Flashback (10 page)

Even when we'd succeeded only in resurrecting the worst of my past, I'd convinced myself that the answers I wanted lay elsewhere, in the strange country of my origin. And now here I was, as far from the celluloid streets of America as I could imagine, looking for the one person I didn't want to find.

*   *   *

It was daylight when I woke, the flat Maghreb sunshine streaming in through a crack in the bedroom's shuttered window. I felt drugged, groggy from my first good night's sleep in what seemed like forever. I stretched out in the bed and rolled over. Brian was gone.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I found a pair of sweatpants in one of Brian's drawers and headed out of the bedroom. There was a fresh pot of coffee on, and a note on the kitchen table that read,
Gone for breakfast supplies, back soon
.

I helped myself to some coffee; then, for lack of anything better to do, I sat down at Pat's desk. A computer geek, I thought, looking at his PC's blank monitor, the jumble of electronic toys, a much more sophisticated setup than the convent's outdated Mac. I thought about switching on the computer, then decided against it. For now, best to keep my snooping as subtle as possible.

Turning my attention to the less high-tech aspects of what Pat had left behind, I opened the topmost desk drawer and perused the contents. Brian had been living in the apartment long enough that most of what I found was his. There was a bundle of letters from the consulate in Rabat, written in the maddeningly patronizing tone so common to any interaction with the mechanisms of bureaucracy, repeated requests for Pat's Social Security and passport numbers, a half dozen letters from various consular officials telling Brian he would have to contact their superior for more help. From the letters' dates, I could see it had taken Brian almost six months to get through all the consular red tape. And at the end of this infuriating line of correspondence, confirmation that they could do nothing to help.

There were other letters as well, neat envelopes with the return address of a Linda Haverman in Andover, Massachusetts. From Mom, I thought, pushing aside a
Peanuts
birthday card.

There wasn't much on paper about All Join Hands or any of Pat's projects. I figured most of his work had been done on the computer. The only item of real interest in the desk was a leather-bound address book, a strangely arcane system, I thought, for a techie like Pat. On the inside of the front cover was a brief inscription.
For Pat,
it said,
so you'll always be able to find the ones you love
.
Love, Mom.
The entries were a mix of old U.S. acquaintances and Moroccan addresses. Kimberly Abbott of Greenwich, Connecticut, shared a page with Hassan Alfani of Rabat.

I turned to the
B'
s and then the
H'
s, scanning the names, finding no entry for Hannah Boyle in either place, only Borak, Brown, Hamidi, Hassan, and a single, seemingly misplaced item penciled in at the end of the
H'
s.
Mustapha, Pharmacie Rafa,
it said, followed by a phone number and a Marrakech address.

A key rattled in the apartment's front door, and I quickly slid the book back into its drawer and stood up. Brian appeared from around the corner of the front hall, a plastic shopping bag in one hand.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I told him.

“Did you sleep well?”

I nodded. “Better than I have in a long time.”

He walked to the little kitchen table, set the bag down, and pulled out a loaf of bread, some eggs, and a package of dates. “Scrambled or fried?” he asked.

“Fried,” I said, enthusiastically. It had been a long time since my grease-logged meal at the Pub.

He put the dates in a bowl on the table and pulled a frying pan from one of the kitchen cabinets. “Find anything interesting?” he asked, lighting the gas stove.

“I shouldn't have been prying,” I apologized. “Sorry.”

“Don't be,” he said, pouring a generous amount of olive oil into the frying pan. “I'd be overjoyed if you could find something I haven't, though I doubt you will. I've been through the computer at least a dozen times.”

“And the address book?”

“A lot of dead ends,” he said, reaching for the eggs. He cracked one into the skillet, and it popped in the hot grease.

I took one of the dates from the bowl and watched him cook. “I thought I'd go down to Marrakech,” I said. “Pay a visit to the folks at All Join Hands. Any idea when the next train is?”

Brian flipped the eggs, then looked at his watch. “There's a train at one in the afternoon, and a red-eye that leaves after midnight. But if you're going to Marrakech, I'm going with you.”

I shook my head. “I'm going alone.”

“No arguments,” he said, sliding the eggs onto two plates, setting the plates on the table.

No arguments, I thought. I crossed my fingers behind my back, a gesture from childhood, the motion instinctual. “We'll take the red-eye.”

*   *   *

There's a part of me, a part of all amnesiacs, that operates purely on blind faith. Take away memory, and you're left with little more than intuition, a sense of people and their motives that's as precise and mysterious as a bat's knowledge of the space it inhabits. Despite the peanut butter and the Super Bowl tapes, despite the photographs, my faith told me that something about Brian wasn't quite right.

Besides, if I had come to know one thing about myself in the days since my drive back from Lyon, it was that I was a danger to those around me. The sisters were dead because of me, and there was no doubt in my mind Joshi was dead because of me. I liked Brian Haverman, and the last thing I wanted was his blood on my hands, too. We'd both be better off, I told myself, if I went to Marrakech alone.

I worked on an exit strategy over breakfast. A trip to the bank? No, a return to the Continental for something I'd forgotten. Though I wasn't sure how I'd explain having to take my bag. Then, over the dishes, Brian announced he was going to the post office, and I gratefully declined his invitation to accompany him.

I waited till he was out the door, then set to work outfitting myself with Hannah Boyle's castoffs, exchanging my own dirty travel clothes for her clean ones. I put enough money for the train trip and some incidentals in my pocket, then stuffed everything else, including the black box's contents and the Beretta, in my pack.

It was just past twelve when I checked my watch. Brian would figure out where I'd gone sooner or later, but I hoped to at least buy myself enough time to get on the one o'clock train alone. I copied the address of the All Join Hands offices out of Pat's address book and left a hastily scrawled note on the kitchen table:
Back soon, Eve
. Then I slung the pack over one shoulder and let myself out the door.

TEN

Imagine spending ten hours in a paint mixer stuffed with humans, and you will come close to the experience of taking the train from Tangier to Marrakech. In spite of a well-spent extra thirty-five dirhams for a first-class seat, I knew my body would be cursing me for days.

The first five hours, from Tangier to Rabat, I shared a compartment with three loud Australians, college friends off for a winter-break adventure, who'd just come from a week on the Costa del Sol. Despite their penchant for off-key drinking songs, I was happy for the company, grateful for their enthusiastic bad jokes and stories of their drunken misadventures. When we rolled into the now-dark outskirts of Rabat, I was sorry to see them collecting their things to go.

The passengers who boarded in Rabat were different from the ones at the station in Tangier. There were fewer tourists here, for one thing, and the Moroccan travelers were well dressed, stylish, and cosmopolitan. The women wore business suits and French high heels, and the men's ties matched their shirts. The train filled up quickly, and five men crowded into the compartment with me, stowing their briefcases and bags, claiming their seats, as we pulled away from the city.

The man directly across from me, an older businessman in an elegant gray suit and shiny black shoes, snapped open a fresh copy of
Le Monde
and buried his head behind the paper. Next to him was a pair of slightly shabbier urbanites, salesmen of some kind, I figured, from the mammoth proportions of the leather cases they'd hauled on board. In the middle seat, next to me, was a younger man in a leather jacket and slacks. He was good-looking, though in a dangerous kind of way, his nose slightly aslant as if it had been broken once. The fifth passenger sat next to the door on my side of the compartment, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, his long slim legs crossed delicately over each other. More than one of my fellow passengers was wearing too much cologne, and the compartment reeked of dueling fragrances.

There was an air of sated lethargy to the travelers, the long day's fast broken not long before. People lingered in the corridor, smoking leisurely, faces turned toward the train's open windows. One of the salesmen in my compartment unwrapped a sugar-dusted pigeon pie, cut thick wedges, and offered them around. I took my piece and thanked him, grateful for the food.

As we passed the outskirts of the city and headed into the countryside, the man next to me, the one with the crooked nose, turned in my direction. “American?” he asked.

I shook my head. “
Française
.”

He looked me over, unconvinced, then shrugged.

What was it, I wondered, that was so unmistakably American about me? What was it that told even this man that I was not really what I claimed to be?

“You are alone?” he queried, in heavily accented French.

“I'm meeting my boyfriend in Marrakech,” I told him, hoping to head off any unwanted attention, but the man was undaunted.

“Salim,” he said, pointing to himself. “I am a student. You are a student as well?”

I shook my head and yawned. “Sleepy,” I said, though I wasn't. I leaned my head against the window and feigned fatigue. No doubt he was harmless, but it was going to be a long trip south if I had to fend him off the whole way.

“Why are you alone?” Salim prodded.

“I'm meeting my boyfriend,” I repeated.

Salim opened his mouth to say something else, and the man in the sunglasses clicked his tongue disapprovingly. I gratefully watched my interrogator sink dejectedly back into his seat, scowling like a scolded child.

About an hour after we'd left Rabat the train slowed again for the Casablanca stop, and the two salesmen and the man with the newspaper gathered their things and let themselves out into the passageway. The man named Salim got up and took one of the now-empty seats on the opposite banquette.

There were fewer passengers to get on in Casablanca, and as the train started southward again the three of us had the compartment to ourselves. The man with the sunglasses and the long legs dozed, but Salim, evidently still holding a grudge, fixed his eyes on me and stared unabashedly. Four hours to go, I told myself, trying to concentrate on the dark landscape. Outside the window the countryside was black, pocked and dimpled here and there by a lone electric light or a pair of headlights where the train tracks ran close to the road. Ten hours, I thought, to carve through this tiny slice of Africa. And yet people had imagined they could conquer this continent.

Some two hours out of Casablanca a conductor appeared, checking our tickets before heading on to the next compartment. Except for the tongue clicking earlier, my fellow travelers had not spoken, and I had taken them for strangers. But as soon as the conductor had left us, they nodded to each other, briefly exchanging words. Their manner was disconcertingly businesslike. The man in the sunglasses peered out into the passageway, evidently watching the conductor. After a few minutes, he reached up and pulled down the privacy shade on his side of the compartment. The man named Salim did the same, completely obscuring the view from the passageway. Then, quickly and efficiently, he flipped the door lock.

I sat up, my skin prickling with fear and adrenaline. The Beretta, I told myself, but there was no time to retrieve it. Salim had already grabbed my pack. In another second the man with the sunglasses was on top of me, his hand on my shoulder, his legs straddling mine. Salim set the pack down on the seat opposite me and undid the top flap.

I shrank back into the seat and stilled myself, my mind considering the possibilities. There was no point in calling for help. The noise of the train would drown out any sound I could make, and in the end I'd just wear myself out. I took a deep breath and brought my knee up into the man's groin. My bones connected perfectly with the soft flesh, and the man doubled over. He swore in Arabic, then staggered, thrust off balance by the rocking of the train.

I brought my leg up again, and this time the sole of my shoe found his chest. He reeled backward, knocking into the wall, and sank to his knees, retching.

Leaving the pack, Salim reached into his pocket and produced a little bone-handled knife. “I see you haven't forgotten how to be a bitch, Leila,” he sneered, his English perfect now, British public school. Planting his feet firmly on the floor of the compartment, he brandished the knife in front of him.

We stood for a moment like that, bodies balanced over the jerking and swaying carriage, eyes hard on each other.
You can do this,
I told myself, half of one eye on the crumpled figure in the corner of the compartment, the man still wheezing to catch his breath.
You can do this.

Salim smiled slightly, the expression exaggerating the crook in his nose. He took a step toward me, and the train jerked violently to the left; the car careened wildly. I slid my foot around his ankle, my boot hooking the back of his calf, and threw my right fist against the front of his throat. The man tottered for an instant, hands gripping his windpipe; then he fell back into the banquette.