.
