Come Home

by Patricia Gussin

  “Get Alex back,” Nicole said.

  “I have professional connections in Egypt,” Berk began. “I will use whomever and whatever I can, Nicole, to get your son back.”

  “Berk’s organization will spare no resources,” Patrick said. “Everything’s on the table.”

  “This is a classic rendition probably,” Berk went on. “We go in. We take the child. We get him out of the country. We take him to a safe place. Keep him there for as much time as is necessary to make sure another abduction will not occur.”

  He’s making it sound so easy, Nicole thought. He doesn’t know my in-laws, all the resources they can use to prevent me from taking Alex.

  “Here’s the status, Nicole. I have satellite pictures of your husband’s family’s compound in Giza. We already have it under surveillance. I’ll know who’s coming and going. We’ll follow the family members when they leave. We’re in the process of hacking their computers; they use the same system for the business and for personal. We’ll read their text messages. I hope to have their phones bugged. We have listening devices set up outside the gate.”

  “Thank you,” Nicole said, startled by the progress Patrick’s investigator had made. “Please get Alex back as soon as you can.”

  “Ahmed and Alex should arrive in Cairo soon,” Patrick said. “Berk checked the flight status and all’s going as normal. The plane left here about nine a.m. It’s now eight p.m. here. Berk, we’ll have confirmation when the G5 lands?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Patrick continued, “It’ll be about three a.m. in Cairo.”

  “Alex will be so confused,” Nicole said, picturing how tired her five-year-old would be. How upset that she was not there. Surely Ahmed would let him call her. But at three in the morning?

  “We’ll try to get GPS on their vehicle,” Berk said. “Not so easy since standard operating procedure in Egypt is to check vehicles for tracking devices—and bombs. But, Nicole, I have questions to ask you about the setup there, the family, their habits. You will help immensely by telling us as much as you possibly can.”

  Berk began asking questions. About the property, the rooms, who slept where, the household staff, the security systems, the security staff, the personalities and character traits of Ahmed’s parents, siblings, their husbands and wives, even the grandchildren. Were there weapons? Who knew how to use them?

  Berk implied he had contacts in the local police and he seemed knowledgeable about trending unrest, social and political, among the Egyptians. Nicole remembered Ahmed mentioning a Facebook political campaign, but she hadn’t paid any attention. Everything about Facebook seemed trivial to her.

  For a couple more hours, Berk continued asking the questions, she answering as best she could, her three brothers taking occasional notes.

  At midnight, Rob suggested they all get some rest. Bedrooms were ready for Patrick and Berk.

  Mike would return to his Philadelphia home; Kevin to Princeton. Before they left, they agreed Nicole would give Mike power of attorney for her financial affairs so he could protect her in that realm. Kevin would step in to manage her office staff; he’d make sure all of her—and Ahmed’s—patients were covered and the practice protected to the degree possible. And, she’d asked him to notify Anna, her nanny. Patrick, Berk’s official client, would continue to liaise with him and his organization on repatriating Alex.

  Nicole looked around for Natalie. Sometime during the questioning, Natalie had disappeared, as had those boxes from Keystone. What could be so important that her sister could not have stayed at her side for just these few hours?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AHMED NUDGED ALEX awake when the G5 landed at Cairo International. The latter part of the flight had been turbulent. Alex had slept through it, though, aided by medication.

  “Where’s Mom?” His first words after his sleepy dark eyes scanned the dimly lit cabin.

  “We’re visiting Grandma and Grandpa Masud.”

  “In Egypt?” he asked. “Is Mom here?”

  Ahmed remembered his pharmacology. Ketamine produces a dissociative analgesia and sedation with a lingering amnesiac effect. Alex may not even remember getting on the plane. The drug could also cause hallucinations and delirium in the hours after use, but usually not in kids.

  “Come on, Alex,” Ahmed said. “Time to get off the plane.”

  “But where’s Mom?” Again, the child scoured the cabin with eyes now flashing alarm.

  “Don’t you remember?” A white lie. “Mom said good-bye at the airport. She’ll be along in a few days.”

  “No,” he said, loudly, now shrinking back into the seat. “I don’t remember.”

  “Look, Alex—” Ahmed would have to revert to “Wati.” And soon.

  “Remember, you’re in Egypt now. Everybody is going to call you Wati here. Okay?”

  “No, Dad, I don’t like that so much. Why isn’t Mommy here?”

  “Mom was really busy. Now, let’s go. She expects you to behave.”

  Ahmed wished he could give the child another injection, but what would the family think if he arrived unnaturally groggy? That is, if any of them would be awake at three thirty in the morning.

  As he was grappling with the five-year-old who could be as stubborn as his mother, Ahmed heard Jafari’s voice as his brother rushed into the cabin and grabbed him in an exaggerated brotherly hug.

  “Ahlan wa sahlan, akh.”

  “Ahlan bik,” Ahmed responded. “I didn’t expect you to meet us at the airport at this hour of the night.”

  “Neema wanted to be the one to come, but I couldn’t let a woman meet you, little brother. Look at you, your American suit rumpled.”

  Jafari favored hand-cut and tailored suits made in Italy, Egyptian cotton shirts, and colorful designer ties. For this informal occasion, he got by with Levi’s, a cashmere polo shirt, and silk socks with his Gucci loafers. “Got to keep up our image. We represent the fabric business, and you know how father taught us. But we’ll get you fixed up. Aside from the wrinkled clothes and the scruffy face and messy hair, you look good, Brother. Let’s go. Car’s waiting. No customs or immigration. All that’s been arranged.”

  “Wati, are you ready?” Ahmed winced as he found his son huddled in his airplane seat, his small chest heaving with quiet sobs.

  “Come on, Wati,” Jafari ordered in Arabic. To Ahmed, he said, “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s okay. Long flight.” Ahmed, pulled the child up as gently as he could despite Alex’s resistance.

  “I want to go back home,” he gulped between sobs.

  “Get the kid going,” Jafari said. “Now. Once we get to the compound, my wife will handle him. After four boys, she’ll train him to be an Arabic man. None of that whimpering. Don’t know how you raise them in America, but in Egypt, boys don’t cry. Not in the Masud family.”

  Alex was small for a five-year-old, and Ahmed picked him up and carried him off the plane toward the waiting black Suburban. The pilots had off-loaded his luggage, and they climbed into the backseat of the vehicle. Alex was still crying, louder now. He called out, “I want my mommy.” Pathetic, like a three-year-old.

  Jafari turned, slapped Alex’s face. “Enough,” he growled in harsh Arabic. “Ahmed, control your sniveling son.”

  Alex recoiled, although the blow was more symbolic than forceful. The child quieted. This time Ahmed better not count on ketamine’s amnesiac effect. Thank God Nicole hadn’t witnessed his brother’s brutality to their son.

  During the thirty-five-minute ride from the airport to the Masud compound in the Mohandessin section of Giza, Ahmed faked a nap. “Long night,” he said, “lots of turbulence, couldn’t sleep.” But his head buzzed with apprehension. Had he done the right thing? Would Alex be okay over here? With hardly any Arabic comprehension? Even though his family could speak perfect English, they would insist on Arabic-only. Who would watch over him? A child’s place was always with the women. His mother was too old. His older s
ister’s two sons were in college; besides she was too busy with the business. His younger sister, Neema, had the sweetest temperament, but she had never had a child.

  Then there was Jafari’s wife—Aurera, strict disciplinarian, mother of four older boys and a girl Wati’s age. And Jafari had said, they’d “give Wati to Aurera.” And I’m supposed to be okay with that? And if I’m not okay with Aurera, do I have the guts to stand up to my brother who unofficially has been appointed the supreme ruler of the Masud family?

  Nothing more was said during the drive through the quiet streets joining Cairo to Giza, but as Ahmed “napped,” he kept his arm around Alex’s thin shoulders, pulling him in close.

  * * *

  When the Suburban approached the entrance to the Masud compound, Ahmed watched as a six-man security team emerged from the small structure that stood at the juncture of the street and the private drive that would take them to the house. The men were large, dressed in black pants, oversized black sports jackets, and wearing black boots. The family had always kept one security guard at the entrance, not six.

  Once the driver had made the turn, he stopped. The vehicle was immediately flooded with powerful search lights, dispensing with the darkness. Ahmed had to blink, it had happened so quickly. He moved his hand over Alex’s eyes to protect them from the glare. One guard took position on each side of the vehicle, shining an even brighter light inside. With that, Alex squirmed, opened his eyes, and let out a puppy-like yelp.

  “It’s okay,” Ahmed said, watching the other four men circle the car before crawling under it.

  “Beefed-up security,” Jafari said. “Can’t be too careful. I told you we’re heading into dangerous times.”

  Once the all-clear was given, the Suburban continued to the main house, an enormous structure that had a central area with matching wings on both sides and a smaller building that sat in the middle, behind the ornate oval pool. When he’d grown up there, they’d had eleven bedrooms, but there’d been much renovation since. No telling how many now. He wondered where he would stay. The newer satellite building in the back, he hoped. Last time he had visited, that’s where they’d put him and Nicole and Alex.

  “Daddy, are we at Grandpa and Grandma Masud’s yet?” Alex asked, rubbing his eyes, sitting up straighter.

  “Yes, but it’s the middle of the night and everybody’ll be asleep.”

  “But all the lights are on,” he said.

  And Alex was right. The entire house was lit up at three thirty in the morning. Ahmed’s watch showed eight thirty p.m. in Philadelphia. Nicole would be frantic. He wondered what she’d do. What options did she have? Should he call her? Let Alex talk to her? Or would that make things worse?

  Two male house-servants were waiting to open the back doors to the Suburban and usher them inside. Ahmed carried Alex in his arms, not sure of the residual effects of the ketamine on a five-year-old’s motor strength and balance. He willed him to stop sniffling. His family did not tolerate wimps. Jafari had made that clear back at the airport, when he’d struck Alex. What will I do if he hits my son again?

  The front door opened to the entire cast of his family. In the dead middle of the night? They’d gathered in the huge entrance room. His mother, his sisters and brother-in-law, his sister-in-law, and all Alex’s Masud cousins. He looked around—only his father was missing.

  “My son!” His mother was the first to embrace him and Alex, still in his arms.

  “Give me the boy,” she said as the others started to surround them.

  Ahmed noted Alex’s alarmed look as his mother pulled her grandson out of his arms. A small woman, she staggered with his weight. Ahmed stepped forward to take him back, but his mother had already called, “Aurera, take my grandson.”

  Aurera was a big woman, dark complected and swarthy. No nonsense, ready to take over the household when the current matriarch either died or retired.

  She appeared, and before Ahmed could intervene, dutifully took Alex into her ample arms.

  “Daddy,” Alex cried out, “Daddy!”

  “He’ll be fine. Aurera will put him in the children’s quarters.”

  “Mother, he’s upset. It was a long and turbulent flight. I had to give him some medication. He needs to stay with me. Just for tonight, while the medication wears off.”

  “Nonsense,” said his mother. “The children’s nanny is a nurse. Wati will be in good hands. You will be busy with family affairs. Aurera can handle your son.”

  Handle? What have I done?

  By then Ahmed was surrounded by his brother’s family—his four sons who ranged between eighteen and eight and a four-year-old daughter. They all lived in the compound. At least Alex would have a child close to his age to play with. A non-English-speaking child, but—Wati—would be learning Arabic quickly.

  A table of food, including his favorite—koushai—a mix of lentils, macaroni, rice, and chickpeas—had been set up in the dining hall. Ahmed noticed with a twinge of concern that his father still had not joined the welcoming party. He remembered a Catholic service he had attended with Nicole. The gospel and the sermon about the Prodigal Son. That’s how he felt. As if he’d gone horribly off track, and they were welcoming him home, killing the fatted calf or whatever that analogy was—or, had he gone horribly off track by coming here?

  Soon family members wandered off to their own quarters and Ahmed was left with his mother and Jafari. The time was close to five a.m., that made it ten p.m. at home. What was Nicole doing? To what degree would she detest him?

  “We’ve put you in the east wing, Ahmed,” his mother was saying. “Seth has no need of all that space since he’s based in Brussels.”

  Jafari’s family inhabited the west wing. Ahmed’s heart skipped a beat when he realized that he’d be on the opposite side of the compound from his son. That Alex would be under the control of Jafari—who had already hit him—and his domineering wife. Alex would be distraught without Nicole. And now he wouldn’t even be close by. Why hadn’t he thought this through?

  “Mother.” He tried not to plead. “Could I stay with Wati in the back section, where Nicole and I stayed last time? Wati would be more comfortable there, at least at first until—”

  “No,” Jafari insisted. “That child needs discipline. Anyone can see that. Mother, you should have seen him crying in the car on the way here from the airport. If any son of mine …”

  “Jafari is right,” his mother said, “the boy requires an Egyptian environment, and Aurera can provide that. Just look at how she’s raised her sons. So you are in the east wing as are Merit and Neema. When Merit’s sons are home from university, they stay there, too. The house is full,” she said proudly.

  His older sister, Merit, had two sons, one at Oxford in London and one at Alexandria University in Egypt. Ahmed wondered how they’d fit into this grand plan to prepare the family for whatever politics were brewing in Egypt.

  “Ahmed, get some rest.” Jafari yawned. “Tomorrow we’ll delve into the issues facing us—political and business.”

  “You’ll find everything you need in your quarters, Son.” His mother led him into the east wing, and opened the door to the suite of rooms he’d been allocated. A large sitting room, a small kitchen, an ample bathroom, and a large, inviting bed. It wasn’t the grand comfort with the big-screen TV and all the electronics he’d had at their home in Philadelphia, but not bad.

  He took one more look at the bed, fingered the fine Egyptian cotton sheets. Imagined him and Nicole—

  Should I call Nicole?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  WHY WAS SHE sitting here, at the strictly functional desk that dominated her second-floor office, about to tackle the voluminous Zomera data—when she should be with Nicole and her brothers focusing on how to rescue Alex? I told my boss we’d have a package for the FDA by tomorrow. And tomorrow starts in thirty minutes.

  Had it been only this morning when Natalie found out about Zomera’s problems, now laid spread out in front of
her in charts and spreadsheets and reports and summaries? Had her nephew been abducted just that morning? She stared at the stacks of papers she’d arranged on the desk. This was where she dug in when she brought work home from her job. Rob used the spacious office on the first floor, where he could spread out his design sheets, compare floor plans, select materials, research subcontractors.

  Her mother, Laura Nelson, now in New Zealand with her husband, managing their vineyards there, had nineteen years ago been the first female Keystone Pharma VP. Natalie held the same post now, and after Nicole had confirmed Alex’s abduction, Natalie and Laura had conferred. Laura had understood and supported Natalie’s hypothesis about the cause of the deaths in patients taking the cancer drug: the deaths were a result of constipation and its treatment, not caused by Zomera.

  “Elvis died of constipation,” her mother had interjected. “Did you know that?” Natalie had not known, but wasn’t surprised that her mother, ever the Elvis fan, was on top of the singer’s demise.

  “Died on the toilet. He was a narcotics addict, and his physicians kept him supplied.”

  “Hey, thanks, Mom.”

  “Fine!” Laura didn’t skip a beat— “Come up with a credible estimate of how many additional cancers will metastasize if Zomera is discontinued. And by all means, do publicize the public health issue: too many doctors prescribe too many opiates to patients who no longer need them.”

  Natalie had to deal now with the documents she’d had shipped to her home. But she deliberated again. Should she rejoin the family council … or tackle the data in front of her?

  She left her desk, went back downstairs, found Nicole deep in conversation with Berk, the impressive guy who came East with Patrick. More important for Nicole to focus on Berk’s agenda, Natalie concluded, and trudged back up to her data.

  She decided to start with the detailed reports of the twenty patients in the constipation subgroup who had died, to see if she could find a pattern. Overall, 10 percent of patients had reported constipation—as expected, based on earlier studies. The issue: Why had fifteen of the twenty constipation-related deaths occurred in patients whose cancer was in remission? What was happening? What could be done about it?