A World I Never Made (11 page)

Patrick Nolan had not pressed her for additional information, intuiting perhaps that Catherine’s professional life hung in a balance that required silence in order to be accurately measured. Jacques’s quiet interludes were rare, his questions seemingly unending. She had learned from living with him that it required a certain self-possession to simply keep quiet, a trusting nature to let questions go unasked. Neither of which he had possessed. She could see from Nolan’s eyes and his body language that he was thinking, thinking intently, and that he would soon want answers. But meanwhile he was still, occasionally glancing at Catherine but otherwise watching her old lover’s house with a calmness that belied any curiosity. Their silence did not last long. Within five minutes, a dark blue BMW sedan pulled up in front of 121 Avenue des Ormes. From it emerged four men, all Arabs in their mid-to-late twenties. One of them had a bandage above his left eye.

“Our friend,” said Pat.

“What?”

“From last night:”

Now Catherine took a closer look at the man with the bandage. It was indeed Ahmed bin-Shalib, the man who had accosted Pat, whom Pat had struck with the wrench, who had run off into the night. The man who had beheaded Michael Cohen in Karachi.

“Yes,” she said. “Our friend.”

The four men split into teams of two, one team going around back of the house, the other to the front. The two at the front drew nine-millimeter pistols from their jackets before kicking in the door and entering with the swift and sure movements of a professional SWAT team. A few minutes later all four men emerged through the narrow side yard, entered the BMW, and drove off. The front door of 121 Avenue des Ormes swung askew on one hinge. The boys at the end of the block were still playing soccer, the men still smoking and talking, and the litter on the street still swirling as the first heavy flakes of wet snow began to fall.

~10~

MOROCCO, MARCH 3, 2003

Megan and Abdel al-Lahani sat sipping coffee in the bright morning sunlight on the balcony of Lahani’s fourth-floor penthouse in Casablanca’s old city. Below them was a small courtyard used by local housewives to hang laundry. The courtyard was surrounded on all sides by buildings similar to Lahani’s. One of these was smaller, which afforded a view from Lahani’s balcony over a series of jumbled rooftops to the tall buildings—hotels and office towers—that surrounded Casablanca’s main square, from which all of the city’s major avenues radiated. In the distance beyond the square was the airport where jets had been landing and taking off all morning. Lahani had returned the day before and Megan had spent the night with him. Breakfast had been served by the same grim-faced native woman, wearing the same dark blue hooded djellaba, who had served them dinner at Lahani’s house in Marrakech a month ago. Megan had been in the bathroom earlier, the door half open, peeing, and had seen the woman—Lalla, she remembered was her name—silently enter the apartment using her own key, and just as silently enter the galley kitchen and begin making breakfast.

“So you have turned up nothing on your terrorist groups?” Abdel al-Lahani asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Megan replied.

“What were they called again?”

“Al Haramain and Salafist Jihad.”

“Yes, I remember now. And Professor Madani was of no help?”

“No. He was very nice, but these groups were completely unknown to him.”

“And the Falcon of Andalus?”

Megan smiled wryly, her thoughts rapidly going over the ground she had covered in the last two years of her life. Her last article prior to 9/11, for
Cosmopolitan,
was entitled, “Octopussy: The Search For Your Eight Ultrasecret Erogenous Zones.” Now she was writing about Muslim hegemony in Europe and looking for a terrorist mastermind who called himself the Falcon of Andalus. Which search, she wondered, was more delusional?

“Of course he knew of him as a historical figure;” she replied, ”but he knew of no myth of his returning to reconquer Spain:”

“Did he take you seriously? He is a good friend, but his scholarship comes before all else:”

“Yes, he had read my work and spoke well of it:”

Since 9/11, Megan had published four lengthy, well-researched pieces in respected online political journals, in which she had explored the threat posed by the densely packed Muslim communities that had sprung up over the past decade in Europe’s major cities. It was in and around Madrid’s Moroccan-dominated Lavapies neighborhood that she first heard of the mysterious Al Haramain Brigade and the even murkier Salafist Jihad movement, both, it was said, based in Morocco and both dedicated to the reestablishment, by force, of Muslim authority on the Iberian Peninsula. It was a matter of faith, she was told, among Madrid’s emigrant Muslim proletariat, that Abdur-Rahman al-Zahra, the Falcon of Andalus—the greatest of all Muslim caliphs in Spain, dead some twelve hundred years—would soon return to lead a Muslim army in the retaking not only of Spain but of Portugal and parts of southern France as well.

“I don’t think they exist, these groups. Not in Morocco,” Lahani said.

“You mean these specific groups or terrorist cells in general?”

“Terrorist cells in general:”

“That’s absurd, Abdel. I’ve been through Sidi Moumin. There’s enough hate there to move Mount Everest:”

Megan could see that her last comment did not sit well with her new lover. He did not like to be contradicted, his opinions dismissed out of hand as she had just done. It was an old story to Megan, and to humans in general. First we make love with someone, then we learn about them.

“I am not Moroccan, Megan,” Lahani said, “but I have two homes here and I know it well. It is a liberal country. The parliament has some power. King Mohammed is benign. There may be some anger in the slums, but not
jihadist
anger, believe me. To attack this government would be an act of insanity.”

“But they would attack in Spain, not here:”

“Yes, but there would be brutal reprisals by the palace and the national police once it was discovered that Morocco was their home base. The country would become more secular, more repressive of fundamentalist Islam:”

“Aren’t all terrorists insane though, not rational by definition?”

“I doubt that even the best experts would say it was that simple.” The icy look that had appeared briefly in Lahani’s dark eyes had vanished. He was smiling again. A very handsome smile indeed, meant, Megan felt, not so much to charm as to pacify her. He
will not be so easy to figure out, or control,
she thought, and she smiled to herself at this thought, anticipating the contest ahead and the great lovemaking it would engender, like last night’s.

“There is a neighborhood called Carrières Thomas,” Megan said, “where no one would speak to me. Will you come there with me? Someone might be willing to talk if you are with me:”

“Yes, I will. There’s an extraordinary market there—dangerous but extraordinary—where I know some of the merchants:”

“Good, you can introduce me. When can we go?”

“Today, this morning if you like. But do not expect to discover any terrorists:”

“You mean they won’t be wearing jihadist garb?”

“Megan, I too have read your articles. I know you are a serious writer. I do not doubt that terrorists are incubating in Paris and Madrid. But this is an Arab country. Nothing is as it appears. Secrets here are the most valuable of currencies. The Arabs in Europe are
outré.
They will talk because they are isolated and perhaps desperate. Here you will get only polite nonsense.”

“I understand. I appreciate your taking me. It’s a start.”

As Megan was speaking, a phone in the depths of the apartment began to ring. When she finished, Lahani excused himself and left the balcony to answer it. Lalla had let herself out after serving breakfast. Thus far, not a word had been exchanged between the two of them. Megan rose after a bit to stand at the balcony’s railing. At the airport, the morning rush of jet traffic had slowed. Below, two women, their hoods draped around their shoulders like Lalla’s, were at opposite windows of the courtyard hanging clothes and talking to each other in Berber across the open space. Megan was not surprised to learn that Lahani had read her articles. She had expected him to look into her background as she had done his, finding on her laptop screen the home page of a Lahani Construction Company in Saudi Arabia, in business for more than fifty years, but containing no mention of a member of the firm named Abdel.

Megan was happy that the old game was on. And she was sure that she would win, even though Abdel al-Lahani was obviously very powerful and used to getting his way. She might not get Lahani to grovel, as she had other dominant males, but he was in for several surprises. She would take his money if he offered it, though she didn’t need it—the nearly half million dollars she had in a Swiss bank would last a long time, and there were plenty of rich fools out there as sources of replenishment. No, more important—and more gratifying—she would use Lahani to help her track down and write about the Al Haramain Brigade and the Salafist Jihad. Perhaps the trail would lead to someone calling himself the Falcon of Andalus, who actually fancied himself the infidel-killing hero who would return the Moors to their days of glory in the West. Now that would be a hell of a story.

Megan’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Lahani’s footsteps crossing the tiled floor of the large living room that led out to the balcony. She was wearing a deceptively simple pale green silk robe with nothing underneath. She untied its sash and was about to turn to greet Lahani, the beginning of a demure smile on her face, when a movement, or rather a sudden stillness below, caught her attention. Looking down, she saw that the woman at the window on the right was Lalla, who was now staring up at Megan, her face wearing its usual stolid, impassive mask. Megan pressed her body against the balcony’s wrought iron railing, as if to emphasize her sensuality, and nodded dismissively toward the servant. She did not like being stared at. Lalla nodded as well, ever so slightly, and withdrew Before she could turn, or consider Lalla’s behavior, Megan felt Lahani’s large brown hands on her breasts as he embraced her from behind. Her breath caught in her throat at his touch, and all thoughts of mythical falcons and sphinx-like servants vanished, replaced by a rush of desire.

~11~

PARIS / RAMBOUILLET, JANUARY 4, 2004

“Geneviève, Charles Raimondi:”

“Yes, Charles:”

“I would like to speak to Catherine Laurence. Can you patch her in, or have her call me?”

“She has taken a leave of absence, Charles:”

“A leave of absence? When did this happen?”

“Just a few minutes ago. I put her on leave status while she was handling your case. You and I discussed it, if you recall. She asked that it be made official. I authorized it, of course. She actually never did take any time after her husband’s death:”

“Yes, I see, but it is imperative that I speak to her. Is she traveling?”

“She didn’t say. She told me she located the girl and that you advised her that you would handle the arrest. She felt she was free to get away. Is there a problem? Can I assign someone else?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Can you give me her cell phone number?”

“Of course. Hold on:”

While he was on hold, Charles Raimondi swiveled in his chair to look out the sealed window behind his desk. From his thirty-fifth-floor perch, he could see the Arch de Triomphe below him to his right and the Eiffel Tower in the distance across the winter-brown Seine. Though it was only three PM, the street lamps lining the Avenue des Champs-Elysées were on. Snow was spitting from a leaden sky.
Dirty weather, dirty business,
he thought, wondering where Catherine Laurence had gone off to and whether he might surprise her there when his dirty business was done. Ms. Nolan had given him the slip, as they said in American gangster movies, but surely someone in the neighborhood had seen her.

It was a pity Nolan was wanted so badly. She was strikingly beautiful, with her long reddish-blond hair and exotic eyes. And her unmistakable air of superiority. It would have been interesting to have met her under different circumstances. Catherine Laurence, however, was in the same category of beauty. Her provincial Frenchness worked against her, but after all he would not be marrying her. He was sure that there would be logical answers to the panicky questions raised by his Saudi Arabian contact. It would give him another excuse to speak with Catherine, perhaps catch her in her apartment as she was packing or getting out of the shower.

“Here is the number, Charles:”

“Yes, go ahead.” Raimondi wrote the number down. “And her home address?” He listened and wrote again.

“Will you be needing anything else?”

“No, DST will handle this from now on:”

“I would have liked to stay on the case. A
terrorist
cell ... Good luck:”

“Thank you, Geneviève, By the way—no one will approach you about this case, but if someone does, you must say nothing and call me immediately.”

“Yes, of course, Charles. I understand:”

No
you don’t,
Raimondi thought, smiling. Then he picked up one of his untraceable, throwaway cell phones—which he kept handy for purposes of liaison-making with the wives of fellow diplomats—and dialed Catherine Laurence’s number.