by Deno Trakas
He held up his hands and said, “Stay calm, Jay. I’ve got men looking for her, but I need to know what happened.”
My clothes were on the floor, along with Azi’s underwear. I snatched up my pants, sat on the edge of the bed, and started getting dressed. “What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “8:06.”
“You mean it’s Sunday morning?”
“Yes.”
“Shit. I was out cold all night.” I quickly recounted what had happened, then asked, “Have you checked the airport?”
“I’ve got someone on the way there now, and we called airport security to tell them to be looking for her, but I need to call back and give them a description of the man.” As I filled him in and finished getting dressed, Baizan made a couple of calls, then reported, “Nobody’s seen them, but we’ll check the trains and buses and docks at Piraeus, and we’ve alerted the Greek police. But they’re not all that efficient, and Azi could be anywhere. He could be taking her back to Iran by car through Turkey. Or . . .”
When he didn’t finish the sentence, I said, “Or what?”
“Nothing.”
“What, damn it?” I shouted.
“He could kill her. Or keep her here somewhere.”
“Why would he do that?”
“We don’t know. We don’t know who he is or what his motives are. The photos are the best clue. My guess is that he’ll use them against her somehow, or against Sadegh, so my other guess is that he’s taking her back to Iran. She’s probably in a van or the trunk of a car. But we’re on it, and we’ll do everything we can. Meanwhile there’s nothing for you to do but pack up and catch your flight.”
Imagining her tied up and stuffed into the trunk of a car, I could barely breathe, but I said, “I can’t leave. I won’t leave. Give me a car so I can look for her.”
He glanced at his watch again. “They have an eight-hour head start, Jay, they’re probably already out of Greece, and there’s nothing you can do that my guys can’t do better. But I’ll tell you what—go to your room and pack, and I’ll make some more calls, then we’ll see.”
Baizan gave me some aspirin for my headache and some ice for the knot on my head—he was worried I might have a concussion and wanted to take me to a doctor, but I refused. A Greek agent picked us up and drove us around town, then north—we stopped at gas stations and toll booths to ask questions—nobody knew anything. We did this for almost two hours until it was time to get me to the airport. I argued that we should keep going, all the way to Tehran if necessary, but Baizan patiently persuaded me of the hopelessness of the mission and promised he had a colleague in Turkey who would take over the search.
I don’t remember the trip home. Probably more of the same: guilt, nausea, guilt, and helplessness, dulled from time to time by waves of troubled sleep. When I got back to the Columbia airport, I wandered for a half hour before I found my car in the remote lot, then drove home like a drone. I dropped into bed without changing my clothes and went to sleep again, woke shouting “Look out!” because bricks were falling from the top of a building . . . but I stayed in bed, wanting to sleep until someone called with the news that Azi was all right. A call came, but it was Alan, the manager of the restaurant, saying they were expecting me at work. I didn’t know what time or day it was and didn’t much care, but I dragged myself out of bed and into the cummerbund of my old routine because that was better than sitting around haunted by images of Azi as a hostage.
When I walked into the restaurant, Delaine looked up with a tentative smile—we’d made up since our talk, but we hadn’t fully restored our easy, flirtatious friendship. But when she registered the purple lump on my temple and the glaze in my eyes, she pulled me into the women’s bathroom, quickly checked the stalls, then asked, “What happened?”
To offer no explanation would be dismissive, so I said, “I’ll tell you the whole thing some other time, but for now, just, well, I got in a fight.”
“I’m so sorry. Why don’t you go home and lie down?”
“No, that’s all I’ve been doing, sleeping. I’m hoping work’ll get my mind off it.”
She softly touched the bump. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I snapped.
“Okay. Well, tell us if you start to feel sick or anything.”
“Right.” Then my head cleared enough for me to add, “Thanks, Delaine.”
I shuffled through the busy part of my shift, trying to fight off dizziness and headaches with pleasantries, smiles, and coffee, but every once in a while a noise, a clink of glasses for example, would make me jump. Business was pretty slow, so the manager let me go early and let Delaine follow me. She walked me up the outside stairs, linking her arm in mine, and in front of my dark door I froze, unable to unlock it, so Delaine took my key and did it for me. She walked me in and turned on a lamp. She glanced around the barely furnished room, cluttered with my books and notebooks, said, “Do you want to go straight to bed, or do you want to sit for a while?”
I wasn’t scared, but I didn’t want to be alone either. “Can you stay for a minute?”
“Sure.”
She led me to the new-used couch, which was hardly elegant but didn’t have stains, holes, or duct tape like its predecessor, and pushed all the books to one end. “Can I get you anything?” she asked.
“There’re some aspirin in the bathroom, and I think there’s water in the refrigerator, in the Gatorade bottle. If you see anything you want, take it. I don’t have any Tab, though.” I wasn’t trying to be funny, but she laughed.
I felt stupid sitting there like an invalid, but I let her bring me aspirin and water, along with a can of Coke for herself—she sat beside me.
I unwrapped my cummerbund and she took it, folded it, and laid it at the other end of the couch with the books. “Thanks,” I said, “for everything—”
“I’m dying to know what happened, if you feel like talking about it. Alan said your mother was sick?”
I turned so I could look at her, into her blue eyes that were grayish because of the dim light, and saw a pretty young woman, too pretty for me, but she seemed to like me and care about me, and I wanted her to, and I wanted to talk, to tell her what had happened . . . but I couldn’t . . . so I made up a story.
“When I was in Spartanburg for my mother’s operation, a friend and I, an old high school buddy, went to a bar, and we were mugged in the parking lot. He was shot, in the leg—he’s in the hospital but he’s going to be okay. The guy held the gun to my head, but he didn’t shoot, he just knocked me out.”
“Oh my God,” she said as she leaned toward me to look at my wound again and put a hand on my knee. “When was this?”
“A couple of nights ago.”
“No wonder you’re in a daze. What can I do for you?”
“You’re helping a lot just by being here. As you can tell, I’m kind of jittery.”
“It’s okay, just try to relax. You want me to turn on the TV?”
“No.”
She leaned into me, one hand slipping behind my back and her other hand patting my chest. She was hugging me, and I hugged her back automatically, and we sat that way in silence for a minute. Through the open windows—when did I open them?—we could hear crickets cricketing, and the first hint of fall air cracked the summer heat and blew into my apartment, lamp-lit and peaceful. I felt Delaine relaxing in my arms, felt her hair tickling my neck, smelled the residue of her perfume . . . and then the phone rang. I jumped up and got to it before it rang three times. I was disappointed that it was just Nadia.
“Jay, you are here, but why you don’t call?” she whined.
“I’m sorry, Nadia. It’s a long story.”
As soon as Delaine heard me say Nadia’s name, she stood and made hand signals to tell me that she’d leave.
“Hold on, Nadia,” I said. I covered the mouthpiece and whispered to Delaine, “I’m sorry. I haven’t talked to her since I’ve been back.” She smiled as if she’d heard it all b
efore, nodded, and picked up her purse. I added, “Thanks for your help. Really. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She answered, “I’m off tomorrow.” She twiddled her fingers at me and left.
“Someone is there, Jay?” Nadia asked.
“No, I just, I just had to turn off the TV.” I’d become a good liar.
“When you get back? How is your mother?”
For a moment I considered whether or not I could tell her the truth, but I figured I ought to wait until I heard from Baizan, or Jenkins, or Hamilton, or someone. “She’s fine, Nadia. Thanks. The operation went well, and she’s up on her feet again.”
“Okay, I am glad. And you are okay too?”
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t sound so good, Jay.”
“I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep much last night, and I had to work today.”
“Okay. You sleep, and I see you tomorrow, okay? I fix you dinner, okay?”
I looked at the calendar on the counter. “What day is it?”
“Saturday. Tomorrow is Sunday. What is wrong, Jay?”
“Nothing. Dinner tomorrow is fine. What time?”
“Come six thirty.”
“Okay, thanks, see you then.”
I sat for a while, wondering what had just happened with Delaine and Nadia, feeling fortunate to have them in my life but also clumsy and guilty because I’d blown it, whatever it was. It didn’t matter. What mattered was Azi, and I’d blown that too—the safety of the woman I loved most in the world. She was in great danger, she might even be dead, and it was my fault. I drank a beer and washed down two tablets of Benadryl, turned on the TV as if there might be a report from Athens, and fell asleep to the sound of voices saying nothing.
In the morning I felt fuzzy in the mouth and brain but clear enough to wonder why I hadn’t called Hamilton or Michaels. Forgetting that it was Sunday, I staggered out of bed and went straight to the phone, dialed the number I’d written on my calendar. Michaels answered. “Jay, how you doing buddy?”
“You don’t know?”’
“Know what?”
I launched into the story, but he stopped me and said he’d call me back in a minute. When he did he explained, “You called me at home on my mobile, and I had to switch to a more secure line.”
“What’s a mobile?”
“Never mind. Go ahead—what the hell happened?”
I told him how the CIA’s security had broken down and as a result Azi was probably in an Iranian jail as we spoke.
“Damn, Jay, that’s a bitch. But you’re okay?”
“Fuck that, Michaels. Focus on Azi—she’s the one who’s being hauled around by a terrorist”—
“Don’t think that way, Jay. She could be fine. But of course she won’t be able to complete the mission.”
There it was again, the mission. “Fuck the mission, Michaels! I want you to tell Ham to put all the pressure he can on as many people as he can to find out what’s going on. If he has to go over there himself and break her out of prison, I want him to do it, or I’ll call the Washington Post and tell them the story.”
“Easy Jay. That would be a terrible idea and you know it. If she’s not in danger now, that would be the quickest way to put her in danger, not to mention the agents who were with you.”
“How could she not be in danger—she’s been kidnapped, for God’s sake.”
“Well, just don’t do anything rash. I’ll tell Ham what’s going on, and we’ll check it out and get back to you.”
“This is life and death, Michaels, and I’m not exaggerating, and I’m going to stay on your ass until you assure me that Azi’s safe.”
“All right, but you gotta give me some time. I’ll call you back in twenty-four hours and let you know what I have.”
“Okay. Tomorrow night I’ll be expecting your call at this number.” I gave it to him.
“All right, I’m on it.”
When I hung up I thought about going back to bed, but I was too angry and anxious for sleep. And famished—I hadn’t eaten anything except a few bites of airplane food in two days. And, shit, I remembered I had to teach my first class of the fall tomorrow, and I hadn’t prepared at all, hadn’t given it a thought. I buttered four pieces of stale bread, put them on a baking sheet in the oven, and went outside to gather the newspapers that had littered the driveway in my absence. I made some coffee, ate my toast, and read that day’s paper. The Gamecock football team was expecting a good season—that was the front page news. Secondarily, Carter battled Reagan over ozone and climate change, over whether, as Reagan claimed, pollution is caused by trees. No mention at all of the hostages, one of whom, the most vulnerable, was Azi.
Sunday morning, like wide water without sound. How do you pray if God has betrayed you?
I went to school and prepared for my classes, made syllabi, laid out a schedule for the fall as if writing dates and assignments might bring order back to my world.
CHAPTER 13
Nadia opened her door wearing denim short shorts, a beige halter top without a bra, and a smile. She said “Hey Jay” and wrapped me in a hug. I said hey, but maybe I flinched—she stepped back without letting go of me and said, “What’s wrong?” She squinted as she examined me. “You don’t look so good. You have bag eyes.” She put her thumbs under them as if to rub away the smudges, then noticed the purple lump on my temple, which had shrunk and lightened some. “What is this? Come tell about it.” She took my hand and led me to the kitchen where she sat me on a stool at the bar. She stood in front of me, between my knees, with her hands on my thighs.
As I repeated the fake mugging story, Nadia cooed and petted me, kissed my forehead. “But why they do this, why everyone want to beat you?”
I laughed unexpectedly. “I don’t know—I guess it’s my charming personality.” She hit me on the arm, and I said, “See?”
“Not funny.”
“Okay, but it’s over, and I’m fine. What’s for supper?” I looked around the kitchen and didn’t see any pots bubbling or other preparations for a meal.
She smiled and said, “Well, I know you eat the steak and potato at restaurant now, and I remember you say you miss peanut butter and jelly sandwich, so I make it.” She walked around the bar and started taking things out of the refrigerator and cabinets. “I buy the bread and the real peanut butter at market, and I have the bananas and grapes.”
“Bananas and grapes—I’ve never tried that, but it sounds good.”
“Damn right. And milk for growing boy.”
In answer to her questions, I told a couple of lies about my mother, then turned the subject back to her and enjoyed her eclectic chatter as we ate. The all-natural peanut butter wasn’t sweet enough, but the rest was perfect. “Where’d you learn to make this, Nadia? Kuwait?”
“No, of course”—She saw I was kidding. “The Southern Living magazine. Maybe I open Southern restaurant in Kuwait, show them the fried chicken and grits. Or hash brown—that is potato, right? What it means, hash?”
“In food it means chopped up. But it’s also short for hashish, the drug.”
“Yes, is Arabic, it means grass.”
“Hmm.”
“Tell me what means cat on hot tin roof? I read play, I like it, but I don’t understand title.”
“Well, tin is a thin, cheap metal, so a roof made of tin suggests poverty, but it’s also scorching hot in the summer. The main character, is her name Maggie?”
“Yes, Maggie and Brick. Funny name, Brick, like house, right?”
“Right, well, she always says she feels like a cat on a hot tin roof, meaning her feet are burning, and Brick says, then jump off. Like Brick, the roof suggests a house or home, and hot suggests passion or anger, so maybe they’re talking about their marriage.”
“Okay, that’s good, Jay. I get it. I read plays during summer. I like ‘Our Town’ best. Is simple but . . . you read it?”
“Yes.”
“Emily, she break my heart.”
/> “Why? I don’t remember it very well.”
“She learn everyone don’t see the miracle of life. That’s me, I have everything, but I take for granite. Is right?”
“Granted. You take things for granted.”
“Yes, that’s me. I take for granted.”
Thinking of Azi, thinking if only you knew, I said, “That’s me too, Nadia, most of us. . . . But not everybody. I mean, some people suffer, a lot, and their life isn’t a miracle, or maybe it is, but it’s a difficult miracle.”
“Yes, hmm, difficult miracle. Maybe you write other play, Their Town.”
“That’s clever, maybe I will.”
“Okay, but that’s enough depressing. You want more sandwich?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay, come. We have dessert.”
She led me by the hand again, this time into the bedroom. The bedspread and top sheet were neatly folded back, and on the side table stood two wine glasses, a bottle of white wine in a bucket of ice, a bowl of strawberries, some cloth napkins, and a can of whipped cream. I smiled, surprised and excited even though I wasn’t sure what she had in mind. “Did you learn this in Southern Living too?”
She laughed. “No, this is Nadia Magazine. Sit.”
I sat on the side of the bed and she pushed me back against the pillows, poured me a glass of wine, and handed it to me with a strawberry. “This is nice,” I said. “I think Nadia Magazine will sell.” I scooted over and patted the bed beside me.
She lifted her halter top and peeled it off.
“Nadia Magazine will sell A LOT,” I said, but then as she smiled and began to unbutton her shorts, guilt changed the channel in my head—Athens, the terrorist making Azi take off her clothes, and I couldn’t shut out the memory, or the thoughts that started snapping at me: where is she, is she okay, who are they, what’s Baizan doing, what can I do, what can I do. . . . “Stop,” I said.
“What, Jay?”
I took her hand and pulled her down so she was sitting beside me, swung our feet under the covers and pulled the top sheet up over our chests.
“What?”
