Flashback (21 page)

“You've known all along that Pat was dead, haven't you?” I asked.

“We know what everyone else does, that he disappeared on that trip to Ourzazate. Beyond that, all we can do is guess.”

“And your best guess?”

“Someone killed him.”

“Who?”

He didn't answer, but when he looked down at me I could tell exactly what he was thinking, that it was Hannah who'd gone to Ourzazate with Pat, that only Hannah had come back.

“Who am I?” I asked. “Who was I before Hannah Boyle? Before Leila Brightman and the others?”

Brian shook his head. “I don't know.”

“But someone does.”

“Yes,” he said. “Now get some sleep.” Then he turned, walked to the door, and was gone.

*   *   *

I finished the
harira
and sipped at the water, then sank back into the pillows, trying to sift through the grains of Brian's story. If what he'd said was true, Werner had been right. I was a traitor and worse. Pat Haverman was dead because of me, dead on a Casbah rooftop, and I was the one who'd killed him. But why? There are so many reasons, Brian had said. Still, something didn't quite add up. I could have sworn it. Somewhere there was a flaw, a crack in Brian's story, invisible as the tiniest hair of a break in an uncut gem. This wasn't the person I had been; it couldn't be.

I closed my eyes and willed myself to dream. Something small, I told myself, a neat little package for carrying information. But what I dreamed of was not the thing I hoped to remember. Instead, I was back at Werner's Casbah, back in the
palmeraie.
It was nighttime again, the sky black above me. I was alone, wrapped in a burnoose and running, only this time I ran toward the Casbah instead of away from it, my boots snapping dry palm fronds as I barreled along.

Then, suddenly, I was inside, deep in the Casbah's heart. I was in an office, Werner's, I thought, breathing in the stench of expensive leather and cigars. I stopped for a moment, straining to hear over the silence, listening for the slightest movement above or below, a sleepwalker, someone wakened from a nightmare, but there was nothing. I crossed to Werner's computer and turned it on. The screen was blindingly bright.

I slipped something into my burnoose, then left the office and headed down the stairs, into the first-floor passageway, toward the door I knew led out into the
palmeraie.
This is it, I thought, hesitating a moment in the open doorway before stepping outside. This short dash across the drive the most vulnerable part of my journey. The wind had kicked up, and the palms rustled violently against each other. I looked out from beneath the hood of my burnoose, scanning the dark landscape, making sure I was alone; then I stepped outside.

But I had not looked carefully enough. As I emerged from the portal, I saw a figure slip from the shadows along the Casbah's outer wall. A man's voice called out, not unfriendly at first, a comrade out for a smoke. I stopped and watched the figure step toward me, the lit coal of a cigarette glowing at his side. Then the man spoke again, only a few meters away now, his voice moving toward irritation. I nodded, trying to think of a way out, coming up with only one. He took another step forward and tossed his cigarette aside. Run, I told myself, scrabbling across the drive, plunging into the
palmeraie.

“
Sheffar!
” the man cried behind me, and I could hear other voices now.
Thief
.

I picked up the hem of the burnoose and ran as fast as I could, weaving my way through the graceful forest, the palms lithe and supple as the legs of ballerinas. Someone was shooting. A palm trunk splintered. The ground in front of me erupted, spitting dirt and small stones. Then suddenly, I was on the road. A Jeep came careening down the two dry ruts.

“Get in!” Pat Haverman yelled, slowing just enough for me to hurl myself head first into the passenger seat.

I righted myself and peered back into the woods. The moon was a perfect half circle, a bright wedge climbing up through the clear sky. It cast just enough light for me to make out the half dozen figures sprinting toward us through the date palms. Another shot sounded, and the Jeep swerved, then corrected itself. I looked over and saw Pat holding his hand to his abdomen.

“I'm okay,” he said, but I could tell he wasn't.

We drove with the lights off, bouncing along the dirt track until we reached a better-maintained dirt road and, finally, a paved two-lane strip.

“You're hurt,” I said, as we turned our headlights on and started north on the paved highway.

Pat nodded. “There's a place not far from here, a safe place. I can call for help.”

“Yes,” I said, and then we were there, at the ruined Casbah.

Morning was coming, the day slowly unfurling itself across the valley, across the palm oases and the red cliffs, the great white prayer script that graced the opposite hillside. The roof we were on was ringed by tall ramparts, the wall notched out for defense or decoration or both. In the corner was the old stork's nest, its twig-and-branch construction dense and solid.

“You have to go,” Pat said. “They're coming.”

“Yes,” I agreed, but I didn't move. I'd taken the burnoose off and torn it to put on the wound, but the makeshift bandage wasn't working. Pat's stomach was covered with blood.

“It's okay,” he said. “I'll be okay. Now stand up.”

For the first time I thought he might be right. I thought he was going to make it. I leaned down and kissed him, then forced myself to stand.

I woke in a sweat and threw my covers back. So I hadn't killed him, I thought, staring up into the darkness, feeling the heat rise off my body. I hadn't killed him, but he had died because of me, had died helping me.
Murderer,
I heard Werner say over and over as the dream receded and I drifted back to sleep. And then Charlie Phillips:
That boy had it bad
.

EIGHTEEN

“How does it happen?” I asked. Brian and I had left Ourzazate and were rattling up into the Atlas's desert foothills in an ancient Land Rover.

“How does what happen?”

“This,” I said. “All of this. How did you become what you are? How did I?”

Brian downshifted and slowed, dodging two tourist vans that were stopped by the side of the road. “I've told you everything I know,” he said as we picked up speed again.

“Or everything you can.”

Out my window the road fell precipitously away, the crumbling hillside sweeping downward to a series of terraced dwellings, a village made of sticks and mud. Even here, on the bleak fringe of the Sahara, a handful of satellite dishes, like pale morning glories, perched among the settlement's flat roofs. Makeshift power lines tapped the electric cable that ran along the highway.

“What do you think they watch?” I asked, pointing toward the receding village.

“
Baywatch. Friends.
MTV,” Brian hazarded.

“God, I hope not.”

“American culture at its best. The new imperialism.”

“You think it's better than the old?”

Brian shrugged. “Who am I to judge? But whatever else is true, they love our blue jeans and our music. A couple of years ago I saw a kid wearing Nikes and a Michael Jordan jersey burning an American flag.”

“Where was that?” I asked, expecting no answer and getting none.

We drove on in silence for a few miles, dodging battered trucks and more tourist vans, the dinosaur traffic of the Moroccan road.

“Listen,” Brian said, finally. “I'm not lying. I've told you everything I know.”

“You mean everything they told you.” I watched his jaw flex once. “Did they tell you I have a kid?”

He shifted his hands on the wheel. His eyes didn't move from the road ahead.

“I've got a kid somewhere,” I told him. “A little boy or a little girl. I don't even know which. The doctor had to show me. She had to show me the scar. They didn't tell you that, did they?”

Brian shook his head. “No,” he said. “They didn't tell me.”

“Do you have a name?” I asked. “A last name?”

“Yes,” Brian said, but the acknowledgment was as far as he would go.

The engine whined into a lower gear, and we slowed to a crawl. The road was climbing hard now, and ahead of us an ancient public bus led a small caravan of slowed vehicles.

“I grew up in Pittsburgh,” Brian said, relaxing into his seat, giving in to the snail-like pace. “My dad's an electrician, and my mom sells real estate. I've got an older sister who lives in Cleveland. Her husband's a CPA. She's a soccer mom.”

“And you wanted a life less ordinary?”

“I guess. I wanted to see the world at least. I joined the navy out of high school.”

“Is that how it works?”

“That's how it worked for me. The agency came to me when I retired from the Special Forces.”

“And for others?”

“I don't know exactly. Some come from the military. Some are just—” He paused, searching for the right words. “Some are just good at what they do.”

“I assume you're not talking about cooking and sewing.”

Brian shook his head.

“I killed people, didn't I? Was that one of my special talents?”

Again, Brian didn't answer. I took his silence for a yes.

“You know about the sisters?” I asked. “About what happened at the abbey?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it was Werner?”

“Who else?” He shrugged. “I'm sure he still has the connections to have tapped into the consular grapevine.”

Of course, I thought, watching Brian shift his hands on the wheel. He ducked out into the opposite lane and craned his head, looking for an opportunity to pass. Whoever had found me had done so through the consulate, through whatever efforts had been made to get me to the States. I was reminded of the pictures in Werner's office, the grim record of slaughter, but still, something told me it wasn't Werner who had killed the sisters. He didn't seem like the kind of man to lie about such a thing, especially not to me, when his intentions had so obviously been not to release me, at least not alive.

No, I thought, someone else had murdered the sisters. Someone besides Werner had paved my way at customs. I was certain of it. Someone had put two and two together, the woman who'd been left for dead in that Burgundy field and an American trying to get home. The question, as Werner himself had pointed out, was who.

Brian found a clear moment, and we sped forward, overtaking the bus just before a blind curve.

“You don't have any idea who I was working for?” I asked, as we slipped back onto the right side of the road.

Brian shook his head and punched the accelerator. “No.”

“But you believe it?” I asked. “You believe I'm a traitor?”

“Were,” he corrected me. “I believe you were.” The words were meant for me, a show of conviction, but it seemed to me it was himself he was trying to assure.

*   *   *

We came into Marrakech from the north, skirting the red walls of the medina and the stone-pocked cemetery outside the Bab el-Khemis, plunging down the Route Principale toward the Bab Larissa and the Avenue Mohammed V. We passed the Koutoubia Mosque, then turned onto the Rue Moulay Ismail, pulling to the curb in front of the Hotel Ali.

“Wait here,” I told Brian. Praying Ilham had kept my storage locker, I climbed out of the Land Rover and headed into the hotel's lobby.

The proprietor was at the front desk, her hair neat as always, the blue eye shadow that colored her lids a perfect match to her djellaba, the robe a light azure shot through with gold threads. She smiled graciously when she saw me enter.
“Mademoiselle!”
she said, her smile fading to a scowl as I approached. “You have been ill?”

I nodded. I must have looked terrible. “I went to Ourzazate. I was too sick to travel back.”

“La pauvre!”
she exclaimed, reaching out and taking my hand in hers. “I was so worried for you. Gone off without your things. I didn't know what to tell your friend.”

“My friend?” I asked.

“Yes. She was here this morning. A friend from the States. She said you had gone on across the mountains, that you had sent her to get your things.”

My stomach dropped. “She took my pack?”

“But of course not.” Ilham fished in her djellaba and withdrew her key ring. “I'm sorry, Mademoiselle, but you said nothing to me about this. I told her you would have to come yourself.”

“What did she look like?”

“A woman.” The proprietor shrugged, coming out from behind the desk, opening the door to the storage room. “Rather tall, with blond hair. You do understand, don't you? I can't just let anyone in here. If you had told me yourself…”

“Yes,” I said, catching a glimpse of my pack in its wire locker. “You did the right thing.” I flashed her a weak smile, my gratitude as real as it gets.

“I'm afraid I'll have to charge you. It's five dirhams a day for luggage storage.” She undid the lock and stepped aside.

“Of course.” I reached up, undid the pack's top flap, and fished deep in the inside pocket. “Here,” I told Ilham, pulling out a one-hundred-euro bill, then handing it to her.

She shook her head vehemently. “But, Mademoiselle, I couldn't possibly have change for this.”

“Please.” I pushed the bill into her hands. “Take it and keep it.”

*   *   *

“Got it?” Brian asked as I slid into the passenger seat of the Land Rover.

I nodded, hauling the pack in after me. “Someone was here asking about me. A woman.”

“When?”

“This morning,” I said. “She wanted my pack.”

“It doesn't look like she got it.”

Shaking my head, I opened the pack's top flap. “Thank God for inscrutable hotel managers.”