She heard a door open.
Acacia stood in the doorway of the bathroom and stared straight into the eyes of a young, dark-skinned man dressed in loose-fitting, sand-colored clothing and carrying a military rifle.
He spoke Arabic. “Your father returns tomorrow. Do you need anything?”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she answered in French.
The man scowled and continued in his own language. “I was told you know Arabic.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she repeated. She hunched over dramatically and placed her hand at her lower back. “I’m in pain. I need a doctor.”
The man gave her a confused look and exited. The door clanged shut behind him.
He hadn’t seemed angry or aggressive, despite his weapon. He’d held the door to her cell open while he spoke to her. She wondered if he’d return. If he did, she’d be ready.
She stood behind the cell door and waited. And waited.
More than an hour passed before something clanged against the door and metal scraped against metal. The door swung inward.
Acacia grabbed the edge of the door with both hands and pushed as hard as she could. The door caught someone and knocked him to the floor. She leapt over his sprawled body and wrested his gun from his hand.
A guard shouted at her from the other end of the hall.
Acacia didn’t know how to use a rifle. She squeezed the trigger but the gun didn’t fire. Frustrated, she hoisted the rifle over her shoulder and ran.
A doorway at the far end of the hall opened into what looked like the courtyard. But just as she approached the threshold, someone stepped into her path.
Acacia continued running, then, at the last minute, she executed a roundhouse kick to the guard’s head.
He fell to his knees.
She struck him in the head with the butt of the rifle and kept on running.
Outside, the sun shone bright and hot. Her steps echoed across the mosaic tiles as she ran past the fountain and toward the high, wooden doors. She yanked the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Furiously, she searched for a lock.
She heard footsteps and turned around, but before she could defend herself, something struck her from the side. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, everything went dark.
Chapter Forty-Nine
THE ACHE IN ACACIA’S BACK had been replaced by a dull throbbing in her skull. She lifted her hand to probe her head injury. It came away with traces of blood that must have seeped through the bandage.
The room spun. She closed her eyes.
“He will be punished. We had orders not to touch you.” A man’s voice spoke Arabic.
“I speak French,” she whispered.
“I know what languages you speak, Hanin.” The voice radiated contempt.
Acacia moaned. “Can I have a glass of water?”
She heard movement and the sound of liquid sloshing. A metal cup was placed in her hand.
She opened her eyes and lifted the cup. She downed the water in a few swallows.
“Don’t you recognize me?” The voice mocked.
Acacia’s gaze lifted to her captor, a man with black hair and eyes. He wore a dark beard, carried a rifle, and wore military fatigues.
“Hello, cousin. It’s Ibrahim.”
Acacia carefully schooled her reaction, determined to give away nothing.
Ibrahim pointed to her head. “There was a lot of blood. Sayeed got carried away, but that won’t happen again.”
“What do you want?” she asked in French.
The man walked to the wall near the door. He leaned against it. “Are we really going to play this game? I know you understand me. You look like your mother, Hanin. That’s how we knew it was you.”
Acacia bit her tongue. She wondered if they had her mother, but was too afraid to ask.
“Your father has been planning this for days. But he was called away before you arrived. He’ll be back tomorrow.” Ibrahim lifted his chin in the direction of the table. “There’s food.”
“Please,” she asked in French. “I’m hurt. Can I see a doctor?”
“No. Fatima is a healer. She bandaged your head.”
“Can I have a pen and paper? Something to read?”
Ibrahim shook his head at her and left.
Acacia closed her eyes and tried to ignore the dizziness. She had a concussion; she was sure of it. The room continued to spin.
The door opened again.
Acacia opened her eyes and saw Ibrahim place a pen, a piece of paper, and a Qur’an on her bed. He left without a word.
She snatched up the items and examined the pen to see if it could be useful.
The scent of food wafted from the nearby table. She was too nauseated to eat, but she noticed a metal spoon sitting next to her meal. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands.
They’d given her a weapon.
Despite her concussion, Acacia wasted no time before trying to escape.
By the light of the bathroom, she took the ballpoint pen apart, placing the pieces on a towel on the floor.
Try as she might, she couldn’t envision a way to use them to pry off the cover to the ventilation shaft. It seemed to be affixed from the inside.
She’d even tried hanging on it. But the cover remained firmly in place.
The slats attached to the underside of the cot with metal screws. She used the handle of her spoon as a screwdriver to remove one of the slats. But it was too wide to slip between the door and the doorframe.
She hid the slat and screws underneath her thin mattress, hoping she could find some use for them.
Sitting on the closed toilet and contemplating the pen pieces, her thoughts strayed to Nicholas. Rick and his team would scour the crime scene for clues, if the Paris police didn’t get there first.
Perhaps Luc would be there as well. Although it wasn’t likely, given what she’d said to him at her apartment.
In the small, dank bathroom, Acacia allowed herself the luxury of a few tears. She cried for Kurt. She cried for Nicholas and the love she felt for him. While her opposition to killing remained unchanged, she regretted her decision to leave him, and not only because she’d been kidnapped shortly thereafter.
She loved him, and he loved her. She even liked his parents. And she believed they could build something extraordinary together. Rather than issuing an ultimatum and running off, she should have stayed and worked hard to present him with an alternative to the path of death he seemed hell bent on. She should have tried harder rather than giving up.
Sitting in the mysterious compound in Morocco, Acacia made a vow. When she escaped, she would return to Nicholas and try to work things out. The thought fortified her.
She dried her eyes and hid the spoon in her sleeve, determined to use it to attack one of her guards the next morning. Yes, her sensei had told her she was the weapon. But in this situation, she believed she needed something in addition to her physical skills to escape men with automatic weapons.
She was against killing, but she was not against hurting someone in self-defense.
Acacia slept fitfully. Her head hurt, and the wound seemed to be on fire. She’d checked the bathroom, but there was nothing she could use as an antiseptic.
She was awoken very early by the first call to prayer. She went back to sleep until the call was repeated.
She groaned and sat up slowly. She felt tired and dizzy. Nevertheless, her mind continued to devise escape plans.
A short time later, the door opened and someone flicked the lights on. A short, rotund woman wearing a black headscarf and black robes appeared, clucking at Acacia. The door slammed shut behind her.
“You need to clean up.” The woman spoke Arabic, carrying a bundle of fabric in her arms. “Your father will arrive so
on. He wants to see you.”
Acacia decided to give up the pretense that they’d kidnapped the wrong woman. Her father wouldn’t be fooled. Undeniably, she looked like her mother. If necessary, her father and his men could take blood and test her DNA.
“I have a concussion,” she said quietly in Arabic.
“I’m Fatima, the one who bandaged your head. We can’t wash your hair because of the wound, but I can help you shower.”
Acacia bristled. “I can shower myself.”
“What if you fall?”
Acacia allowed her shoulders to slump. “All right. But I need something for the pain.”
The woman nodded and rapped on the door. It opened, and she departed.
Acacia quickly slipped the spoon under the mattress. She could overpower the woman, but she’d still be locked inside the cell. She needed to find a way to take the spoon with her to meet her father.
A short time later, Fatima returned with fresh water and white tablets that she said were for pain.
Acacia had no way of knowing what the pills were, but she downed them with a glass of water. They must have been something strong, because her pain diminished within twenty minutes.
“Are you my father’s wife?” Acacia asked.
“I only keep house. My husband is dead, and so are my sons.” Fatima was matter-of-fact as she ordered Acacia to the bathroom.
Soon she was clean and dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt and pants, along with a traditional caftan. Fatima re-bandaged her head, exclaiming in horrified tones how ugly the wound was.
Acacia contemplated the ugliness that could be wrought on a carotid artery by a spoon.
The woman helped affix a headscarf over Acacia’s bandage, hiding her hair. When Fatima’s back was turned, Acacia slipped the spoon from under the mattress and into the long sleeve of her T-shirt, under her caftan.
Ibrahim entered the cell and told Fatima to leave. She scolded him in Arabic, telling him Acacia was hurt and needed rest, before lumbering off.
Ibrahim brought Acacia into the hall. No less than three men stood guard, each carrying a rifle.
She elected not to try to overpower them and run, conscious of her dizziness, as well as the fact that she didn’t know the layout of the compound. The more they showed her, the better her escape plan would be.
They marched her through the courtyard and into a side door. They rounded to a set of stairs and climbed to the second floor, stopping in front of a wooden door.
Ibrahim knocked.
A faint voice ordered them to enter.
When Ibrahim opened the door, Acacia could see sunlight shining from a large window on the far side of the room. An older man sat behind a large desk, a laptop computer in front of him.
The room was ordinary and dilapidated, as was the furniture, although the laptop appeared new. Whatever opulence her father had displayed in Dubai was now muted. He wore his signet ring and an ordinary set of white robes.
Acacia was struck by the banality of his appearance and his office. She was struck by the banality of terrorism.
“Leave us,” he ordered Ibrahim.
The men closed the door securely on their way out.
Acacia looked at her father.
He pointed to a chair. “Sit down.”
She sat.
He regarded her for some time. He resembled the man she used to know in some respects, but his eyes were dead. Whatever warmth she’d once seen there or in his expression had now vanished.
“You look like your mother,” he observed in Arabic.
Acacia didn’t respond.
His eyes narrowed. “Where is she?”
“She’s in Brazil.”
“Where in Brazil?”
Acacia shrugged. “If you found me in Paris, you should be able to find her in Brazil.”
Her father lifted from his chair and came around to the front of his desk. Before Acacia could react, he struck her across the face.
In a flash, she was a little girl in Amman again. Her mother was on the floor, crying, and Acacia was hanging off her father’s arm, trying to stop him from hitting her.
“Where is your mother?” Omar’s voice was low, controlled.
Acacia lifted her hands to protect herself. “I don’t know.”
He stood over her.
Then for no reason she could discern, he returned to his seat. He stared at her from behind the desk.
As the shock of being struck faded, so did her memories. While she inhaled and exhaled deeply, she studied him. If he came at her again, she’d take him to the floor.
He appeared to be unarmed. Yet even if she made it to the window and dropped down to the courtyard below, it was far from certain she’d be able to make it out of the compound before his men caught up with her. Her dizziness would hamper her ability to run and defend herself.
So she sat where she was and seethed with anger. This man, who stared contemptuously from across a desk, was lucky he didn’t have a spoon sticking out of his neck.
His eyes became slits. “I wasn’t sure if you saw me in Dubai. Obviously you did and warned your mother. You look like her. You even walk like her.”
“What do you want?” Acacia redirected the conversation. “Why am I here?”
He crossed his arms and ignored her questions. “Your mother had an apartment in Recife. It looks like she left in a hurry. She hasn’t contacted you since then, and you haven’t contacted her.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Perhaps.” He waited, as if anticipating a response.
“Father, please. I want to go home.”
“You are home.”
“I live in Paris.”
“That life is over.” He gestured to her head. “If you try to escape again, you will be beaten.”
Her gaze flicked to his desk. “Can I have access to a computer?”
“So you can contact Mossad?” He spat on the floor. “No.”
“Mossad?” Her eyebrows shot up. “What are you talking about?”
“The man you whored for.” Her father’s low voice dripped with poison. “The rich Jew you were with in Dubai. He’s Mossad.”
Acacia shook her head. “He’s a businessman. He isn’t a spy.”
“He’s Mossad.” Omar’s voice was contemptuous. “You’ve shamed me and your family. You’ve abandoned the true faith. You will be punished, and so will your mother. How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”
Acacia’s throat felt dry. She could hardly manage to swallow. “Not since December.”
“Where did you see her?”
“Recife.”
“You will tell me where she is, and you will tell me how you’ve been contacting her.”
Acacia moved forward on her chair. “Please, father. I don’t know where she is. She lives in Recife. If she isn’t there, she’s run away.”
Omar slapped his hand on top of the desk, making Acacia jump. “Until you tell me where your mother is, you won’t receive any food or medicine.”
He pressed a button on his desk and Ibrahim opened the door. He took hold of Acacia’s elbow.
Acacia stood, but before she turned to go she looked at her father.
“I loved you once,” she said in Arabic. “And you loved me. I know you did. Where is the man who protected me from monsters in the dark? What did you do to him?”
Omar gazed up at her and cursed. “That man is dead.”
He waved a hand to Ibrahim, who escorted Acacia from the room.
A short time later, Acacia sat on her cot and removed her headscarf.
Fatima had insisted on slathering a foul-smelling poultice over her head wound before re-bandaging it yet again. Given the scent, Acacia didn’t know whether to thank her or curse her.
To her surpr
ise, Ibrahim had followed her into the cell. He stood guard, his gun slung over his shoulder.
She groaned and touched the side of her head. The pain had returned, but she knew there would be no more relief.
Acacia knew her mother was in a safe house in Manaus, but she didn’t have the address. She believed Nicholas would have moved her mother from Manaus to a different city once he realized she’d been kidnapped. Or so she hoped.
“Tell me where your mother is and I’ll give you something for the pain.” Ibrahim spoke after Fatima had left the cell. His gaze fixed on the large bruise that covered Acacia’s cheek.
She hugged her knees into her chest, taking care not to brush against her injured face. “Do you expect me to believe you?”
“Yes.”
Acacia closed her eyes. She sifted through her memories, trying to find something she could use to influence her father. Since he’d become radicalized, it appeared the man she knew was gone.
“I remember you.” Ibrahim’s voice was contemplative.
She opened her eyes. “I remember you, too. We lived in the same apartment building in Amman.”
His eyes met hers, and he adjusted the gun on his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell your father where your mother is? It isn’t you he wants.”
Acacia blinked. “Are you so sure?”
“Of course.”
She fixed him with a stony glare. “Ibrahim, I’m as good as dead. You know that. My father thinks I’ve shamed him. That’s why he wants my mother—so he can kill us both to recover his honor.”
Ibrahim’s expression remained unchanged. “He just wants your mother.”
Acacia cursed in Arabic. “You can tell him you tried. You can tell him I know he’s going to kill me. I don’t know where my mother is, and I can’t tell him what I don’t know.”
She closed her eyes.
Ibrahim made a noise of exasperation and knocked on the cell door. The door opened.
For some reason, Ibrahim closed the door and remained in the cell. “Do you remember when the boys from the neighborhood caught me by the fence? They were throwing stones.”
The Man in the Black Suit Page 31
