Come Home

by Patricia Gussin

  Before his wife could register a response, the pilot announced an immediate takeoff, and Rob told her he needed to get to his seat. He said they’d fly to Lisbon from Cairo with one more stop and then on to Montevideo, Uruguay. He thought he heard a sharp intake of breath just as he had to disconnect.

  Rob rushed back to his seat next to Nicole. Crying again, a steady stream of tears. She needed a sleeping pill, but Rob knew that neither of the Nelson sister-doctors would take any chemical to dull their level of consciousness. They may prescribe them, but they wouldn’t take one.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  BRUSSELS

  SETH WOULD RATHER live in the Brussels city center right off the Grande Place, but Bastet wanted a mansion. The Egyptian couple and their two young daughters lived in the Watermael-Boitsfort commune of Brussels. Their house had been home to the Monaco Ambassador to Belgium, until the Masuds came looking for places to put their money in Europe. They’d decided to concentrate their European presence in Brussels, and now they owned many properties in the metropolis. Home to the European Union, center of the continent, a choice of French and Flemish and English. Convenient and strategically advantageous.

  Until the minute he walked in to his home on this drizzly winter day, Seth had had a pleasant day. Released from having to brief his brother Ahmed on family financial matters, he’d spent the morning in his office—working as usual, he’d told Bastet—fucking his twenty-one-year-old Irish secretary. He’d spent the afternoon at his martial arts club. Overall, a great day, physically exhilarating, if exhausting.

  Bastet held the phone out to him. “Jafari,” she said, not bothering to hide a look of disgust.

  Seth tossed his gym bag on the floor and reached for the phone. The clock over the mantel chimed seven. No time difference between Brussels and Cairo.

  “My brother,” Jafari began, “the American bitch came here today. Nicole, Ahmed’s wife. Looking for the kid. Allah be praised, Ahmed already had left with him.”

  “For Uruguay,” Seth filled in.

  Jafari continued, “She had a shitload of muscle. Took out our security. All of them, even Tebu, who was supposed to be in charge. Wouldn’t have happened if Mohamed had been here, but I sent him with Ahmed.”

  Seth wondered why Jafari would send his top security agent with Ahmed. Was it to protect his wimpy brother or to monitor him?

  “They had it all planned out. Stun guns and drugged darts. Tied all our guys up. Interrogated the servants. They even got to my two younger sons. The older two—”

  “Jafari,” Seth interrupted. “Did they harm Father?”

  Seth’s plans to eliminate Jafari would go down so much easier if Jafari died before the old man.

  “Nicole barged in to talk to Mother and Father. She and her hoods really shook them up. Father’s palpitations got worse. The doctor just left.”

  “That Nelson family has money,” Seth said, more to himself than his brother. “Famous singer Monica Monroe. She did a concert in Brussels last year. Tickets went for more than a hundred euros. Bastet wanted to go, but couldn’t get a ticket. Not that I’d have let her go, anyway,” he corrected before Jafari could jump on him for his out-of-control wife. “Not surprised that Nicole brought in a SWAT team to get her kid.”

  “She won’t find him,” Jafari said.

  “Fine,” Seth said, uninterested in anything to do with the kid. “I’ve got to get home soon to see Father—before he dies.” And I need to eliminate you. “I gave all the South America information to Ahmed. Everything here is under control.”

  “I need you in Europe. Assets will be passing to you daily. You need to stay there. Egypt is about to implode. And what if Ahmed’s bitch shows up in Brussels looking for the kid?”

  I need you to go to Allah—visit the virgins—leave this earth—and leave before Father. I planned to do Ahmed first, but now …

  Seth noted the grim expression on Bastet’s face. She’d be happy if she never had to step foot back into Egypt. She loved the European lifestyle. Queen of her own estate, no mother-in-law to criticize the way she dressed, the way she raised her children, the wine she loved at dinner. But soon, they’d be leaving Europe. When he had all the family money. He wasn’t sure how Bastet would take that news, didn’t look forward to the moment he’d have to share his plans with her. If necessary, the Masuds—all of them that were still alive—would relocate to South America, most likely Uruguay, a less volatile country than Argentina or Brazil, but with easy business access to both. And if the real estate deal in Punta del Este worked out, Bastet would be pleased—maybe. You could never tell with her.

  “If Nicole does come here, Bastet can deal with her—she won’t be coming to Egypt with me. She needs to stay here with my daughters—they’ve just started in the International School. Very prestigious place …”

  “No, Seth, I order you to stay in Brussels with your wife and with your daughters.”

  Seth heard the smirk in the word daughters. Once he had gained control of the Masud family—and that meant arranging the demise of his two older brothers—Seth would have it all—except sons. He had no sons and four years had passed since the birth of his youngest daughter. Each month with the appearance of Bastet’s menstruation, he became more distressed. He needed male heirs. Now was not the time to obsess about Bastet’s fecundity—or lack thereof—but he remembered with revulsion the time she’d announced that she intended to take birth control pills, that she wanted no more children. He’d hit her—hard enough to knock out two teeth. From then on, she insisted she was trying to get pregnant.

  “Seth, did you understand me? Do not come to Egypt. You must be in Europe to manage our massive portfolio moves.”

  * * *

  Before Seth’s plane took off that Sunday morning, he called Jafari. He apologized for his rudeness last night, blamed it on the stress of having to get all their European affairs set up, and the extra chore of coaching Ahmed.

  “What I didn’t mention to you last night, Jafari, was that Wilhelm Brugman, our most important customer, is in Egypt now. He’s doing a tourist river cruise. The usual. Pyramids, Sphinx, Valley of the Gods, Abu Simbel. I have always promised him that if he made the trip to Egypt, I’d be there to show him our manufacturing operation. A personal touch, since he controls the cotton imports from our part of the world. He’s with his wife and a few other friends. I want to make an impression—you know how these Westerners are—need to think we’re crawling to kiss their ass. And with the growth of the European market—”

  “Shit, he controls the cotton market in Europe.”

  “Since you told me not to come home, I said you’d meet personally with them.”

  “Now you’re telling me this?” Jafari growled.

  Seth tried to make his voice sound sheepish, doing the little brother thing, according to his family image. “I’d forgotten all about it until after we talked last night. With all that’s going on, I must have pushed it into the back of my mind.” Seth knew he sounded ultra-lame, but he pushed on. “Wilhelm contacted me last night. Turns out our company tour will have to happen today because they’re moving on to Alexandria tomorrow—even though he’s concerned about the bombing of the Coptic churches there. When I told him that you would show him around, he was truly impressed. After all, you are the main man, I’m just—”

  “You told Wilhelm Brugman what? You expect me to do this? Today?”

  Seth told Jafari he’d arranged for the Brugman entourage to come to company headquarters in downtown Cairo at three o’clock, that he’d chartered an executive bus to take them from there to the manufacturing plant, about an hour out of the city. “All you have to do is show up, Jafari. They want to meet the big boss—that’s you. It’ll pay off in more revenue. I promise.”

  “This afternoon?” Jafari blurted. “You have to be insane.”

  “You don’t have to bring in any of the others. Just you and our biggest customer worldwide and his friends. An hour at the plant, they’
ll be bored out of their minds.”

  “You idiot. You already set this up? What language do they speak?”

  Jafari was not skilled in foreign language communication—passable English, that was it. Whereas Seth was fluent in English, French, Flemish, German, and Spanish.

  “Wilhelm Brugman prefers Flemish, but French or English will do.”

  Silence.

  “I’ll meet them at the office, but I won’t go with them to the factory. Make sure they understand that. I’m expected at the Shooting Club for the evening.”

  The Shooting Club. Now there’s a priority. At one point in his life, Seth had spent his spare time hanging out there, too. But he had moved on to more meaningful pursuits.

  “Three o’clock then.”

  With a click of his phone, Seth disconnected and walked with his pilots to the waiting charter. Today was the day of days. Plans in place. No one, not Bastet, not a single Masud family member knew his destination.

  The Citation jet left Brussels at eight a.m., to arrive in Cairo at two p.m. No time difference between these cities, making matters even more simple.

  He’d been planning for a long time now and he had all his players in place. In Egypt, as in places around the world, services of all kinds could be bought. For a price. And for Seth, at this pivotal point in his life, price—as the Brits would say—was no object.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 23, 2011

  MONTEVIDEO, URUGUAY

  A SURGE OF turbulence tossed Ahmed awake as he reclined in the Challenger’s wide seat. “Alex,” he whispered. He turned to his right to make sure Alex was sleeping through the rough ride. Before he remembered, The bastards have my son. They snatched him in Monrovia, Liberia, one of the most dangerous places on earth, and left him there. And why? So I do exactly as they say. So I don’t contact Nicole. Don’t take Alex back to her. Alex is their leverage. And the most heinous thought, Those bastards are my family. How could I have been so naïve, so stupid as to subject my child to Jafari’s madness?

  Ahmed had been away from Egypt for fifteen years; he’d had no idea that his family could deal this degree of cruelty. No, he had to remind himself, not his family, not all of them. Just Jafari. But had anyone else in his family known the plan? That Alex was to be taken off the plane by Dennu, a thug who worked security for Jafari and the family? And now Alex was with Dennu—somewhere.

  Before Ahmed had fallen into a restless sleep, the Challenger had stopped at an airport on the eastern edge of Brazil called Fernando de Noronha. Mohamed did not get off the plane, but spent an hour in the cockpit talking to the pilots. Then one of the two pilots deplaned, and three hours later, a different pilot boarded. When Mohamed returned, he said, “One of the pilots was ill so we had to get a replacement. Four hours of wasted time. But doesn’t matter much. Sunday in Uruguay. Banks will be closed. But you are scheduled to check out that property your brother wants. In Punta del Este, a couple hours’ drive from the airport.”

  “Where is my son?” Ahmed tried again. “Why was he taken off in Liberia?”

  “Your brother didn’t trust you. Completely. Your son is ‘insurance.’”

  When he’d tried to probe further, Mohamed clammed up. “I already told you too much. Go back to sleep.”

  * * *

  Another jarring descent in the sky, followed by a sideways lurch made Ahmed grasp the armrests. He was now wide awake. Is there anyone in my family I can trust? Certainly, neither of his parents would condone leaving their grandson with one of their goons in a city awash in crime. What about his sisters? He’d seen very little of Neema, his younger sister and, since childhood, his best friend in Egypt. He felt sure that had she known of any plan to separate him from Alex, she would have warned him.

  Merit and her husband, Osiris? They were embroiled in the strategy to get as much money out of Egypt as quickly as possible, but no, Ahmed didn’t think they were in on this.

  Jafari’s wife. Yes. Aurera. Could she be the mastermind?

  What about Seth, back in Brussels? Not likely. Little brother Seth always did as he was told. First, by Father, now by Jafari. Seth was nothing but the family puppet, living a life of privilege in Europe.

  The plane finally escaped the turbulence and began a gradual descent. The monitors had been turned off, but Mohamed told Ahmed they were headed to Montevideo. Since leaving Fernando de Noronha Airport, they’d been in the air almost six hours. As soon as they were on the ground, he had to find a way to get Alex out of Monrovia, out of the control of his family, and back to Nicole. Ahmed no longer cared about himself. Alex’s safety, his sole focus. He’d put his son in mortal danger. Ahmed had never considered himself a brave man. Now he prayed to Allah for courage—and included Nicole’s God, Jesus.

  Ahmed planned to get on the next flight to Monrovia. His massive problem: Mohamed. He needed to extricate himself from the big man’s control.

  Ahmed had not changed his watch. He’d left Cairo at eleven in the morning, Saturday morning. It was now four a.m. local time. The dead of the night? And what time would it be in Monrovia for Alex? Ahmed estimated seven a.m. How had his little boy spent that last fifteen hours? Alone. Scared. How long would they keep him there? Would they hurt him? Alex would do as they said; he was an obedient child. But shy. Nicole had pampered him too much. He would be very frightened. Ahmed tried to think back to when he was five. Only a fleeting image came to mind. Jafari beating him up and Merit laughing. Real or imagined memory, Ahmed couldn’t tell. But he’d been a tougher kid than Alex. Maybe because Alex was an only child. He and Nicole had wanted another, but it hadn’t happened and now it was too late.

  Concentrate on getting Alex back, Ahmed told himself. His gut told him to break out of Mohamed’s control and go look for Alex—but his head cautioned that going along with Jafari’s plan might be safer in the long run. What would Nicole do, he kept wondering. He knew the answer: she’d go after her son, push fear aside. So, that’s what he’d do.

  Ahmed had never traveled to South America, had always assumed it was awash in poverty, a continent just slightly better off than Africa. But as the Challenger made its approach, he could make out a brilliantly lit airport showcasing a monumental white, ultramodern terminal. Was Uruguay an affluent destination? Is this why Jafari chose the country for the Masud family sanctuary—the place to wait out whatever befell Mubarak that likewise would impact the Masud family?

  The aircraft landed on a well-lit runway and taxied off toward a modern, much smaller white building several hundred feet from the architecturally superior main terminal with its huge, curved monolithic roof.

  Mohamed gripped Ahmed’s arm and led him down the jet steps toward a black limousine, parked just outside the plane. A few words were exchanged in English with the driver, who, by way of a reply, pointed to the massive white building.

  “We have to clear Customs in the main terminal,” Mohamed said. “The driver will wait. You stay by my side. You say nothing.”

  The terminal served large commercial flights, as well as private and chartered planes. Despite the early hour, a big international flight had arrived just prior to their plane, and when Mohamed realized they’d have to wait in line like everybody else, he didn’t spare the Arabic obscenities. Mohamed had not released his grip—he was Ahmed’s immense human ball and chain, holding him prisoner. How could he escape his outsized oppressor and make his move?

  His move. By defying Jafari’s orders, he’d be on his own. His own meant abandoning his past, the life of privilege, growing up Egyptian, in a wealthy and powerful family. But to him that family no longer existed. Jafari had slammed that door shut by stealing his son, marooning a small boy in the most lawless place on earth. To save Alex, his only hope, he knew, was to appeal to Nicole’s family. The Nelson siblings all were financial super achievers, likewise Nicole’s mother and stepfather, but her kid brother, Patrick, could marshal by far the most significant resources to rescue Alex. Ahmed would be reduced to plead
ing, pride be dammed. He realized that taking Alex meant he had burned all his bridges with the Nelsons. But he no longer cared. He wanted Alex to be home with Nicole, no matter what—even if it meant being forced to sever his own ties with his son.

  Just one week ago, we were a family.

  The passport control line moved efficiently, and when they faced the Immigration officer, Mohamed handed over their passports. After a cursory inspection, a few words were mumbled in Spanish, not a language Ahmed understood, and they were waved on. “You just stay at my side,” Mohamed said, as they moved toward the gigantic Arrivals Hall.

  Even at four thirty in the morning, a din of multiple languages greeted arriving passengers. Ahmed shouted at Mohamed, “Can I use your mobile phone to call Jafari? Does it work from here?” Ahmed’s phone had been “lost” in the Masud compound. As a doctor, he’d been connected forever, via cell phone, twenty-four hours a day, and to be cut loose for this long and under these circumstances inflamed his sense of desperation.

  If he could get Mohamed’s phone in his hands, maybe he could manage a call to the States—he’d try Patrick Nelson directly. But first he’d have to call Jafari, to beg him to get Alex safely out of Monrovia; he’d promise Jafari anything.

  Mohamed did not respond, but took him forcibly by the arm, nudging him through the crowd to the exit. The crowd much thinner now, Ahmed tried to resist. A futile effort. He asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Car.”

  “I want to call my brother Jafari. Before we leave the airport.” Ahmed stopped walking but only for an instant as Mohamed pushed him forward.

  “I have orders. Now, get moving.” Mohamed shoved harder.

  “Just tell me where my son is—whether he’s still in Monrovia—”

  “No. You shut up.”

  You shut up. That told Ahmed all he needed to know about his status in the Masud family.