The Lost Sisterhood (45 page)

We stood like that for the longest time, each, I was sure, trying to figure out what the other one was thinking. Finally, I leaned against one of the bedposts and said, “Maybe we should just quit. Imagine the freedom—”

Nick’s eyes darkened. “Some things you can’t quit.”

I waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. The way he looked at me suggested he was referring not just to himself but to us both; it was as if, between the Reznik party and now, something immovable had come between us … as if he suspected I bloody well knew about his thieving shadow side and was wondering why I had accepted his invitation anyway.

“Quite the proportions,” I said, turning to the room to admire the antique furnishings. “I wonder how many harem ladies one can fit into this bed.” Glancing at Nick over my shoulder I caught him staring at my derriere.

“What happened to your dress?” he asked. “And your shoes?”

“Good question.” I casually peeked into his wardrobe. “Ah, lots of space.”

But no
Historia Amazonum.
At least not in plain view.

“Diana.” Nick walked up to me. “What’s going on? Talk to me. We’ve been through too much—”

“I know.” I turned around reluctantly. “And this is the closest point between our worlds, isn’t it?” I looked him straight in the eye. “How come you’re still so far away?”

I saw surprise in his face, followed by regret. Whereupon he framed my face with gentle hands, his expression softening. “I’m right here. I’ve been here all the time.” And then he kissed me … a slow, heartrending kiss that drew a moan of longing right out of my soul.

“Divine Diana.” He released me with a grimace of pain. “If you knew how you torture me—”

I took him by the open shirt. “Show me.”

Nick looked at me with exasperation. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

“Why start now?” I ran my hands over his naked chest, indulging
in his warm solidity. “I didn’t come here to have a polite conversation, did I?”

The words made him stiffen. Or maybe something in my eyes gave him pause. Frowning slightly, Nick looked down at my hands, or rather, my jackal bracelet, as if he was worried it might bite him. “No,” he said at last. “I guess you didn’t.”

Afraid he was going to start questioning me, I leaned in and kissed him again—a kiss I hoped would silence any more inquiries. “Do you know what your problem is?” I murmured. “You
think
too much.”

His eyes made one more foray into mine. “Do I?”

“Oh, yes.” I ran a hand down his abdomen and beyond. “Far,
far
too much.”

Only when I heard his sharp intake of air did it occur to me to slow down a bit. There it was at my fingertips, Nick’s imposing pièce de résistance, and when I looked up and saw the somber, uncompromising desire in his face, I lost my mettle momentarily. “Excuse me,” I said, with what I hoped was a smile of enticing reassurance, “I just need a minute.”

Retreating into his bathroom, I locked the door and leaned against it, trembling all over. The role of seductress was so completely new to me I couldn’t even disentangle it from my own feelings. Yes, I wanted to steal the
Historia Amazonum
from Nick, but I also wanted very badly to make love with him; were the two mutually exclusive?

I stepped over to the sink to wash my hands and face with cold water in the hopes of clearing my head. But the woman looking back at me from the large mirror did not want to hear reason now. It’s true, she seemed to be saying, you might never see Nick again after daybreak, and you may cry all the way home to Oxford. After all, he’s not exactly a man with whom one can expect to have a normal relationship. But come on, whether or not you get more than a single night with him, and whether or not the
Historia Amazonum
changes hands along the way, you’ve got to go out there and grab him, girl!

Looking around for a toothbrush, I saw a razor resting on a bowl of shaving soap and a zipped bath kit sitting on top of Nick’s duffel bag on
the floor. Unzipping the bath kit I found a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste … and four passports, held together by a rubber band.

Puzzled, I pulled off the rubber band and opened the passports one by one. The nationalities and dates were all different, and so were the photos, but there was no mistaking Nick’s face in each and every one of them.

“Frank Danconia from Canada,” I muttered, leafing through them. “Nicholas Barrán from Brazil—I know
you.
Gabriel Richardson from New Zealand. Fabio Azzurro from Italy—”

I sat down on the toilet, struck by surprise and sadness all at once. Which one was his legit passport? I wondered. Judging by the stamps, he used them all regularly. And what about his name? I had always felt “Nick” didn’t fully capture who he was—that there was something amiss in the way he introduced himself to people. Perhaps it was because I sensed he was lying.

And so what? whispered the woman in the mirror. What difference did it make that Nick had false identities? In all likelihood it was a requisite for working with the Aqrab Foundation. Had I not just convinced myself we had no future together anyway?

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, the lights had been dimmed and music was playing softly in the background, but Nick wasn’t there. I stood for a moment, waiting for him to appear; when he didn’t, I walked over to peek out into the parlor. And sure enough: There he was on his cellphone, pacing back and forth in front of the windows.

This was my chance. When I had left the bathroom I still wasn’t completely sure what my next step should be, but now, finding myself alone, I knew precisely what to do. Wasting no time, I ran over to the chest of drawers to investigate the big envelope Nick had been so intent on keeping away from me. Only … it wasn’t there anymore.

Where could he have put it? I commenced a hasty search, but found all the drawers empty. Aware I didn’t have much time, I knelt down and checked underneath the bed. Bingo. A metal briefcase.

Pulling it out with trembling urgency, I was encouraged to find it unlocked and flipped it open in the hopes of seeing a stash of secret
documents … only to recoil with shock. Nested in black foam sat three handguns with extra clips and ammunition.

My head spinning, I quickly closed the case and shoved it back underneath the bed. What did it all mean … the passports, the guns? Getting up without a sound, I tiptoed across the floor to check on Nick, but stopped short when he came through the door.

“Where do you think
you’re
going?” he asked, blocking my exit. The question was teasingly meant, but it unnerved me all the same.

“It’s been a long day,” I began, hoping he didn’t guess the reason for my sudden change of heart.

“And it’s just about to get longer.” Nick drew me into his arms with a suggestive smile. “I’m glad we’ve done away with the gentleman; now let’s see if we can top off the Amazon.” He started kissing me again, but my mood was so completely altered I couldn’t play along.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, leaning away. “I really
am
exhausted.”

Nick’s recovery was swift enough to suggest he had expected me to bow out all along. “If you’re really so tired,” he said, letting go of me, “you’d better go to your room. Because if you don’t—” His eyes completed the sentence.

I
DIDN’T SLEEP A
wink that night. Nor, I am sure, did Nick. Just as the sun began to rise, I heard a door closing and suspected he had given up trying and decided to go out instead.

It was an odd feeling, lying in my grand bed, not at all sure how the new day would unfold. After my initial panic at finding the handguns, I had slowly managed to lull myself into a warm and fuzzy fantasy in which Nick would come to my room before daybreak, unable to stay away, to tell me that he was crazy about me and promise to let me in on everything.

We would spend the day on a romantic Bosphorus cruise, I imagined, during which Nick would apologize for all the secrecy and confess his numerous sins. He would be reluctant to describe the Reznik heist in much detail, of course, but I would be understanding, and it would all end with kisses and a candlelit dinner at some dark intimate restaurant
downtown, where we could hold hands across the table while he told me his real name.

But the sun rose, and he didn’t come.

There was just that little
click
of the door … and then nothing.

Padding out in the parlor in my monogrammed hotel pajamas, I found a small scrap of paper lying on the sofa table. “Back soon. NB.”

“NB?” I said out loud, feeling a spark of irritation. “Not just N, but
NB
?”

Poking my head through the open door to the master bedroom, I saw that Nick was indeed gone. After only the briefest struggle with my conscience—more of a jousting match, really, in which my scruples were soon unhorsed—I crossed the floor and knelt down next to the bed.

The metal briefcase was still there, but now it was locked. It hardly mattered, though; I knew what was in it.

All the while listening for any sounds suggesting Nick’s return, I commenced a hasty search for the big envelope and quickly exhausted all natural hiding places—atop the wardrobe, inside it, under the bed pillows—before my eyes finally fell on an enormous red Ottoman vase with a bright white floral pattern. Nick was just the sort of man to hide something priceless in plain view.

And there it was, all of it, wedged unceremoniously just inside, at the top of the vase: the fat envelope, the wad of passports, and the
Historia Amazonum.
Bound in a soft leather cover so worn it was held together by only a few threads, the pages were covered in handwritten Latin that had, over time, faded to resemble watercolor. Despite the precarious circumstances, I was filled with giddy relief to discover that Nick had not yet surrendered this precious manuscript to Mr. Ludwig and Chris Hauser. Here it was, at long last, safely in my hands.

As for the envelope, I had not actually intended to take it with me, merely sneak a peek at its contents. However, as soon as I pulled out the documents Nick had been reading the night before, I knew I couldn’t leave them behind. For right there, black on white, was the answer to my greatest question: What was Mr. al-Aqrab really after? The bright morning light made it all frighteningly evident, and I knew with nauseating
certainty that I had to get out of there before Nick came back. Not just out of his room, or out of the suite, but out of his life entirely.

T
HE ISTANBUL ATATüRK AIRPORT
was in the throes of the morning rush when I arrived. Men in business suits crowded every counter and self-serve machine, and I waited in line for half an hour only to be told that the first available seat to London was on a plane leaving at three that afternoon.

“But are you sure there is absolutely no faster way of getting me to England?” I asked the attendant. “I don’t mind the stops.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, checking the screen one more time. “All I have is Amsterdam at eleven thirty.”

Now, wouldn’t that be the supreme irony? I thought to myself as I wound my way through suitcases and cellphone zombies, looking for a café where I could pass the hours until my flight. Ending up in Amsterdam after all. Especially now that I was dressed for the fashion show circuit, complete with a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses the size of Milan … all thanks to the exclusive clothes boutique around the corner from the Çira?an Palace Hotel that had gobbled up half my fortune in less than five minutes.

Sitting down in a secluded booth with my guilty stash of papers and a breakfast tray, I took out the document that had shocked me so when I first laid eyes on it in Nick’s room two hours ago. It was a short typed cover letter that bore neither letterhead nor signature and which read as follows:

Stapled to this brief peculiar letter were three sheets of paper, all of which were cluttered with blurred black-and-white photos and lopsided
text. The images showed three women caught—I guessed—on surveillance cameras, and there were grainy close-ups of one jackal bracelet and two barely perceptible jackal tattoos. The text identified the women as “Amazon 1,” “Amazon 2,” and “Amazon 3,” and guesstimates were given for their heights, weights, and ages.

My first thought had been that the letter was a coded message from Mr. al-Aqrab to a hit man—possibly Nick—ordering the killing of three women presumed to be Amazons. However, after reading through it several dozen times, I was no longer so sure. As ready as I was to vilify Mr. al-Aqrab, I had a hard time seeing Nick as a willing executioner.

Putting aside the letter at last, I began flipping through the rest of the documents in the envelope, hoping to find something more straightforward.

I didn’t have to search for long. There they were, washed out yet unmistakable: dozens of gray-toned photos of my father, my mother, and me…. The discovery chilled me even more than the letter to the hit man.

What I had found was a stapled detective report of the kind my parents had commissioned after Granny’s disappearance, but whereas theirs had contained nothing but useless fluff, this one seemed loaded with information. Although the text was in Arabic, the illustrations spoke for themselves, and I peered once more at the grainy photos of my father quietly fiddling with his bird feeder … my mother stretching after a jog … blissfully unaware they were in the crosshairs of a telescopic lens.

Almost all the images were sniper shots, and most of them had been taken through windows or shrubberies. It was downright sickening to realize that my parents and I had been under surveillance by a pair of invisible eyes, even in our most private moments. Yes, there were photos of me lecturing to students and filling the blackboard with Egyptian hieroglyphs, but there was also one of me singing to Professor Larkin’s guppies after a few too many solitary glasses of wine.

Even though my mother was in it, too, the report was clearly focused on my father and me, and it was not difficult to guess why. Obviously,
the Amazon question lay at the core of it all. For on one of the pages was a familiar old wedding photo I had scrutinized many times growing up: the only existing picture of Granny and Grandfather, both of them looking strangely unhappy, as if they already knew their marriage was doomed.