The Witness (27 page)

As Naheem prayed, Marwan couldn’t help but notice the difference between the two hands he was holding—Rima, with her soft, cool fingers; and Naheem, with his calloused, scratchy palms.
Pastoring isn’t the only thing this man has ever done. His hands didn’t get that way sitting in an office reading the Bible.

Marwan chanced a look around and was surprised to see Dalia with her eyes closed, nodding agreement to her father’s words. It amazed him how natural it looked on her.
I guess it’s not that strange that she’s praying; it’s just that I’ve never seen her do it before.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of a distance growing between them as he watched her connecting with a God he had never truly met.

Finally, and mercifully for Marwan’s raging appetite, the prayer ended. Instantly Rima was out of her seat to begin running dishes of food to and from the kitchen. The food turned out to be as good as it smelled, and over the course of the next hour, Marwan partook of everything set before him—and a lot of it.

The dinner conversation revolved mostly around Dalia catching up on family and on the happenings in the town of Ma’an. Her brother, Elias, was excelling in the Air Force and was about to be promoted to captain. He was interested in an English girl and was apparently considering bringing her to meet his parents on his next leave. Naheem said he wasn’t too sure about the morals of those English girls, and he received a chastising glare from Rima in response.

Dalia asked about friends and neighbors and church members. She was sad when she heard of the deaths. She was amazed at the marriages. She oohed and aahed when she heard of the births. As Marwan watched her, he could tell that she was back home where she belonged.

What does that mean for me? How does that affect our future together?
He shook his head.
And why am I worrying about a year or five years or ten years down the road, when I don’t even know if I’ll survive into next week?

Already feeling he had divulged a bit too much about himself earlier, Marwan deflected most questions addressed to him by asking about Dalia’s childhood or Naheem’s church, subjects both parents were all too eager to talk about.

By the time the dishes started to be cleared away, everyone was full and Marwan, particularly, was exhausted. Feeling unable to keep his eyes open another minute, he asked if he could be excused to bed. Dalia led him to her brother’s room, which happened to be the same one he was in earlier with the computer.

“So what do you think?” Dalia asked.

“About . . . ?”

“About my parents, of course.”

“I’m wondering why you ever left this place.”

Dalia sat on the bed. “I’ve been spending the evening wondering that too. I mean, I know why I left. But all my reasons now seem so juvenile, so petty. It was a stupid decision to run off and a stupid decision to stay away.”

“Why
did
you stay away so long?” Marwan asked, sitting next to her on the bed.

“I don’t know. I think that after a while—you know, after so many ignored messages and screened calls and deleted e-mails—I guess I couldn’t face them again. I knew I was in the wrong, and I figured they would hate me as much as I hated myself.”

Marwan nodded as he took her hand. Then, rubbing her finger where the cheap Egyptian ring had sat, he asked, “Are you regretting any other decisions?”

“Not at all,” she answered, giving him a long kiss on his cheek. “It’s just . . . I don’t think I’m quite ready to tell yet. I mean, it’s obvious they know about ‘us.’ They just don’t know how ‘us’ we are.”

“I can understand that. You let me know when it’s time, and I’ll talk to your father. Is that a deal?”

“It’s a deal.” Dalia got up from the bed. “I’m going to go help my mom clean up. She said you’re welcome to any of my brother’s clothes. He’s a little bigger than you are, but they should work.”

“By the way, how did you explain us arriving without any bags?”

Dalia smiled. “I told her how terrible it is to fly anyone other than British Air. Those idiots at Royal Jordanian lost our bags.” Her smile faded. “I guess that’s just one more lie I’m going to have to answer to them for.”

Marwan got up and put his arms around her. As he held her tightly, he said, “You’re a good woman, Dalia Nour. Never forget that. Sure, you’ve made mistakes, but your parents have forgiven you, and . . . and you know that God has forgiven you too.”

Dalia’s smile returned as she looked at Marwan. “Look which one of us is becoming the pastor,” she said before kissing him.

“I love you, Dalia.”

“I love you, too.”

When they’d separated for the night, Marwan raided Elias’s closet and found a pair of shorts and a shirt to sleep in. Then, after washing up, he climbed into bed.

Although he was so tired, he knew there was no way he would be able to sleep. There were too many dangers to prepare for, too many contingencies to plan against. Somehow he had to find a way to keep these good people safe, to direct the hunt for him away from them. Things like that were too important to put off until the following morning.

The next thing he knew, he awoke with a start, looked at the bedside clock, and saw that it was six in the morning.

60

The dream had been similar to the one Marwan had been having since leaving Kadeen’s house, except this time Naheem was the one who was killed backing him up, and Dalia and Rima were the ones leaning against the door.

Only one day,
he thought as he climbed out of bed.
One day to figure out my next steps, and then I’m gone.

He listened at the bedroom door but didn’t hear any movement in the apartment. Putting on a pair of Elias’s running shoes, he crept from the bedroom and out of the apartment. Once downstairs, he set off on a jog around the town. The sun was just coming up, and people were beginning to emerge from their homes. Smoke from early-morning cooking fires hung in the cool air and reminded him of walking to school in Beirut when the power was out due to the fighting.

He wound his way through the streets, sometimes getting a wave from people he passed, sometimes having to speed up to avoid an overzealous stray dog. By the time he arrived back at the apartment forty-five minutes later, he was feeling refreshed and ready to face the day.

Quietly, he opened the door, then tiptoed to Elias’s room. When he arrived, he saw that Naheem was already there working on the computer.

“Oh, excuse me, sir,” he said, trying to back out. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

“No, come in, come in,” Naheem said, turning off the monitor. “Please, have a seat.”

Marwan obeyed, planting himself on the stool that the pastor had motioned to.

“How was your run?”

“It felt great.”

“I’m envious. I may not look it now, but I used to be quite the runner when I was younger. Then my knees went out on me, and that part of my life ended. It’s not a fun thing getting old.”

Marwan nodded.

Naheem leaned forward and stared at him for a long while—right in the face, barely blinking. After several uncomfortable seconds, he sat back in his chair. “Can you tell me what you are doing here with my daughter, Mr. Accad?”

“I . . .” But that’s as far as Marwan got.
Mr. Accad?
He felt like he had been hit in the solar plexus. He tried to breathe in, but it felt like his body was frozen.

“I hope you don’t mind me calling you Mr. Accad.
Marwan
seems so informal, seeing as I hardly know you.” Naheem’s gaze was hard.

“How . . . how long have you known?” Marwan managed to stammer.

“Pretty much since you first arrived. We don’t have a television here at the apartment—Rima hates the things—but I do keep a little one hidden in my office at the church. Since yesterday, your face has been spread all over the news channels. And then, while you were gone, I read this.” Naheem turned the computer monitor on. There, on the front page of the Al Jazeera Web page, was Marwan’s face with a caption stating that he was wanted for numerous murders, including the recent slaying of billionaire Rafeeq Ramsey.

Marwan put his head in his hands.
I’ve done it! I’ve brought my problems to this family! My nightmare is going to come true—again!

“I never meant to bring you and your wife into this,” he said.

“You do realize how empty those words sound as you sit here in my apartment.”

Marwan linked his hands behind his head. “Yes, sir, I do. I came against my better judgment,” he said to the ground, not able to look Naheem in the eye. “It’s just that it was so obvious that Dalia needed to see you and her mother again. I was willing to risk anything to make that happen.”

“Including our lives?”

Marwan didn’t answer. He just kept staring at the ground.

Then he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. For being so big, it was surprisingly light. “Marwan, son, look at me.”

Slowly Marwan raised his head.

“You did the right thing,” Naheem said with a soft smile. “To have my daughter back in our home, I would have given my life ten times over. And to have seen her late last night on her knees recommitting herself to God, I would have given a hundred lives.”

Naheem shifted his hand from Marwan’s shoulder to the back of his head and gave it a gentle shake to emphasize his words. “You will, of course, explain everything, and I will listen. But first, I want to say thank you, my son, for giving me back my daughter. You have given me the most wonderful gift. And if a little trouble should follow you—so be it.”

61

Goddard got up early. Although it had been only a few hours since he had fallen asleep, he knew that there was no chance he would get any more rest. Questions filled his mind, and he needed answers. He quickly grabbed some bread and cheese and coffee from the complimentary breakfast adjacent the lobby, then began walking the six blocks to Beirut’s central police station. As he traveled the already-busy streets, his mind raced.

What if Marwan Accad isn’t guilty of trying to blackmail Rafeeq Ramsey? What if instead of kidnapping Claudette Ramsey, Accad and his brother were just trying to find her, as they claimed? What if Claudette Ramsey wasn’t ever really a hostage to begin with? Is it possible she engineered the whole thing and was hiding out in Brazil? And what if Accad uncovered evidence of this—and of her plot against her fabulously wealthy husband, who showed no signs of a convenient imminent death—and was helping Rafeeq Ramsey crack the case? And what if Claudette and her accomplices, whoever they were, found out what Accad knew and decided to strike first?

This scenario, far-fetched though it seemed, could explain the way events had played out. And every other possibility seemed to fall apart as soon as any serious examination took place.

Even the accepted scenario of Marwan Accad acting alone or Marwan and Ramy Accad together planning the kidnapping had more logical holes than the Swiss cheese he was currently eating on the heel of a baguette.
But this is Lemieux’s theory and, as such, is officially the gospel truth. Why is he holding on to Accad’s guilt so tightly?

The scenario of Claudette’s being involved could certainly explain Ramsey’s assassination. It would also explain the car bombing and the assassins at Le Méridien and in Saint Michel. But how would it explain why Accad was on the run instead of cooperating with the authorities? How would it explain the murder of Kadeen al-Wadhi?

The Lebanese police were preparing Ramy for the polygraph when Goddard entered the interrogation room, but he waved them off. Ramy glared at him as he walked in, looking like he would just as soon put a knife in him as answer his questions.
Two can play at this game,
Goddard thought as he stared back. By the time he sat across from Ramy, the pair looked like two prizefighters giving each other the stare down as they listened to the ring instructions.

“No wires this time?” Ramy asked.

“Not necessary. I hope you’ve thought about our previous conversation,” Goddard began.

“Nothing but.”

“May I assume, then, that you’ve decided to help save your brother’s life and tell me where he is?”

“No. Instead, what you may assume is that hell will freeze over before I help you in any way to find Marwan.”

Goddard’s cell phone rang. He quickly silenced it.

“So you’re content for some other country’s police, who will not show the same kind of restraint as we will, to put a bullet in your brother’s head.”

Ramy let out a derisive laugh. “No, you imbecile. I’m trying to prevent any information that I give to you from getting to the people who are trying to kill him. I hate to break it to you, Monsieur Detective, but you’ve got leaks in your department big enough to flood this whole city!”

“What do you know about my department? I will not have an accessory to murder impugning the name of . . .” Goddard stopped as he saw the satisfied smile spread across Ramy’s face. He had reacted exactly as the man had hoped he would.

His cell phone went off again.

“Phone’s ringing, Detective. Maybe it’s the mole calling to pump you for more information.”

Goddard stood from the table with such force that his chair clattered over backward.
Another amateur move,
he chastised himself as he pulled the phone from his pocket.

When he saw that it was DuVall, he answered. “I told you not to disturb me while I’m—What?”

He paced the room as he listened for a while, then said, “And where was he? . . . How did he know her? . . . Okay. . . . Okay. . . . This isn’t a game show! Just tell me!”

Goddard suddenly stopped. He picked up the chair he had tipped over and sat in it with the phone in one hand and his head in the other. “I knew it! That makes perfect sense. And when exactly was it sent? . . . Send me copies of everything over my phone. And great work, Colette.”

Goddard hung up the phone and waited for DuVall’s message to come through. His mind was going a mile a minute as he processed his new information.
Could this really be true? If it is, we’ve got a long and dangerous road ahead of us!