“I would appreciate a little break. You speak English well.”
“I studied in the U.S. Your Massachusetts Institute of Technology. A fine school. I enjoyed my time there.” He snapped his fingers and a veiled woman appeared through the tent flap. “Please escort Miss Fox to her quarters.”
India’s head whirled from the woman to the man behind the desk. “I was not planning to stay. My driver is waiting where your man took over our car.” I hope.
There was no expression behind the black eyes. “Jamil will be our guest as well. After you have time to rest from your drive, we will have an excellent dinner and you can ply me with your questions.” He glanced at her camera. “You may take your pictures of our pleasant evening for the American television.”
The woman touched India’s elbow and indicated she should follow. Why do I feel I lost this encounter. I’m being out-maneuvered and I’m not sure what I should do about it. Well, I won’t get anywhere being disagreeable.
India stopped at the tent opening and looked back at the bearded man. “What are you called?”
“You may address me as Nazih.”
IT WAS FULLY dark when India was escorted into another spacious tent. Persian rugs and pillows had been arranged around a brazier fire. The heavy bouquet of Middle-eastern spices hung in the air over an array of dishes placed around the fire. India indicated her adjustable tripod and asked where she might set up her camera and microphone so that their words and the attractive setting could be displayed. Nazih assented. After India had the scene to her satisfaction, Nazih motioned her to be seated next to him. Over dishes of lamb, rice, eggplant, several salads of cucumbers onions and tomatoes in olive oil, India was able to insert questions into a conversation that seemed more social than business-like.
I feel like I’m being played, but what can I do? Nazih is making like the gracious host at a dinner party, charming and open to answering anything I ask. I wonder…
“Nazih, the official count of people killed in the explosion in Beirut is fourteen, with dozens more wounded. I could even say to you that I was one of the injured, though not seriously. My friend Nadia was killed, my assistant had serious injuries. Why, if you want world sympathy would you plan such a devastating attack?”
Nazih rolled a piece of lamb into a pita-like bread, then pointed with it at India. “There will always be, what you call collateral damage, in these gestures.”
“You call that a gesture, sir? Surely it was more than that. Why there? Why at an international hotel? There are bound to be repercussions from foreign capitals whose citizens were hurt. Killed.”
He bit into the lamb morsel. “The Finance Minister of Qatar was staying there. There was a meeting with other financiers who are in the employ of Assad and the Sunni Gulf States. Perhaps ‘gesture’ was not the word I was seeking. There was a point to be made. Attention must be paid.” He moved a dish toward her. “Have you tried the khubz?”
She tried to hide her exasperation. “I am sure there are sympathies to be had in the world for your aspirations. Is destruction and death the way to go?”
But Nazih was no longer in the mood to play. Her “interview” appeared to be over. Had she gotten anything at all? Other than a few pretty pictures and a few platitudes.
After a dessert of honey cakes and fruit, three men who appeared to be part of the guerillas, or whatever they were, sang to a drum and stringed instrument. Sitting among pillows on a fine carpet around a fire in a remote tent surrounded by mountains, listening to the wailing of Middle Eastern music, speaking politely in English to an MIT graduate al Qaeda terrorist—India, you’re exactly where you should be. Fuck World Broadcast News.
Then the thought wormed into her head. Don’t get so caught up in the Arabian Nights dramatics of this, India. What are you actually learning?
Nazih had the same black clad woman escort India back to her “quarters.” assuring her in a Syrian dialect that in the morning her driver and car would be waiting where she had encountered the sentry.
The woman brought her water and cloths, silently placing them inside her tent. After the adrenalin-charged day, India found she was exhausted. The uncertainty, the long drive, the tension of the drive had taken their toll. She pulled off her jeans and boots, and crawled under red, white, and black rough wool blankets, glad for their warmth when the mountain temperature continued to drop as the night wore on.
A LIGHT FLICKERED against her eyelids some hours later. Groggy with sleep, she wasn’t sure of the time. And then the light blinded her as hard fingers pulled her arms from the blankets and held them down. Shadows. How many? Rough hands jerked off the blankets and as the cold struck her, hands yanked at her panties and pulled them down and off over her legs. There was a whoosh of dark robes as the hands shoved her legs apart, and then a man’s weight was on her, swollen, thrusting into her roughly, fingers smashing her breasts. A pounding rhythm rammed deep as she struggled, choking on her own screams. She caught a glimpse of black curly hair, a short beard, when the man shuddered over her as he ejaculated. Then there was another body on her, grunting, heavier this time, different, reeking of heat and old sweat, slippery against her legs, pawing at her body, other hands held her immobile.
A voice in Arabic muttered, “Arrogant American bitch. Come here to lecture to us. This is what we think of you.” His juices poured into her.
AFTER THEY HAD gone, India cleaned herself with the cloths and water the woman had left and huddled under the blankets. She tried to still her chattering teeth, her trembling. She had used her body to get what she wanted before. But those men had loved her body. And now she understood the contempt of those shadows in the night. She’d felt it when she herself had used a man. Her chills subsided. Grimly she knew she would exact some kind of revenge, if simply to regain her equilibrium. Maybe not these attackers. But others, who wanted what these men wanted.
HER WATCH TOLD her it was 4:30 in the morning. There was nothing more, only silence. What would happen at daylight? At the first weak sunlight slipped into the little valley she struggled up and peered out the tent flap. Nothing seemed amiss. Last night’s woman approached and handed her a warm unleavened bread and a mug of hot, thick coffee. She didn’t look at India.
Drink this, India. Eat. Act as if you can do as you please.
Would she be allowed to walk out of their camp, daring her to tell the world what they had done to her? Raping her in the night to retaliate for her effrontery to question their savagery? That they could kill and maim dozens, murder a brilliant actress, in the center of a busy city with impunity?
Had the attack really happened? But her body knew that it had. There were red marks on her arms and breasts that would soon be bruises, between her legs she felt ravaged. But it was her person, her self that had suffered. Nazih’s graciousness had been only a pose. The attack and contempt of her in the middle of the night to let her know his sneer at her presumption. How could she have been so naïve, so sure of herself that this smooth, educated man Nazih would allow her into his barbarism, explain himself and his followers to her?
But perhaps he had underestimated her. She would figure that out when her head was clearer. She would turn this assault to her advantage. Surely she could. That was what she had come for.
Now she must get out of here.
Cautiously India eased herself through the tent flap. The camp was quiet. A fine haze of dust hung over the tents and the faint scent of animal dung, mixed with aromas of coffee and baking bread.
It was easier than she had imagined. A guard materialized at her side and with a jerk of his head directed her up the rocky path where Jamil and the car waited. Her camera was still with her and nothing seemed to have been tampered with. But what showed on it but scenes of a convivial dinner, where she smiled and laughed at Najeh’s charm and witticisms. Music, a feast and firelight on the desert.
Walking was not comfortable, but she made it to the car. Jamil looked at her carefully, but said nothing as she pul
led open the door. Did he know? Had he known before, what they would do? And then let her go, to tell a story of their grievances and their disdain of the West.
The guard even gave them a small wave as Jamil started the car and turned it to head out of the valley.
The chill of the mountain night lingered in the car until Jamil turned the heater to high. As the sun rose higher India’s shivering began to subside. She used her anger to calm herself—her way of coping with situations where she had little control. She had honed the technique all her life. Not that she had ever been physically mistreated, but as long as she could remember she had been mostly an afterthought in her parents’ lives and she found she could handle the loneliness, along with intermittent bursts of effusive attention with a cool fury. A “don’t-fall-for-that-crap, India, it ain’t gonna last. Get it while you can.” The first time she learned that, she got a puppy. Next a kitten. Then a pony, then a special dress. Later on a convertible. Yes, she learned to get what she wanted. And tell herself what she didn’t get didn’t matter.
She paid careful attention to the direction as they drove. Noted the time, how fast they went, every small turn, every landmark imprinted in her mind. She checked the sun’s position against her watch. On a long stretch she turned her attention to her driver.
“Jamil, what happened to you? Did you have dinner? Sleep well? Nobody seemed to want to tell me where you were being taken.”
“I wasn’t taken any place special. I knew one of the men. He took me to have dinner with the other guards. It was very good. They are well-supplied here. I think it is a permanent camp that they have used for some time. I slept in their tent. They took the car and put gasoline in it for our trip back. They were helpful. Was your evening fruitful?”
“Who are they, Jamil? Are they part of Hezbollah or al-Qaida?”
“They are an offshoot of Hamas. There is more than one group gathering to challenge Assad.”
“What are you getting out of this? You were Christian. Have you converted? To Islam?”
He was silent for some moments, then glanced over at India with a grin. “I have converted to Jamil.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jed Ellsworth’s Office, U.S. Embassy, Beirut
THE CIA OFFICER’S window in the embassy overlooked the sea. One wall had a dozen monitors tuned in from around the world. India recognized staff from CNN, al Jazeera, and the BBC, plus the local Lebanese network, Télé-Liban. Other networks India could guess, like China, India, France, Stockholm, Tokyo. She pulled her eyes away from the TV wall.
“So, besides my photographs, that’s about all I can tell you, Jed. The next morning I left the camp with Jamil. No one stopped us. No one hindered us in any way on the roads out of the country.” Her voice had been shaky when she described her experience at the camp in Syria and she willed herself to stay calm, a dispassionate recitation of her ordeal.
Jed sat forward, and studied her face as he rubbed his forehead. “My God, India. Are you all right? Do you need medical care?”
She waved her hand, brushing his concern away. “No, of course not. I can’t say it wasn’t a terrible experience. It was terrible, and frightening. But looking back, I’m surprised I wasn’t seized or something. Imprisoned. Tortured. Killed. But oddly, they let me go. Maybe because Jamil had brought me.” She pulled her hair back with both hands, then shook her head. “I don’t know. Do they want me to tell this? Boasting of their rape of a western woman journalist?”
“India, you say you don’t know why you were let go.” He tapped his desk with a pen, seeming to make up his mind. “I know you get upset when anybody reminds you that you get to do some things other people don’t get to do because you’re an ambassador’s daughter.”
“I don’t want to hear it!”
“Oh, bullshit. Use it. That’s why you were let go. Probably why you were assaulted as well. But you have to take everything that comes with your position. Don’t be naïve. I’m sure, hell, I know you’ve used your access to important people in the past. Your looks, too. And you’d better come to terms with it now. You’re determined to get into a very nasty world. You aren’t where you are because you’re an especially gifted journalist. The world is full of brilliant men and women journalists who put their lives on the line because they think it’s important. I’d say you were extremely lucky. “
India’s cheeks burned. “Thanks for putting me in my place, Jed. I sure didn’t feel lucky with two terrorists grunting on top of me. Squirting into me.”
“Oh, shit.” He rubbed a spot between his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. I mean you were lucky, to get out of there. A lot of people don’t. And I can’t even imagine what you went through. And I apologize for being blunt. I’m not trivializing what you did. What you are. I don’t want you to think so. What I’m saying is a warning. I want you to listen.”
India felt all her energy seep out of her and dropped her head on the back of the chair, speaking to the ceiling chandelier. “I know you’re right, about my credentials. I’m only just beginning. I want to be good. I know I’ve a way to go. Sometimes my troubles are my own fault, but not always.” India rubbed her temples. “I wanted you to know about my…experience. You could tell me how to handle it. I don’t know. What to do about it. And I think the men who attacked me wanted their enemies to know about it, too. It was a…gesture of contempt.”
“Yes. You’re right. It must be terrible for you to have to go over this. Tell me anything else you remember. Details are important.”
“I was careful on the way there to note the direction we were going.” She straightened up. “The turns, landmarks, mileage, et cetera. But on the way back I did more to memorize the route. I asked questions of Jamil. He’d answer, but he wasn’t terribly forthcoming. He definitely wasn’t too happy answering. He hadn’t been happy to take me, for that matter. He would have turned back in a heartbeat.”
“What can you tell me about Jamil? How do you know him?”
“He’s the brother of my nanny when my father was ambassador here. He would go on outings with us. He was two years younger than me, as I recall. A sweet kid. Kind of shy. He was at the farm for a brief time when I visited Mariam in the Beqa’a valley in January. The family is Maronite Catholic. I was surprised to learn he had joined a Hezbollah organization. But all those associations are breaking down. Mariam asked him to take me after I told her I wanted to interview a dissident group. Terrorist group, to be honest.”
“We have a small file on him. We’d like you to fill in more details, if you’re able to.”
“I’ll do what I can. It won’t be much. When I askd him about his association with the group, had he converted to Islam, he took it lightly and said he’d converted to Jamil. Like it was an association of self-interest. Something like that. But, as I said, I didn’t know him well. He was still a kid when I knew the family.”
“Would you recognize the men who…uh, hurt you…if you saw them. From photographs. We have a whole library of them.”
She swallowed hard, gaining control of emotion in her voice. “They raped me, Jed. They didn’t ‘hurt’ me. Don’t use euphemisms. Rape is humiliation, contempt, degradation. It isn’t a ‘hurt.’”
“You’re right, India. That wasn’t meant to belittle what happened to you. Would you be able to identify them?”
“Jed, I’ll never forget them.”
“You know the ambassador will be furious when she finds out what happened to you. She’ll be back from Washington in a couple of days. She would never have allowed you to go, India.”
“Madame Ambassador doesn’t have a damned thing to say about where I go or what I do. Dammit, why can’t people realize I don’t have to be coddled, carried around on a pillow because my father was an ambassador here? I don’t expect you to go blabbing to her either. I’m telling you because you’re in a position to do something about it. She doesn’t have to know.” Her voice had become shrill.
“Calm down. You know I don’t feel you h
ave to check in with anyone.”
“No, I don’t know that. And I’m telling you all this because I want you to know I’m not going to keep this whole wretched experience quiet. People should know what’s going on. If I speak out, maybe they’ll realize these people don’t play by the nice rules. They are gracious and smiling and then rape you in the night.”
Jed Ellsworth watched her for a moment before he spoke. He cleared his throat. “Before you talk openly, I’d like you to go back to CIA headquarters in Virginia. Get debriefed. We commonly do that with travelers or anyone who has had any significant contact with anyone in the Middle East. Or any other troublesome country, for that matter. If you’ve memorized where you were and the route there, that information could be very valuable.”
“I thought that. I expected to talk to somebody. Besides you.”
India’s tenseness eased now that they were off the subject of her assault. “If you want me to go back and talk to your people, Jed, catch me up. I know Sunnis and Shiites disagree on who should have succeeded Mohammed after his death. Mid-sixteen-hundreds.”
“Six-hundred thirty-two.”
“Both sects are bound by the Quran, belief in one God, yes? Daily prayers, fasting, haji the pilgrimage to Mecca, and all that. Yet they’ve been at each other’s throats for centuries.”
Jed got up and went to a whiteboard. He picked up a green marker. “The Sunnis” he wrote, then circled it in green, “supported Ab Bakr, the prophet Mohammad’s friend.” He picked up a blue marker and wrote, then circled Shiite. “Shiite Muslims felt the rightful successor was Ali ibn Abi Talib, Mohammed’s son-in-law and also his cousin.” Jed went back and forth making a diagram. “This Ali became the fourth caliph or spiritual leader of the Muslims, but he was murdered and his son was killed in battle, effectively ending a direct line to Mohammed.” He underlined his last words three times. “Today’s Shiites consider all caliphs after Ali to be false. Sunnis believe that leaders can be elected from qualified teachers. So Sunnis and Shiites don’t recognize the same line of authority.”
I Am India Fox Page 17
