Come Home

by Patricia Gussin

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 22, 2011

  PHILADELPHIA

  NATALIE HAD JUST dismissed her team for a lunch break. A sudden, pleasant silence gave way to her insistent cell phone ringtone. “Unknown” number. Rob? From Cairo?

  Yes. His voice was tense, hurried. All had not gone well. Alex was not at the Masud compound. He’d been taken … to Uruguay … probably. Then the line went dead.

  What should she do?

  Call Mike. With Rob away, the brothers had moved the Nelson family central command. Berk had arranged a secure communication line—whatever that meant—into Mike’s law office.

  Mike was at his desk. Kevin was there with him. Once Patrick had confirmed Nicole’s exclusive access to Berk and his sophisticated all-purpose network, the youngest Nelson brother had gone home to be with Monica in Vegas.

  Mike put Natalie on speakerphone. “I just talked to Rob,” she said. “They don’t have Alex! They’re going to Uruguay to find him. They think he’s there, Rob told me—before we were cut off. What happened?”

  “Berk just reported in,” Mike said. “What you said is true. Except we don’t know for sure where Alex is. We do know Ahmed and Alex boarded a Masud chartered jet and took off out of Cairo airport at eleven a.m. Supposedly heading to Uruguay, but they could divert to almost anywhere.”

  “When would the jet arrive in Uruguay?” Natalie asked, steadying the receiver as best she could, a resolve forming. “Where would it go?”

  “Depending on refueling … maybe nine or ten in the morning,” Kevin said. “And Montevideo would be the realistic option. That’s the capital, by the way—”

  “I had to tell him that,” said Mike.

  Natalie had no time for their brother-routine.

  “And Rob and Nicole?” she asked, already searching the Travelocity site on her cell phone.

  “Sometime after that. Cairo and Montevideo are about seven thousand plus miles apart,” Kevin said. “Different route options to refuel. Who knows?”

  “Berk is sending men from Miami,” Mike said. “They’ll meet the jet, grab Alex, and fly him out on a waiting plane.”

  “Berk has that ability? To operate freely in a South American country?”

  “According to Patrick, yes. Monica got into a situation in Sao Paulo once. Big-time kidnapping. Berk got her out, unharmed.”

  “That’s Brazil. And as I recall, a good deal of money was exchanged. Different country. Different motive.”

  “That’s just it, Natalie,” Mike said. “What is the motive? Why is Archy taking Alex there? Archy hasn’t seen his family in how many years—and then he takes off to South America?”

  As she listened to her brothers hypothesize, Natalie could only feel the intensity of Nicole’s grief. Unhesitatingly, she swept aside the stacks of reports on her desk. She and Nicole were both ambitious professionals, but when it came to family, they’d always said they’d give up their careers, if it ever came to that. For Natalie, the time had come. She knew her options.

  “I just wanted to check in to tell you about Rob’s call,” Natalie said, eager to get moving. “I’m worried about Rob, too, but he’s a big boy. He’ll help keep up Nicole’s spirits.” Liar. Rob wouldn’t have a clue as to how to comfort Nicole. He unhinges at the sight of a tear. But this platitude would work for her brothers.

  “Glad Rob’s with Nicole,” Mike said. “She can be a handful, even at the best of times.”

  “I think it should have been one of us,” Kevin said, “but yeah, Rob was good to volunteer.”

  “Let me know if you hear anything else. I’ll be kind of busy here at work. Crisis. Which I suppose you’ve heard about in the news.”

  “I know it’s not funny, Natalie, but, come on, people are dying of—”

  “Don’t say it, Kevin. Nothing but ‘shit’ talk around here. And it is a serious matter, as I’m sure Mike-the-lawyer will attest.”

  “You’re getting more and more like Mom every day,” Kevin said.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Natalie hung up and wondered what, in fact, her mother would do. Would she walk away from a serious, but not lethal, crisis at work to go to her twin sister? Not a fair question—Laura was not a twin. Laura was a mother and—Natalie could not help but slip back to that time—Mom in a tough situation, forced to make a choice—family versus career. Natalie had been seventeen—and Trey Standish—

  Just do it. She slammed Trey Standish back into that Off-Limits compartment.

  Without further family consultation, Natalie booked the 4:10 flight that afternoon to Montevideo. She’d drive herself home, leave her car in the garage, pack a travel bag, call a limo service she’d never before used to take her straight to Kennedy. Her flight would land at 10:15 a.m. Ahmed and Alex should be there, but would they already have left the airport? For where, she didn’t know. That airport got nice reviews—she’d wait in comfort for Rob and Nicole to arrive.

  Action plan in place, she quickly reassembled her team leaders and talked them through her written instructions on how to proceed with the FDA submission. She’d seen enough data to validate her opioids abuse theory in the cancer patients who’d gotten in trouble with constipation on Zomera—no, she corrected herself—not trouble—they died. An explicit warning in the package insert could prevent further unnecessary deaths. She’d crafted the language and now entrusted it to her team to implement.

  Should she call her boss? He would be crazy-irate, probably fire her outright. No, she decided, I’m a coward. Nothing he can say will make me stay. Family before career. Always. But she would call her mother, ask her to intervene, if necessary. At Keystone, Laura Nelson was a legend.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  SUNDAY, JANUARY 23, 2011

  PUNTA DEL ESTE, URUGUAY

  AS THEY WALKED out of Carrasco International Airport, Mohamed held Ahmed’s shoulder in the now all-too-familiar viselike grip. No escape possibility had presented itself. Yet. Easy to spot, a Masud-worthy black limo awaited in a no-parking zone. Before landing, Mohamed, too, had changed into Western casual clothes; even in pressed khakis, polo shirt, and loafers, his sheer size still intimidated.

  “Can you tell me where we’re heading now?”

  “Punta del Este. Hour and a half out of Montevideo. Nice place, so they say. They want you to buy property for the Masud family. Jafari says you know what you have to do there. Deals. Maybe we live here one day. That’s all I can say. Jafari says keep my mouth shut.”

  Ahmed took in the airport surroundings. Crowded. Chaotic. Multilingual. Cabs. Busses. Cars. Blasting their horns.

  His hands rummaged in his pockets. Empty except for a handkerchief and the passport the agent had handed back to him at airport immigration. No wallet. No money. No credit cards. But that all could change with a phone call to the Nelsons. They had resources—assuming Monica and Patrick would fund whatever it took to get Alex. But would they go to Liberia? So far, other than futile phone calls from Nicole to the Masud compound, there was no evidence anyone might be Cairo-bound. Nicole had even left a message that she’d gone back to their office. Had she resumed a surgical schedule? Why hadn’t she even tried to retrieve Alex? Why?

  He had to get Alex into the Nelsons’ competent hands. He again wondered whether his parents, his sisters, his brother Seth knew what Jafari had done with Alex. Was this only Jafari’s doing, or was his whole family complicit in a plan to strand Ahmed’s five-year-old child in Monrovia?

  When they reached the limo, Mohamed made sure his prisoner was secure in the backseat and climbed in beside him. Then he reached over to hand the driver a file card with a note in English.

  “Punta del Este,” the driver said in Spanish-laced English. “Pinares. No problem.” Mohamed managed basic English, and it seemed rudimentary Spanish, too.

  “We have appointment. Seven o’clock,” Mohamed said.

  “No problem. Is one hour and one half hours away,” the driver said. �
�You want me to take you around peninsula? Lots of time. You see beach. Very famous. Like Rio. Like Monte Carlo. Only empty early in morning. Still dark.”

  “You get us to this address on time, yeah, I want to see beach,” Mohamed said. “Why not?”

  To escape from Mohamed and get lost fast, Ahmed needed a crowded place. The beach at six in the morning was not promising.

  “Wake me up at beach,” Mohamed said as he slumped against the car door, asleep before they exited the airport.

  Ahmed’s mind worked nonstop on developing a plan. He would move heaven and earth to get Alex to a safe place for now, then to return him to Nicole. Escape from Jafari’s bodyguard Mohamed seemed the only course—or would that make matters worse? Should he just do as Jafari ordered? Get the property purchased, the investments in place? But the real estate alone could take weeks. No, he could not wait. He had to get Nicole’s family involved. The Nelsons versus the Masuds—but on the African continent, the Masuds had the advantage.

  The driver had taken several turns and a roundabout and now the Atlantic Ocean was visible on their right. An occasional snore from Mohamed. Otherwise, the car was silent. No radio. No driver conversation. The driver well knew Mohamed was the boss-man.

  They had exited the main road and were approaching an area dotted with hotels and condo buildings.

  “The Peninsula, they call it,” the driver turned to say. “Wake up big man. He wants to see beach.”

  Ahmed did not want to wake the sleeping giant, but he nudged Mohamed.

  “Only have half hour. Then drive to house in Pinares,” the driver said. “Better wake him up.”

  Ahmed pressed the palm of his hand on Mohamed’s bicep. Mohamed’s right hand went to the gun he kept tucked into his belt. It took him a second to realize that all was well in the vehicle. An obscenity escaped, followed by a grunt.

  “The driver said to wake you up,” Ahmed said, knowing how lame he sounded.

  “Asshole.”

  “This is Peninsula of Punta,” the driver announced. “I’ll drive around. Show you best hotels on beach. This Monaco of South America.”

  “It’s fucking dark,” Mohamed said. “You woke me up for this?”

  “This is most famous beach—Brava Beach—like Riviera,” the driver continued, nonplussed. “People come from everywhere to see. Look.” He pointed to a place in the sand illuminated by floodlights. Poking up out of the sand Ahmed could see four monumental fingers … and what must be a thumb.

  “Much better in light.” He pointed toward the east. “Sunlight coming soon.”

  The sky in the east showed the multicolored promise of sunrise.

  Mohamed had straightened up in his seat. Smoothing his straight, dark hair. “What the fuck is that?”

  “La Mano,” the driver said. “Some call it ‘Los Dedos’—‘The Fingers’—or ‘Hombre emergiendo a la vida’—means Man Emerging into Life. In English, ‘The Hand.’”

  If only this were daytime, Ahmed thought. There’d be crowds … opportunity to escape.

  “Weird,” said Mohamed. “How we doing for time? We have to be at house at seven.”

  “No traffic. No problem,” the driver said. “We just drive by the beaches on the way off the Peninsula to the house in Pinares. Just a few miles. You know Brigitte Bardot? She come here all the time. You know Rat Pack?”

  Mohamed offered his most expressive grunt.

  The sky got lighter and lighter, and by the time they drove down the designated road, Ahmed could make out houses. Single-family homes, from modest to lavish.

  “Here it is.” The driver had timed it to the minute. At seven a.m., he pulled into the circular driveway. The light was adequate for Ahmed to appreciate the exquisite design, the lush landscaping, the massive size. So this was the home that Jafari had picked out for the South American retreat for the family. A retreat that, depending on Egyptian politics, may become mandatory rather than elective.

  Jafari had reviewed the magnificent videos delivered to him in Cairo, but Ahmed was to inspect the home—as a formality, Jafari explained. The local agent expected that an actual family member would approve the multimillion-dollar property before the deal was finalized. Ahmed was to go through the motions, sign the papers, take possession in his father’s name.

  Mohamed told the driver to wait as they conducted their business.

  “How long?” he asked. “I had nothing to eat. Coffee shop down road.”

  “Stay,” Mohamed ordered.

  The driver did not look happy, but he didn’t push it.

  Ahmed and Mohamed approached the entrance to the compound. No need to ring a bell. A tall man in a suit and tie met them at the front door. He actually bowed as Ahmed and his brother’s bodyguard walked inside the palatial foyer. He introduced himself as the real estate agent, noted in perfect English his pleasure at their arrival, and led them into a grandiose office. Soon-to-be Jafari’s office, Ahmed surmised. Even though the buyer would be listed as Umi Masud, Ahmed doubted his father would live to see it. Jafari would inherit and take over. What about his sister Merit and Osiris and their sons? Would they, too, migrate to South America if Egyptian politics turned against them? Live in this sumptuous house? And Neema? Neema would have no choice. Of course, she would come here because of Jafari, her supposed protector; as would Mother. Not Seth, though. Seth would stay in Belgium.

  * * *

  They took seats on classic leather Barcelona chairs. Ahmed gently leaned back, all but zoning out as the agent enthused over the estate. Explained the electronics, the air temperature control, the pool maintenance, all the tedious minutiae of a smooth-running family compound as big as a hamlet. The agent had just suggested they go over the mansion floor plan so Ahmed could envision living quarters for family members. He paused abruptly, mid-sentence. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ve been quite rude. In the excitement of your arrival and preparing all the documents, I haven’t offered you breakfast. I do apologize. I have coffee or tea, cakes—all prepared. Come this way.”

  He stood and turned, extending his arm toward the rear of the house.

  Ahmed and Mohamed followed the agent.

  “In here. Please.” As promised, the dining room table was laden with coffee cakes, Danish, croissants, a large silver coffee urn, a tea tray. How many visitors had he been expecting?

  “Where is the … bathroom?” Ahmed interrupted, not sure what they called the toilets in Uruguay.

  “There’s one just to the left.” The agent pointed down a hall that led toward the front door.

  “Thanks,” he said. As almost an afterthought, Ahmed remembered the driver. Guy could use something to eat and he’d mentioned a coffee shop. He approached the table and picked up a porcelain plate. He loaded a few pastries and poured coffee into a sleek designer mug. “Our driver could use this,” he said. “I’ll take it out to him.”

  “Allow me,” the agent suggested.

  “I’m going that way anyway,” Ahmed said, already carrying the limo driver’s breakfast.

  Mohamed stared at the nudes in the art on the dining room walls. No response from him.

  As Ahmed made his way to the front door, he glanced into the various rooms. A library. A music room, apparently. Others with no discernible specialty. He could almost hear Nicole’s take on the house, her running commentary if they were to peek inside each room. He could see Alex’s toys scattered about the various rooms. The action figure collection in one. Children’s books on the library shelf.

  When Ahmed reached the door, he couldn’t open it without first setting down the coffee mug. This he did, and once outside, he bent to retrieve it. Sights set on the limo, he heard the door latch behind him. Great. He was locked out.

  The black limousine was parked where they’d left it in the center of the circle. But when Ahmed walked to the driver’s window and looked in, he found the car empty. No driver. Key in the ignition. Again, he set down the mug on the driveway, opened the car door, remembered to reach down o
nce more, pick up the designer mug.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  TEBU, A BRAWNY, dark-skinned Arab, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, took the wheel of the black van and drove Seth via the most direct route from the airport to the center of Cairo. Along the ten-kilometer drive, Seth inquired politely of Tebu’s numerous children, whose first names he could not recall. Tebu worked security at the Masud compound, number two to Mohamed—a deliberate slight by Jafari that Tebu deeply resented and that Seth was pleased to use to his own advantage.

  Seth had tested Tebu in the past and was confident of his allegiance—to Seth exclusively—not to his father, Umi—certainly not to Jafari. Ever since leaving Egypt to take care of the family business in Europe, Seth had maintained frequent contact with Tebu, a relationship that for Tebu had been lucrative.

  And today, now that all the expensive groundwork had been laid, Tebu’s loyalty and skills would be put to the ultimate test.

  Tebu made a cell phone call, nodding as he spoke. “Arrival time?” A pause. “Is Amir driving?”

  Seth could not hear the replies, but he did notice a shiver pass through Tebu. “Confirm with Amir that we must leave for the Shooting Club at three thirty.”

  To Seth, Tebu said, “All on schedule. The package is in the car. I set it up myself. I have the remote.”

  Seth heard hesitation in Tebu’s voice. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Amir is driving. He’s a good guy. Has a family.”

  “Maybe I can do something about that,” Seth said. “I want Jafari to see my face before he goes to the virgins. I want him to know who to thank for his journey to Paradise. After Amir opens the door for Jafari and he is seated in the backseat, I will approach. I’ll send Amir off, saying I want a word with my brother. I won’t get in the car, of course. When I’ve told him what I want to tell him, I’ll call Amir back and move quickly away. That is the exact instant to detonate. Can you do that?”

  Tebu grinned. “Yes, that I can do.”

  “And I will reward Amir, not only with his life, but with a generous gift for his family.”