The Witness (13 page)

“I told you,” Lemieux replied, “there’s no evidence Accad has been here in years, much less to any specific hostel.”

“Well, he must have stayed somewhere,” Goddard pressed. “Have you checked all his known business associates?”

“Don’t be a fool! Of course I have.”

Trying to let Lemieux’s insults slide off his back, Goddard continued, “Have you gone farther back? College roommates? High school chums? Childhood friends?”

“Hmmm. With his parents’ dying when he was so young, it’s possible he forged some very strong friendships. What do we know of his childhood relationships?” Lemieux asked, curious now.

“Very little, I’m afraid,” Goddard admitted.

“Am I the only one with a functioning brain? Ask the brother,” Lemieux ordered.

Goddard explained why that wasn’t possible.

“You’re telling me Ramy Accad left the country just as you were heading there to interview him?” an incredulous Lemieux asked. “Where did he go?”

“The receptionist wouldn’t give me that information,” Goddard answered, “but I tracked his flight through airport manifests—he flew under his own name—and discovered him on a plane to Baghdad. On the surface, it does seem odd. But the receptionist said he typically travels three weeks out of four anyway.”

“How long ago was the trip planned?”

“She said it just came up.”

“I bet,” Lemieux said. “Go back to her. See what she knows about Marwan Accad’s childhood. Then contact me as soon as possible.”

28

Tariq couldn’t remember the last time he had been to a party—at least one when he was not carrying a gun and protecting a dignitary. His life in recent years had been so consumed with work—often dangerous work, at that—he didn’t even take vacations, much less mix and mingle with people he had never met before. But now he found himself actually looking forward to the evening.

Showering was no easy process, his shoulder wound was still raw. But the antibiotics were clearly working. He was feeling a bit better. He sensed his appetite was starting to come back, and he had already finished the big, juicy oranges in the fruit basket Dalia and her friends had given him earlier.

Dalia Nour.

Her face came to mind as he stared in the mirror and shaved. Who was she? What was her story? He saw no engagement ring on her finger. Was it possible a girl that attractive was still single?

Grateful for Ramy’s care package, Tariq finished dressing and slipped the gun into his waistband at the small of his back, then took the elevator to the rooftop terrace. There he found about two dozen people, all under thirty, laughing and dancing and chatting away. The latest Amr Diab album was playing loudly over a large sound system. Several tables were covered with hors d’oeuvres, baklava, and other various pastries, and there was a cash bar set up in the corner serving liquor of all kinds.

The sight and smell of the liquor actually reassured him. These were not religious people, and that was good. After the conversations with Kadeen, he had no interest in talking about God, whether the Christian one or the Muslim one. Using his own experience and his own ingenuity, he had made it to safety with no help from any God, thank you very much.

He walked over and bought a beer. He had tried to sleep away his pain the last few days. Maybe it was time to drink it away for the next few hours.

And then he felt a tap on his right shoulder. He tried not to let his grimace show.

“Nice shirt,” a soft voice behind him said.

He turned and found Dalia smiling up at him.

“You clean up nice,” she said, obviously flirting with him, but just as obviously high on pot. She took another drag on her joint and offered him one of his own. For a moment he wondered what his mother would say, but he quickly shook that off. Tonight was not about feeling sad or guilty, he decided. It was about forgetting his predicament and having some much-needed downtime.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the marijuana cigarette from her small, delicate hands and lighting it up. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s a Thursday,” Dalia said with a wink.

“And?”

“And it’s time to relax and enjoy a day off.”

“You guys do this every Thursday night?”

“Some people do.”

“What about you?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes I prefer to go dancing or to the movies.”

“And tonight?”

“I was curious to see if you’d show up.”

“You didn’t think I would?” Tariq asked.

“Honestly? No.”

“Why not?”

Dalia took another hit from her joint. “I don’t know. You just strike me as a loner.”

Tariq held up his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged.”

“Really?” she laughed as she playfully put a hand on his chest and leaned into him. “And what else are you guilty of?”

The question cut deeper into his heart than she had intended or noticed.

“Name it,” Tariq said quietly.

She gazed into his eyes as if she were trying to read his thoughts. Tariq was captivated and couldn’t turn away.

Finally she broke into a wide smile. “Come here,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

She took him by the hand and led him through the crowd and around the corner to a quiet, private garden where they could look out over the twinkling lights of Heliopolis and the planes taking off and landing in the distance.

“It’s stunning,” he said.

“Isn’t it?” They stood there for a few minutes, just the two of them, savoring the view.

“So what’s your name, bad boy?” Dalia said at last.

“Tariq.”

“Tariq what?”

“Tariq Jameel.”

“And what’s your story, Tariq Jameel? Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

He could only imagine the look in her gorgeous eyes if he told her the truth.

“I’m a consultant,” he said, stomping out his cigarette, then taking a sip of beer.

“What kind of consultant?” she pressed.

“Computers.”

“It sounds boring.”

“It is.”

“So where are you from?”

“All over,” he said. “I’ve lived in Europe for most of the last five years.”

“Really?” she said, and her eyes lit up in anticipation. “Like where?”

“Madrid, Paris, Berlin, you name it. But my company’s based in Brussels.”

“Mmm, I love Paris, especially in the spring,” she said, ignoring any talk of business, for which he was grateful. “The air is so fresh and sweet, and the flowers are in bloom, and the streets are filled with couples in love.”

“Did you grow up there?” Tariq asked between sips.

“No; Jordan. But I’m a flight attendant for British Airways, and I sometimes get to fill in on flights to Paris.”

“Sounds like a fun job.”

“It can be,” she said a bit wistfully.

“But . . . ?”

“But it’s hard to have a life of your own.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean when they hire you, they make you these dazzling promises—not just the Brits, but all the airlines—free travel, see the world whenever you want, you know. But the truth is you work all the time, at crazy hours. You’re always living out of a suitcase. You barely know where you are when you wake up. You’re not sure where to call home. It’s hard to make friends, except with other employees. And unless you fall in love with a pilot—and they’re all married—or a flight attendant—and they’re all gay—then . . . well, whatever. At least it pays the bills.”

She took another drag on her cigarette.

“What about your roommates?” Tariq asked. “You’re all friends, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“No, no, don’t get me wrong,” Dalia said. “They’re sweet girls. I’d do anything for them and vice versa. But we haven’t really known each other all that long. We’re just sharing an apartment because none of us could afford the rent on our own. And besides, they both work for Air France, so I hardly ever see them. And they just got transferred to New York. Now I’ll never get to see them.”

“That’s too bad.”

“That’s life,” Dalia sighed. “No rest for the wicked.”

“Why don’t you do something different?” Tariq asked.

“Like what?” she said. “Computer consulting?”

“It pays the bills.”

“You like it?” Dalia asked.

“It’s okay,” he said. “But like you said, I’m a loner. It’s not so bad for me. But someone like you, well, I don’t know. You may need something more.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tariq noticed the quick defensiveness that often accompanies pot smoking.
Gotta take it easy with her. It’s been a while since you’ve had someone this good-looking and this young interested in you.

“I just mean you’re so nice, beautiful, outgoing, vivacious—you need something better.”

She turned from the city and looked into his eyes, her head tilting to one side.

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“Why else would I be at this party?”

Tariq leaned down and kissed her gently. She responded instantly and with an intensity he had not expected. The two made out as a 747 roared overhead on approach to Cairo International. And before long, Dalia made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

“Dina and Mervat are leaving straight from the party to the airport,” she said softly as she kissed his ear. “I have the apartment all to myself until tomorrow afternoon.”

Tariq felt his temperature rising again.

“Care to join me?” she whispered in as seductive a voice as he had ever heard.

He wanted nothing more, but two hesitations rushed to the fore—Dalia’s safety and the festering wound in his shoulder. He pushed away both thoughts.

Nobody could possibly trace him to this flat. Ramy was too good to let that happen. The second issue was tougher. He’d need to come up with an excuse, an accident of some kind. But why let that stop him from a night with this gorgeous, willing young woman?

“Love to,” he whispered back.

“Good,” she said. “Apartment 901. Mingle a bit. Then meet there in ten minutes. My room is in the back, the third on the left. I’ll leave the front door unlocked.”

Tariq watched her as she swaggered away. Just before reaching the door, she accidentally bumped into a large standing vase. It teetered, but she caught it. Dalia turned and gave him a bit of an embarrassed smile, then blew him a kiss.

“The girl’s wasted,” Tariq said to himself, a little disappointment starting to cloud his mood.
How’s she going to feel in the morning waking up with me next to her? If she was sober right now, would she have given me that invitation?

A battle ensued in his conscience. Here was this gorgeous woman just waiting for him to spend the night with her. Yet her judgment was impaired and he hardly knew her.
But what do I care? I’m not her father. She’s a grown woman who’s made a grown-up decision. On the other hand, she didn’t make it with a fully functional, grown-up mind. Besides, there’s something special about her. I’d hate to waste my shot at getting to know her with a meaningless one-night stand.

In the end, he went back to his flat, sat in his kitchen, popped open the first of four bottles of Stella, and spent the next two hours second-guessing himself. When he could no longer keep his eyes open, he laid his head on the table and fell asleep.

29

Tariq woke with a jolt, sending two empty beer bottles crashing down from the table.

“Just great,” he said, trying to spot a path away from the table that would protect his bare feet from the broken glass. Carefully choosing his steps, he tiptoed out of the kitchen. After slipping on his shoes, he took a broom and dustpan back in to clean up the mess.

It was the dream again. Kadeen, Rania, the girls—all shot, all dead.
If you hook up with Dalia, will she end up joining that dream? Is it really safe or fair for you to bring her into your crazy life right now?

Tariq brooded over that question as he swept up the glass. He didn’t think anyone could know where he was staying; Ramy was too careful to allow that. And even if someone did know he was in Cairo, the chances of connecting him to Dalia were slim at best.

In the end, his desire for some companionship won out. He got dressed and left his flat to begin exploring the neighborhood a bit. After a while, he found what he wanted.

Walking into the small shop, he scanned the merchandise.
Ah, those will do.

He waved the shop owner over and pointed to the arrangement of a dozen lilies, each one displaying a wide array of pinks. Tariq watched the man’s smile widen when he realized he was about to be over six hundred pounds richer.

After making preparations for the delivery of the flowers, Tariq wrote a note to be attached.

Dalia,

Forgive me for last night. I was not in the condition an exquisite beauty like you deserves from a man like me. Please allow me to make it up to you this evening. I will be at your door at 8:00 p.m. If you answer the door, be prepared for a night on the town. If you don’t, I will understand.

Tariq

He paid for the flowers, leaving a sizable tip to ensure the delivery would be handled properly, then wandered the streets for a few more hours. Eventually, he could feel his body starting to wear down. Tariq could tell he was still not 100 percent. He made his way home, took a short nap, and spent the afternoon gathering whatever information he could off the Internet on the investigation into the whereabouts of Marwan Accad.

At 7:55 p.m., he closed and locked his door. Two minutes later he arrived at Dalia’s flat.
What are the chances she opens the door?
he asked himself, looking down at the time ticking away on his watch. He knew he wasn’t a bad-looking guy, but he also knew he wasn’t anywhere near Dalia’s league. And after standing her up last night . . .

From inside, he heard female laughter.
She and her girlfriends are probably in there laughing right now about the fool who’s going to be standing at the door knocking until his knuckles bleed, desperate to get some time with a woman far above his class.

He had just about talked himself out of knocking on the door at all, when he saw the second hand on his watch sweep past the twelve.
Why not?