Come Home

by Patricia Gussin

  Ahmed left his corner of Jafari’s library in the west wing of the compound to meet with Merit in her east wing home office. After politely soliciting an update on her two sons’ academic progress at their universities, Ahmed offered congratulations and then segued to ask about his boy, Wati. Had she seen him since they had arrived? She hadn’t—no further information forthcoming. After a servant had delivered and arranged the tea paraphernalia on the low table, Merit picked up the intercom and called for Osiris to join them. No more than ten minutes into the conversation, Ahmed was clear on what they wanted—expected—from him. He was to travel to certain countries and set up bank accounts. He was to distribute the Masud billions among the foreign banks, securing them according to regulations in each of the countries, and in formats pre-selected by the family, with input from his brother Seth. He would start on Friday. Time was of the essence.

  Ahmed interrupted at intervals. “I’m not a banker.” “I know nothing about business.” “You want me to talk to doctors, fine.” “I can’t speak finance—don’t even know the terms, much less what they mean.”

  Osiris smiled as Merit said, “Not important. Your deposits will speak for themselves, as will the Masud name. You reference our international cotton supremacy—all financial doors will open, little brother. Just ask Seth how that goes.”

  Ahmed was captive to his elder siblings. Could I just walk away? He felt his resolve fade. He realized the stupidity of his coming here. Back in Philadelphia, he could have said “no.” They couldn’t have forced him. Instead, they eroded his confidence in his and Nicole’s relationship and they’d tricked him into taking Alex away from her. Yes, Alex. His sole act of protest would be “Alex”, not “Wati.” Alex would appreciate even that one tenuous link to home.

  “I must see my son,” he said. “If I have to leave him behind in this country, I insist on spending the day with him tomorrow. Certainly, you can agree to that.”

  “I will ask Aurera; the child has been assigned to her.”

  “You tell her that I see my son or …”

  What can I threaten them with?

  “And, Merit, I need to see Father. I know he’s ill. Will you take me to him? Now?”

  Osiris nodded, seemingly approving of Ahmed’s request, as if he had the authority to make it happen.

  “We will go to him now,” Merit said. “You’ll find him quite weak …”

  If anything happened to Father, Jafari would take over the family—and what would that mean for Merit and Osiris? All the family assets would become Jafari’s—at least according to how he understood sharia law—and Merit and everyone else in the Masud family would be under his elder brother’s control.

  Hell with that. I want my life back, with Nicole and Alex.

  On the way to their parents’ quarters, Merit warned Ahmed to ask Father no questions about his health, the family business, or politics—especially no mention of Hosni Mubarak or his son Gamal.

  Ahmed momentarily revisited his youth as he walked with Merit into the suite where his parents always had lived. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d been allowed through the decorative double doors. Once was to see his newborn brother, Seth. Ahmed had been five years old then and thought of the ornately appointed parlor as the most magical place in the world. Today it looked—and smelled—more like a VIP hospital room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  FRIDAY, JANUARY 21, 2011

  ROCKVILLE, MD

  NATALIE HADN’T EXPECTED such a large conference room, nor such comprehensive video coverage. She had flown in the Keystone private aircraft to Rockville, Maryland, for the specially convened combined Oncology and Gastroenterology review of the Zomera death reports. Even though she only had spent a few hours at Keystone in the last week, her boss designated her the company spokesperson. She felt the weight of Zomera as a crushing force. The billion-dollar drug had for two years kept so many cancer patients alive, created manufacturing jobs for hundreds across the globe. And, of course, provided a healthy return on investment to Keystone stockholders.

  All week, Natalie had been in and out of Keystone headquarters. Rob had helped her slip away when Nicole was busy with Berk and the rest of the rendition team—including Rob. Early today, a day later than they’d hoped, the black Suburban had driven away with her sister and her husband. And now, at ten in the morning, she was on-site at FDA headquarters ready to present the Zomera data. Worst case, the drug would be off the market by noon. Best case—the agency would approve a modified Zomera label, addressing the side effect danger.

  On the flight from Philadelphia, Natalie had tried to concentrate on her colleagues’ well-intended suggestions: what she should say, how she should say it, what to bring up, what to avoid. All she could think of was Alex, Nicole … and Rob. Sensing her distraction—they knew she had a family problem, but not what problem—they turned to “humor,” unfunny and crude. Finally, in an atypical display of bad temper, she said, “Stop with the shit humor.” Their drug caused constipation, a font of jokes. Shit, poop, crap, dung, feces, excrement; she’d heard them all multiple times. On today’s agenda, constipation wouldn’t bring so much as a smile. Patients were dying from it. Not from Zomera per se, but from the mistreatment of a concommitent side effect. And over the week, Natalie had been briefed in depth on all the ways that such an innocent-sounding side effect can kill.

  “Dr. Nelson, are you ready?” the FDA’s Director of Oncology asked.

  Natalie pulled herself out of the mental photo of Rob, standing next to her sister, posing as tourists, arriving to do the pyramids and the Sphinx. Tour the Valley of the Kings. Check out the twin temples of Abu Simbel. Cruise the Nile.

  “Yes.” Natalie called up all her inner strength, switched into autopilot presentation-mode. Despite the ongoing emotional stress of sharing her sister’s trauma, she knew her data, knew it cold. She would make the case. Keystone would relabel Zomera, adding precautions and instructions.

  * * *

  The hearing lasted until noon—two hours. The FDA had listened to Natalie’s presentation—but the session ended with the Director’s decision to require Keystone to withdraw all Zomera from the marketplace pending approval of new labeling with new warnings—warnings about the dangers of constipation, especially in patients taking opioids. The label was to be specific as to how to avoid or manage the constipation that all agreed was the root cause of Zomera Phase IV patient deaths.

  The label they’d presented today was adequate, Natalie urged, but the FDA wanted more. And she inwardly admitted they were right. You couldn’t just offer a general warning. They had to find out exactly which patients were at risk and tell them exactly how to deal with that risk. In that respect, Keystone Pharma had fallen short. The senior vice president in charge had been distracted by the international abduction of her twin sister’s only child.

  Natalie did not fail to point out that stopping Zomera for patients taking it now would reverse their cancer remission, causing tumors to proliferate. The FDA officials nevertheless stood their ground. The result: many more patients now would die of their cancer than would die of Zomera’s constipation problem. This was fact! But the FDA ruling was clear. She had to dig deeper into the data. Find the answers the agency demanded.

  Natalie knew that Keystone stock would plummet in the time it took for her team to walk out of the conference room.

  As the head of the Keystone contingent, it fell upon Natalie to call her boss.

  Barney Black answered on the first ring.

  “I heard. You really fucked up. The shit’s hitting the fan here.”

  Aptly put. “The withdrawal is only temporary, Barney. We need to work on labeling.”

  “Only? The hell. Why didn’t you have it for them? You should have had all your shit together.”

  Shit. Again.

  “Look, I’m leaving the FDA now. Before I get stuck with reporters. Tell public relations to develop upbeat talking points. We’ll be back with what FDA wan
ts. Quickly.”

  “You screw up the fucking company and you’re telling me what to do.” She heard Barney’s phone slam.

  “Let’s go,” Natalie told her colleagues. “Guess what? Barney is in a rage.”

  What Natalie kept from them was that she had no plans to go to Keystone once the plane touched down in Philadelphia. Berk had asked her to go to Nicole’s office and appear to be Nicole at work.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “MR. AND MRS. Rob Johnson” occupied first-class seats in the bulkhead row on the Delta nonstop flight out of Chicago to Cairo. In the second row, behind Nicole and her sister’s husband, sat Berk and one of his men. His other two men must be farther back—Nicole didn’t see them in her cabin. The group of six had left from the Trenton Airport on a charter to Chicago. There, they’d checked in for the Cairo flight.

  Nicole as “Mrs. Johnson”—though her sister’s passport read “Natalie Nelson”—traveled with her sister’s husband. She had adapted Natalie’s natural curls just covering her ears, a simple cut, not much style. The part on the left, Natalie’s side—Mom’s solution when they were toddlers so she could tell them apart. In Natalie’s clothes, which fit perfectly, she felt frumpy; almost didn’t recognize herself.

  When she got to Giza, she’d wear a black wig under a hijab. She kept envisioning the moment when she had Alex in her arms and she’d tear off the wig to convince him she was his mom. For now, she was tired of talking, planning. The hole in her heart where Alex had resided for the last five years was enormous and growing and ached more with each breath she took. Finally, they were on their way to get him out of Egypt and back home.

  Since the brief and broken call on Monday, Nicole had tried several times a day, under the watchful eye of Berk, to call Ahmed. All calls answered by the house staff; polite, but, “The Masuds cannot come to the phone. Please leave a message.”

  She had. At first, frantic. Then less so. Yesterday’s said, “Tell Ahmed that I’m going back to work. I can’t abandon our practice. I’m sure Wati has had a great holiday this week. Please get him home soon. We need to get him to the Islamic school.”

  Berk had coached her. She did her best, but she wanted to scream loud enough to reach Cairo, “You cannot keep my child!”

  Once they arrived in Egypt, Berk would brief her and Rob as to how they would get her son out of that compound. She’d given them a detailed floor plan. Which family stayed where. Her best guess for Alex was that he and Ahmed would be staying in Seth’s former quarters in the east wing.

  Tomorrow was Saturday. The women would go shopping. The men would gather at the Shooting Club. The children would be left with the servants. Not a welcome scenario as Jafari’s sons would enjoy picking on Alex. The older ones wouldn’t want anything to do with him, but the eight- and ten-year-old were bullies. And Jafari had a four-year-old daughter, the closest cousin in age to Alex—except for Seth’s five-year-old daughter in Belgium. Maybe she was a sweet child, but somehow Nicole doubted it, since Jafari’s wife was a super-bitch.

  Tomorrow, Alex, you will be out of that place, and we will be on our way home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  SOCIAL MEDIA COMING out of Egypt was on fire, and Seth needed to know exactly when to make his move, the one he’d been planning since the day he’d been exiled to Belgium. Timing had become critical: he needed to eliminate Jafari before Father died and before Egypt imploded.

  Bastet answered the phone in French, switching to Arabic before handing it over to Seth. “Your brother,” she said. He grimaced. He’d already wasted most of his day on Ahmed’s assignment and he wanted to get back online.

  “Jafari,” Bastet clarified. He thought he heard her mutter “the bastard one.” Bastet disliked everything about Jafari and his domineering, backstabbing wife, Aurera. She even hated their kids—especially the fact that Aurera had four sons—Bastet had borne only girls.

  Seth made a slashing movement across his throat. Ahmed and his stupidity had tried his patience, but layer on Jafari’s arrogance—that he didn’t need.

  Bastet kept extending the phone. Too late not to pick up.

  “Hey, Jafari, what’s going on in the homeland? How’s Father?”

  “Got anything more for Ahmed?” Seth didn’t warrant any small talk. “Merit went over what you sent him today. He should be able to get a big chunk relocated to South America within the week. You agree? Got any more ideas?”

  “Yeah, well, middle brother is no mental genius, if you know what I mean.”

  “It’s not his smarts I’m worried about,” Jafari said. “He’s only the courier—with the family credentials. Motivation is what bothers me.”

  “Agreed. I don’t think his head or his heart is in this thing.”

  “He say anything about going back to the States, to his wife?” Jafari asked.

  “No. Mentioned his son a couple of times. Said Aurera had him in your quarters. Said he’d be traveling with the kid to Uruguay. Sounded excited about that.”

  “How’s the EU news reporting on Egypt?” Jafari abruptly changed subjects.

  “Major coverage on Tunisia, the President fleeing to Saudi Arabia with his wife and three kids. Speculation on whether Tunisia is just the first government to tumble. Mubarak’s name comes up. A lot.”

  “Got your eyes on Facebook?”

  “Glued,” Seth said. “Those public protests worry me. Even though they call them ‘silent stands.’”

  I have to get to Egypt before the country erupts. Take care of Jafari and Ahmed. Get the Masuds out of the Middle East, established in South America with unbelievable, untouchable wealth.

  “Same old complaints,” Jafari said. “Government corruption. Mubarak monarchy. Either way, we’ll be good as long as Ahmed delivers. You’re sure he got the setup for the banks? Understands the deposits?”

  “Like I said, Jafari, Ahmed has no head for business. I could have been talking to air. His heart is not in this. I told you I should be handling South America—”

  “If Egypt blows, we’ll all end up there. Except you; you need to stay in Brussels. Manage the cotton—as much as we still control—from there.”

  Like hell. But you’ll find out soon enough. Seth still didn’t know what to do about Jafari’s family, whether it would be necessary to eliminate them, too. Then a sudden thought: if there was turbulence in Cairo, his teenage sons could well be swept up in the violence.

  “What do you hear from Gamal?” Seth asked, knowing Jafari was close to Hosni Mubarak’s son, until now, the presidential heir apparent.

  “Making contingency plans, just like us,” Jafari said. “If Mubarak goes down, all the industries that he privatized will go back to the government, including textiles and cotton. Now that Osiris is on the Economic Council, we get all this secret information.”

  “Okay, I get it. Now tell me about Father. Should I come to see him … before it’s too late?”

  “No,” Jafari said. Conclusive. Adamant.

  Does my brother have any inkling about what plans I have for him? No, Seth realized. To him you’re still the snot-nosed little kid.

  Before Seth could object, Jafari said, “I am the family patriarch now. You do as I say, little brother. Just like Ahmed.”

  The fuck I will.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  AS AHMED SETTLED with his son into the comfortable seats, he tried to figure why Jafari thought it necessary to send two bodyguards—including his top gun—on a private flight from Cairo to Montevideo, Uruguay. Where they were going in Uruguay, there’d be little violence, at least compared to most places around the world. But he was so relieved to be reunited with Alex, he’d not troubled to ask such questions.

  He and Alex sat on the right side of the Bombardier Challenger 601. You didn’t need private jet expertise to realize this one was larger than the aircraft that had flown them from Philadelphia to Cairo.

  Directly across the carpeted aisle sat the huge, bearded Mohamed, Jafari’s securit
y chief. A large weapon, probably a semiautomatic gun, was holstered across his chest. A smaller, bearded man—still, most would call him big—sullen, scowling, made his way to the seats in the back. Dennu. He, too, was armed, his gun partly hidden by a loose dark-brown jacket. Other than the name and that he obviously was a member of the Masud family security staff used to taking orders from Mohamed, Ahmed knew nothing about this guy.

  Alex stared openly at Mohamed’s weapon. “How come that guy has such a big gun?” he asked in a low voice.

  “In Egypt, a lot of people have guns. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay.” Alex turned his attention to his jellabiya. “Daddy, did you pack my regular clothes? Can I change into them now?”

  “Maybe later.”

  Jafari told them to wear the native jellabiya garb, which Ahmed thought odd since they would land in South America where no one wore Arabic clothing. They’d left the compound through a tunnel that opened into a side street leading into a storage garage. Ahmed had forgotten all about the abandoned tunnel that he and Neema had discovered when they were kids. When they’d emerged from the tunnel gloom, a familiar dark vehicle idled just outside, waiting for them as it had at the airport. Mohamed opened the back door for Ahmed and Alex, jumping in next to them.

  “Our luggage?” Ahmed asked Jafari.

  “All taken care of.”

  “For Al … Wati, too?”

  “You have all the necessary papers, you just worry about getting those investments nailed down,” Jafari said. “Focus on those deals and get them done.”

  Mohamed slammed the car door shut, the engine accelerated, and they left Jafari standing just inside the storage garage.

  For the past four days, under Jafari’s orders, Ahmed—sometimes with his sister Merit—had been on a sophisticated videophone link to Seth in Brussels. They detailed his South America itinerary. Which banks. Bank officer names. Match asset with bank.