A World I Never Made (35 page)

He loves her,
Max thought, watching this scene, liking this thought, this idea of an American guy arriving in Europe to confront the craziness that his daughter had created and taking a moment to fall in love. And with such a beauty.

A half hour later they were crouching behind a thick line of evergreen trees and looking across a small, man-made clearing to a low-slung rustic building with a wide veranda running along its entire front. Catherine Laurence and the older gypsy boy were standing on the veranda, their hands in their coat pockets, looking out at the clearing. The other boys were not in view. Nor was Patrick Nolan. The windows on either side of the front door, six in all, were broken, deglazed completely. Through them could be seen only dark shadow and the faintest outline of one or two objects that could have been furniture.

“I think Nolan is in there meeting with his daughter,” said Max in a low whisper.

“Or they are waiting for her to arrive;” said Dionne, his voice pitched low as well.

“We’ll wait to be sure,” said Orlofsky. “It’s the girl we want. You go around back,” he said to Max.“Keep your radio in your hand. Do not enter the building. Do not do anything until I tell you. Understood?”

“Oui, je comprends, mon capitain.”

Staying well inside the tree line, Max made his way to the back of the lodge. He had not been able to resist the “mon capitain.” Do not enter the building. Do not do
anything
until
I
tell you, the accent on the
anything.
Charles de Gaulle lived. The trees here were so thick, there was no seeing through them. Climbing, keeping quiet, he found a rocky shelf from which he could see the lodge. The two other gypsy boys stood on either side of the back door, their hands in the pockets of their winter coats. The sun was directly overhead. The boys were no more than seventeen or eighteen. On the trek in, Max’ shoes had gotten wet and muddy. Again. But this would soon be over. He buzzed Orlofsky on his walkie-talkie.

“Two teenage boys at the back door,” he said when the Frenchman acknowledged. “Probably carrying pistols. How long are we waiting?”

“Not long. If the boys go inside or head to the front, let me know.”

“I’m in range. I can take them out and get inside whenever you say.”

“Can you get a look inside?”

Max scanned the back of the building.

“I can make my way to the side. There must be a window. It”ll take a few minutes:”

“Go ahead. Buzz me:”

Max did as he was told, happy to be in motion, away from Orlofsky’s haughty gaze. The chief of his unit, on orders from the attorney general, had told him that the French were to be in charge. Nolan had pulled her fake suicide in France, and the alleged terrorist attack was supposed to occur in France. But they were no longer in France. As far as he was concerned, he was in a no-authority zone and could do what he wanted. What he wanted was to talk to Megan Nolan.
Faked suicide.
Terrorist plot.
The Falcon of Andalus. Four dead Saudi Secret Police. Raimondi a traitor. Al-Siddiq lying through his teeth.
What the fuck was she up to?

The side window was not as cleanly deglazed as the ones in the front. Jagged glass surrounded a hole the size of a soccer ball. Max listened for the boys at the back before looking in. It had taken him ten minutes to circle through the trees, avoiding their line of sight, his footsteps muted by the thick layer of pine needles on the forest floor. He heard nothing. Looking in at the lower left corner, through dirty glass, he saw a wide room that once was a kitchen, its sink rusted, its cabinets ripped from the walls. The next room was a dining alcove and in it, seated on folding chairs at a metal table were Megan Nolan—her hair short but still very beautiful—and her father. Their profiles were remarkably similar: straight, strong noses; full lips; high cheekbones; full heads of thick lustrous hair. The father dark Irish, the daughter a fair colleen with a hint of the Slav in her exotic eyes. They were leaning toward each other, not talking. Suspended, Max thought, between worlds; between what had gone before, which was over forever, and what was to come, which was hard and bright like a diamond or a miracle.

“Megan,” said Pat, and then again, “Megan—I feel like I’m meeting you for the first time:”

“You look like you’ve changed, too:”

“I have.” Pat cast his mind back over the past week, to the attack in Volney Park, to Daniel Peletier going over the cliff, to the three dead Saudis he and Catherine had left on the ground in Cap de la Hague, to the beheaded François Duval. Any one of these events would have changed him forever.

“How did you find me?” Megan asked.

“I went to the convent. They told me about the baby. They gave me François Duval’s name and address:”

“Junior.”

“Yes.”

“How is he?”

“He’s dead. Beheaded:”

Megan, who had been staring steadily at her father, looked down at the table for a moment. When she looked up again, her eyes were as clear and hard as before. “So they’ll be coming for me,” she said.

“Yes. You have to come away with me, it’s your only chance:”

Megan shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Megan, please ... They”ll find you. It”s just a matter of time:”

Megan did not answer. She also was thinking, Pat could tell, about the recent past, filled with what death and destruction he could not fathom.

“What about the police?” she asked finally. “Are they aware of the faked suicide?”

“Yes. I told them it was you, but yes. We think they’re helping the Saudis hunt you down. You’re supposed to be planning a terrorist attack in France with your Arab boyfriend.”

“I see. I’m a terrorist now. Who’s
we?”

“A French policewoman, a detective who has been helping me. Her name is Catherine Laurence. She’s outside now with Doro and two other gypsy boys:”

“Detective Laurence has gone off the reservation, I take it:”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why? You said the French police are hunting me. That means she’s put her career—not to mention her life—in jeopardy. Is she in love with you?”

Pat, surprised by the swiftness and the accuracy of Megan”s insight, did not answer.

“Does she have children?” Megan asked.

“Do you want to interview her? She’s right outside.” Pat smiled as he said this, and shook his head. It had never occurred to him that Megan’s approval—of anything in his life—would hold any value for him. Until now. Megan smiled as well and they shared a moment that most fathers and their grown daughters share often.

The moment passed, but its memory would be priceless to Pat in the years ahead.

“How did you get Doro to help you?” Megan asked.

“The Saudis killed Annabella. Doro brought me here. He wants revenge:”

There was nothing to do but to say this outright. He watched Megan’s eyes absorb another death. The trail she left for Pat had led directly through Annabella Jeritza and François Duval. She had led her executioners to her friends” doors.

“So I’m the bait,” she said.

“He wants to talk to you when we’re done:”

“He’s just a boy.”

“He’s a man now.”

“I’ll do whatever I can. But he’ll be no match for Lahani.”

“Lahani?”

“Abdel al-Lahani. My Arab boyfriend. It was probably his idea to trick the French into helping hunt me down. Brilliant, actually. Who is my fictitious boyfriend supposed to be?”

“A terrorist named Rahman al-Zahra.”

“Unbelievable. That’s him.”

“Who?”

“Lahani:”

“Talk to me Megan. What’s going on?”

“I met Lahani in Morocco. We became lovers. I discovered he was a terrorist, the so-called Falcon of Andalus, Rahman al-Zahra, a Muslim who ruled Spain long ago, supposedly come to life to return Islam to world dominance. He did the bombings in Casablanca last May. I tried to kill him, but failed. He’s hunting me. I thought the fake suicide would free me, but he saw through it.”

“You tried to kill him?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Poison. It didn’t work:”

Corozzo had told Doro that the meeting could last no more than thirty minutes. Pat paused to absorb this amazing piece of news.
She tried to kill this asshole. She fought back.
Then he pressed on.

“Who was the girl at the morgue?” he asked.

“A gypsy named Little Pia. She was dying of ovarian cancer. I gave her ten thousand euros. It must have been a shock. I’m sorry.”

“I was happy you were alive, Meg. I’ve never been so happy in my life:”

“What made you lie to the police?”

“The note was weird. The cremation. You weren’t wearing Lorrie’s ring. That is, the other woman wasn’t, Little Pia. My instincts told me you wanted the police—the world—to believe you were dead. You needed me to help you ...”

“We finally communicated:”

“It”s a hell of a thing, the way you went about it:”

“I knew you could handle it:”

“When was the baby born?”

Pat had hesitated before asking this question, but only for a second, a second in which he took in the silence inside the lodge and the winter stillness outside. Despite the quiet, or because of it, he could sense the storm surrounding them. In the calm of its eye his heart drummed, its beat both driving him to pull Megan away from all this danger and riveting him to his chair, to hold on as long as possible to this moment with his daughter, to make it last a lifetime if he could.

“December 21,” she answered.

“That’s Lorrie”s birthday.”

“I know.”

Pat’s mind went back to his meeting with the prioress at the convent in Lisieux, to the sadness in her eyes as she told him of the death of his grandchild. And to the question he had been wanting to ask ever since, the question he promised himself he would not ask, the one that now came to his lips as if on its own.

“It was bitter cold that night, Megan. What were you thinking?”

“The baby was already dead. It was stillborn:”

It was Pat’s turn to look down.
Stillborn.
Megan reached across the table and took his hand. Pat Nolan stared at his daughter’s beautifully formed hand caressing his fingers. Then he remembered the round-trip train ticket to Lisieux he had found in Megan’s wallet, dated December 24.

“But you went to Lisieux on December ...”

“My baby’s still alive, Dad,” Megan said, interrupting.

“Alive?”

“The baby I brought to Lisieux I bought from a gypsy family for another ten thousand euros. My midwife was Little Pia’s mother. One of her patients delivered a stillborn boy on December 24. She persuaded them to give it up. She was part witch and gypsies are very superstitious. Or maybe she stole it. I don’t know. I needed a substitute and she was greedy and got one for me:”

“Your baby’s alive?”

“Yes, and healthy.”

Pat leaned back in his chair and stared at Megan, shaking his head.

“I know,” she said, a rueful smile on her face. “I’m sorry for all these shocks:”

“Where is he?” Pat asked, collecting himself.

“Back at the camp:”

“You faked your own death
and
the baby’s?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Lahani is the father. He is Saudi royalty, very rich and very powerful. He wants to kill me, but he also wants his son, to raise as a terrorist. If he went to Lisieux, he will think his son is dead. The same as you did:”

“I think he did:”

“Good, then you can take Patrick home with you:”

“Patrick?”

“Your grandson. He’s back at the mining camp:”

Pat put his hands to his forehead, as if to press all of this information into his brain. He rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. When he took them away, Megan was still there and his grandson was still alive and would live with him in Connecticut, far far from this place and time.

“What about you?” he said finally.