Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Once Noora regained her equilibrium, she tried to push him away. She struggled, but his arms were too strong. To her shock and embarrassment, she could feel him, hard like a stick, against her stomach, right through his black gabardine trousers. She felt trapped in his arms but still managed to push him away. He let go, stepping a foot away, only for a brief moment. He seized her again. Holding her tighter now, he whispered, “God, you are different. You know that?”

  Noora remembered Ian’s warnings. “Beware of wolves. Especially Kenni.” She always replied that she could surely handle herself. This time, she felt trapped and barely able to breathe.

  “You feel so good …” Kennilworth whispered.

  She felt dizzy from the touch of a man—a touch she had longed for. Just to be held, to be loved. She could never allow such feelings to surface again. She almost moaned Michel’s name, but caught herself. How could she allow this man to get so close? He was a phony. He was trying to find her lips. She should slap him …

  As she was about to break away, a voice thundered, “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK THIS IS?!” Ian Cohen stood at the threshold of his office.

  Kennilworth finally let go, and Noora put her hands to her flushed cheeks.

  “I want you both outta my FUCKING OFFICE!” Ian Cohen growled. “And you!” He said, pointing a rigid index at Noora. “Get your shit out of my house.”

  “Mr. Cohen! It’s not at all what you …”

  “I’m gonna take a ride around the block so I don’t kill you. When I get back, I want you GONE!”

  “Please, Ian, absolutely, this was not …”

  He turned and marched away, before Noora could explain the truth. Ian’s words felt like icicles piercing her heart. A door slammed hard and walls vibrated like an aftershock.

  Noora flew up the stairs. It didn’t take her long to pack. Leave the clothes he gave you money to buy. Leave everything! He wanted her out. She would take Annette’s sweater, cards, and letters; she should leave the few books she purchased and leave now! She grabbed a Neiman Marcus shopping bag from the chair nearby and ran to the bathroom. In a quick sweep, she threw her toiletries and stuffed the bag in her small suitcase. She had prepared for that moment, if he ever made advances. But she was not prepared to be thrown out for such an unexpected reason. How could she have allowed that manipulative stepson to kiss her? How could she have again been so weak and naive? She had kept the phone number of the Bel Air taxi company right by her bedside, in case of emergency. Now she couldn’t find the piece of paper. Her fingers trembling, she dialed Information.

  Finally, when she got through to one of the Beverly Hills cab companies, the clerk said it would take ten to fifteen minutes.

  By then, Ian Cohen would surely be back. God only knew what he would do. She had witnessed his temper, but she had never been the cause. Until now. She flew down the stairs with her small suitcase, her purse, and two sweaters tucked under her arm. Kennilworth met her in the vestibule by the front doors.

  “I’ll help you,” he said in a voice that sounded all too cheerful.

  “Excuse me,” she muttered and rushed toward the kitchen. Haven’t you caused enough harm? She would leave from the service entrance, because he was blocking the front door.

  “Let me do something,” he said, pursuing her.

  “Let me GO!”

  “You can stay with me tonight. At my house. It’s the least I can do,” Kennilworth said.

  She ran through the kitchen. Kennilworth did not follow her there.

  Where was Cessi? She hoped Ian’s housekeeper did not see what happened in Mr. Cohen’s office. Maybe Cessi’s son picked her up and they already left. She would not have the chance to say goodbye to Cessi, she thought, her mind racing with confused thoughts as she ran out to the courtyard, headed for the street. The gate was left open, but the taxicab was not there yet. Ian Cohen wanted her out of his house, now. No matter what, he would not believe her explanation. Why should he? Where was that taxi?

  *

  Michel walked to the black Mercedes exhilarated after his meeting in the fifty-year-old cottage on Bel Air Road. He climbed in, closed the door, but couldn’t start the car yet. He had to sit for a while and rewind in his head what just happened. It was almost too good to be true. He needed to take a deep breath, and most of all, plant himself back on earth. He reached over his shoulder and pulled down his seat belt. He stopped before buckling himself in, thinking God must have finally felt sorry for him and shone a ray of light upon his dark, cloudy life. He held the steering wheel with two hands. Sublime… fantastique, he thought in French. The meeting with his future client, a young man named Mr. Art Atta’ie, went better than he had imagined. Il doit y avoir un Dieu après tout! Mr. Atta’ie had approved Michel’s proposal and designs. Indeed, there must be a God after all.

  He reached for his cell phone to call his father and announce the good news. He stopped and stared at his phone, wondering about the time difference. His father was still at Sharm El Sheikh in Egypt, working on the hotel project with his father-in-law. He glanced at his watch. It was probably too late to call—or too early? He would have to wait a few more hours.

  Michel had met Mr. Atta’ie in Paris, just the year before, where he had been introduced by one of his professors. The forty-three-year-old investment banker, who had purchased the two-acre lot in Bel Air, asked Michel to draw up plans for his family’s dream home. Mr. Atta’ie was so pleased with Michel’s proposal and drawings that he wanted to meet him in his Century City office the very next morning and get started on his house.

  For the first time since he lost Noora, Michel felt a sense of hope. He would have to open an office in Beverly Hills, hire a staff. Ideas as to what he would name his company danced in his head. He was not an American citizen. He would have to seek counsel on the matter. He wanted to make sure everything he did was absolutely legal. So many plans—better things lay ahead.

  His new client had twin boys—four years old. His wife was expecting another son, they told him, and the couple wanted to build a separate wing for their boys. Mr. Atta’ie wanted large windows and waterfalls. Michel came up with ideas that his client liked. He also proposed building a tree house with a small lift that would safely take the children up and down. The lift would be controlled by the touch of an electric switch hidden in the paw of a wooden bear statue that would be standing next to the tree. As a backup safety measure, the electric switch could also be controlled by the parents, from the house. He didn’t think Mr. Atta’ie would like the idea, but he and his wife actually loved it. They said they had never heard of anything so “ingenious.”

  Mrs. Atta’ie especially loved the design of the main kitchen and adjoining den. She was so excited, she hugged her husband, and tears of joy appeared, welling up in her eyes. Mr. Atta’ie was beaming with pride.

  Michel had discovered that from a specific angle of the property, where no one knew there was ever a view, there actually was a pretty good vista of Beverly Hills in the distance. He designed tall windows from that particular angle which also allowed, at night, the city’s twinkling lights to show.

  Michel rolled down the windows of his car. He pulled out of the driveway, his mind on the house plans, when suddenly he jammed his foot on the brake. A young woman was running right in front of his car. He could have hit her, he came so close. A taxi pulled up in front of the mansion across the street and she ran after it.

  He swiftly pulled close to the curb, and stopped a few feet before the driveway of the open gates. She ran out of that house without looking if a car was coming. He could have killed her! It was that close.

  “Hey!” he found himself shouting. “Watch it!”

  What was he doing, screaming like a madman? Michel wondered, realizing his heart was pounding and his hands were trembling. The young woman turned and faced his car for a split second before opening the back door of the cab and hopping in.

  He could have sworn she was the same person, the young woman he sa
w earlier, before his meeting. Merde! She was just someone who happened to look like Noora. And wearing the same dress as the girl he saw in Hawaii? This coincidence is totally improbable, I am seeing things and I need help!

  Blinded by tears, Noora heard someone shout at her. Probably the driver of that black car. She wanted to say she was sorry, but she saw Kennilworth rushing toward the taxi.

  “Where are you going? You don’t need a cab!” Kennilworth shouted, rushing to open the taxi door.

  Inside the cab, Noora quickly pressed the lock button. Kennilworth persistently tapped on the glass. “C’mon, don’t be silly. He’s just old and jealous! Stay with me!”

  “Please, sir! Drive away!”

  The cab made a fast U-turn and took off.

  Seated stunned in his car, Michel crossed his arms on top of his steering wheel and dropped his head. Everywhere I go, I think I see Noora. He blinked back tears and shifted into gear. Noora… Dear God, how I miss you.

  Inside the taxi, Noora checked her purse. She had her passport and the two thousand dollars she had managed to save. It pays to be organized and think ahead, she thought, something she never had to do growing up.

  “Did you say the airport?” the driver asked.

  “Yes, please,” Noora said, closing her purse.

  “None of my business, but is that guy your boyfriend or somethin’?” The taxi driver asked, peering at Noora from his rearview mirror.

  “No.”

  “I think he just went through the red light back there, trying to catch up. Looks like he’s tailing us. You wan’ me to stop?”

  Noora turned and saw the Ghibli gaining speed.

  “No. I don’t even know him … Take me to the hospital.”

  “Hospital? Which one?”

  “The Sinai … I mean … The one near the Beverly Center. Do you know where it is?”

  “Cedars Sinai? You wan’ me ta lose the Ferrari?”

  “Just drop me off at the emergency entrance … please.”

  “You okay, lady?” the driver asked, glancing curiously at Noora, adjusting his rearview mirror.

  She touched her neck and gasped. “Oh, no!”

  “All right, lady. I’m gonna pull over …”

  “No, no, please. I’m fine!”

  “If you need to vomit, not in my car!”

  “I assure you, I don’t need to do any such thing.”

  “If you need medical assistance right away, I gotta know. I can dispatch …”

  “No! I’m perfectly fine. Nothing is wrong with me,” Noora said impatiently, though indeed, something was terribly wrong. She had left Um Faheema’s copper chain and blue bead under her pillow. At Ian Cohen’s house! She was now without the crutch that she believed guided her and guarded her from evil. She couldn’t go back, she realized, her heart sinking. How could she have forgotten Um Faheema’s precious gift? The one thing that kept her close to her Bedouin friends and brought her a sense of security.

  At the emergency entrance, Noora paid the driver and ran inside. She had to find another taxi, and try to lose Kenilworth. Why was he so determined to go after her? Didn’t he cause enough damage? But the cab driver told her the “Ferrari” had made a turn a couple of blocks before the hospital. Maybe Kennilworth gave up the chase. He probably ran back to his stepfather and told him God knows what kind of a lie. She ran in the opposite direction, where she remembered taxis lined up outside along the curb. She pushed through the exit’s glass doors and out of the hospital’s main lobby, and hopped in a taxi van.

  “The Los Angeles airport please,” she said, closing the van’s sliding door.

  CHAPTER 55

  MOUSTAFA’S DISCOVERY

  Settled comfortably on an overstuffed pale yellow chaise, Ahna Morgenbesser watched the evening news. For nearly four decades, she had lived in a second-floor walkup on the Rue du President Wilson. Her cozy two-bedroom apartment was crammed with century-old furniture and bric-a-brac. An ornate upright piano stood in a corner by a tall window framed by sheer lacy curtains. A collection of old framed photographs and other memorabilia was displayed on the mantle of an old marble fireplace. A faded golden velvet couch, lamps in the style of Doctor Zhivago, and a well-worn oriental rug gave a sense of warmth and intimacy to the room.

  “Mrs. Ahna Morgenbesser?” Noora’s voice came through the receiver when Annette’s grandmother picked up the ringing phone next to her chaise.

  “Yes, yes!” Ahna said happily, recognizing the girl’s voice.

  “This is Kelley Karlton, Annette’s friend. We met at her wedding …”

  “Oui, ah oui, bonjour!”

  “I hope I am not phoning at an improper time.”

  “Au contraire,” Ahna said, reaching for the remote and turning off the television. “Comment allez-vous? Oh, I do hope you are in Paris, yes?”

  “Yes. Actually, I am at the airport …”

  “Wonderful. Welcome. You plan to take a taxi?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll give you directions. I just baked a Schwarzwalder kirsch torte. I hope you are hungry.”

  Moustafa felt an electric jolt from his brain to the pit of his stomach. He held his sandwich in midair, his mouth stuffed with food. He chewed slowly to make sure he did not miss one detail as he watched Noora through a crowd of travelers. She was standing by a row of public phones. She was on the other side of the walkway, too far for him to grab her. She was blonde now, with short hair—trying to disguise herself, but she could not fool him. He observed her as she picked up one of the receivers. She looked at a piece of paper, pressed the buttons on the phone, and began to talk, keeping her head down. He watched how she brought her head up and smiled. Without a doubt, she was talking to a man.

  May Allah let me burn in hell if that is not the sharmouta. Moustafa had a sudden revelation: It was she who caused the helicopter crash that sent the future young doctor, the first son of Mr. Fendil, to his death. Her brother had to be the one who took her out of the pool, when they all thought she was dead, and then she killed him.

  Moustafa crushed the sandwich in his hand and tossed it in a trash bin next to the food cart. He watched her as she hung up the phone, picked up her carry-on, and walked away—the sinful walk that belonged to her, like fingerprints.

  He cursed his cousin Youssef for leaving him to watch their two carry-ons and attaché cases while he went to the men’s room; of all times for the idiot to have to go and pee.

  But Moustafa could still catch her. He rushed down the walkway through the crowded airport, straining to keep her in sight. She disappeared amid the fast-moving sea of travelers, but he spotted her again, heading down the escalators to the baggage claim.

  Who had she been talking to on the phone? Was she to be picked up in a limousine? Someone was protecting her. Who?

  “Stop!” Moustafa shouted in Arabic. He forced his way through the crowd. “Stop that girl!” he screamed in broken French. “Arretez cette fille!”

  She walked straight ahead, through revolving doors, without looking back. Moustafa was surrounded by foreign faces giving him disapproving glances. What are these European imbeciles looking at?! “Let me pass. Let me through!” he shouted in Arabic.

  He shoved his way down the escalator. As he was about to go through the revolving doors after the girl, he was stopped by strong hands that snatched him from the back of his suit collar.

  “What are you doing?!” his cousin Youssef said furiously, pulling him away from a crowd of curious faces.

  “I found her!”

  “What?!”

  “The Fendil girl!”

  Youssef was a couple of inches taller than Moustafa, and stronger. He held Moustafa firmly by the lapels of his gray suit and said between clenched teeth, “Stop it this instant, or I’ll report you to the sheik!” Youssef’s eyes were fierce.

  Moustafa stared at his cousin. He felt sweat immediately pouring out of him.

  “Where did you leave our luggage?” Youssef’s voice was
icy.

  “Let go of me.”

  “I will not tolerate this. You understand?”

  Moustafa held up his hands. “Aiwah, I understand. Let go.”

  “How could you run and scream like a madman, chasing after some … girl?” He pushed Moustafa ahead of him toward the escalator. “Where is our luggage?!” he asked as they were riding back up.

  “Youssef, you have to believe me. That was Mr. Fendil’s … Mr. Farid Fendil’s daughter!”

  Youssef shoved him up the moving escalator. “You keep this up and I will no longer defend you! You’ve been obsessed with that girl too long! She is dead! That Fendil case is closed! People are staring at us. For the last time, where’s our luggage?!” He stepped off the escalator and pushed Moustafa ahead of him.

  “Next to the sandwich place. Youssef! Stop pushing me and listen!”

  “I can’t leave you for a second! Don’t you know if you had gone through the revolving doors, you wouldn’t be able to come back, because I’m holding your ticket?!” He growled. “Hamdallah! There they are. Looks like no one took anything. Anyone could’ve walked off with my laptop!” Youssef retrieved their attaché cases and their two black leather carry-ons. “Hold those two. One more misstep and you’re deep in khara.”

  Khara f’weshak! Shit on your face! Moustafa wanted to shout right back at Youssef. He took the two pieces of luggage and glanced back over Youssef’s shoulder to see if there was a chance he could spot the girl, but Youssef continued to push him ahead. “Move!” They made it to the gate, where an agent waited for the last passengers to board the plane.

  Moustafa took his assigned window seat in business class of the huge aircraft, while Youssef took the aisle seat. Moustafa squeezed a tight fist and rested his cheek against the window. He wished he could throw a good fist into the porthole and break it so they would have to deplane.

  He had to analyze the situation carefully. Once they landed in New York, he would find a way to fly back to Paris. He could easily have seized her, if it hadn’t been for his shit partner.