The Ultimate Revenge

by Sally Fernandez

  Max walked toward her, but stopped short to move the chair placed next to the wall closer to the bed. As she sat down on the seat, positioning herself at face level, she found it perplexing that the lovely woman was Simon’s mother.

  “Mrs. Hall, my name is Maxine Ford. I’m Deputy Director at the States Intelligence Agency and I’m here to ask you some questions about your son.”

  “Call me Annie, dear. However, I’m afraid there is not much I can tell you. I haven’t seen my son for years. Although, he still pays the bills for this place for which I am grateful. I honestly don’t know how I can help.”

  “Do you know about your son’s activities?”

  “I’ve heard he’d been accused of committing horrific acts. Someone from your agency came to speak with my husband and me years ago. Even now, I find it impossible to believe Simon is involved. I don’t know any more now than I did all those years ago. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to help you,” she answered in earnest, but in a softer tone befitting her age.

  “Excuse me Annie, but you look awfully uncomfortable. May I straighten your pillows?” Max stood up, and while making the necessary adjustments, half-whispered, “Why doesn’t Simon come to visit?” As she pulled away, she noticed tears welling up in Annie’s eyes. She stepped back and gave Annie a moment to compose herself, and then repeated the question. Max repositioned herself back in the chair and waited for a response.

  Much to Max’s surprise she heard Annie assert, “I’m old, alone and dying! Then she spoke more forcefully, “What good does it serve now?”

  Max was not sure what she was referring to, but she remained silent and let her continue.

  “Do you have time for a story, dear? I’ve only told two other people. One is dead, the other is alive.”

  “Please take whatever time you need.” Max realized she was still wearing her coat and sensed she would be there for the long haul. She pulled her coat off her shoulders, retrieved her arms from the sleeves, and let the fabric fall onto the back of the chair. Once again, settled back into the seat, she prepared for what this elderly woman was about to convey.

  In a voice even more resilient, Annie began to tell her story. “Before Simon came into this world, I was an investigative journalist for Emit Magazine. I’d been given a bunch of fluff pieces to probe, but there was one story on the horizon that I fought for bitterly and won,” she boasted with pride and smiled for the first time. “In 1966, I was given an assignment to travel to Saudi Arabia and interview a woman who was making inroads in the television industry.” Annie continued methodically to lay out the facts as they unfolded. “A few years earlier in 1964, King Faisal had come into power and attempted to modernize and reform the country, and not necessarily within the strict construction of Islamic tenets.”

  Max knew it was still a society that forbade women to venture into many aspects of the Islamic man’s world. She wondered if that was the basis for her story.

  Annie continued. “But things started to change. In 1965, Saudi conducted its first nationwide televised broadcast. What grabbed my attention was a young woman who spoke on Saudi Radio. In 1966, she became the first Saudi woman to appear on Saudi TV. I traveled to Riyadh to interview her. But it was an opportunity short-lived.” Then Annie started to speak as though she were struggling to reconstruct the events in her mind as she remembered them. She described the day she was scheduled to meet for the interview at the newly established television station—only to be met by a mob protest. She explained that a religious fanatical group opposed the modernization, protesting it was in defiance of Koranic law for women to appear on television. It was considered an act of insolence.

  Annie again picked up the pace. “As I entered the building, gunshots rang out. A security guard had killed the leader of the mob. I saw the shooting. At the time, I had no way of knowing that the victim was one of King Faisal’s own nephews.”

  Max vaguely recalled reading an article by Nick Ludington, a writer for the Associated Press, who reported on the assassination of King Faisal in March of 1975. Prince Faisal Ibn Musaed, the nephew, admitted killing his uncle in retaliation for killing his brother who was the leader of the television station mob. Max stayed focused on the conversation.

  “I didn’t understand the political significance, I’m still not sure there was any. But for whatever reason, I was immediately ushered back to my hotel and ordered to leave the country straightaway.” Without warning, Annie stopped speaking. She displayed yet another mood swing. This time she became withdrawn. Moments before, Annie’s animated speech sounded as if she were reading a bedtime thriller. Now she appeared to be at a loss for words.

  Max was reluctant to proceed with her questions, but as the seconds ticked by, she found it necessary to urge Annie to continue. First she asked, “Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”

  “No dear, I just need a moment.”

  The awkward silence remained briefly. After Annie exhaled a deep breath she continued, “I refused to be thrown out of the country. I had a story to report!” she stressed, “It was my big break! So I climbed into my abaya and replaced the hijab, my headscarf.”

  Annie explained to Max that the long black robe they call an abaya was required to be worn by non-Muslim women, but not the hijab. “But I preferred to wear the headscarf to cover my blond hair. I felt less conspicuous and more able to blend in with the crowd.” Then she announced, “I left the hotel prepared to challenge my exile.” All of a sudden, as before, her speech trailed off and became almost soundless.

  Max was anxious for her to finish, but remained silent out of respect. As she shifted in her chair Annie reemerged, but with less gusto.

  “As I ventured out of the hotel and began to wend my way to the local police station a block away, I noticed a black sedan parked across the street. I sensed they were watching me but I kept on walking.”

  Max studied Annie and noticed her biting her lip as she took long deep breaths through her nostrils. She sensed Annie was on the verge of revealing a significant experience. On impulse, she reached for Annie’s hand in an offer of support, but Annie resisted and waved her off.

  “I need to finish my story dear. I picked up my pace, wanting to reach my destination. As I approached an alley, right before my turn into the police station, a hand reached out from the darkness and jerked my arm pulling me into the passageway. I was thrown to the ground. Before I realized what was happening, two boys had me pinned by my shoulders, preventing me from moving.”

  Annie began to tremble, swallowing several times in an obvious attempt to stave off the tears. Then in the strongest voice she could muster, she shouted, “The other boy raped me! They covered my face with my hijab—I couldn’t see who or how many had their way with me.”

  She began to sob uncontrollably.

  Max tried to recollect the last time she felt so helpless. She did not know how to respond. The only thing she thought to do was to reach over and hold Annie in her arms. A few moments later, Annie’s sobs began to recede. Max felt the weight of her body press into her embrace as Annie began to relax.

  “I’m okay dear,” she murmured, as she lightly pushed Max away. “It has been many years and it’s a relief to be able to tell someone—but there’s more.”

  “Are you sure you want to continue?”

  “If you’re willing to listen.” Annie offered, followed by a gentle smile. “The next morning I left the country never to look back.”

  “Excuse me, but why didn’t you report them to the police?”

  “My dear, in those days in Middle Eastern countries, if a woman were to report being raped she’d be accused of having illicit sex. The man would have never been charged for committing the crime.”

  “Didn’t you say they were boys?”

  “It sickens me to think that someone so young can be so evil. They must have been twelve or thirteen-years-old. Worse yet, I don’t think it was random. I’m positive it had something to do with what I
witnessed at the television station. But that was a long time ago.”

  “You said only two other people knew what had happened.”

  “Yes, and in a way they became victims too. After returning home, I crawled into a shell and became quiet and reserved. I was twenty-five-years-old and a newlywed with my whole life ahead of me, but I couldn’t bear to have my husband touch me. He acknowledged something had happened while I was away on assignment, but he assumed I would tell him when I was ready. He was a very patient and gentle man.”

  “You were very fortunate.”

  “For the time being,” Annie allowed. “But within a few short weeks, I learned I was pregnant.” She continued, but each word dripped with grief. “I’m a devout catholic so abortion was out of the question. That night I had intercourse with my husband and began my deception. With my eyes closed the entire time, I tried to wipe away the past. My skin hurt with every touch and there was nothing I could do to overcome the anguish. I remained in our marriage bed and deceived the man I loved more than life. I know it was illogical and proved to be destructive. Over the next eight months, I prayed for a blond, blue-eyed, premature, healthy baby to arrive.” Annie spoke with unfettered self-incrimination. She closed her eyes in an attempt to wrestle with reality.

  Max gave Annie time to compose herself and then asked, “What was the outcome?”

  Staring out into the room, she sighed, “My baby boy had olive-toned skin with dark hair and large beautiful brown eyes.” She turned slightly to face Max and divulged, “Understandably, my husband felt betrayed. Yet, he never broached the subject until we returned home with our new baby boy named Simon. That is when I broke out in tears and told him the entire story, precisely as I relayed to you. He was an amazing man. He didn’t blame me for what happened in Riyadh and he promised to rear our son as his own. I promised to end my career as a journalist. But he never forgave me for the deceit—for not believing in him enough to tell him the truth from the beginning. That was my cross to bear and bear it I have. Unfortunately, it gets heavier as the years go by.”

  “May I ask in what way?” Annie had been forthcoming, but Max suspected the story did not end there.

  “As the years passed, I believed my husband had forgiven me, until one day when we had a bitter argument. A month earlier, he had lost his job. Bills and frustration mounted. He reached his limit and in a rare and unusual outburst, my husband shouted that he could no longer pay the college tuition for my bastard son. The quarrel deteriorated at a rapid pace. We rehashed the entire incident. Having returned home from college for a surprise visit, we were not aware that Simon was in the house. He must have overheard our conversation because after the shouting subsided we heard the kitchen door slam shut. Simon had stormed out.”

  “What happened when Simon returned home?”

  “He never mentioned it, nor did we. Conceivably, that was a grave mistake. Simon must have suspected long before that day. He didn’t resemble either of us, except for his smile that mirrored mine. A smile he perfected through emulation and used when necessary to charm his way out of trouble. As a youngster, he shied away from malicious behavior, but tended to be mischievous in nature. Simon always tried to pull off the impossible. I apologize dear, I’m getting off-track. A year after the revelation of his birth, he dropped out of college and disappeared for a few years. After that, he would pop in and out of our lives, but never for a prolonged period. He never brought up what he had overheard. It did create some tension at times.” Annie lamented. “It’s a sad tale my dear, and you’ve been very patient. Does any of this help?”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure. It may explain his actions over the years, once we figure out what he is involved in. I don’t mean to be vague. I wish I had more information to share. Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?”

  Annie cocked her head. “You want to know more about Simon?”

  “You haven’t mentioned anything about his adolescence.”

  Annie answered with candor, “I’m ashamed to say, both Simon’s father and I were less than ideal parents. For the first few years, I would look at his precious face with those dark eyes peering back at me. I’d then begin to relive that awful day and then recoil at the thought. It probably wasn’t until he was four or five that I began to look at my son through a mother’s eyes.”

  “What about his father?”

  “I said he was a gentle man. He kept his word and was kind to Simon. He played with him, as a father would with a son, but was not overtly affectionate. Although over time, I started to believe that our family had come together. But that was before his genius began to emerge.” Annie’s face appeared contorted, as she elaborated with obvious regret.

  Max, entranced by her mix of emotions, allowed her to continue uninterrupted.

  “Simon’s school principal recognized his extraordinary intelligence, as well, and asked us for permission to have him tested. We agreed. He scored one hundred and ninety. Only one other child in the world at the time had a higher IQ. I remember his name was Kim Ung-Yong, born in 1962 in Korea, with reportedly an IQ of over two hundred and ten. At the time, I was researching child geniuses hoping to learn how to live with one.”

  Max was dumbfounded. Simon was highly intelligent, but I had no idea to what extent, she thought with some trepidation, as she reflected on the havoc Simon had committed thus far. The concerns heightened not knowing what he was planning next.

  Annie caught sight of the expression on Max’s face but continued to describe Simon’s childhood. She saw no point in holding back.

  Max listened with great interest.

  “He started to live in his own bubble.” Annie attributed it to the lack of affection Simon had received as a child and as he grew older, he became more detached. “When I asked why he wouldn’t play with the other kids, he’d reply, ‘Eagles never flock.’ So he spent hours alone in his room playing his music turned up loud trying to shut out the world and me.”

  Max sensed Annie was about to retreat into self-blame and interjected, “He must have had some interests other than his music.”

  “Other than his obsession with Bach, he learned to rely on himself for emotional stimulation and gratification. He spent much of his adolescence attacking challenges he’d create for himself. His perpetual challenge was to exceed his expectations.” Annie paused, and with an odd sense of maternal pride, she added, “It appeared to be a creed by which he lived.” Soon she reverted to sadness once again, and bemoaned, “It also forced his father out of his life.”

  Suddenly, Max had a flashback of the scorched CD recovered from Simon’s getaway car. “You mentioned Bach, an odd choice for a young boy.”

  “Bach’s Art of Fugue was one of my favorites and the last of Bach’s great monothematic cycles. I would play it often when Simon was a baby. Then one day the album disappeared until I heard it playing repeatedly from his room.”

  “Outside of music, did Simon have other interests?”

  “My son truly was a genius. At eight-years-old, he built his own computer. At the age of ten, he had designed his own programming language. I didn’t understand a lot about technology at the time, but he said he wrote a language similar to c-o something or other.”

  Max interjected, “You mean COBOL?”

  “Yes, that was it. In fact, I remember him saying that Bach’s genius inspired his code. I had no idea what he meant. But he explained that his code was a permutation of this COBOL you mentioned. That’s about all I know. He’s been out of our lives for years. It was all techie gibberish to me. Does any of this make sense?”

  At the mention of Simon developing his own code, Max glommed onto a possible twist in their theory. She promptly answered, “You’ve given me a clearer picture of Simon’s life, which may prove to be helpful.” Max concluded there was no additional information to glean. She needed to get back to Washington. She needed Noble’s expertise to sort out all she had uncovered. “Annie, I’ve taken enough of your time and I th
ank you for sharing your very intimate story. It will be handled in confidence and with the utmost discretion.”

  “Oh, I thank you dear,” she offered with great sincerity. “You’ve helped me to lift an enormous burden from my shoulders, one I’ve been carrying all these years—ashamed and afraid to tell anyone and my time is running out. You struck me immediately as a sincere person of intelligence. You know dear, as a former journalist, I refined my instinct for trusting people,” she boasted with a tender smile.

  Max leaned over and kissed Annie on the forehead, surprised by her own display of affection. She readjusted her pillows once again and smoothed out her bedcover. For reasons Max could not fathom, she empathized with the lovely but lonely woman lying in the bed. “Here’s my number. Please call me if there’s anything you need.”

  Before accepting the business card and with tears again welling up in her eyes, she asked in a quivering voice, “I have but one request. If Simon is guilty of these horrible crimes and you’re able to capture him, please spare my son’s life.”

  Annie took Max’s card with her trembling hand.

  Max could feel that both of their hands were shaky.

  Slowly, Annie’s gentle smile returned and she said, “You’re very kind, my dear.”

  Max forced herself to return the smile and then left for the airport to return to Washington.

  22

  KNOCK KNOCK

  South Sacramento is thirty miles southwest of Folsom, and a place reportedly housing large-scale counterfeiting operations, especially in the production of documents for illegals. While the major operations had been shut down, a cottage industry of ex-cons selling their talent continued to thrive. For the most part the local police left them alone, hoping to use them to land bigger fish. FBI agents had swept the seedier neighborhoods weeding out the list of counterfeiters supplied to them by the local authorities. Agent Burke took the short list; he arrived at the last address.