“No one will know you were in that garage. I will take you to Giza. And there, you will await news of the explosion, your brother’s death.”
Seth fondled the thought. Aurera toppled from her number-one-woman perch. Jafari’s sons knocked out of the direct succession in family affairs and wealth. Nevertheless, he grieved for his parents. In their hearts, he believed they truly did love all their children equally—but they were old-school sharia law followers, inflexible when it came to tradition.
“Do you notice all the milling around in the streets?” Tebu asked. “Something’s going on. I don’t like it. Hostility. Anti-government talk all over the radio.”
Seth could sense the popular mood, however subtle. Jafari was right to move the family wealth out of Egypt—to draft Ahmed to help them set up in South America—but to forbid Seth to come home to visit his dying father—from this day forward, Jafari would be out of the forbiddance business—permanently.
* * *
Jafari was proud of the spacious office in the Masud business headquarters, well located in a modern high-rise building near Midan Ta laat Harb in Cairo center. Sunday was a typical workday for most in Egypt, but on Sundays he preferred to work from home, thus extending his weekend from Thursday through Sunday. So today he’d had no scheduled appointments, except the one with the important European customer, foisted on him by his upstart brother.
Thinking about Seth, Jafari had to admit that the kid—not really a kid, at forty—was bright and industrious. He’d substantially grown the European market for Egyptian cotton. But there was something about Seth he didn’t trust, maybe just his little-brother syndrome, always complaining that he didn’t get enough—enough attention, enough power, enough authority, enough money to support that bitchy wife and the palace where she insisted on living in Brussels.
Where the fuck is that Wilhelm Brugman?
Since talking to Seth yesterday, no one had called to confirm. A little odd, but the guy was on holiday. Maybe he should call Seth. Make sure he’d noted the correct time. Seth had mentioned touring the factory, an hour out of Cairo, getting them an executive bus. No way would he accompany them, no matter how important this customer. He had plans at the Shooting Club and he would leave promptly at three thirty.
He picked up his phone to call Seth.
Bastet answered. “No, Seth is not here.” “He left as usual in the morning.” “Not sure when he’ll be home.” “No, I don’t know about any Wilhelm Brugman’s plans.” “How is Father?” “Seth really wants to see him. Me, too, but with the girls in school …”
Three fifteen. He would leave at three thirty as planned. No matter what.
And that’s what he did. Said good-bye to his secretary and headed for his car in the street-level garage. Amir stood by the Mercedes door, holding it open. Jafari got in, leaned back. “Shooting Club,” he told Amir.
He started to pull out his phone to call Dennu, give him the go-ahead to get Ahmed’s kid out of Monrovia, bring him back to Giza. So far, he hadn’t told anyone—except Mohamed, who was still with Ahmed, and the personnel on the ground in Monrovia—that he’d left his five-year-old nephew in one of the world’s worst places. Not even Aurera. He didn’t intend any harm to come to the boy, but he needed a drastic ploy to secure Ahmed’s cooperation. His middle brother had been protesting his orders, and Jafari suspected he was on the verge of leaving Egypt—and the Masud family—to return to the Nelsons’ American comforts.
But no use in keeping the boy in Liberia. He started to leave Dennu a message … and disconnected the call when an unwelcome, familiar face appeared at his car window.
What the …
His brother Seth, dressed like a foreign tourist, gesturing for him to roll down the car window.
As he did, he heard Seth tell Amir to leave them to talk for a few minutes.
Amir seemed happy to accommodate and walked out of the garage toward the knot of smokers in the street.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I wanted to back you up with Wilhelm Brugman. You said you couldn’t go with him to the factory. You had plans at the Shooting Club.”
“Well, your most important customer did not show. Besides, I told you to stay in Brussels.”
“I want to see Father. I’m going there now. I will see you at home.”
Seth turned and hurriedly walked away.
“Fucking imbecile—”
The blast threw the Mercedes into the air, smashing it on the parking structure ceiling. Flames engulfed the morass of wreckage, alarms screeched—signaling the demise of the Masud family heir apparent.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
AHMED DROVE.
How long would it take Mohamed to discover that he’d left the venue? Not long. How long did it take to deliver a mug of coffee and a plate of pastries? Three minutes?
The mansion Jafari had selected as the future South America Masud compound was located on a side road that led directly onto the main drag. Thankfully, Ahmed had been paying attention on the ride from the beach to what the driver had called the Pinares section. When he reached the busier road that had taken them to this neighborhood, Ahmed wasn’t sure which way to turn. Because of their early arrival, the driver had taken a meandering scenic route. Should he go back toward the beach or turn right, heading in a new direction? At the stop sign, almost on reflex, he turned back toward the beach.
Was anyone following? Too soon for his absence to be noticed, and Mohamed had no vehicle—at least not until he’d convince the real estate agent to lend him his car. For a multimillion-dollar deal American—he had no idea how many Uruguayan pesos—that would happen pretty fast.
In his mirror, Ahmed saw a black car, a limo similar to the one he was driving, about a hundred yards back. Could it be following him? No time to think. How long before his limousine was reported stolen?—but then again, Mohamed would not want him exposed to local lawmen. Ahmed decided to turn right this time. Uncharted territory. Street signs in Spanish. No plan. Just escape from Mohamed.
Panicky pulse. Which way? No idea. How to get pay phone change? Sunday today. Call Jafari. Find out where Alex is at this very moment. Seven forty-five here; twelve forty-five in Egypt.
Ahmed tried to decide what to do and how to do it with no money, no credit cards, only a passport. He realized he was making random turns, no idea to where. Lost in Catholic South America, where businesses were closed today. But in Islamic Egypt, a regular workday. Jafari could be at his Cairo office or, more likely, working from home. But first, maybe he should call the Nelsons, tell them about where he’d last seen—Alex, in that godforsaken Monrovia airport.
He’d been driving aimlessly for half an hour when he noticed a unique-looking church. A blue and white Victorian structure. Very attractive. Iglesia de Nuestra Senora de la Candelaria—in English, Church of Our Lady of Candelaria. He’d seen a sign in English: Lighthouse Square. He didn’t see a lighthouse. But he did see a parking lot rapidly filling up with cars. He slowed to follow a car into the lot, and as he got closer to the church building, he saw a schedule of Sunday Masses. Yes, there was one at eight thirty, five minutes from now. Following the sedan in front of him, Ahmed pulled into the next available parking space. A Ford minivan parked on the other side of him. Could he abandon the conspicuous limo here, get lucky, and steal a car from the lot?
He’d accompanied Nicole to Catholic Mass many times. The service would last an hour. He could be far away by then. If he did not find a car, he’d come back to the limo and risk being tracked—a late model like this would certainly have GPS and it’d be only minutes before a security type like Mohamed figured that out.
As the minivan family joined the worshippers heading for the church entrance, Ahmed glanced, unobtrusively, he hoped, inside. No keys in the ignition. Trying for nonchalance, he strolled along one row of parked vehicles and then another. He’d always considered South Americans laid-back, no worries about locks and barriers. But, South Americans di
d have crime and on an escalating scale. He remembered Natalie saying so—when she traveled to South America on business, the company sent bodyguards. But based on what Ahmed had seen of the Montevideo airport and the upscale resort town of Punta del Este, the region seemed safe enough.
Then he found it. A tan, nondescript Toyota sedan. A set of keys dangling from the ignition. Should he do this? Ahmed had never stolen a thing in his life. Not even as a kid. He thought of himself as honorable. Could he do this? He flashed on Jafari’s man Dennu carrying Alex off that Challenger in Monrovia … and made an easy decision.
He tested the driver’s door. Unlocked. Ahmed slipped inside, started the engine, and drove off toward the church parking lot exit. A few minutes later, he slowed to pull to the roadside. He picked up the dark sunglasses on the passenger seat and as he did, he noticed a map on the floor. Maybe he could figure out where he was. He had already decided to head back to the airport in Montevideo. Alex is not in Uruguay. Whether he was on his way to Monrovia or Cairo, Ahmed didn’t know, but he did know he had to get back to Carrasco Airport.
On the map, he located the Candelaria Church and the airport and charted his route. Great, except—there were two tolls on the way and he had no money. He scrambled to find an alternate route, flipping the map for a more detailed scale. That’s when he saw the pile of change in the ashtray. Enough pesos to clear the tolls, he hoped. With more optimism, he put the Toyota into gear; he wanted Rambla Claudio Williman, westbound, toward the “IB.” He remembered the driver had taken the IB Ruta Interbalnearia.
* * *
The airport was well marked and Ahmed pulled the Toyota to the side of the road as close to the terminal as he dared, on an angle as if it had broken down or run out of gas, which it almost had. No one seemed to notice; he bolted across three lanes of congested traffic and sprinted toward the large terminal building covered with the logos of many airlines, most of which he did not recognize. One, he did: American Airlines. Certainly, someone there would help him place a call to Egypt and then another to the States.
As he got closer to the air terminal entrance, a large bus pulled up to discharge its passengers. Good. He could join the crowd and blend. One problem, the travelers looked to be Scandinavian; his Middle Eastern tan might raise suspicion. Then he slowed, admonishing himself. Mohamed was not here. No one was following him. No one seemed the slightest bit interested in him. Just to be sure he wasn’t being followed, he stood politely holding the door for the bus passengers, facing in the direction of the abandoned Toyota. No Mohamed.
Then, like a jackhammer, reality hit. If Mohamed hadn’t already reported to Jafari Ahmed’s disappearance, he soon would. What would Jafari do to Alex? Would there be retribution for Ahmed’s escape? Would Jafari hide the child deeper in Liberia? Somewhere he never could be found? Yes, Jafari would take this personally. And how better to punish Ahmed than to harm Alex. Before the last straggler from the bus had passed through the terminal doorway, Ahmed let himself crumple to a sitting position on the pavement. What had he done? He’d just made things worse for his son. Trying to do the right thing, but failing miserably. Putting Alex in more danger. Yes. Jafari would be vindictive. Of that, Ahmed was sure.
“Senor.” A uniformed security officer bent to take a closer look. “You okay?” This in English.
Ahmed pulled himself upright, trying to manage a sheepish grin.
“Gracias,” he said. “I’m okay. Muy cansado.” Ahmed remembered this phrase used by a very tired Argentine patient he had treated.
“Tenga un buen dia,” the man said, and moved away.
Before he stepped inside the terminal, Ahmed checked again, in all directions. Even though desperate with fear for Alex, he could no longer worry about reprisals by Jafari. He would call his brother. Demand to be reunited with his son. Depending on the outcome, he would stick to his plan to call the Nelson family for help. Patrick Nelson first, and then the others. All three brothers would do anything for their sisters, but Patrick had almost infinite financial resources, because of his wife’s success as an entertainer.
Without his phone, he had no numbers to call from a pay phone even if he could figure out how to use one. But then he realized he could dial information. How long had it been since he’d used a pay phone? He hoped you still could “reverse charges”—call collect. There’d been a few coins left in the Toyota’s ashtray, but he’d forgotten to grab them. He did not have a dime. Not an Egyptian pound. Not a Uruguayan peso.
Ahmed was still looking around for a phone bank when for the second time in the last five minutes, he felt as if his heart had stopped.
The page. Over the terminal noise. The page on the public-address system. A woman’s voice in accented English. “Nicole Nelson, please go to the American Airlines baggage claim office. Nicole Nelson.”
Nicole? His wife? Here?
“Paging Nicole Nelson to the American baggage claim office.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
NATALIE HAD TOLD no one of her plan to join Rob and Nicole in Uruguay. To do whatever she could to help Nicole cope with the devastation that defined her life. And yes, Natalie missed Rob, wanted to be with him. Her brothers would never have let her go. They always had been too protective. And her mother would have objected, too. She was flying solo, so to speak. American Airlines JFK to Montevideo: fourteen hours.
Montevideo time was one time zone off from the East Coast. Natalie adjusted her watch before touchdown at Carrasco International Airport. Ten o’clock here; nine a.m. in Philadelphia.
She had sent her mother the constipation treatment data and her draft Zomera conclusion. She wondered what her mom thought of her planned approach. Not that she needed Laura Nelson’s approval, but she and everybody else at Keystone respected her mom, and with good reason. Did she feel weird stepping into her mother’s shoes, taking over her old job? Yes, of course she did. But she wasn’t going to let that erode her self-confidence and she wouldn’t forego Laura’s advice just to preserve her own pride. Lives were at stake; every day that passed, cancer patients were exposed to relapse.
If Laura supported the findings, Natalie would call the team, get them to proofread the report, and send it to the FDA tomorrow morning. New Zealand was sixteen hours’ time difference from the East Coast. Did that make it seventeen hours from Uruguay? Natalie’s brain was foggy after practically no sleep. She needed an international clock. She’d try Mom as soon as she landed—unless it was the middle of the New Zealand night.
The US State Department Uruguay Advisory noted moderate risk of kidnapping of American businessmen and women. In the past when she’d traveled in South America, she’d been told that if no one from the company met her at the airport to turn right around and book a flight back to the States. Overkill, she’d suspected. But she did have to brace herself to confront the throngs at Arrivals with no company greeter.
And then, how would she find Alex and Ahmed, expected to arrive in roughly this time frame but on a private aircraft? Or Rob and Nicole who should be here in an hour or two—maybe?
Making her way in the mob of passengers heading to Passport Control, Natalie fantasized about running into Ahmed and Alex in the Montevideo airport, seeing Alex run to her. “Aunt Natalie!” She’d always had a good relationship with Ahmed—so had Rob—maybe she’d be able to reason with him, plead Nicole’s case. Then the three of them would find Nicole and Rob at their gate or Customs, and all—even the sacrifice of her Keystone job—would be would be worth the price to reunite Nicole with Alex. As for Nicole and Ahmed—
“Passport—” An overweight woman at the next kiosk held out her hand.
Natalie struggled to find the passport in the pocket of her bag. She had not checked any luggage; everything she had brought with her was in that bag.
The woman scrutinized the passport, glancing up, asking, “Nicole Nelson?”
“Yes,” she said, reflecting that neither she nor her sister had taken their husband’s name. For Nicole, it mad
e sense since she and Ahmed were partners in a surgical practice. So much easier to refer to “Dr. Masud” or to “Dr. Nelson.” Much less confusion. But for Rob and her? Natalie decided to change that. In fact, with her mother’s reputation as “Dr. Nelson” in the pharmaceutical industry, she should have established herself as “Dr. Johnson.” Would that please Rob? she wondered. Why hadn’t she done it earlier—not waited until they’d been married for nine years?
“Senora?”
Natalie realized with a start that the uniformed woman holding Nicole’s passport was waiting for a response. “Yes,” she said, embarrassed at her lapse. Stay with the business at hand.
The Immigration officer took another look at the passport, then handed it back to Natalie. As she was tucking it back in her bag, a burly man jostled her, anxious to take her place in the queue. “Disculpe me,” he mumbled, more or less shoving her aside to present his passport to the officer. Pushy jerk, she thought, remembering why South American destinations failed to attract her.
She needed a small but strong Latin coffee. Meanwhile, she made a mental list. Where was the general aviation terminal used by private aircraft? How did you get there? Would someone speak English? She had never before been to Uruguay, but knew there were fancy resorts here with international reputations. Someone would speak English—but would they divulge whether a private plane had arrived yet, with a man and a small boy?
Now, about that coffee …
If she couldn’t find Ahmed and Alex, she’d hang around for Rob and Nicole’s flight. Berk would be with them; he had resources, there was sure to be a plan. The question that haunted her: Should I call my brothers? Montevideo time was only an hour’s difference from the time in Philadelphia. Sunday morning. No one would expect to hear from her until later in the day. They’d assume she was at Keystone, working out Zomera’s now excruciatingly public problem. And her staff—and her boss—also would expect her to be in her office. Sunday or not, Keystone was in crisis-management mode. And she was in Uruguay, trying to figure out how to be useful.
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