Borderless Deceit (48 page)

Rachel explained she coped with the sham of a career seemingly going forward by looking back. When her diplomatic appointment was made public, she contacted Iain. Amongst all her men he'd been the most sympathetic. Ostensibly the call to him was to share the news. Iain was surprised, then excited, and, yes, he'd love to meet. And so Rachel set off for Vienna where they huddled in a café for hours – beginning
with coffee and moving to cognac – quickly agreeing to revitalize a friendship. As afternoon turned into evening, with several carafes of Veltliner having emptied, Rachel aired every mundane and transmundane life-course preoccupation she'd ever had. Iain, avuncular and kind, nodded unendingly. When all the large issues had been ventilated – and put back into storage – they turned to smaller, more durable topics, such as books read and films seen and places visited since parting a half dozen years before. They found they had Costa Rica in common and were both taken by it. In fact, Iain stated, he was planning to buy a house there in the country, one with a view. “Retirement, it creeps up on you.” The idea of a country house in Costa Rica stirred Rachel. Could they share it? “But, yes. Oh, yes. Why ever not?”

On the spot we agreed on the practicalities of buying one. Knowing there would be a place, a house that was half-mine, it struck me as a first, essential step towards making other, more drastic decisions. A few months later, about the time I got to Bucharest, Iain had signed a deal. I was planning to go see it, when circumstances changed
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A letter arrived from Morsi, hand-delivered to the embassy, in which he set out his concern for the Foundation. The implications for the Foundation of my split with Nikko had never been addressed and I was interested to hear that Nikko had resigned from the Board. Since I was the third member, Morsi wanted to discuss with me what should happen next. Could I fit that in? He said the messenger would pick up a reply next day
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I took Morsi's letter at face value. It brought back memories of interesting times. I also felt I still had some responsibilities and wrote back consenting to meet. Communicating through a private courier struck me as excessively formal, but I believed it was Morsi's way and thought nothing of it
.

A few weeks later Morsi's reply suggested a meeting in Alexandria. Air tickets were enclosed; a suite had been reserved in a hotel. The meeting took place in a conference room. Only us two. We talked for an hour about the Foundation. Should it be dissolved? We agreed, ideally no. Was it viable without Nikko? We agreed, yes, if a new top-notch financial mind could be brought in. Following that it could be transformed. Into what? I presented my ideas
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It felt good to be reshaping and re-energizing the Foundation and we worked out a plan. Pointing then through the window at his yacht a few
hundred yards off shore, Morsi invited me for dinner. On board he was a gracious host. When I left to be taxied back to shore he took my hand and said, “We will create a magnificent new Foundation, Rachel
.”

It inspired me. The Foundation coming out of slumber, more money available than before, my influence on it increased, and my situation in Bucharest such that I would have time for it. Travelling back to Bucharest I had a new sense of purpose. Some weeks later I went to Alexandria again
.

The second visit was much the same. Morsi had commissioned detailed studies for a new Foundation structure. There was a list of candidates for the new financial position. We reviewed all this. We agreed on a new management structure and processes for determining priority regions and high pay-back activities. Afterwards, another dinner on the yacht. This time when I left Morsi kissed me on the cheek
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The third visit. More good progress with the Foundation, while on the yacht the dinner atmosphere turns intimate
.

I want to describe Morsi to you, Carson. Perhaps you will understand why we became lovers
.

Hear his voice. Deep and slow. R's roll off his tongue. Soft guttural Arabic tones break through into his English. A lovely accent. The voice is relaxing
.

Listen to his words. They focus on beauty. Beautiful thoughts. Beautiful minds. Beautiful objects. The words are rich in allegory. He quotes poets. He translates Arabic sayings into enchanting English. “Beauty, intellect, vitality, all that is good, Rachel, has converged in you.”

See his eyes. See them take you in, sense them entering your thoughts, watch them transform. They turn soft with wonder, as if in you a whole universe can be seen. They glisten and beseech, and when you say something they fill with joy. His eyes bless you for the company you confer
.

Watch him move. Observe hesitancy and assertion mixed. Each action begins as an exploration, but ends with strong determination. He lifts a glass this way, or points at features in an artwork. Or opens a door. At the end of that third dinner, taking my hand with just such an interplay – ambiguity and precision – he leads me through that door, deeper into his private chambers
.

Rachel paused to see how I was taking this. From within a trance I nodded, a signal I was with her, unseen on Morsi's yacht, having no qualms about passing through that door with her. “I can imagine
how it was,” I murmured. “It was fated to be that way.” Again Rachel reached over and with a fingertip brushed my hand.

Morsi as a lover. So illicit. A few months before, I was at a dead end and now I'm in a Levantine enchantment. Could it continue? I supposed it wouldn't. Yet, back in Bucharest, sitting in the ambassador's office my thoughts became steadily more exotic. One day I had a sudden new idea. A tremor went up my spine. If the relationship with him was not destined to last, why not have something permanent from it? Why not a child? I rejected the thought as soon as it arose, but it came back that night and again the next day. Why? Why was I thinking that? Now I know the idea had been below the surface for a long time. It was the missing piece. Even so, when it broke into the open I debated with myself for days, reasoning it was ridiculous, delusional even. Yet, the other side stood up well. Morsi was an attractive man, a spiritualist, a multi-layered character with a rich and varied mind. A child from Morsi through me – would it not be a fine convergence? Wouldn't the chances be high that the child would be divine? And so I threw caution to the wind. No more contraception. Let fate decide
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“Rachel!” Apprehension suddenly choked me. She was taking me far beyond anything I thought possible. “I should have called you. If only I had warned you.” Rachel, with a slight headshake, smiled, dismissed my misgivings and poured more tea. When she continued, my eyes fell nearly shut, so afraid was I of having to know where this was going.

When I went to Alexandria again all was as before: the meeting, the dinner, afterwards our hour of intimacy. Except all through it Morsi was in a mood. Preoccupied. When I was on my way back to Bucharest I wondered whether a business venture had gone sour
.

Something had indeed happened, because in Bucharest a few days later I received a short letter from Nikko. He wrote that he knew I was seeing Morsi and he wanted to meet me urgently – for my own good. It couldn't be done on the phone. He asked me to write him back suggesting a time and place
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I considered not replying. What right did Nikko have to re-insert himself? At the same time I was curious and suggested Vienna, partially because Iain would be close in case of need, but mostly because I could do it on the way to Alexandria
.

The rendezvous with Nikko was by the main cathedral. I saw him first. He stood like a pillar, waiting, not moving, not even rocking on his
heels, the same aura as always. I wondered: Is today a reckoning? Is the score to be evened for my refusal to remain with him? There was still time to turn away, to find Iain, to be surrounded by chattiness rather than imperious decrees, but I decided to see it through. When Nikko saw me walking up he consulted his watch. There you are, he said. I asked if we should find a place to sit. He said, no. The expression was as hard as it was when he did the bank's paperwork. It won't take long, he added. A circuit or two around the church ought to do it. He set off. I fell in step. He launched into what he had to say. No warm-up niceties
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At the end of a business meeting, Morsi had informed him that he was being honoured by my visiting him on his yacht. Nikko didn't take this well. I suppose there must have been a terrific clash. According to Nikko he terminated their business relationship there and then. That explains, I thought, why Morsi had been moody. Calmly I asked Nikko why he thought I would be interested in knowing that he and Morsi had had a spat. Did he think I was interested in dwelling on what had been?

He replied that there were things about the last five years, about the Foundation, I had never known and began to list them. Horrible revelations, his real business with Morsi, the Foundation being a construct for hiding dirty money, Morsi now using it to lead me on. On and on he went, all of it the same, Carson, as what you said yesterday. Can you imagine how, as I walked with Nikko around the cathedral, I suddenly felt I was being brutalised? Five years of living were being put to the torch. Everything I had believed and been was going up in smoke. For some seconds I was speechless with anger and then I went into denial
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My first coherent thought was that what I suspected before was proving to be true. Obviously spiteful, Nikko had come to destroy my new relationship with Morsi. And to really have the last laugh, to rape my sense of honour and so dehumanise me, he had made up a story which he expected me to believe – that I had rendered him a service and made him a great deal of money through the credibility I gave the Foundation. This was him trying to grind me into the dirt. It made me resolute. I would give him no satisfaction. And so I repeated: ‘Why are you telling me all this? Why now? Do you think I'm still interested in what once was?”

Nikko exploded then. Stop seeing Morsi, he warned. Morsi isn't normal. If anything he is psychotic. If past experience is a guide, you could soon be dead
.

I stopped walking and three steps farther he did too. He turned to come back. What past experience? I asked
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No woman, Nikko said, had ever lasted longer than six months with Morsi. The pattern never varied. He brought them in, led them into thinking that he worshipped them, yet held something back. The women soon desired to go beyond this reserve, to feel a truly deep and intimate commitment, to know that their souls were bonding with his. Whenever talk turned this way, Morsi would become rapturous. “Yes, yes, my heart too desires that.” But not long afterwards they would disappear, never to be seen again, not by anyone
.

We began a last turn around the cathedral in silence. What a fabrication, I thought, becoming still more dismissive. Contemptuously I repeated my earlier question yet again. Why tell me all this? A bad case of sour grapes?

Nikko stopped. He took my upper arm, digging his fingers into it. “Your heart, Rachel, has an outward sheen. It appears very lovely. But in reality it's like mine. It lacks softness. That distinguishes you. I've always liked it and I hate to see it wasted. I'll tell you something more, Morsi runs a global killing network as a sideline. A nod from him and you're gone. You think I'm inventing this out of jealousy? Test it. Say something to Morsi. Say you want to see him more. Put a psychological squeeze on him. Make it simple. Suggest a week in Rome or Paris, love-making twice a day with the hours between spent as a happy twosome going shopping. If his smile deepens, if his eyes flood, if he agrees – ‘If that is your wish, then I desire it.' – if he says something like that, consider your days numbered. He'll organise surveillance as sophisticated as any that comes from a government agency. Nothing will escape it. A day will come, maybe in a week, maybe a month, after which inexplicably you will be gone. You are who you are, Rachel. For you, you're number one. I've made my peace with it. But even so, I would hate to see you murdered.”

He let me go and walked away
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I stood dazed. I was scheduled to depart for Alexandria in a few hours. What should I believe? Suppose Nikko was right, should I go? Yet, if Nikko had fabricated all this and I decided not to go, would I then be throwing away things which mattered to me?

In the end I concluded that if I didn't go I would always be second-guessing the truth. I simply had to know. And so I proceeded to Alexandria
.
But I took Nikko's advice too. A test. On the way I devised one
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The routine in Alexandria is well-established by now. I check into the El-Salamlek Palace. In late afternoon, the launch arrives in the harbour. The operator is the same – a cheerful, middle-aged Ethiopian. Bumping over the swell towards the yacht, he mimics the sound of the waves parting and I join in his laughter. Morsi is waiting and his greeting is eager. It's tempting to think that what Nikko said was invented. Drinks are served on deck. Morsi asks about the flight. He follows up with polite questions about my work in Bucharest. He talks about books he's been reading. We watch the sun sink below the horizon. It is genteel companionship
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The chef announces dinner is served. The room is candle-lit. During the meal Morsi becomes animated, telling me about his study of poetic patterns used by ancient Middle East civilisations. He quotes a few lines. I ask him to continue. Desert scenes. Ancient cities. Rich palaces. Priestesses giving their bodies. Priests administering rites. Morsi's words come fluently, as if he's not quoting, as if he is creating. I ask him to repeat a passage in order to recite it after him
.

In the sanctum there is peace and his heart stirs with yearning
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