A World I Never Made

by James Lepore

  She’s probably having second thoughts. We’re strangers, really, I’m older, I’m American, I’m quiet, I’m boring. Fuck. These thoughts stung him, but the sting aroused him to action.

  “What’s the matter, Catherine?” Pat said a few minutes later. He had gone out and brought her back in, and they were seated facing each other on the room’s chrome-and-plastic chairs, the bottle of brandy they had bought earlier on the dresser next to them along with two glasses.

  “Are you going to pour that?” Catherine said, nodding toward the brandy. Pat poured out the liquor and handed Catherine her glass.

  “Thank you,” she said. “To finding Megan well:”

  “To finding Megan well,” Pat repeated. They drank and looked at each other, their faces in shadow. The only light in the room came from the fixture outside over the front door, spilling in through the cheap curtains. The better, Pat had thought when arranging the chairs and putting out the brandy and the glasses, not to see the cheap carpet and the rest of the cheap furniture. The room was quiet, the heater, having gone through its initial series of clanks, would not run through its annoying cycle again for another fifteen minutes or so.

  “I’m afraid;” Catherine said.

  “Of what? Besides the obvious:”

  “That our lives will change after tomorrow.”

  “Is that why you couldn’t sleep?”

  Silence.

  “Catherine ... your husband died only seven months ago. I believe you when you say you didn’t love him, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t been traumatized:”

  “You have helped me to heal:”

  “And now you’ve lost your uncle ...”

  “What are you saying, Patrick? That you don’t want the job of caring for me? That I am too wounded a bird to take on?”

  Up to this point, Pat had felt he was doing the honorable thing, easing the way for Catherine to back out. Now he was confused again. He decided to press on, though he was not feeling quite so chivalrous as he had just a moment or two ago. “No;” he said, ”I don’t want you to wake up one day and resent me. I’m fifteen years older than you ... Children are an issue:”

  “I thought you said you die before losing me?”

  “Catherine ... ,”

  “Children are not an issue:”

  “You say that now, but you’re young,” Pat said, regaining his confidence. “I’m not sure I want more children. But it would be only natural for you to want a family.”

  “Natural, yes, but I am not natural:”

  “Of course you are:”

  “No, I’m not:”

  “I don’t understand:

  Pat’s vision had adjusted to the semidarkness. He could see Catherine’s face, half in shadow, her eyes cast downward. He wanted her to raise them, to look at him, but she did not.

  “Talk to me, Catherine,” he said.

  “Jacques wanted children. He was very insistent. One weekend I told him I was going on a training exercise. I went to Switzerland to have my tubes tied. To sterilize myself.” As she said this, Catherine lifted her eyes and looked directly at Pat. In them, Pat saw Catherine’s pain, and her fear, he realized with a shock almost palpable, that she could lose him over this issue.

  “I thought I was punishing him,” she continued, “but of course I was punishing myself.”

  “Catherine.”

  “Yes?”

  Before answering, Pat edged his chair closer to Catherine’s so that he could see her face better and hold her two hands in his. “I was afraid you wanted to leave me,” he said.

  Smiling, Catherine replied, “I was afraid—I still am—you would not want me. It is a great sin I have committed:”

  “Listen to me, Catherine,” Pat said. “I have lived for years in a fantasy of the past. I have neglected my daughter, a cruel and selfish thing. I have no understanding of what it is to be married. I thought I did, but how could I?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t want to be alone anymore,” Pat said. “I am not that brave:”

  “A moment ago you were giving me a way out:”

  “Yes, but I didn’t mean it. I thought it was what you wanted:”

  “If you left me I would accept it as my penance:”

  Pat pushed his chair back, stood, and kneeled before Catherine, taking her in his arms and burying his face in her neck and hair. Then he pulled away and looked directly into her eyes.

  “No more penance, Catherine. No more sin. Marry me:”

  The heater suddenly started its racket, and they turned to look at it, startled but smiling at its awful timing.

  “I could fix that,” Pat said.

  “You could fix anything ...”

  “But I don’t want to:”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I’ll tell you, but first you have to answer my question:”

  “Yes, I will marry you. Mais oui. So?”

  “To make love, mais oui.”

  “Moi aussi,” Catherine said, smiling. “Shall we begin?”

  ~36~

  CZECH REPUBLIC, JANUARY 9, 2004

  At eleven, the two Skodas left together. Nolan, Laurence, and the oldest of the gypsy boys were in one, the other two boys in the other. The agents, Dionne driving and Sergeant Ruzika in his truck, followed. The day was quite warm for January, nearing fifty degrees Fahrenheit. The rising sun had quickly melted the light dusting of snow from the day before and there was, after a long cold night, a welcome glare on the windshield. At daybreak, Dionne had gone to the restaurant and brought back coffee, hot rolls, and egg sandwiches. Max had devoured his and then fallen into a dead sleep, thinking of the tragically beautiful Catherine Laurence and her Helen of Troy face, the long hours of static waiting having activated the melodramatic elements of his brain. He was back in the world of genuine drama now, the one that had lured him to policework in the first place, intently watching the two Skodas up ahead. They were on the A4 westbound for only a few miles when the Skodas pulled into an area off the shoulder that seemed to have been cleared of trees, a cutout from the heavy pine forest that leaned into the highway on both sides as it made its way around Kolin. The police drove their vehicles past, then made U-turns and slowly headed back, pulling over onto a grassy verge next to the forest, about a hundred yards from the parked Skodas. Ruzika trained his binoculars on the clearing for a moment, then got out of his pickup and went over to Orlofsky, who had also exited his car.

  “They went on foot into the forest,” the Czech policeman said, his English thickly accented but passable.

  “What’s back there?”

  “A fire road that goes up behind the mining camp:”

  “That’s it?”

  “There’s an old hunting lodge up at the head of the creek, a couple of miles in. The comrades that were more equal than us took their mistresses up there to watch American movies and fuck:”

  “I see. Is your backup still with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “Two cars, four men:”

  “Then you stay with them. Watch the Skodas. If Nolan and Laurence or any of them come back, arrest them:”

  “Orlofsky?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are five of them. Do you want me to call for assistance?”

  “Yes, as many as you want, but they are to stay out of the forest. I don’t want an army traipsing around in there, scaring them off.”

  “Let’s go,” said Max, who had also gotten out of the car and was eyeing the clearing up ahead. “Before we lose them:”

  In the forest, it was Max who took charge, following the stream, tracking mostly by sound, stopping for long moments to listen and then swiftly but very quietly moving on. They saw their quarry once across a large sunlit field of tall winter-brown grass, and a second time as they were reaching the top of a small rise, where Pat Nolan was reaching a hand down to Catherine Laurence to help her negotiate some rocks.

  He loves her, Max thought
, watching this scene, liking this thought, this idea of an American guy arriving in Europe to confront the craziness that his daughter had created and taking a moment to fall in love. And with such a beauty.

  A half hour later they were crouching behind a thick line of evergreen trees and looking across a small, man-made clearing to a low-slung rustic building with a wide veranda running along its entire front. Catherine Laurence and the older gypsy boy were standing on the veranda, their hands in their coat pockets, looking out at the clearing. The other boys were not in view. Nor was Patrick Nolan. The windows on either side of the front door, six in all, were broken, deglazed completely. Through them could be seen only dark shadow and the faintest outline of one or two objects that could have been furniture.

  “I think Nolan is in there meeting with his daughter,” said Max in a low whisper.

  “Or they are waiting for her to arrive;” said Dionne, his voice pitched low as well.

  “We’ll wait to be sure,” said Orlofsky. “It’s the girl we want. You go around back,” he said to Max.“Keep your radio in your hand. Do not enter the building. Do not do anything until I tell you. Understood?”

  “Oui, je comprends, mon capitain.”

  Staying well inside the tree line, Max made his way to the back of the lodge. He had not been able to resist the “mon capitain.” Do not enter the building. Do not do anything until I tell you, the accent on the anything. Charles de Gaulle lived. The trees here were so thick, there was no seeing through them. Climbing, keeping quiet, he found a rocky shelf from which he could see the lodge. The two other gypsy boys stood on either side of the back door, their hands in the pockets of their winter coats. The sun was directly overhead. The boys were no more than seventeen or eighteen. On the trek in, Max’ shoes had gotten wet and muddy. Again. But this would soon be over. He buzzed Orlofsky on his walkie-talkie.

  “Two teenage boys at the back door,” he said when the Frenchman acknowledged. “Probably carrying pistols. How long are we waiting?”

  “Not long. If the boys go inside or head to the front, let me know.”

  “I’m in range. I can take them out and get inside whenever you say.”

  “Can you get a look inside?”

  Max scanned the back of the building.

  “I can make my way to the side. There must be a window. It”ll take a few minutes:”

  “Go ahead. Buzz me:”

  Max did as he was told, happy to be in motion, away from Orlofsky’s haughty gaze. The chief of his unit, on orders from the attorney general, had told him that the French were to be in charge. Nolan had pulled her fake suicide in France, and the alleged terrorist attack was supposed to occur in France. But they were no longer in France. As far as he was concerned, he was in a no-authority zone and could do what he wanted. What he wanted was to talk to Megan Nolan. Faked suicide. Terrorist plot. The Falcon of Andalus. Four dead Saudi Secret Police. Raimondi a traitor. Al-Siddiq lying through his teeth. What the fuck was she up to?

  The side window was not as cleanly deglazed as the ones in the front. Jagged glass surrounded a hole the size of a soccer ball. Max listened for the boys at the back before looking in. It had taken him ten minutes to circle through the trees, avoiding their line of sight, his footsteps muted by the thick layer of pine needles on the forest floor. He heard nothing. Looking in at the lower left corner, through dirty glass, he saw a wide room that once was a kitchen, its sink rusted, its cabinets ripped from the walls. The next room was a dining alcove and in it, seated on folding chairs at a metal table were Megan Nolan—her hair short but still very beautiful—and her father. Their profiles were remarkably similar: straight, strong noses; full lips; high cheekbones; full heads of thick lustrous hair. The father dark Irish, the daughter a fair colleen with a hint of the Slav in her exotic eyes. They were leaning toward each other, not talking. Suspended, Max thought, between worlds; between what had gone before, which was over forever, and what was to come, which was hard and bright like a diamond or a miracle.

  “Megan,” said Pat, and then again, “Megan—I feel like I’m meeting you for the first time:”

  “You look like you’ve changed, too:”

  “I have.” Pat cast his mind back over the past week, to the attack in Volney Park, to Daniel Peletier going over the cliff, to the three dead Saudis he and Catherine had left on the ground in Cap de la Hague, to the beheaded François Duval. Any one of these events would have changed him forever.

  “How did you find me?” Megan asked.

  “I went to the convent. They told me about the baby. They gave me François Duval’s name and address:”

  “Junior.”

  “Yes.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s dead. Beheaded:”

  Megan, who had been staring steadily at her father, looked down at the table for a moment. When she looked up again, her eyes were as clear and hard as before. “So they’ll be coming for me,” she said.

  “Yes. You have to come away with me, it’s your only chance:”

  Megan shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Megan, please ... They”ll find you. It”s just a matter of time:”

  Megan did not answer. She also was thinking, Pat could tell, about the recent past, filled with what death and destruction he could not fathom.

  “What about the police?” she asked finally. “Are they aware of the faked suicide?”

  “Yes. I told them it was you, but yes. We think they’re helping the Saudis hunt you down. You’re supposed to be planning a terrorist attack in France with your Arab boyfriend.”

  “I see. I’m a terrorist now. Who’s we?”

  “A French policewoman, a detective who has been helping me. Her name is Catherine Laurence. She’s outside now with Doro and two other gypsy boys:”

  “Detective Laurence has gone off the reservation, I take it:”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why? You said the French police are hunting me. That means she’s put her career—not to mention her life—in jeopardy. Is she in love with you?”

  Pat, surprised by the swiftness and the accuracy of Megan”s insight, did not answer.

  “Does she have children?” Megan asked.

  “Do you want to interview her? She’s right outside.” Pat smiled as he said this, and shook his head. It had never occurred to him that Megan’s approval—of anything in his life—would hold any value for him. Until now. Megan smiled as well and they shared a moment that most fathers and their grown daughters share often.

  The moment passed, but its memory would be priceless to Pat in the years ahead.

  “How did you get Doro to help you?” Megan asked.

  “The Saudis killed Annabella. Doro brought me here. He wants revenge:”

  There was nothing to do but to say this outright. He watched Megan’s eyes absorb another death. The trail she left for Pat had led directly through Annabella Jeritza and François Duval. She had led her executioners to her friends” doors.

  “So I’m the bait,” she said.

  “He wants to talk to you when we’re done:”

  “He’s just a boy.”

  “He’s a man now.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can. But he’ll be no match for Lahani.”

  “Lahani?”

  “Abdel al-Lahani. My Arab boyfriend. It was probably his idea to trick the French into helping hunt me down. Brilliant, actually. Who is my fictitious boyfriend supposed to be?”

  “A terrorist named Rahman al-Zahra.”

  “Unbelievable. That’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “Lahani:”

  “Talk to me Megan. What’s going on?”

  “I met Lahani in Morocco. We became lovers. I discovered he was a terrorist, the so-called Falcon of Andalus, Rahman al-Zahra, a Muslim who ruled Spain long ago, supposedly come to life to return Islam to world dominance. He did the bombings in Casablanca last May. I tried to kill
him, but failed. He’s hunting me. I thought the fake suicide would free me, but he saw through it.”

  “You tried to kill him?”

  “Yes.”