by JP Ratto
Dr. Robert Vilari stood on the shallow hotel terrace overlooking Uruguay Street, a ten-minute walk from Beirut’s central district.
It was early evening and a crush of people was beginning to build along one of the busiest areas in the city. Soon every café and bar would be filled with tourists and a few locals. Vilari enjoyed this time of day. The arid, hot air tempered by the setting sun was more bearable, and the blasts of music and laughter from the raucous crowd drowned out the pressures of his job. He sipped his Arak, which he had ordered along with mezze, an array of appetizers.
As chief bioengineer for American Defense Laboratories (ADL), he visited overseas chemical plants in countries with liberal corporate laws and “understanding” governments. At one time, he enjoyed hosting lavish parties for power brokers and returning home with an agreement that meant more business for ADL. Now, CEO Mark Halpern asked him to make trips several times a year. Vilari knew, with his heart condition, he needed to cut back. Then he would have to tell Halpern about his health. That wasn’t a smart career move.
In the past, swarthy men had offered Vilari money, women, and boys if he preferred, as incentive to divulge sensitive information. As his personal problems grew, he dreamed of starting over in a new place with his family.
He shut the terrace door, grabbed his wallet, phone, and keycard, and left his hotel for another night of mundane networking.
***
Vilari woke to the strong smell of dokha tobacco, with a massive headache and the need to urinate. With one hand over his eyes to block the light streaming into the room, he slid his legs over the side of the bed. He sat up and jerked, startled by the olive-skinned stranger relaxed in a chair, staring at him as he inhaled from a carved medwakh. First surprised and then angry, he was too weak to mount a verbal attack.
Vilari remembered the man from the night before. The wiry Arab had sat alone at a table in the corner of the restaurant where Vilari shared a cocktail and smoke with a potential client. He glanced at the man several times during his conversation and each time the stranger gave Vilari a slight nod of his head. Although the Arab’s stares were unnerving, Vilari had finally ignored him in favor of giving the client his full attention. Once the waiter brought a last drink to the table, the Arab rose and left the restaurant. Vilari recalled relaxing back in his chair with his drink but nothing after that.
He moved to stand. The man looked on, seemingly assessing his condition. Vilari shook off the penetrating stare and stepped toward the bathroom, losing his equilibrium. He attempted to straighten, but fell backwards onto the bed.
The stranger, who Vilari determined was in his forties, wore his slicked black hair in a bun at the back of his head and his beard trimmed close to his face. Clad in an expensive suit and alligator loafers, the Arab rose to pick up a glass from a room service cart. He turned back to Vilari. “I am Amari Abboud,” he said, handing Vilari a milky beverage. “Drink it slowly. We have a lot to talk about.”
Vilari swallowed and cleared his throat. “What do you want?”
Settling back into the chair, Abboud pulled an envelope from his pocket. He began shuffling through several photographs, then glanced at Vilari, who winced at the taste of the drink and rubbed his stomach. “Despite how you feel now, you had a good night.” Abboud held up a photo of a woman straddled atop Vilari, her smooth bronzed back to the camera. “Yes, a very good night.”
He threw the photos on the bed. With a shaky hand, Vilari spread them apart and gasped. In one, the woman had her face buried in his groin. Another showed Vilari returning the favor. He gagged and fell to his knees, grabbing a small wastebasket. The thought of Abboud making the photos public caused him to retch violently. Exhausted, he remained on the floor and leaned against the bed. Abboud tossed Vilari a hand towel to wipe the vomit from his mouth.
“Feel better?” Abboud asked.
With tears sliding down his blanched face, Vilari blinked.
“Good,” Amari Abboud said. “Let’s begin.”
Robert Vilari pulled himself from the floor onto the bed and waited for Abboud to speak.
“I am in the business of bringing people and products together. In your country, I would be called the middleman. I have wealthy business acquaintances that have need of your services and are willing to pay extremely well.” Amari Abboud smiled.
“I’m not interested.” Vilari turned to stare out the window.
“Typical rude, American cowboy.” His brow furrowed and his lips curled. “You haven’t heard what I want yet.”
“I don’t care.”
“In any case, your options are limited and all end badly. I could give these photos to your wife or her parents. Would that work?”
“No. My wife is a treacherous hag.” Yes, it would work. A sheen of sweat formed on his forehead.
“Perhaps, I would have new photos taken of you with a man instead of a woman.” Abboud waited. “Not yet?”
“No one would believe it wasn’t a doctored photo.” Vilari couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Well, if your resistance continues, I could step up the measures to unpleasant things for your family.”
Vilari’s face flushed, his eyes watered.
“Ah, I see I have your attention.”
Vilari adored his wife and children. He remembered the last time he saw Francesca, when she took him to the airport. Not wanting him to leave, she trembled when she hugged him. Her kiss had lasted longer than usual. The snap of Abboud’s fingers brought him back to the present.
“I can tell you now have the full measure of the situation.” Abboud smiled again and leaned back in his chair. “We need the bioweapon and the anti-toxin you are developing at ADL. The weapon is important to my client but, make no mistake, the anti-toxin is just as important.” Abboud paused for effect.
“Your government has developed a bioweapon in response to a mega-toxin the Russians have. There are people who are uncomfortable with Russia’s growing military strength and aggressive posture in the world. They don’t have time to make up years of research and come up with their own product. Therefore, you will help level the playing field. If you do this, they will make you wealthy. If you don’t, well…”
Vilari’s eyes circled the room and connected with Abboud’s. His mind raced for other options. There were none. If he didn’t agree, he wouldn’t leave this room alive.
“How much will you pay?”
Chapter 2
Standing in the foyer of my Gramercy Park brownstone, I stared at the envelope addressed to me, Lucas Holt PI, which had held a photo sent by a previous client.
After receiving the photograph from Janet Maxwell’s attorneys, my initial shock had turned to guarded optimism. My first inclination was to call my ex-wife, Susan, and share the hope the girl in the photo was Marnie.
Fifteen years before, during the investigation of a sensitive case, my six-month-old daughter was abducted from a daycare center. At the time, I was an NYPD detective looking into the murder of a call girl with ties to a New York State senator. I always believed the two incidents were connected.
The idea Marnie was still alive and we could be a family again rushed through my mind and made my heart pump faster. However, Susan’s remarriage to Jim O’Brien was a major obstacle.
I procrastinated with the excuse that I didn’t want to offer Susan any false hope. Truth be told, I was afraid to raise any within myself. Once I spoke aloud to anyone about the photo—about finding Marnie, I would have the expectation of her recovery. With no new cases on my plate, I wouldn’t let anything distract me from searching for my daughter. I only had to decide when to tell Susan.
The decision was taken out of my hands when I received a phone call from Susan’s husband telling me she was in hospice.
***
I’d spent my fair share of time in hospitals before my parents died. They both had suffered terminal illnesses, two years apart, and when they were near their end, I’d gone back home to be with them. The only occ
asion where I didn’t dread entering a medical facility was when my daughter Marnie was born. Her birth was one of the happiest moments of my life―her disappearance the worst.
I drove to Middletown, N.Y. to visit Susan. More like hotel than a hospital, her room was large and comfortably furnished for guests. The hospital bed, though, was a bleak reminder of her illness. No lights were on and half-closed shades blocked the late afternoon sun. Shadows of low-hanging tree branches outside the windows danced on the floor like dark, tentacled marionettes.
As I drew up to the side of the bed, Susan shifted her head toward me. Her eyes eased open halfway, and then wide with recognition. She lifted a gaunt, pale hand. I enclosed it in mine and she smiled.
“Lucas,” she whispered, “so glad to see you.”
I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t pass the lump in my throat. I sat in the chair beside the bed, holding her hand. Gently. I brought it to my lips and kissed it. The disease had drained Susan’s body of its warmth. I held on, wishing I could transmit my own health and energy through her iced skin.
Oh God, seeing her this way is so hard.
“I just found out,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”
She summoned enough strength to squeeze my hand. “It’s okay. You’re a busy man.” She licked her parched lips and swallowed. “You’ve helped a lot of people.”
It was a compliment, but all I could hear were the words she neglected to say. Why couldn’t you help us?
“Susan, I have something to show you. I’ve struggled the last few weeks with whether or not I should. I don’t want to upset you. Not that it will be upsetting…I’m just not sure.”
She squeezed my hand again so I would stop fumbling over my words. She knew me well and had always scolded me for beating around the bush when I had something to tell her. Good or bad.
“What is it, Lucas? You can see…I don’t have all day.” She smiled at the joke, but neither of us laughed, and I watched a tear slide down her cheek. My stomach clenched.
I can’t bear this.
I released her hand, inhaled deeply, and coughed to clear my throat. I pulled out the photo of the girl with the cleft chin, just like mine, who also had Susan’s small patrician nose and soft brown eyes.
Susan stared at the picture of the young girl I held in front of her. I watched her face and swore I could see the emotions that had surged through me pass over her as well.
She took the photo from me into her shaking hand. “Turn on the light,” she said. “Oh my God, Lucas. I need to see her in the light.”
No longer in shadows, some of the gloom left me. Susan lay transfixed on the face in the photo.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” she finally asked.
“I believe it is. By the way, you were right about her eyes. They did turn brown.”
Susan raised her brow and pursed her lips, giving me the familiar of-course-I-was-right look. She turned serious. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
I relayed the circumstances of how I came to possess the photo. Susan let it slip from her hands to rest over her heart, closed her eyes, and wept. I wept too.
***
Not wanting to be anywhere else, the time passed more easily than I’d thought. The sun had set, and the room grew chilly. Slouched with my legs stretched and my head rested on the back of a chair, an odd peacefulness warmed me. After a while, Susan drifted off to sleep. I moved to take back the picture when she woke.
“Can you leave it here?” she asked.
I hadn’t thought about it. It was the only one I had. I asked an attendant if there was somewhere to make a copy for Susan. It wouldn’t be great, but it would do.
We looked again at the image of who we both accepted was our daughter. Susan’s breathing became labored. My visit had been too much for her. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips.
“I love you, Susan.” I wouldn’t say goodbye.
She didn’t return the sentiment although her eyes held the look I’d seen long ago that told me so. It was enough. I turned to leave when she grabbed my hand with such force it startled me. “Find her, Lucas,” she said, her voice strong and commanding. “Find her.”
Chapter 3
At the grand residence of one of Washington D.C.’s movers and shakers, the evening started with champagne, top-shelf liquor, and delectable hors d’oeuvres. A black-tie affair, the men wore finely tailored jackets and ties, while the women, most who attended at the behest of the host, displayed their bodies in elegant gowns that offered varying degrees of undress. One man sipped a Scotch he’d watered down; he needed his wits for the game. A tall brunette, whose hair was the color of rich Arabic coffee and wearing a midnight blue halter dress with thin rhinestone straps, sashayed to his side. “I haven’t seen you here before. I’m Stella.”
“Call me Guy.”
“Are you a virgin, Guy?”
The question caught him off guard, and he blushed like a schoolboy. Then he realized the double entendre. “Not my first time.”
“How experienced are you?” Her dark eyes held the light of the room’s crystal chandelier when she glanced at him over her fluted glass of champagne. It was more a spark than a twinkle and he shuddered at her sensuousness.
“I know a few strategic moves. The result can be very satisfying.” He swallowed the last of his drink. “And what about you? What’s your level of expertise?”
A server walked by carrying drinks. Stella stopped him, removed Guy’s empty tumbler from his hand, and placed both their glasses on the tray. When the server moved on, she took Guy’s hand in hers and led him to a more private corner of the room. He tried to keep his physical response to her under control while she unbuttoned his jacket and pressed her flattened palms on his chest, pushed them up to his shoulders and clasped her hands around the back of his neck. She pulled him to her, and the warmth of her body passed through his silk shirt. Nearly as tall as he in her silver stiletto heels, she easily found his lips, and after sliding her tongue over them, kissed him. His arms closed around her and he deepened the kiss, just as the call came for the players to go to the game room.
***
The tension in the room was palpable. Seated at a game table, Guy, the newcomer to the group, had been winning heavily during the early part of the evening. Too much confidence and unabashed risk now landed him in the precarious position of losing more than his shirt. It was a serious game, and although his skill matched his opponents’, his cockiness was his downfall.
Or maybe it was the woman who called herself Stella.
Guy glanced up when the player in seat three rose and bid everyone goodnight. He followed the obese man as he lumbered toward the door. He exited, and Guy’s eyes widened when Stella slipped into the room, nodded to the other players at his table, and sat in seat three.
The dealer acknowledged Stella. “Lady…and gentlemen, as agreed, it is almost two a.m. and we will begin the last hand of the night. The minimum bet is two thousand dollars.”
He looked to the two players to his left to ensure the proper bets were placed. The first player was the small blind and anteed two thousand-dollar chips. The next player, the big blind, anteed four chips. The forced bets ensured there was money in the pot to start the game of Texas Hold ’em.
The dealer dealt two cards, face down, to the five players.
As he had all night, Guy covertly watched the other four players examine their cards. Gamblers were superstitious by nature and these players had idiosyncrasies, but none had a “tell.” Wally, gravely serious with a thick goatee and mustache that hid his pursed lips, was first to the dealer’s left. He used the middle finger of his left hand to tap his chips after examining his hole cards. He was the only player wearing sunglasses. He lost the first ten hands before hitting his stride and coming back to be up twenty-five thousand.
The next player, Mike, currently the big blind, had removed his jacket, and his too-tight dress shirt was snug on his muscular
arms. The barrel-chested player constantly wiped the perspiration from his forehead as his chip count declined. At each new hand, he lowered his head to the table, examined his hole cards, and slowly rose to a normal seating position.
Stella was the only woman to play at any of the three tables. She sat serene and unruffled in a low-cut gown that revealed ample cleavage, which was an immediate distraction to at least one of the players. She gave each of them a moment of her attention and winked at Pedro, who sat on her left. Stella looked at Guy. She wants to see my reaction. He pegged her as someone who was all business despite her friendliness with the players.
Pedro, an NFL player, was the last man before Guy. He was, in poker parlance, “dead money,” and cared more about chatting up his neighbor for later in the evening, than the one hundred thousand dollars he was down. In lieu of a tuxedo, he wore a dark Brooks Brothers suit, bow tie, and a gold ring with a large diamond in the center. Pedro’s earring had a diamond that could have been its sister.
Guy cupped both hands over his hole cards. Using his thumb, he peeked at the corners: an ace of clubs and a king of hearts, a nice start. He made it a habit to memorize his cards. Constantly checking them was the mark of an amateur or a nervous player. The opposite of Wally, he had won four hands in the first hour. Guy’s natural cockiness began to show as he pressed his bets, hoping to build his chip pile into an insurmountable lead. He lost the next five hands as a fickle Lady Luck moved to Wally. Growing sullen, Guy’s play became very conservative. Correct betting at certain moments in the game should have netted a greater number of chips.
He wondered if he had a tell.
Stella looked at each player and called the big blind, adding four thousand to the pot. She turned to Pedro and smiled provocatively. “Do you want to get in this?”
Pedro grinned. “That’s why I’m still here.”
