Facade (20 page)

J
asna chewed on her lower lip as she paced around her apartment, cell phone cradled on her shoulder.

“Holding a copy of
The Boston Globe?
Where am I supposed to get that in Montreal?” Edvin asked, zeroing in on one of many complicated details of the plan.

“I could overnight one to you,” Jasna replied. “We just need a paper that won't give away where Lara is now and it needs to be somewhat recent to show that Lara is still alive and well.”

“Did you agree to this? It unravels everything we put together.”

Jasna sighed. “I know—I screwed up. I let my professor into the apartment and she saw Lara's photo on my laptop. Now we're stuck having Iris Reid dictate what we have to do. Our only other option is to make a run for France.”

“And if we don't do what she says she goes to the police and turns you in? I thought you said you could trust her.”

“Listen—her solution acomplishes our goal. We take the photo but it won't be released to the press until DeWitt admits what he did to me in Bosnia. We'll have Lara safe with us. Her father's locked up so he can't come hunting for her. You can photograph her against a white backdrop so no one can figure out where she is. And I don't get prosecuted or kicked out of the country for setting up DeWitt, for sending him porn, for breaking into his house, or for spying on my professor's e-mails.”

“No one was supposed to be able to tie any of this to us.”

“Well, that horse escaped from the barn, or whatever the expression is. Anyway, DeWitt's spent some time in jail, even gotten roughed up judging from the cuts on his face. After he's released from custody here he may just get hauled up in front of the World Court in the Hague for war crimes. His career is already destroyed.”

“When you put it that way, I guess it does sound like enough.”

“Nothing will ever be enough. I'll get my degree and return to Montreal so we can all be a family. That's the most important thing.”

“You're right, little sister. Keeping our family together and safe is worth more than revenge.”

T
wo days later, Xander sat again in the same interview room with Farrington and Martin- something.

“You said on the phone there had been a development?” Xander asked.

“Martin and I had an interesting chat with Jasna Sidran yesterday. She wants to make a deal with you,” Farrington said.

“What kind of a deal?”

“Ms. Sidran said that she would produce a photograph showing Lara holding up a recent copy of a newspaper to establish that the girl is still alive.”

“That's great! That would get me out of here, yes?” Xander looked hopefully at his solicitors and wondered why they looked so stony faced. A bit more slowly he asked, “In exchange for what?”

“You would have to admit that when you were a peacekeeper in Bosnia you raped the twelve-year-old Ms. Sidran.” Farrington said.

Xander sat up straight. “But it wasn't like that. We were in a relationship.”

“She was twelve years old,” Farrington practically shouted. “You were in a position of power, wearing a peacekeeper's uniform. That was NOT a relationship.”

Martin raised a hand placatingly. “Regardless of how you viewed matters, Ms. Sidran is adamant that, in exchange for the photograph, you must admit to your guilt.”

After several minutes of staring at the scarred table, Xander coughed lightly. “What would the implications be if I did that?”

Martin consulted his iPad before speaking. “It's highly likely that the D.A. would drop the case against you. As for the admitted rape in Bosnia, the UN has left punishment for what it deems to be sexual exploitation by its peacekeepers to the individual countries to prosecute. Typical punishments have run from reduction in military rank to eight months in prison. Often there is no punishment, especially after so many years have elapsed.”

Xander ran a hand through his hair. How had the girl outsmarted him? Even the better option would be unpleasant. “So, in any case, I'd be free of this prison nightmare to go back home to Holland. But I'd be disgraced in most people's eyes.”

Farrington inspected his fingernails while Martin stared at his iPad screen intently.

“How do we know she would keep her side of the deal?” Xander asked.

“She wants you to make your statement to William Buchanan of
The Boston Globe
,” Farrington said. “After your admission gets printed in
The Globe
, she says she will release the photograph to the same reporter.”

“But what if she is lying? Can you make her give you the photograph beforehand to hold onto, to make sure that it actually exists before I stick my neck out?”

Farrington shook his head. “As attorneys we're officers of the court. We'd be bound to turn over evidence like that immediately to the D.A. I doubt Ms. Sidron would agree to let that happen before she sees your admission in print.”

“But then we have no leverage,” Xander said. “I'd be a fool to trust this girl to keep her word after what she's done to me.”

Farrington looked thoughtful. “Maybe's there's some neutral party who would agree to act as a go-between.”

Martin looked up from typing notes. “What about having Iris Reid hold onto the photo? She's Ms. Sidran's professor. Isn't she someone you trust, Professor DeWitt?”

X
ander slid his cafeteria tray along the shelf, regarding the day's offerings with dismay. What kind of meat was in a sloppy joe? Why was it orange? Did he even want to know?

The Ram stood at his side, as he always did in public areas. He took his bodyguard duties seriously, as well he should for the extortionate amount Nils had deposited into his bank account.

Xander resignedly pointed to a cheese sandwich and the pimply, hairnetted server lifted his spatula.

“Get another one of those,” The Ram instructed. The prison-dictated limits on food left the man constantly hungry.

After Xander waggled two fingers, he watched the rubbery bread being flopped onto a plate. Between his distaste for prison food and the free-weight workouts, he'd be down to sinew and bone in no time and able to fit into his tightest bespoke suits.

Ignoring countless staring eyes, Xander waited for The Ram to finish loading up his tray before the two steered toward an empty table in the corner. The background clatter of the kitchen and men's low voices jangled his nerves. It was never quiet in prison. If it wasn't doors clanging, or guards shouting, it was constant announcements on the PA system.

“You meetin' with those lawyers again this afternoon?” the Ram asked, his mouth full of sloppy joe.

“No, a reporter.”

The Ram did a double take. “This the guy from
The Globe
who keeps calling you a perv?”

“That's the one. Only this time
I
will be telling
him
what to write.”
And it will get me out of this hellhole.

“Good luck with that.”

Instead of engineering an escape, was he walking into a trap? As he sat chewing the tasteless cheese whiz sandwich, the girl's words echoed in his head. “I want you to know that it's been me who's spun this web around you.”

Why did she seem to hate him? Or was this an elaborate plan to worm her way back into his life? Maybe she had been as haunted by their encounter as he had been—the excitement, the danger, the sensual thrill. Still, it was a strange way of getting his attention. His solicitors had warned him not to call what they had shared a relationship, and, in all fairness, it hadn't been that. It was a stolen few days that had changed his life. It had showed him who he really was. It must have changed her life, too.

“Because of me you'll be in this cage until the day you die.” Weren't love and hate two sides of the same coin? Hadn't she reversed course and offered him a way out of the cage several days later?

Xander pushed away his tray and leaned back in his plastic chair. Why was her price for his freedom having to say he'd raped her? Such an ugly word. She must want him to prove that he was willing to degrade himself for her. The fleeting image of leaving the girl tied to a tree rose up in his memory, but he submerged it immediately. That was not part of the narrative. He had done what he had to do to survive. It was a war, after all.

But he was left with the question of what she wanted from him after he got out. Of course he would return to Europe as fast as he could flee from this uncivilized continent. Did she think she could be a part of his life now? With a shudder, he realized he might have to spell it out for her that she was no longer his type. She was well past that golden moment when a girl stands on the edge of womanhood.

The Ram helped himself to Xander's last sandwich as Xander consulted the wall clock. Five more minutes until lunch was over. How long before he'd be savoring the Cacio e Pepe pasta with a bracing glass of Vermantino on the outdoor terrace of Palladio in Amsterdam? How long before the doting architectural critics again begged for interviews about his work? Sure, some notoriety would follow him from this experience. But people would forget soon enough. A little danger might even add to his allure.

Xander drank a carton of milk and blotted his mouth with a paper napkin.

Time to meet with Robert Buchanan.

I
ris barely registered the Mozart concerto playing quietly in the background as she stared at the printed rendering of the front of the guest house. Something bothered her about the front facade. Even though the GSD design committee had signed off on her design development plans and elevations, Iris still wasn't satisfied. The drawings needed to be submitted to the Harvard Square Historical Commission soon, so if she was going to make any changes, they needed to be made now.

She propped the print up on the tilted drafting board section of her enormous desk and stood back a few feet. Now that Iris' design had been translated from her original hand-drawn sketches to CAD drawings, her sense that something was missing had increased. She had abstracted some of the elements of the adjacent brick building that housed
The Crimson
, the University's student paper. She had designed some of the bricks on her building to be pulled out and turned ninety degrees to create decorative string courses while other areas of brick were indented to create panels. The composition of planes and pattern, while not symmetrical, balanced harmoniously. She'd have to convince the Historical Commission that this modern interpretation of a Georgian building was appropriate for the precious environment of Harvard Square. Somehow the egg crate design of Holyoke Center across the street had gotten through their approval process. Or maybe that had slipped through the net before the Commission was formed.

The trill of her landline interrupted her thoughts.

“Iris, W.T.F.!” a man's voice shouted.

“Who is this?”

“It's Bobby—Budge. Did you know what DeWitt was going to confess to me today?”

“Did he admit to taking Lara?”

“Don't play dumb with me. You're in this up to your eyeballs. DeWitt tells me you're supposed to hand over something to me—the second part of the story, so let's cut to the chase. I want the whole thing now before I write this up. I don't want to end up with egg on my face.”

“If I'm supposed to do something, it's news to me. What did DeWitt tell you?”

“What's the spin you two are aiming for?”

“Who the hell knows? I'm the one who kept him from escaping at Logan—remember? Now you're telling me he expects me to be his accomplice? I'm not sure I want any part of this.”

“Fine—if you won't be straight with me you can read about DeWitt's bombshell in
The Globe
tomorrow along with the rest of our lucky readers.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Iris picked up the thumb drive containing Lara's photo from the desk and held it in the palm of her hand. It felt so light. She sighed and slipped it into a green glass cup on her bookshelf.

I
ris had always loved the annual Honk festival. That Sunday afternoon, she snapped on Sheba's leash, slipped the thumb drive and some cash into the pocket of her jeans, and wandered down Arlington Street toward Mass Ave. The parade had already started at Davis Square in Somerville, the neighboring town, and was wending its way past Iris' neighborhood. The various activist street bands, like Grannies Against War, and the Vocal Majority, joined with dancers and assorted revelers to converge in Harvard Square at an all-purpose Oktoberfest celebration.

Iris stopped at Ellie's house and rang the doorbell. Her friend flew out the door wearing a purple wig and a pink tutu over her leggings.

“Are you part of the parade?” Iris asked.

“Just showing my support,” Ellie said from a crouch as she tied a glittery bow onto Sheba's collar.

They continued arm in arm down Arlington Street. They could hear the parade music from half a block away. As they reached the throngs of people assembled on the sidewalks along Mass Ave, they merged into the crowd and watched the spectacle pass by.

“Look, there are the fire-eaters,” Ellie called out, pointing.

Eight men and women in striped costumes spit flaming lighter fluid onto rings that they held up high as the crowd oohed and aahed. They swung the rings around in bright arcs.

Iris found herself swaying to the rhythm of the blasting horns and pounding drums, then noticed Sheba attentively watching a cyclist in a Dr. Seuss costume ride by, towing a tiny dog on an even tinier float. Next, Iris spotted their seventy-year-old neighbor, Alise, decked out in a feathery cape, shaking a tambourine. Iris waved to her and Alise raised her instrument in reply. Children in bright yellow costumes with faces painted in peace symbols marched by, twirling colorful flags. A passing group sporting multi-colored dreadlocks belted out gospel songs.

“I think they're from New Orleans,” Ellie yelled above the din.

After twenty minutes of the unfolding extravaganza, Iris touched Ellie's arm and said, “I'm going to head down to Harvard Square.”

“See you later,” Ellie yelled back. “I'm going home soon. Some writing to finish.”

Iris and Sheba followed the brilliant pageant down Mass Ave and into the labyrinth of Harvard Square. Food booths featuring dishes from around the world lined the sidewalks. Iris stopped to buy a nice fat bratwurst, then tore off several pieces to share with Sheba. She proceeded to finish the rest of it while watching a troupe of Chinese dancers in flowing dragon costumes on the main stage, set up in The Pit, one of the triangular corners of Harvard Square which, like all of the Squares in Cambridge, was not actually rectangular.

When her ears started to ring, she headed toward the Charles River on the far southwest side of the Square. The crowd thinned as she approached the Larz Anderson Bridge. She walked up to the center of the bridge and stared down into the murky water below, with the skyline of Boston in the distance. An eight-seat rowing shell emerged from under the bridge, headed downstream with its coxswain calling out strokes, barely audible as they sped away.

Sheba sat at her feet watching her mistress. Iris reached in her pocket and felt the thumb drive. She thought again about the awful disconnect between truth and fairness.

Then she heard his voice.

“Tell me why we had to meet here, Reid. What are we, Cold War spies?”

Budge.