By the time Rob’s brothers-in-law and Patrick’s crew started filing into the house, Rob had showered and shaved and had set up breakfast in the kitchen—cold cereal and bagels. Did he have enough food for all of them? All three of the Nelsons, Berk, and three big guys in jeans and oversized sport shirts who were in fantastic shape and seemed on high alert. These hunks were introduced, but Rob thought of them, based on the color of their crew cuts, as Hunk White, Hunk Black, and Hunk Ginger.
Berk wanted the place totally contained. No one to leave unmonitored. Rob had called their housekeeper, asked her to come in early and be prepared to stay over for a few nights. She would take over for him on the coffee and feeding detail.
“Girls still asleep?” Kevin asked as he added milk to his Raisin Bran.
“Nicole is, yes. Natalie’s up, getting ready.” He hadn’t added that she’d pulled an all-nighter working on Keystone Pharma stuff.
“Natalie distracted by something at work?” Mike deduced.
“Always something,” Rob said, noncommittal as Natalie would prefer.
“Okay,” Berk said. “Before Nicole gets here—I don’t want to prematurely alarm her—I want to explain my plan.”
As they found chairs around the dining room table, Berk continued, “We have to go in and get the boy. Assets on the ground in Giza confirm—”
“Giza? Where’s that?” Patrick interrupted.
“It’s where the Masud family live. Specifically, in the Mohandessin area—villas and mansions, many converted into expensive apartments—where upper-crust Cairo lives.”
“Home to the pyramids,” said Kevin. “I’ve been there. On an architecture project when I was a grad student at Princeton.”
“The Masud family wealth is like Rockefeller, Mellon, Morgan all rolled in,” Berk went on. “The Masuds always were rich, but when Gamal—Hosni Mubarak’s son and heir apparent—decided to privatize industries, well, he chose the Masuds for cotton … and the rest is history.”
“I knew they had money, but Archy never made a point of his parents being that rich,” Mike said. “Matter of fact, no real sense of entitlement, worked hard.”
“I wonder if Nicole knows the extent of their wealth,” Patrick said. “When she and Archy have gone to Egypt, they’ve flown commercial, as far as I know.”
“Ha, little brother, that would be the day when you flew commercial,” Kevin said.
Rob always admired Patrick for his down-to-earth attitude. Monica, too, Patrick’s famous wife. Ordinary people offstage—though they never did fly commercial.
“What can I say, I married well. Do I detect some little brother envy in the room?”
“Are you kidding?” Kevin said, reaching over to tousle Patrick’s hair.
“Okay, boys,” Berk said, standing up. “I need a volunteer to go with Nicole to Egypt. She knows her way around the Masud compound. I want her there to collect Alex. And I want a male family member with her. Partially for moral support, but also as part of her disguise, kind of thing. We want you to look like a typical American couple on tour. Also, I don’t want the family to get any inkling that she’s there. My plan is that Nicole goes as Natalie. Using Natalie’s passport. The Masuds surely have the juice to alert officials to be on the lookout for Nicole Nelson. The girls look enough alike to pass as each other. Easily.”
Rob sat mesmerized as Berk calmly regarded the four of them. For a minute or two, silence.
“Take your time, it’s important,” Berk said. “I’m going, as are these three guys.”
The Hunks nodded brightly between bites of bagel. Rob needed to get some steak—a good cut—in the house for these three.
Patrick spoke first. “I would, but Monica’s due in a month. I can’t just leave her. She had a tough time with the last pregnancy.”
“I’ll do it,” Kevin volunteered. “Besides, Nicole likes me the best. Gotta admit that. Sure, I’ll go. Hey, Mikey, bet you’re glad I volunteered. You’re an ‘officer of the law.’ Wouldn’t look good if you get caught in anything shady.”
“Hey, being a lawyer might come in handy. What do you think, Berk?”
“Your decision, guys.”
“I’ll go,” Rob said. Did I actually say I’d go? He hadn’t planned this. The words just flew out of his mouth. I hate international travel—hell, any travel. Wait until Natalie hears this.
Three immediate “nos” from the brothers, and Rob said, “You all have kids. Mike, you have four for God’s sake … Kevin … I don’t know if Francesca could handle the girls with you away in Egypt …” Rob had to tread lightly here. Ever since the birth of their second child, Kevin’s wife had suffered on-and-off from clinical depression. Kevin never talked about it, but …
Berk had sat back down, and Rob noted the close attention he paid to the family banter and decision-making.
“What about Francesca?” Natalie stood by the door, dressed in a business suit, hair neatly arranged in a bun, and makeup hiding the lines under her eyes. “Is Francesca okay, Kevin?”
“Natalie, sit down,” Rob said, pulling out a chair, reaching for an empty coffee cup, wishing she’d had her morning caffeine. “Berk, you’ll tell her—or should I?”
He nodded for Rob to go on.
As Rob explained how he’d volunteered to go to Egypt, he rather enjoyed her confused or incredulous expression. Or some of each.
“Rob, you don’t have to do this,” she said, her face now a worry zone.
“I do, and I will,” he said. “Berk, you good with me going?”
Berk nodded.
I like this man, Rob thought. Look forward to spending time in his company. Maybe some of his positive attitude will rub off on me.
“Your sister?” Berk directed his question to Natalie. “Will Nicole go for this plan?”
“Yes. She’ll do anything. But she’s impetuous by nature, so keep a careful watch on her. Keep her safe. And keep Rob safe. God, Rob, are you sure?”
He reached for her hand.
“And, Natalie,” Berk asked, “are you willing to play the body double over here if need be?”
“I’m not sure what that entails, but I, too, will do whatever it takes to get Alex back,” Natalie said. “Maybe I should go wake up Nicole—”
“Ready!” interrupted Nicole, leaning against the closest counter. Ready, but she looked awful, eyes red, puffy, hair scraggly, face as pale as death. “What do we know about Alex?”
Berk explained what they did know. The boy was in the Masud compound, as was Ahmed. Surveillance, human and electronic, was in place. “We will know the minute anybody leaves.”
“It’s a massive compound,” Nicole said. “All the various families live there—in different sections. That’s where he would stay. I need to go there. To get Alex out. To bring him home.” She looked at Berk. “When can we leave?”
Natalie had been correct. Nothing would keep Nicole from going to Alex.
“Three or four days,” Berk said. “It’ll take that long to set things up. Once we get there, we do a quick in-and-out. A rendition, of sorts. We have to brief Rob—”
“I want to go now,” Nicole said.
“I know, but we need time to plan in detail,” Berk explained. “Assets on the ground in Giza, too. The right officials at the airport. Nicole, from your memory, we need detailed plans of the interior of the compound. We’ll set up satellite surveillance. State of the art.”
“So let’s get started,” Nicole said.
“Also, you and Natalie, please go over how best to cover your practice so Ahmed doesn’t suspect you’ve left the Philly area.”
Oh boy, Rob thought. Just what Natalie needs in the middle of a work crisis. And I won’t be much help if I’m getting up to speed for Egypt—of all the places I never expected to go.
“What’s the climate?” Rob asked. “What do I need to bring?”
“Temperatures will be in the fifties and sixties,” Berk said. “Pack light. Meantime, we establish that Nicole is in Philly, back in the
plastic surgery practice; her arrival at the Masud compound has to be a surprise—we scoop up Alex—and out.”
“Why do you need Rob then?” Natalie asked.
“We want the travel to look like the prototype American tourist couple, the Johnsons, common name. Not unusual these days for an American couple to have different last names. You travel commercial going in, so as not to attract attention. Private, going out.”
“Oh.” Natalie’s voice sounded on the weak side. His wife had stamina, but playing body double for Nicole might be a tall order—just when, as senior VP, Natalie Nelson must manage the biggest ever drug crisis in the annals of Keystone Pharma.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
TUESDAY, JANUARY 18, 2011
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
SETH MASUD WAS too furious to go into the office today. His position at the International Cotton Interchange required skilled diplomacy, and frankly, Seth excelled at that—but today, rage at his family overwhelmed him. His control-freak oldest brother had made good on his threat to bring back their other brother from America to Egypt. Ahmed—that wimpy, self-centered piece of shit. Which one of his two older brothers Seth resented the most, he couldn’t say—no, not resented, really—but loathed, detested. He’d hated them both since as long he could remember.
Seth, the baby of the family, ignored, cast aside—Jafari, the center of attention, taking all the glory—Ahmed, aloof, always getting his own way, going off to the States to become a famous surgeon, removing himself from all family affairs.
While he remained in Belgium, Seth couldn’t take a breath without Jafari or Merit, his uber-bossy sister, telling him what to do. They were a team—had to be—since they worked so closely together in the business. In public, of course, Jafari took all the credit. Same for Ahmed and Neema, born within eleven months of each other and inseparable—at least until Ahmed left for the States. Neither had time for him—not back then, not now.
So here he was, the faithful son, age forty, exiled to Brussels, seat of the despicable European Union—and they bring back useless Ahmed from America to Egypt. Even though Seth had been lobbying Father for years for permission to come home. Seth needed to prove to Father that he was the family business brains—before it was too late in the Egyptian politics game and before Father was too ill to notice.
Seth hadn’t seen Ahmed in nine years—tried to tune him out during those family calls. He had no use for the turncoat. And, now that Father was really ill, not expected to live much longer, who was called home? Who now was at the family compound in Mohandessin, enjoying authentic Egyptian food, going to the Shooting Club?
“Seth, I didn’t realize you were still home.”
His wife, Bastet, wearing a pink dress that fell just below her knees, approached. Her arms were bare, although draped in a large patterned scarf of impeccable cotton fabric. Nothing covered her dark hair, which she had cut in a horrible choppy style. She made a sound between a cough and a gasp, clearly surprised to see him.
So this is how she dressed every day when she went out with her friends?
“Are you ill, my husband?” She spoke French, ignoring his rule to speak Arabic at home, because of his concern that their two daughters spoke hardly a word of Arabic anymore.
Impulse almost took over when his hands flung out in front of him, unbidden. For an instant, he wanted to strangle her. A Muslim woman covers her head, her arms, her legs. Even in liberal Brussels.
She took a step back. Good, she felt intimidated. Don’t hit her. Leave your hands off her neck. In Brussels, men don’t leave marks on women.
“You whore,” he seethed. “You dress like that in public—you spit on our code of conduct. You are going nowhere. I forbid you to leave this house until I say.”
“All the Muslim women around here dress like this during the day,” she complained. “You know they do. You see them all the time in Brussels. What do you expect me to do?”
“If you let my daughters dress like this, I will lock you up. I swear.”
“When we go back to Egypt, I’ll wear the hijab. Meantime, I want to fit in over here.”
Before he could respond, the phone rang in the next room, and Bastet went to answer it.
“Jafari.” She returned, handing him the phone. “He tried you at the office—”
“Give it to me.” As much as he wanted to scream obscenities at his older brother, he knew he would not.
“Jafari,” he answered. “Blessing on my parents.”
Then he listened with escalating rage to Jafari’s message.
“If anyone sets up the family in South America, it’s me,” Seth objected. “I know the business. I know the financial implications. Ahmed knows nothing. He cuts up women’s faces. How can he even—”
“Just do as I say, little brother. Father is ill. I am in charge of the family. Give Ahmed the information he needs for the banks in South America. I’m sending him first to Uruguay.”
“He’s ignorant. Knows nothing about the cotton industry. I can get this done.”
“I need you in Europe for stability. The situation is getting worse here. What if what happened in Tunisia happens here? What if Mubarak runs like the coward Zine El Abidine Ben Ali? Off to Saudi Arabia at the first challenge. We have no choice. We need to move as many assets as possible out of Egypt. It’s time to put South America into play, and that’s where our brother comes in. You continue to handle Europe.”
“I can handle South America and Europe, Jafari. I’m the one who told you about Uruguay. I don’t need Ahmed’s help.”
“Too much is happening too fast. I want Ahmed to oversee the purchase of a property I’ve selected for the family—in case we have to leave Egypt quickly. I told you Mubarak is coming under more pressure every day. The villa is in Uruguay—the seaside town of Punta del Este. Father and Mother would be comfortable there—in case we have to make a precipitous move.”
“Does Father know this—that you are moving him to South America?”
“What?” Seth heard Bastet gasp.
“I need to protect him,” Jafari said. “He is very ill.”
“Then I need to come home.”
“No. I want you to list the banks Ahmed should visit in Montevideo, Sao Paulo, and Buenos Aries. Include the highest-level contact person, the specific assets we want to deposit. You are in the best position to develop this plan. Send it to me. And I will pass it on to Ahmed.”
Yes, Seth did know how to do exactly what Jafari had proposed. Being inside the EU for five years had taught him how and where to move large sums of money. He must get home to Egypt. Jafari was dangerously close to derailing Seth’s long-term agenda. And with Ahmed back in the picture and the political upheaval in Egypt, Seth would be forced to accelerate his master plan.
He said, “Right, Jafari.” Best to placate him. For now.
“South America?” Bastet asked, as soon as he terminated the call. She had returned in a long-sleeved dress that hung modestly below her knees, and a scarf fastened around her head.
“Nothing.” Seth walked toward the door. His martial arts club was around the corner. Waves of intense anger on the verge of explosion meant his workout today would be brutal and violent.
“I’d love to visit South America,” he heard Bastet say as he left the house, slamming the door behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
JAFARI’S EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD SON, Tadeo, had been the one who’d alerted his dad to the Internet discontent steadily building against the Mubarak administration. Ahmed spent Tuesday following his nephew around Facebook. The full-fledged computer geek knew the net inside and out. Ironically, the kid seemed to admire the audacity of his young peers, outspoken online, demanding an end to the Mubarak monarchy. Yet Tadeo had no illusions about how the Masud fortune had been bestowed by the favor of Mubarak’s son and heir-apparent, Gamal.
Hosni Mubarak had been President since 1981. Enough, the online detractors protested. “No to renewal. No to the inherited presidenc
y.”
All this Ahmed had learned back in America when he’d followed Jafari’s order to “check out Facebook.” But the phenomenon came alive as young Tadeo filled in the context. Egyptians were angry. And they were emboldened. And they were using social media: Kefaya—enough.
So why are they forcing all this on me? Ahmed had assumed that coming home would mean setting up a plastic-surgery-to-the-rich-Egyptian practice. His father had hinted at a prominent medical position in Cairo. There had to be plenty of wealthy women—and men, though they’d demand secrecy—who wanted a better body image. He expected they’d want him to select an office space, order the latest surgical equipment. But instead, they were feeding him a huge dose of political paranoia. How many times had Jafari said, “We are going to lose it all.” What do they think I can do about that?
All he really wanted to do was see his son and call his wife.
When the family gathered in the dining room, Ahmed asked to see Wati.
No, Wati is happy with his cousins. Not today. Do not worry.
Wati is a sensitive boy. I am worried. But Ahmed said nothing. After all, his son was safe.
“Is Father too ill to join us?” Ahmed still had not seen Umi. “And where’s Mother?”
“He’s not well today,” Jafari said. “Mother is with him.”
* * *
After the midday meal on Wednesday, Jafari turned Ahmed over to his older sister, Merit. “She will make sure you know about the business, what options exist for us.” Ahmed was certainly more than ready to delegate to Tadeo all Facebook research.
“She’s a woman, but she knows the big picture, and the details of banking. Where every Masud Egyptian pound is kept. Where our other family assets are, how they are safeguarded, how much is at risk, and how to protect them as much as possible.”
From childhood, Ahmed had known that big sister Merit was smarter than big brother Jafari, two years younger than Merit, two years older than “middle-brother” Ahmed. Merit had been smart enough to marry Osiris—whom Jafari resented even while he granted that the brilliant guy had identified a highly profitable financial channel for the family.
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