The Tears of Dark Water (50 page)

The intelligence specialist looked startled but recovered quickly. “I can’t tell you who I am. But I can tell you this: I just talked to Gordon Tully, the National Security Advisor. He approved the deal.”

Ismail raised an eyebrow, making every effort to sound reasonable. “Why should I trust him?”

Bob displayed a trace of mirth. “Because he speaks for the President of the United States.”

Ismail glanced at Megan and saw her nod. “Okay,” he said and recited the digits from memory. “This is the message you must send:
Qosol, are you there? I’m sorry it’s taken so long. I need to know where you are and if you are still with him. Madaxa.
”

Bob peered at him quizzically. “What are ‘Qosol’
and ‘Madaxa’?”

“They are nicknames. I called her ‘Qosol,’ which means ‘laughter.’ She called me ‘Madaxa Adag,’ which means ‘hard head.’ Often she just said Madaxa.”

Everyone around the table chuckled. Then Bob read the digits and the words back to him to confirm their accuracy. “How long do you think it will take her to respond?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Ismail said. “But she will respond,
inshallah
.”

Bob met his gaze. “I hope you’re right.”

Vanessa

Silver Spring, Maryland

April 6, 2012

Vanessa sat in her office finishing up her notes from Halima’s physical. It had been a heart-wrenching hour for the Sudanese girl. If not for the camaraderie Aster had offered her, she might have left the practice in tatters instead of tears. The first time Vanessa had confronted female genital mutilation in her examination room it had left her speechless and horrified. After more than a decade of caring for refugees, however, she had come to expect it, though the anger it inspired always felt fresh.

Some cultures were worse offenders than others. If a girl came from East or West Africa, there was a good chance she had been circumcised. Sometimes she had lost only the foreskin of her prepuce, sometimes her prepuce and her clitoris. Occasionally, however, the cutter had disfigured her entire pubic area, removing the prepuce, clitoris, and labia minora, and stitching together the labia majora until ninety percent of the vaginal opening was blocked by skin and scar tissue. In most cases, the mutilation could be repaired. But therein lay the rub. Girls who had been circumcised saw it as a part of their cultural identity and essential to their womanhood. When they discovered the truth that they were actually in the minority, that, in fact, the vast preponderance of the world’s women still had their sexual organs intact, they reacted with disbelief, then confusion, then grief.

Halima had been no exception. Vanessa had gone over everything else with her first before introducing her to Aster and letting her friend tell her story. Every time she heard it, it gave her chills. Circumcised at the age of eight in an Eritrean clinic, Aster had suffered painful cramping, urination issues, and abdominal bloating throughout her adolescence until, finally, in college she had met a doctor who had explained the cause of her suffering and offered to restore her body to its natural state. It had taken her months to decide, but she had gone ahead with it, and it had changed her life. Aster showed Halima before-and-after pictures of the reversal procedure and held her hand when she cried, reassuring her that everything she was feeling was appropriate and necessary and that she would get through it. Then she had walked her back to the waiting room and handed her off to her mother.

“What do you think she’ll do?” Vanessa had asked when the girl was out of earshot.

“She’s strong,” Aster said. “I see it in her eyes. She’ll be back.”

“What will she tell her family?”

Aster shrugged. “It will be hard at first. She won’t convert them. But she will convert her sisters and bring them when they’re old enough. And when she has daughters of her own, she’ll tell them the truth and protect them. That’s the way cutting is going to die. One generation at a time.”

Vanessa focused again on the form in front of her and signed her name, sliding the sheet into Halima’s file. Then she returned the file to the records room.

Chad Forrester met her in the hallway, wearing his trademark grin. “Are you going to make it tonight?” he asked. “Aster and Abram are coming.”

The spring garden party
, she thought, cringing internally.
Thank God I have an excuse
. “I’m going to Norfolk. I won’t be back in time.”

Chad looked disappointed. “Another court hearing?”

“Yes,” she lied. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “How is Quentin’s therapy going?”

“He’s doing well,” she replied breezily. “But I really have to run.”

Before he could respond, she slipped by him, grabbed her jacket and purse off the desk, and walked to the parking lot. For weeks now, he had been making subtle overtures toward her, inquiring how she was doing, asking after Quentin, and offering to cover her patients whenever she had an appointment. He had never been inappropriate, but she knew his intentions. He had been attracted to her for years. Their dalliance during Quentin’s early adolescence hadn’t progressed beyond a few lingering embraces, but she knew he wanted more. Now Daniel was gone and he was taking delicate steps toward the opening, assuming, no doubt, that her mourning couldn’t last forever. About that he was right. But the rest was fanciful. She had no interest in him.

On the drive to Annapolis, her iPhone rang. When she saw Ted’s name on the screen, she took a heavy breath. He had called her every week for the past four months, asking whether she needed any help and when he could come down and see them. She had made up a dozen excuses to postpone the inevitable, but she knew she couldn’t delay much longer.

She connected the call. “Hello?”

“Vanessa, it’s Ted,” he began. “How are you?”

She shuffled through a few responses, but all of them felt disingenuous. Finally she opted for candor. “We’re doing well. Quentin’s making steady improvement.”

He coughed and cleared his throat. “That’s wonderful to hear. Is there anything I can do to help you? You know I’m always here if you need anything.”

She caught the unmistakable subtext:
I’m old and bored with retirement, and you and Quentin are the only family I have left. I’m tired of being shut out.
“I know,” she said and then took the leap. “Listen, if you still want to visit, this would be a good month. Our calendar is pretty clear.”

He was quiet for a moment. “That’s kind of you. Unfortunately, I’m going to Europe for a couple of weeks. One of those tours, you know. How about May?”

“That would be nice,” she replied, almost meaning it.

“I’ll check my schedule and send you a few options.”

She smiled in spite of herself.
Same old Ted. Unless he’s overseas, the only thing in his datebook is golf.

“It’ll be good to see you,” he said with feeling. “I’ll bring something for Quentin.”

“Just bring yourself,” she said, knowing in her heart that she’d done the right thing.

Twenty minutes later, she turned onto Norwood Road and drove through the canopy of trees to the end of the lane. It was just before one in the afternoon on the kind of dewy day in early spring that always made her feel like she was witnessing the birth of the world. The sky was as blue as a robin’s egg; the daffodils were smiling at her from their beds; and birds were warbling in the trees. Despite the gravity of the trip she was about to take, something in her felt like singing along.

She pulled into the driveway and saw Paul Derrick waiting on the steps. Dressed casually in jeans and a bomber jacket, he looked more James Dean than J. Edgar Hoover. She told him as much when she greeted him.

“I feel like a monkey in a suit,” he said with a laugh.

“What does the Bureau think about that?” she asked, opening the front door.

“We’re a mutual toleration society,” he replied. “They tolerate me and I tolerate them.”

She led him through the living room and out onto the back deck. She saw Quentin and Ariadne down at the dock cleaning out the
Relativity
. She smiled. In less than a month, the Australian girl had managed not only to revive Quentin’s dreams of sailing, but also to convince him that he could get out on the water this spring. The effect had been transformative. Where before he had lamented his therapy, now he engaged with it aggressively. He had found his old knot board in the attic and practiced his bowlines and hitches, tuning his fine motor skills. He had also been playing the piano nonstop. There were moments when Vanessa resented Ariadne’s closeness to him, but they didn’t last for long. The girl was too likeable to begrudge.

“Do you think he’s ready for this?” Derrick asked, standing beside her.

Vanessa inhaled softly. “It was his idea. I couldn’t say no.”

Derrick checked his watch. “We should get on the road soon. Ben Hewitt is meeting us at five.”

Vanessa nodded and started down the path to the river. “Do you sail?” she asked.

He shook his head. “My grandfather had a Bayliner. We used to go boating on the weekends. I always thought sailing looked too complicated.”

She gave a wry laugh. “That makes two of us. I don’t get as seasick on a powerboat.” She stopped on the sun deck and waved to Quentin. “It’s time to go. We don’t want to be late.”

“It’s my fault,” Ariadne said. “I lost track of time.” She stowed the rag she was using to polish the wood and stepped onto the dock.

“Hi, Paul,” Quentin said, standing up. “Did they let you . . . bring the recordings?”

Derrick nodded. “I have them with me.”

“Good,” the boy replied. “This is Ariadne. She’s coming, too.”

“Pleasure,” Derrick said, greeting the girl. He turned to Vanessa. “Shall we?”

They reached the Norfolk Naval Station in three and a half hours, Derrick leading in his coupe and Vanessa following with Quentin and Ariadne. She had deep reservations about Quentin’s idea. It was one thing for him to answer questions about the shooting in a sterile environment, another thing to revisit the crime scene and listen to the tapes of the negotiations in hopes of triggering his memory. She had tried to dissuade him, even lobbying Dr. Greenberg to forbid it. But the neuropsychologist had demurred, opining that Quentin could decide for himself. It was her fault. She shouldn’t have told him that the
Renaissance
was back in the United States. He had been obsessed with it ever since.

When they pulled up to the security checkpoint, Ben Hewitt and another man climbed into Derrick’s car and the guard let both vehicles through the gate. The naval station sat on an immense parcel of reclaimed waterfront and contained an airport, a seaport, and a collection of buildings large enough to be a small city. After a few minutes of driving, they stopped beside a row of hangars not far from the wharf, where half a dozen ships were tied up.

Vanessa saw the
Renaissance
standing on its keel between two hangars, supported by jacks and surrounded by a chain-link fence. The sight of it turned her stomach. She looked at Quentin in the mirror and saw his somber expression. She couldn’t fathom what he was thinking. It was on this boat that he had traveled the world and watched his father die. It was on this boat that he had spent the best and worst days of his life.

They left the SUV and walked with Derrick, Hewitt, and the third man—Hewitt introduced him as Fred Matheson from NCIS—to a gate in the fence. Matheson removed a padlock and swung the gate open, admitting them to the enclosure. Vanessa watched as Quentin walked toward the sailboat and ran his hand over the hull. His eyes were hooded, his look indecipherable.

He moved to the ladder propped against the transom. “I’m going to . . . need some help. My balance . . . isn’t great.”

Derrick stepped forward to stabilize him.

“Is this really what you want?” Vanessa asked, as he put his foot on the first rung.

He nodded. “It’s the only way . . . I will remember.”

He made his way up the ladder, step by tentative step. When he reached the top, he swung his leg over the side and slipped into the cockpit, sitting on the portside bench. Derrick climbed up after him, then Vanessa and Ariadne, and finally Hewitt and Matheson.

Vanessa stood behind the helm for a moment, taking in the sweep of the coachroof and the silent mast and boom.
It feels like a ghost ship
, she thought.
Whatever benevolent spirit it had is gone.
She sat down on the starboard bench and looked away from the piercing afternoon sun.

Suddenly, Quentin began to speak. “I remember sitting here with Afyareh . . . before we saw the first warship. He taught me to say things . . . in Somali. We saw some frigatebirds . . . flying above us.
Guray wanted to shoot at them . . . but Afyareh wouldn’t let him. He said Guray was afraid . . . because they were black. Guray was superstitious.”

Vanessa was unprepared for the turbulence the story aroused in her. At the same time it affirmed one of her assumptions about the pirates—their penchant for wanton violence—and subverted her impression of Ismail. She realized with discomfort that she had come to picture him as a cartoon villain. It was a caricature inspired by emotion, not a portrait grounded in fact.