The Witness (8 page)

He had the Monaco police hunting him, and very possibly the French and Italian police by now as well, not to mention Claudette Ramsey and her thugs. How close were they to catching him? He had left too many clues in the airport, he knew. Once those were found, they would know he had headed for Morocco. He’d be lucky to live another two days.

The plane finally landed. After making it through passport control without incident, Marwan rented a car and made his way into Casablanca. A cold November rain was coming down hard, and he could not get the heat or windshield wipers to work properly, making it difficult to read street signs in a city he had been to only a handful of times.

To make matters worse, his fever was rising. He felt weak and disoriented. Twice he realized he was about to fall asleep at the wheel and had to swerve to keep from hitting oncoming traffic. He knew what was happening to him, and there was nothing he could do but press on. He had lost too much blood. His wound was becoming infected. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. And his body was in danger of slipping into shock.

It was almost midnight when he reached the address he had scratched out on a small slip of paper he kept in his wallet. The two-story, whitewashed villa was surrounded by a stone wall with two openings, one for cars and one for people—both protected by heavy iron bars.

As he pulled himself out of his rental car, Marwan began questioning his decision to not let Kadeen know he was coming. Would his friend even come out and open the gate at this time of night?

But there was nothing to do about it now. What was done was done. All that mattered was getting through that gate.

Without bothering to close the car door, he stumbled around the rear of the vehicle but lost his balance and fell to the ground at the base of the wall. Delirious with pain, he shut his eyes tightly and tried in vain to remain conscious.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been lying there when he opened his eyes again. He could feel small, sharp rocks pressing themselves into his cheek, and there was grit on his tongue. Gathering up all his energy, he tried calling out, but his voice just came out a whisper.
“Kadeen . . . Kadeen . . .”

Tilting his head back, he could see a button embedded in the wall above his head. He reached his hand up, but the button was too high.

Gripping the cool iron of the gate with his one good hand, he strained to pull himself up. Slowly he began to rise, using the strength of his left hand and the leverage of his damaged right shoulder. The pain was beyond anything he had ever felt before.

He vomited, and the movement caused him to lose precious inches.
Pull! Just keep pulling!
Finally he was barely within reach of the button. Putting his full weight on his shoulder, he pressed his finger to the white plastic.

He heard nothing.

I’m going to die right here. Out in the road like a dog.

Suddenly the door to the house opened, and Marwan heard a buzzing from inside. He realized he had never taken his finger off of the button.

“What do you want? Don’t you know it’s midnight?”

Marwan recognized the voice of his childhood friend. Again he tried calling out his name, but this time nothing came.

A flashlight clicked on, and through his closed eyes, Marwan could see the glow of it playing across his face.

“I said, what do you want? If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call . . . Marwan?”

Marwan could hear the scuff of slippers against stone and the rattle of a key in the gate. “Marwan, is that you?”

Marwan tried to speak, but no words came. Then his feet refused to support his awkward posture any longer. He slumped to the ground, and everything went black.

Part Two

17

Claudette Ramsey lounged by the pool in her bikini at a large villa in the mountains, sipping piña coladas and soaking in the rays of the sizzling São Paulo sun.

But even as she acted the part of a woman enjoying her newfound freedom, with a cabana boy rubbing coconut oil on her shoulders and back, her stomach churned while she awaited word of the latest operation. No longer would she have to live with that insufferable tyrant—the Pharaoh, as she liked to call her husband behind his back. By now he was dead. But what of the private investigator? Was he dead too? And even if he was, who else knew what he must know? Who else had he told?

Her satellite phone rang. She sat up and shooed the cabana boy away. Then, when she was absolutely sure she was alone, she flipped open the phone and asked, “Are you on a secure line?”

“Of course,” said the voice at the other end. “You think I am a fool?”

“I cannot afford to take any chances. You know how much is at stake.”

“You are not the only one taking risks.”

“Then is it done?”

“Not quite.”

“What does that mean?” she demanded.

“They got your husband. But Marwan Accad got away.”

“How is that possible? I paid for
three
teams.”

“He is very good.”

“I thought you were better.”

“We will find him,” the voice assured her. “And we will kill him. But it will take more time and more money.”

“Absolutely not,” she growled through clenched teeth. “I’m not paying you one cent more. You said you would get them both. That’s what I paid for. The rest is your problem.”

“You’re forgetting one thing, Mrs. Ramsey.”

“Don’t call me that,” she insisted. “You know I hate that name.”

“Nevertheless,” the voice said, “I know where you are, and I know what you’ve done, and I have all the evidence I need to have you locked up for the rest of your life.”

“Any evidence that implicates me implicates you as well,” she shot back.

“Really? Well, we will just see about that, won’t we?”

Claudette was now up and pacing about the pool, her face flushed with anger. “How dare you threaten me? I’m the one who—”

“Silence! Do not think you are the first ‘client’ who has ever tried to back out of her obligations in the middle of an operation. We have ways of handling such people, ways I guarantee you never want to experience for yourself.”

“I’m not trying to back out,” she said. “I just don’t want to pay more than we agreed.”

“You will pay what it costs, or you will pay with your life. Is that understood?”

Claudette stopped cold in her tracks. She knew he was serious, and she knew he was capable. She did not want to die. She simply wanted to be free, and rich, like she had always deserved. The collateral-damage death of her stepdaughter, Brigitte, had been unfortunate, but luxury and alcohol were helping to soften that pain. Now she feared she could suffer the same fate.

“Very well,” she sighed. “How much more will you need to finish the job?”

18

The surrealness of seeing his childhood best friend—a friend he hadn’t laid eyes on in almost ten years—collapsed against his front gate quickly gave way to action. Kadeen al-Wadhi reached back into his house and pressed a button on the wall next to the door. A buzzer sounded, and the gate’s lock clicked.

Because the gate swung outward, Kadeen had to push hard to shift Marwan’s weight in order to give himself enough of an opening to squeeze through. Once outside the gate, he placed a large rock into the gap—a rock he kept there just for that purpose, having locked himself out of his property one too many times. Then he took hold of his friend.

“Marwan! Marwan, speak to me!”

Marwan’s head lolled back. There was no response. It was obvious by the numerous small scabs on his friend’s face that he had recently seen some trouble. But obviously, those tiny cuts were not enough to cause unconsciousness. There had to be something more.

A dog barking down the street reminded Kadeen of his location. He had to get Marwan off the street and inside.

“Kadeen, what’s going on?”

Kadeen turned and saw his wife, Rania, in her yellow robe, standing in the doorway.

“Quickly—come hold the gate open,” Kadeen said in a strong whisper.

When he saw her hesitate, he added firmly, “Rania, now!”

She rushed to the gate and pushed the rock away with her foot. As Kadeen slid Marwan’s arm around his shoulder and hefted up his weight, Rania asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s Marwan Accad,” he answered as he grunted his way around her. The toes of Marwan’s shoes formed two serpentine tracks in the dirt as Kadeen struggled toward the front door.

He heard the gate clank closed behind him and felt his burden lighten as Rania placed herself under Marwan’s other shoulder. They worked themselves sideways, then edged their way through the narrow door and into a small living room.

They dragged Marwan across the floor, knocking a vase off an end table as they passed, and dropped his body onto a couch. Both were panting when they straightened up, but Kadeen’s breath suddenly caught in his throat. The left shoulder of Rania’s robe was stained dark with blood.

“
Habibti
, are you . . . ?” Then he realized the source of the blood. “Help me get his coat off.”

Together, they slid Marwan’s arms out of his jean jacket. Kadeen could see that although Marwan had padded his right shoulder, blood had soaked through and covered the upper quarter of his shirt. He looked up to ask his wife what to do next, but after seeing the blood on herself and on Marwan, her nursing training had already kicked in.

“Get me some scissors—the ones from the block in the kitchen,” she ordered.

Kadeen jumped into action, thankful that Rania had taken charge. He felt very comfortable in a lot of areas, but this was not one of them.

As he ran through the house, he wondered what Marwan could be doing there. Was he running from something? Was he hiding? Had one of his dubious-background, high-powered clients turned on him? Were the police after him?

Whatever the situation, two things were certain: Marwan was in trouble, and Kadeen was the one he had come to for help.

He scanned the kitchen, looking for the butcher’s block.
I really need to spend more time in this room,
he thought, getting frustrated.
There it is!

Once he had the scissors, he turned to run back to the living room and almost stumbled over his eight-year-old daughter.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure that the four-year-old wasn’t up too, he said, “Laila, what are you doing—”

“Who’s the man in the living room,
Abi
?”

Kadeen squatted to look her in the eye. “He’s a friend of mine, my little
simsimah
. He’s hurt, and he’s come to us for help.”

“Is he going to die?”

Lord, please, no,
he thought. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Can I help you?”

A feeling of pride swept over Kadeen. Laila hated to see anybody or anything hurting—a wonderful quality in a little girl when directed at people, a little more difficult to deal with when she brought home the occasional mangy street dog.

“You certainly can. Go to Maryam’s room and quietly get into bed with her. Sleep with her tonight. She’s too little to see this, so please make sure she doesn’t come out.”

“Should I pray while I’m in bed?”

Kadeen cupped Laila’s cheek in his hand. “Of course,
simsimah
, pray. Now scoot.”

Moments later, Kadeen was back in the living room. While he was gone, Rania had managed to tear open Marwan’s shirt. Kadeen dropped the scissors into the pocket of the jeans he had slipped into before he had answered the door and looked over Rania.

Marwan’s shoulder was a nightmare.

“Sorry I took so long,” he said. “Laila was in the kitchen.”

“I know. She heard the vase. I sent her there after you. This is not good, Kadeen.”

“That much seems obvious.”

“He needs to get to a hospital. This is too much for me to handle.”

“He can’t go to a hospital.”

She stood and faced Kadeen. “What do you mean he can’t go? Either we get him to a hospital, or he is going to die tonight on our couch!”

Gently taking her by the shoulders, Kadeen said, “Listen,
habibti
, there is a reason he came here instead of going to the hospital. He is obviously in some sort of major trouble.”

“He’s in trouble if he stays here! Dying on our couch is pretty serious trouble!”

Kadeen released his wife and turned away. “I know, I know. Just give me a minute to think.”

Brushing past him, Rania left the room. Moments later, he heard pots rattling and water running.

Turning around, he stared at his friend. It was hard to know for sure, but it appeared that the years had aged him well.
After all this time, this is how you step back into my life. That is so like you—always a flair for the dramatic.

Rania came back around him. In her hands she carried a pot of water with several rags floating in it.

As she knelt and began cleaning the wound, Kadeen asked, “You don’t think this is something you can handle?”

Without turning, she replied, “It’s a gunshot wound. The bullet has to be taken out. Then all the fibers from his clothing have to be removed. Finally, it’s already infected, so we need to get him on heavy doses of antibiotics—greater amounts than I have access to.”

Kadeen nodded.
Please, Lord, guide me.

19

An airport security officer identified the stolen rental car just as the sun was coming up over Marseille. Fifteen minutes later, the area was surrounded by police, and by seven thirty, Inspector Jean-Claude Goddard’s cell phone was ringing in Monte Carlo.

“Yes, yes, what is it?” he asked, startled out of a catnap in his office, where he had been all night. “You’re kidding. . . . Where? . . . Has the area been secured? . . . No, no, we’ll grab a chopper. . . . Have everything ready by the time we arrive. . . . Good work.”

He called Colette DuVall to make the necessary arrangements, then called Lemieux and delivered the news. They had a lead.

Goddard splashed hot water on his face, brushed his teeth and hair, and changed into a clean shirt from one of his desk drawers. He stopped in front of the mirror and realized that he still looked as bad as he felt. Then he gathered up his badge, sidearm, wallet, and keys and met DuVall out front. She drove him to the heliport to meet Lemieux.