Grunt. Then, Mohamed nodded.
“But I don’t know what happened from there. Where they took him. Back to Egypt?”
“Once we get to Monrovia, will you help us find the child?” Rob asked. “Then we can all go to Egypt. We can pay respects to Jafari—at his funeral. We can support the Masud elders. Ahmed will have his son. The family can be together. Start to heal …” What the hell was he talking about? To a hard-core security professional? Psycho-speak mumbo-jumbo. Start to heal? Next he’d be singing Kumbaya.
“We bury the dead no more than three days,” Mohamed said. “Before sundown.”
“So Jafari’s funeral will be when? Tuesday?” Rob asked.
“I need to be there. Find out who got to Jafari …” Mohamed covered his face with his hands, steel cuff snagging his beard.
“You cared for him?” Rob asked, feeling like a fake psychologist. Get him to open up.
“Jafari hired me. I’d been in trouble. He took me in. Yes, I care for Jafari. And Aurera. And children. What will happen to them now?” Mohamed raised his eyes, looking at Rob as if Rob had the answers.
“It’s my understanding that the Masuds have lots of money,” Rob said, “plenty to go around. Right?”
“Trouble in Egypt. Reason why Jafari sent Ahmed to South America. Under my protection. But Ahmed … I let him escape … Jafari is dead … and Seth is …”
Rob stole a quick look at the front of the plane. Berk had rotated his seat, keeping an eye on Rob and Mohamed while he worked the phone. His glance said: What the hell are you two talking about?
“You know where Seth is?” Mohamed’s question got Rob’s attention.
“You know where Seth is?” Mohamed repeated. “In Giza with the family?”
“Seth?” Rob couldn’t keep the Masud family straight.
“Youngest brother. Family sent him to live in Brussels.”
“No. I don’t. Maybe Berk knows. I remember Nicole mentioning him. He takes care of the family cotton business in Europe?”
“Ask him about Seth!” Mohamed glared up the aisle at Berk. “Where was he?”
Rob wasn’t sure what he meant. “What about Seth?”
“Seth—was he in Cairo when Jafari was killed? I need to know that. Find out. Go!”
Rob left Mohamed, secured by one handcuff, free to use his other hand to eat a second bagel.
“You guys having a gab fest? What the hell!” Berk eyed Rob with curiosity. “The fucker won’t say shit to me.” Berk mimicked the Mohamed grunt. “He pouring his heart out to you?”
“He admitted they left Alex in Monrovia. Denies knowing what they did with him or where they took him.” Rob stopped and shot a look back to Mohamed. “He wants to know if Ahmed’s brother Seth—the one who lives in Brussels—is in Egypt now and if he was in Cairo when Jafari was killed.”
“He wants intel, huh? Well, he’s gonna give me something first. Like who has Alex Masud?”
“Berk, listen—you’re a pro and I’m a building contractor, but the guy is talking to me. You’ve burned a few bridges with him. You two are oil and water. Why not let me give him something? I’ll try to make it work to help find out where they have Alex. Can’t hurt—right?”
“There’s a reason you’re on this mission, Rob. I saw that honest face—anyone can see you’re trustworthy. Sure, go with it. Here’s what we know …”
Rob returned to Mohamed and repeated Berk’s intel: Seth had arrived in Cairo from Brussels with no notice—in the same time frame as the car bomb blew in the office building garage. He’d been with the Masud family when Jafari’s substitute bodyguard called with the news … Seth was functioning now as the Masud family spokesperson … Umi Masud’s health declining fast, wanted his son Ahmed home for Jafari’s funeral … family had no intel on what had taken place on the chartered jet during Ahmed’s and Alex’s flight from Cairo to Montevideo … the Masuds assumed that Alex—Wati—is with Ahmed.
Suppose, thought Rob with growing anxiety as he updated Mohamed—suppose only Jafari had known Alex’s whereabouts! If so, in a disaster region like Liberia, would the child ever be found? They needed Yusef.
Mohamed listened without a grunt. When Rob finished, he said, “Find out who was Jafari’s substitute bodyguard.”
Rob went back up to the front.
“What did he tell you?” Berk asked.
“Nothing. Yet. He wants the bodyguard’s name. The one with Jafari, before the explosion.”
Berk consulted his laptop. “Amir,” he said. “Now go back and make him tell you where they stashed the boy. Then come back and I’ll fill you in on Yusef Azer.”
“Amir,” Rob told Mohamed. “He’s on your security team. Right?”
Mohamed tried mightily to get up, but the single cuff restrained him, and soon, both cuffs, as Berk ran back to Mohamed’s seat to snap the loose cuff back on his wrist.
“That bastard had Jafari killed,” Mohamed said, back in the seat, hate shining in his black eyes. “His own brother—and his man Tebu—and that lackey, Amir.”
“Tell us about it,” Berk ordered.
Rob’s role had been cut from the spy scenario as Berk took over. Nevertheless, he felt he’d played a small role. Their mission, after all, was to find Alex.
Mohamed said nothing more.
“I’ll deal with this,” Berk said. “You need to be up front when the call comes in from the Liberian Army brass.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
SETH REMEMBERED THE prelude to his Brussels exile. His father trying to convince him it was for the good of the family. Synthetic fabrics were outselling cotton at an intimidating rate. Father told him how smart he was, how important to the family success, how valuable. But each time Seth had inquired about returning to Egypt, Father never answered. Seth began to obsess about his desire—no, need—to return home and take a leadership role in one of Egypt’s most politically favored families. Eventually, a leadership role became the leadership role.
Now, as he waited in the conference room for his young nephews, Seth was thankful for all the precautions he’d taken. He’d trained in martial arts, spent considerable time and money accumulating weapons and learning how to use them. He’d smuggled an arsenal into Egypt, and safely stashed it. He’d accomplished this with Tebu, the dedicated bodyguard he’d anointed as his man. All without the slightest suspicion of his family in Giza or his wife in Brussels. Seth reminded himself that he had to pay close attention to Tebu, keep him happy and loyal at all costs—until. Until—he became a liability.
The compound’s conference room was located at the back of the house on one side of his parents’ quarters. The room was dominated by a rectangular marble table. Twelve matching chairs with backs and seats covered in a burgundy shade of velvet were spaced evenly around the table, another dozen lined up against the walls. Seth had invited his four oldest nephews. Jafari’s two oldest sons, Tadeo, age eighteen, and his fifteen-year-old brother, who still lived in the compound. And his sister Merit’s two sons, both college students, both home for the funeral. All four of these kids undoubtedly were tuned into what was happening on Facebook. Particularly Tadeo. Jafari had said that the kid was social media savvy. Seth had intentionally not invited the parents. He wanted the new generation’s perspective.
As Seth heard the sound of feet getting closer in the hallway, he gave a moment’s thought to the women of the house. His mother was bereft. She’d lost her favorite son. Her beloved husband was terminally ill. Big sister Merit was her usually bossy self. She needed to be taken down a peg or two, as well as her lackey husband. But carefully. Merit was the brains behind the family business, and with Jafari gone, Seth needed her and her allegiance. Then there was Aurera, the always-presumed matriarch, so suddenly ejected from her perch. Only she seemed not to know it yet. She was stage-managing Jafari’s funeral plans, personally calling Hosni Mubarak. Clearly not the widow role. Right after meeting with his nephews, he’d put her in her place. That left his sister Neema, f
our years older than he, but a passive individual. No problems from Neema. But where was she? She had left the compound early that morning, Tebu said, and had not yet returned.
Three o’clock. All four boys arrived on time. Each stopped for the familiar greeting, a kiss and a murmured “ya khali” from his sister’s sons and “ya aami” from Jafari’s boys. The three older boys carried laptops as if they were attending an online course. Jafari’s fifteen-year-old did not. He simply slumped into the chair farthest away from Seth, hung his head, eyes fixed on the table. Seth dispensed with condolences. “Boys. Tell me what’s going on in Egypt. I’ve been away in Europe. What’s all this protesting about?”
Tadeo, whom Seth had learned was not shy, jumped in first. “It’s all happening on Facebook. Crazy. A big demonstration tomorrow at Tahrir Square. I would go there except …”
“Except for your father’s funeral,” his Oxford-educated cousin said. Merit’s two sons were identical twins. He’d never been able to tell them apart, but now one had a nice British accent.
“Those demonstrators are against us,” his twin brother, the one studying at the University of Alexandria, said. “They want an end to the Mubarak regime. We are Mubarak supporters. They hate us. They want us to forfeit the entire textile business that Gamal Mubarak handed over to our family.”
“They can do that?” Tadeo asked. “I mean—”
“Yes, you fool. What do you think your father was arranging with Uncle Ahmed?” The Alexandria twin let out a sigh of exasperation. “Hosni Mubarak is eighty-three years old. All we hear back at University is Kefaya—enough—no more inherited presidency. They want Mubarak out. Even worse, they want him arrested. So, you, Tadeo, stay out of this. Your father would not want you anywhere near these demonstrators.”
Seth was impressed with his nephew’s take on the situation. Agreed completely. But wanted to explore further what these kids knew about their peers now calling for a repeat of what happened in Tunisia, where the president fled to Saudi Arabia.
Tadeo spoke up to his cousins, who although older in age, were lower in the Masud family pecking order than the oldest son of the oldest son. “Ya aami, I just want you to know that large numbers of protesters are right now gathering. That tomorrow the world will be stunned by the extent of the protests in Cairo. On the day of my father’s funeral, the streets will be jammed. And the protests will not be silent like the silent stands across the country.”
Seth had seen the Facebook images of the so-called “silent stands” that had been spreading. Peaceful demonstrations that seemed quite harmless.
The Oxford nephew said, “Our own Nobel prizewinner Dr. Mohamed Mustafa ElBaradei has been using Facebook to sell his seven demands. They want to get rid of Mubarak. But then what—”
“There’s going to be violence,” Tadeo said. “It’s starting.” He turned his laptop screen toward Seth. “The riots may reach Giza.”
The Facebook photos showed crowds of men milling about Tahrir Square—most young, but not all. Most dressed casually, but some in suits. There were women, too, and children, many carried on adult shoulders. Tadeo scrolled to a new screen with a banner: Day of Rage.
“Tomorrow,” Tadeo said. “There’s ninety thousand people who said on Facebook that they would show up to protest. You can see lots of people already.”
Seth tried to think. Tomorrow? Ninety thousand protesters? Tahrir Square—sometimes called Martyrs Square—a sprawling, amorphous, open space to the east of the Nile at the center of Cairo, close to the Egyptian Museum, bordering the National Democratic Party Headquarters and the Omar Makram Mosque.
How would this affect Jafari’s funeral? The family textile empire extended throughout Egypt. Government and business leaders would arrive from all over, Alexandria, Suez, Luxor, Shubra El-Kheima. But ninety thousand protesters landing in the center of Cairo could cause major traffic obstructions. Should the Masuds request a police escort from the airport to Giza for the most important dignitaries? A question for Merit’s husband, Osiris. He was plugged into government channels.
“Let me see.” Tadeo’s younger brother gawked at the screen as Tadeo scrolled from post to post.
Seth figured this was about all he could get out of his nephews. He needed to touch base with Bastet. Among the women, she would be his eyes and ears to monitor their plans, concerns, or complaints.
He had been away from the family compound for seven years. Long enough for Seth to have repressed the chaos of babbling women, unruly children, sulking adolescents, aging parents—all living under the same roof. At first, Bastet had been hesitant for them to move away from the compound—she’d have to take over the care of their two-year-old daughter, who, until then, had stayed mostly in the children’s quarters with Jafari’s kids and the nanny staff. But once she’d tasted the freedom of living in their own home, Bastet had come to enjoy making all the domestic decisions and actually took to motherhood so well—with a nanny, of course—that two years later, they had another child—also a daughter, now five years old. But no sons. Yet.
“You boys can go back to your parents now. Tadeo, you and your brother have to be strong for your mother.” He didn’t think they’d appreciate the irony. Aurera could win any strength contest, hands down. She considered Seth a wimp. He’d have to watch her carefully, be hyper-alert lest she try to usurp his power.
“Where’s Uncle Ahmed?” the Oxford twin asked. “Tata and Gido—Grandpa and Grandma—said he’d be here today, but Mother said that he hasn’t called since … Uncle Jafari died.”
Jafari’s younger son asked, “And Wati. He left with Uncle Ahmed. Is he coming back or did he go home to America?”
Now, late Monday afternoon, twenty-four hours after Jafari blew up in the car bomb, Tebu still had been unable to contact his colleague and former boss Mohamed. Nor had the family been able to find Ahmed. All Seth knew from the real estate contact was that Ahmed and Mohamed had shown up at that house in Punta del Este, the house that Jafari had wanted Ahmed to buy for the family. The real estate agent had been in conversation with them when Ahmed walked outside. And did not return. Ahmed apparently had driven away in the same car they’d arrived in, leaving Mohamed without transportation. The agent had tried his best, but failed to locate Mohamed in the vast mansion. Reluctantly, the agent put the house deal on hold.
Questioned about a five-year-old boy, the agent denied ever having seen a child with his clients from Cairo. How could that be? Where would Ahmed have left his son? The only rational answer: he’d left him in the car while he went inside to tour the house. And when Ahmed left Mohamed—Wati still was with his father.
“Any of you boys heard from your Uncle Ahmed?” Seth asked. Just in case …
Unsurprisingly, a collective “No.”
“Then return to your mothers,” Seth said. He had got all he could from them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
“THAT’S IT?” NICOLE asked. “That’s where Ahmed left Alex?” As the plane descended, she could see a major highway and the town, off to one side.
“That’s Harbel.” Berk pointed out the window. “Monrovia is about thirty-five miles away.”
Their flight had left for Monrovia later than the Air France flight. But their jet was faster, Berk had promised, and would arrive before Ahmed and Natalie. He reassured her that Roberts International Airport was no third-world airstrip. Built by the US government, the airport provided state-of-the-art information technology and decent security; for years Roberts had been operated by Pan Am. Of two terminals, one was used mostly by the United Nations, the other by commercial flights.
“That guy Rob knows, will he meet us here, at the airport?”
“Yes. He should be here when we land. Once we get inside the terminal, let’s verify Ahmed and Natalie’s flight status and then find our Yusef Azer, the general who trained at Valley Forge Military Academy and wields almost unlimited power in Liberia.”
“Thank God Rob came along. Who would have predicted
he’d have a Liberian connection!”
“Nicole, very soon you and your husband will be within a few feet of each other. You okay with that?” Berk asked.
“Until I find my son, I’m not okay at all. I am so scared for him. Ahmed …” She didn’t want to admit to anyone, including herself, that she also missed Ahmed.
The Falcon 2000 landed smoothly. The time was three thirty in the afternoon. Cloudy skies but no rain. Temperature ninety-one degrees.
Soldiers in Liberian uniform met them as they deplaned. Rob first, Nicole next, followed by Mohamed, in cuffs, flanked by Berk and his two men. At the foot of the stairs, Berk handed over Mohamed to the military men. This had been prearranged, Nicole knew.
As they approached the terminal, Nicole could not help but scan for Alex. Just two days ago, her little boy had arrived in this very city.
But she saw no sign of a child now. Where was Alex?
Inside the terminal, they were led to an official-looking conference room. Many Liberian flags—whose design recalled the United States flag—an upper left corner blue star on white and eleven red and white stripes. They were seated at the rectangular conference table, offered coffee. General Azer was on his way, said an aide in military uniform.
They waited in silence for what seemed like forever, but only five minutes. The aide opened the door and stood back for the general to enter. A big man, in uniform—covered in medals, all of whose significance was lost on Nicole. None of her brothers had been in the Armed Services, and she had no protocol background.
Protocol was informal, as it turned out. When General Yusuf Azer entered the room, he went straight to Rob and pulled him into a bear hug.
“Welcome to Liberia,” he said, after introductions. “I am sorry about what has brought you here; I hope I can be of help.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Nicole. For the first time in days, the notion of hope felt almost credible.
“Call me Yusef,” he said, “and my, you do look like your sister.”
Nicole hadn’t been aware that Natalie, too, knew this man. Not that it mattered now.
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