Finn looks at her. Her blue eyes are kind, intelligent. She is hating her job right now, he knows. He nods, slowly. “I see.” It isn’t surprising there was a leak. That was one of the reasons they were in the country to begin with, to try to improve the security forces, law and order.
“I’m sorry. The Americans did a good job. If she had been there I think they would have got her out.”
Finn’s hands lie limp and useless in his lap. Sunlight presses relentlessly through the leaves of the surrounding trees, winking on the silver. He had never thought there could be too much sun, too much light, but it has become oppressive, like a jolly uncle constantly telling you to cheer up.
“Cold comfort, I know.” He nods. “But on the bright side, they think she’s alive. They found some more drawings.”
“Where?”
“You’ll have to talk with them.”
“Can I have them?” The thought of Miranda’s work, even if it were only doodles, being in the hands of anyone else makes his whole body hum with anxiety.
“I presume so. The Americans still have them at the moment. I imagine their forensic people want a go first.”
“What do you think it means that she’s in the North?” Finn is thinking out loud. “Is it the separatists who have her? Or AQ? Or who?”
“We think there is some AQ activity in the area, but it’s been hard for us to get in because of the bombings. And because the mountain pass is so often closed by landslides.”
“Which will only get worse next month, when the rains start.” The main road to the North runs through that pass. If Miranda is there, it will soon be even harder to get to her.
“Correct.” Celia’s blond eyebrows draw together as she searches for something reassuring to add. “I wouldn’t think it’s an ideal place for AQ training, what with the government constantly attacking. This camp was small. We think they are more likely to be plotting against the government than planning attacks on Western interests. Though naturally these guys are no fans of the West.”
“So they don’t seem like the beheading kind of terrorists?”
“Not yet, anyway.”
Finn tries to find a way forward through the 973 questions and doubts swirling in his skull. “So they think she was there and then she was moved? How long ago? And why the hell are they keeping her if they aren’t going to demand a ransom or chop off her head?”
Celia shrugs, her thin shoulders dropping helplessly. “I don’t know,” she concedes. “Shall I set up a meeting for you with the Americans?”
“Please, Celia.” Finn looks at her and then down at the cold cup of tea in front of him, the dull, rigid whiteness of the teacup suddenly an affront. For an instant, he hears Miranda’s voice, teasing him. “You couldn’t even drink your tea? Now I almost believe you were really worried.”
Something still nags at the back of Finn’s mind. “And the others? They were with her? Is there any evidence of them?”
Celia twists her hands in her lap, looking profoundly uncomfortable. “No…”
“What is it, Celia? There’s something else.”
“It’s classified.” She looks up at him, pleadingly. “It’s not to do with Miranda.”
Finn just stares at her, rage rising slowly from his rib cage. “If it’s anything about the other women, it is to do with Miranda. You know what? Fuck classified. This is my fucking wife we’re talking about. How can you justify withholding anything from me? Not as a diplomat, but as a human being. Christ, Celia!”
Startled momentarily by his uncharacteristic language, she hesitates.
Unaccustomed to being overtaken by emotion, Finn rises, trembling. His knees catch the table, and without taking time to think about it, he grabs the edge and upends the entire thing—teapot, teacups, silverware, pistachio cookies—into the garden. The glass tabletop shatters against the edge of the porch. Fuck tea. Tears prick the backs of his eyes.
Celia doesn’t move. “The Dutch and the French have received ransom requests.”
Finn falls back into his chair. “When? From whom?”
“About a month ago. We’re not sure from whom. They’re using an intermediary, a local sheikh.”
“A month ago? And no one thought to tell me?” Why hadn’t Stéphane or Alfons let him know? Were they feeling guilty that they had some hope for the return of their wives, whereas he had nothing?
“We wanted to wait until we confirmed that the requests came from the actual kidnappers. You know how this works. Proof of life and such.”
“And did they?”
“We think so.”
“But they haven’t been paid yet?”
“Not yet. It took a while for the exact amount to be negotiated. Apparently the kidnappers had high expectations of the worth of bankers and oil workers. Not erroneously, of course. But they’ve agreed on five hundred thousand dollars per woman. They’re only wives, after all, not the executives themselves. The drop could happen soon.”
“Why did it take them so long to make the ransom requests? Odd, no?”
“No idea. These aren’t the most predictable of people. But it could have taken them some time to figure out Kaia’s and Doortje’s net worth.”
“I’m surprised the French have waited this long. They’re usually the first to pay up.”
Celia just nods. “They’ll pay. So will the Dutch. Thus putting all their other countrymen in greater danger.”
Finn nods, staring down at the puddle of tea staining the expanse of white stone between them, considering where this leaves him. “If the other women are ransomed, they may be able to help us,” he says, allowing himself a glimmer of hope. “But I don’t understand. Do we think they are being held separately from Miranda?”
“We haven’t received a ransom request for her. I promise you, Finn, we would tell you that. The people with whom the Dutch and the French are negotiating claim they have no idea where she is.”
“Why would they separate her from the others? Because she is my wife? Because she is American? Because they have other plans for her? Did they sell her to AQ or what?” Finn doesn’t expect answers, he is merely thinking out loud.
“We’ll tell you whatever we find out.”
“Celia, you will let me talk with the women before they are evacuated?”
“I’ll find a way. I’m sorry, Finn.” She does look sorry, and so helpless that Finn finally says, with genuine contrition, “I’m sorry about the tea.”
Celia waves an arm dismissively. “Entirely understandable under the circumstances.”
—
FINN WALKS ALL the way home to the Old City, his mind churning with guilty questions. No matter what the reason for Miranda’s capture, it is his fault. He placed her in the dangerous position of being his wife, failed to properly protect her, and is failing hopelessly at tracking her down. For the millionth time, he wonders if this is some kind of reckoning. Would he feel any better had he trusted Miranda with the story of Afsoon? She loved him, didn’t he believe that? Apparently he didn’t have faith that her love would survive hearing that particular tale, every detail of which tattooed his character with dishonor he could never erase.
That fateful night in 2003, Finn had been working at the child-sized desk in his sterile little pod, his knees knocking against its underside as he wrote up a security report, when there was a rap at the door. He had paused momentarily to rest his eyes on Afsoon, curled up in his bed, sound asleep with her long black hair splayed out on the pillow. He checked his watch: 3:15 a.m. Who on earth? Quickly, he bent over Afsoon. “Habibti,” he whispered. She stirred sleepily, inky lashes fluttering against only slightly paler skin. “Habibti, wake up. Someone’s at the door.”
She sat upright with a start, her eyes wide and frightened.
“The bathroom. Quick.”
She didn’t need the prompting; she was already halfway there. Finn waited until he heard the door click behind her before unlatching the door of his pod.
“Am I waking you?”
“At three fifteen in the morning? Of course not.”
Norman looked exhausted. The skin of his face hung gray and loose, and deep lines tunneled across his forehead. He ducked through the doorway and perched on the edge of Finn’s bed, his hands folded on his knees.
Finn twirled a pen in his fingers, waiting for him to speak, his heart in his throat.
“I’m afraid there’s been a leak.”
“A leak?”
“Charlotte Fernsby….She’s dead.”
It took a few moments for the words, their terrible significance, to worm their way into Finn’s brain. “You mean, this evening’s—yesterday evening’s—operation—”
“They were expecting us, Finn. There’s no other explanation.” The rescue team was ambushed as they approached the compound where Fernsby was being held, Norman said. Only one man survived to report that Charlotte’s headless corpse had been strung up in the entrance to the compound.
Mutely, Finn stared at him. No was his first response. No no no. Dead. Charlotte Fernsby, dead. And a leak? Jesus Christ no. On his watch?
“Finn, I need to know who knew about the operation. Everyone who knew anything at all.”
Slowly, Finn nodded, but he still didn’t trust his voice. He would have to speak with Charlotte’s family. And the families of the team members who went in. With the ambassador out of country, the rescue operation had been his decision. He had known the odds against success, but thought they were worse if they did nothing. He had been wrong. He picked up a glass of water from his desk and took a shaky sip. “Me, of course,” he finally said. “The ambassador. Nigel. Sophie. Defense. SIS, of course. One or two of the senior political staff. How did you hear so quickly?”
“Lucky enough to be on call in the kidnap cell tonight.”
“Ah.”
“That’s all?”
Finn stared at the gray linoleum floor as he mentally flipped through the names of the rest of the staff: Colin, Spencer, Isabelle, Terrence, Rupert, Gordon, Emily, Daisy, Olivia. And Ben. Was that it? Yet even as he worked his way through the embassy, he knew it was an exercise in futility. It hadn’t been any of the expatriate staff.
“And Vicky,” he added hollowly. His PA. He’d needed her to help with communication with London.
“Finn, think. Was there anyone else? Any friend you might have spoken to in confidence?”
“Of course not!” He wondered if Norman could see the acceleration of the pulse throbbing in his neck. Just the woman hiding in the bathroom. “Jesus, Norman.”
He looked up to find Norman staring at his back. Or rather, at the back of his chair, where a bit of pale blue lace had caught his eye. A bit of pale blue lace belonging to a female undergarment, slung across the plastic seat in an earlier moment of passion. Finn flushed, heat rising to his face and soaking his underarms. Could Norman have guessed whose they were? Slowly, Norman looked back at him, one eyebrow lifted.
“With all due respect,” he said, “I would consider giving this a little more thought. A woman and eleven men are dead. Good night, sir.” He stood, wrenched the handle of the door so that it flew open, banging against the outside of the pod, and was gone.
Finally forcing his paralyzed limbs into action, Finn yanked open the bathroom door to find Afsoon crouched on the seat of the toilet, sobbing into her hands.
“Who did you tell,” he said flatly. She refused to look at him, pulling her knees into her chest, wiping her running nose on her wrist.
“Get out.” Finn stood rigid as she climbed down from the toilet. Stretching out those lovely long arms, she reached for him, encircled him.
“Please,” she whispered into his neck, the scent of roses rising from her smooth skin. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
He forced himself to keep his arms by his sides. Twisting away, he shrugged off her embrace. “You’re bloody well going to tell me,” he said. “A woman is dead. A woman and about a dozen others whose lives I am responsible for.” He backed away from her, toward the bed. Crying, she followed.
“Tell me, and I might not have you prosecuted,” he said. “Tell me, and you might not spend your life behind bars.” Listening to his words, he didn’t recognize himself. The Finn he had always been didn’t threaten people. But he also didn’t whisper state secrets to honeytraps. He was only too aware that he would never be able to punish her without punishing himself. But would she know this?
“It was just my brother,” she wept, sinking onto the edge of the bed and gazing beseechingly up at him. “He said you didn’t take me seriously, that I was nothing but a diversion. I just wanted to show that you did—” Again, she reached for his hands. Again, he drew them away, his heart folding itself into smaller and smaller shapes, a muscular origami.
“To my infinite regret.” He picked up the panties from the back of the chair and handed them to her. “Your brother must have some unsavory friends. Get dressed. I want you to go home and never come back. Tomorrow you will call the embassy and tell them you found another job. But I never want to see your face again. Do you understand me? Never. You are not to contact me in any way.”
Miserably, she nodded, jerking the lace panties up along those fatally alluring thighs.
“You understand how much trouble you will be in if you ever say another word about this to anyone? You are a murderer. You as good as murdered those people.”
She nodded again, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Swiftly, she pulled on the rest of her clothing and slipped out the door as easily as she had slipped in. Finn stood for a moment, contemplating his rumpled bed, the scent of her rose perfume still in his nostrils. He was sick with rage and self-recrimination. She had made a girlish mistake, a naïve, stupid mistake. Or perhaps she had actually played him. He would never know. But he, he was the murderer.
An hour later, Finn unlatched his door once more. Fully dressed, he walked across the compound until he found a pod identical in almost every way to his. He knocked quietly, and the door swung open. “Norman,” he said. “Could I have a word?”
DECEMBER 1, 2010
Miranda
Miranda is sleeping when they come for her. The voices wake her, the voices of several men, directly outside her prison. She sits up, pulling her crumpled blouse down over her stomach. She never bothers to undress anymore. There is no way to wash and she rarely receives other clothing. She had thought she would grow accustomed to the fetid smell of her body, its festering funk, but she still feels a wave of nausea when a sudden movement releases her scent on the breeze. Only Luloah seems oblivious, clinging to her skin when she comes, chortling with joy.
A loud rapping at the door, followed by “Allah Allah Allah!” She is surprised that they bother making sure she is modest. Do they really imagine that she strips down to sleep on the unforgiving stone of this cell? In these desert nights? Instinctively, she looks around for her possessions—a notebook, a pencil, a key ring—before remembering that she has none. Something heavy, a shoulder, a gun, lands on the door, shoving it open. Miranda blinks, trying to see the men, but can make out only dim, hulking outlines.
“Get up,” says one. “Move.” No salaama aleikum. For the second time since her kidnapping, the traditional greeting was omitted. At least Aisha managed this basic reassurance.
For a moment, Miranda contemplates pretending not to understand, before realizing how futile that would be. Slowly, she struggles to her feet, stiff and cold. She has to pee. She should have thought of that before they burst in on her. She might have had time to use the bucket. Whatever these men want, she hopes it won’t take long.
“Feyn Aisha?” she asks. “Feyn Luloah?”
None of the men answer. Instead, one comes toward her and prods her with the barrel of his rifle. “Yalla,” he says.
Ducking her head as she walks through the small doorway, Miranda is stunned by the purity of the air outside, clean and soft like the breath exhaled by laundry as it is shaken out and folded. How long ha
s it been since she has taken a free breath? One month? Two? She gulps the cool, dry air as if she can store it up.
Again, the cold metal pressing against the thin cotton shielding her rib cage. They probably just don’t want to touch her, Miranda reasons. Good Muslims, even as they prod her along with their weapons.
She walks. It is too dark to see anything in front of her—or to the sides of her, for that matter. And because she was moved to her latest prison when she was unconscious, she is not even sure where it is, in relation to her old hut with Aisha and the huts of the men. There is no moon, and she sees no lights that might indicate nearby buildings. Though it is the middle of the night; why would there be lights? Her legs are heavy, difficult to move. She feels a burning in her quadriceps, but is relieved to find that she can put weight on her ankle without too much pain. The wound was slow to heal, but miraculously she had developed only a minor infection, a reddish swelling around the hole from which Aisha had pried the bullet. Nothing had ever been so painful, not even childbirth. She would have screamed had Aisha not stuffed a rag in her mouth before she started. Instead, she simply passed out. It is possible that the bone in her ankle is shattered. She sometimes feels a sharp stab when she stands, like a needle in the joint. When she is free, she should see a doctor about it.
She shakes this thought from her mind. Is she really still imagining that someday she will be free? In her weaker moments, Miranda ephemerally wishes she were German. They pay ransoms. But bad enough that she had been taken from Cressida, she couldn’t wish this fate on another parent. Or child. Or on anyone. Crime must not pay. She reflexively recalls the debates in her Art and Ethics class, during her undergrad years at the University of Washington, over whether financial rewards should be offered in the pursuit of stolen artworks. Wouldn’t such compensation simply reward criminals? Or should art be preserved at any cost? She had argued against compensating thieves. Otherwise, wouldn’t every artwork be at risk? Now here she is, a Turner painting, lost indefinitely.
Finn had always been firmly against ransoms; she wonders if this has swayed him. She hopes it hasn’t. One of the things she relies on most is Finn’s utter consistency. There is something relaxing about knowing what kind of tea he wants every single morning (Earl Grey), what he always wants for breakfast (muesli—unless they are in France, when he will eat a plain butter croissant), what kind of tea he wants before bed at night (chai), and what kind of face cream he uses every day (Body Shop for Men). These are the small things, the insignificant details, but he is consistent in the larger things as well. Like love.
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