Escape (29 page)

Most of the women in the room huddled off in small clusters and ignored her. When they did look at her, however, it was with curiosity, not hostility. Only once had she felt uncomfortable. That was shortly after she'd arrived, when suddenly she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end and a chill run up her spine, as if something evil was watching her. She turned quickly but there was no one looking in her direction. A
little jumpy for a spy, aren't you?
she'd chided herself.

Right now, she was trying to keep an eye on a young black woman, the receptionist she'd seen outside Imam Jabbar's office. She'd been trying to figure out how to approach the widow of Jamal Khalifa without revealing that she was anything more than a translator for a security company. If there was some connection between the suicide bombing, the mosque, and Prince Esra bin Afraan's visit, and she was part of it, Lucy couldn't afford to expose herself. However, the widow might also be their best bet in the quest to learn if there was a wider conspiracy.

If she could just talk to the woman, she might get some hint as to her involvement. Unfortunately, the opportunity to speak to her had not come up. So Lucy passed the time rehearsing what she might say to introduce herself. A glance told her that the widow was talking to another woman dressed in conservative Muslim clothing.

"You should just go talk to her," said the voice in her head.

"I will as soon as she gets through talking to the other woman," Lucy replied. "And why are you speaking Spanish?"

"Because as you know, I was from Castile," said the voice, which came from the shadow of a woman standing next to her. "And what other woman?"

St. Teresa appeared to her as she would have looked in her day—a large but pretty woman dressed in the dark robes and white coif of a Spanish nun. Lucy turned to the ... well, what was she ... an imaginary friend?... A ghost?... A figment of her imagination?
Perhaps,
she thought,
a hallucination brought on by some particular as-yet-undiagnosed psychosis?

Her friend and human spiritual guide, John Jojola, thought that St. Teresa of Avila was her spirit guide. He often talked about the village of spirits who didn't just live in his head, but all around him in waking life. There were good ones who helped people, he said, and bad ones who caused problems. As St. Teresa usually showed up in times of danger and stress to help or console Lucy, he figured she was good. "Don't be afraid to accept her," he had said. "It is good to have spirit allies."

Lucy looked back at the widow. The figure of her companion wavered and seemed part of the shadows behind her, a common occurrence when she looked at St. Teresa.
I'm just tired,
she thought. The past week had been a blur of parties, business meetings, and expensive meals—any one of which cost more than a year's salary working for the Catholic diocese at the Taos Pueblo—not that she would have traded the latter for the jet-set life. If she never went to another black-tie event again it would be too soon.

Still, the week had its moments. It was sort of funny watching Jaxon "work security" for the prince at discotheques. She wished she could have seen him do the same at the "gentlemen's clubs" they visited, but she had been made to wait in the limousine while the men watched the strippers.

The prince could be charming enough in a vapid playboy sort of way. But she wasn't his type, unless his type—buxom, giggly, and willing—wasn't around, which rarely happened after business hours were over and party time began.

However, there was another side to him, a mean, spoiled side that she supposed came with the territory. He enjoyed watching the supposed Wall Street Masters of the Universe grovel at his feet, and he also liked asking anxious bank and trading-firm presidents to run small errands and favors for him like low-level flunkies. At times she almost felt embarrassed for them, but mostly she felt sad that her country depended on such spineless, money-grubbing sycophants.

Nor was the prince any better to his own people, whom he treated as slaves and retainers. He was crudest to Amir al-Sistani, his chief financial officer and whipping boy. While he would brag about al-Sistani's abilities with finances, he more often treated him like a trained dog. He constantly dressed the man down for his "lack of style" and loudly told the women that he suspected that Amir was either "a virgin or a homosexual."

"Either way, he's too busy for sex," the prince smirked. "Always counting my money or praying. That's about all he's good for. Isn't that right, Amir?" Lucy wanted al-Sistani to stand up for himself, but all he would do was adjust his keffiyeh headdress and mumble in French.
"Oui, man prince."

"
The prince sometimes calls him
al-Iraqii,
which means 'son of, or native of, Iraq,'" Lucy had told Jaxon before the reception.

"Is that a problem?"

"Well, in some places it doesn't mean much more than identifying where someone comes from. But used by a member of the Saudi royal family, it's meant as an insult. There are a lot of highly placed Iraqis in Saudi Arabia, some of whom enjoy a nice life. But to be referred to as
'al-Iraqii'
is to be reminded that they will never belong to upper society. They may have wealth and prestige, but when it comes to the social strata of Arabians, they are lower than a shop owner."

"Sounds like the sort of person who might have a reason to dislike the prince?"

"Probably. Though he seems too timid to do anything about it."

They'd agreed that al-Sistani bore watching as a potential threat. In the meantime, Lucy was supposed to try to get a feel for the widow of a man who'd blown himself up in a synagogue. She'd been about to walk over, only now there was a second apparition, which was startling in itself. Even more surprising was the fact that the widow seemed to be talking to the shadow person.

Then again, it was a relief to know that someone else saw ghosts, which made up her mind for her. She crossed the room to speak to the woman ... or women.

"Jambo,"
Lucy greeted the widow, who had her back to her.
"U hali gani?"

"Sjambo,"
the woman replied, startled.

You don't look fine,
Lucy thought.
You look frightened and tired.
"So you see them, too?" she asked in Swahili.

The woman gave her a funny look and tried to walk away. But Lucy stepped in front of her and nodded to where St. Teresa now stood next to the other spirit. "Mine was a nun in Spain about four hundred years ago.

Her name was Teresa. I see her when there is danger or I'm stressed out. She told me to talk to you."

The woman hesitated, then laughed as if Lucy had told her a joke. But her voice was serious. "Her name is Hazrat Fatemeh Masumeh, a blessed and divine lady of the Prophet's household. She was martyred more than 1,200 years ago. I, too, see her when I am in danger, which may be because we are being watched.... Careful, don't say anything."

As if on cue, another woman approached, a Caucasian. She also looked familiar, but with the hajib she wore, it was difficult to say why.

"You must be the translator," the woman said in English. "I heard you and Miriam speaking and didn't recognize the language."

"It was Swahili," Lucy replied. "Yes, I'm the translator." She held out her hand. "Marie Smith.... I heard ... Miriam, was it?... I heard her talking and recognized the language, though I've only picked up a few words of Swahili here and there."

"Quite a talent," the woman said. "So many languages in one head. Do I understand you also speak French and Arabic?"

"Those I can speak fluently. Unfortunately, my Swahili is rather rudimentary," Lucy replied. A quick glance told her that St. Teresa and Hazrat Fatemeh Masumeh were gone or had faded back into the shadows. "I'm sure I butchered the few words I know."

"No, actually, you speak my language like a native," Miriam said in Swahili, lightly tapping Lucy on the shoulder as if teasing her before continuing in English. "Oh no, not too bad for a beginner."

Lucy laughed, too.
Thanks for picking up on the cue,
she thought. "You're too kind," she said and then turned to the strange woman. "That accent. You're from?"

"Chechnya," the woman replied. "I am
hekhama konsultant,
a um ... training consultant... for an oil consortium that does business with Prince bin Afraan. He owns several oil fields in my country, and I'm here with a team to negotiate a contract to provide drilling expertise and technology."

"Ah Chechen," Lucy said.
"As-salaamu alaikum!"

The woman looked surprised. She repeated the Chechen Muslim greeting.
"As'salaamu alaikum."

"Ha tse hu yu?"
Lucy asked the woman her name.

"Humma dats,
" was the curt reply.

It doesn't matter, huh?
Lucy thought,
then why is a
Russian
pretending to be a Chechen?
She welcomed the woman to the United States.
"Marsha yooghill Amerika!"

The woman bowed slightly but with a look of disdain.
"Barkalla,"
she replied before switching back to English. "Thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you and, I must say, a surprise to find someone who also speaks Arabic, French, and a few words of Swahili and is so fluent in Chechen. Such a unique gift."

Lucy wished she had not been so revealing. It was like she'd been showing off, and now this woman was suspicious. However, the woman wished them a good evening,
"De dika doila,"
and walked away.

When she was out of earshot, Miriam let her breath out in a hiss. "I do not like that one," she said in Swahili. "She watches me constantly. She claims to be Muslim, but I am not so sure."

"Is there a reason she watches you?"

Instead of answering, Miriam asked her own question. "You are more than who you say you are."

"Yes."

"The divine lady says that I should trust you."

"I guess that makes two spirits who think we should chat."

This time the woman's laugh was not faked. "I am so happy that someone else sees ghosts. It means I am not the only crazy one."

"I know what you mean." She looked across the room and saw that the "Chechen" woman was watching them. "Our friend isn't happy about our talking, and I don't want to make trouble for you."

"Thanks to Allah, I am not afraid," Miriam replied.

"Well, it could still be dangerous, so we should be careful. I will leave a card with a telephone number underneath the box of tissues in the women's restroom. Call me if you'd like to talk."

V. T. Newbury was about to enter his uncle's office when he caught the sound of Dean's voice and hesitated outside the door. The old man was obviously irritated and, as if speaking to someone whose intelligence was less than adequate, fumbled between English and what sounded like Russian.

"Listen close you idiot....S...T...M...17 and Number 13," he snarled. "Pay whoever you need to pay, but no one is to inspect the contents or bother the visitors! He
ძ
okyuaŭme naccaHcupa
M
!
You are to keep guards on duty around the clock. Do you understand?
Bbi noHUMaeme
?"

Dean Newbury listened. When he spoke again, he seemed satisfied with the answer. "Good. Good.
Xopowo. Xopowo."

V. T. knocked and walked in. His uncle was sitting in his chair with his back to him, facing the window that looked south over midtown Manhattan. Although V. T. preferred the same view his father had enjoyed looking north to Central Park, he had to admit that at night the skyline from fifty stories up was beautiful and awe-inspiring. The old man swiveled in his seat to face his visitor with a scowl on his face. When he saw that it was V. T., he smiled and motioned for him to sit.

As V. T. took a seat in front of the massive granite desk, his uncle tossed a small sheet of paper that he'd been holding in his hand onto it. The paper landed on an envelope that had been tom open, the same envelope V. T. had seen his uncle pocket during the reception at the mosque earlier that evening. He glanced at the sheet of paper, which was blank except for the few letters and numbers he'd heard his uncle relay over the telephone.

Dean Newbury saw his nephew's eyes go to the piece of paper and quickly picked it back up off his desk and fed it into a paper shredder on the floor. "UPS tracking number."

"I didn't know you spoke Russian," V. T. said.

Dean Newbury shrugged. "A little," he said. "We have clients who have business interests in Russia, so I've picked up a smattering of the language ... mostly things like 'Do you understand?' Which, by the way, they always say that they do; but they'll figure out how to screw it up somehow unless you stay after them. The Russians we deal with are not the most reliable people in the world. However, as far as their language goes, if there's anything more difficult than the few words I've absorbed, I have to use a translator."

The old man hopped up from his chair with surprising agility and walked swiftly over to the chrome and black-granite bar that set a small kitchen off from the rest of the office. "Fix you something?"

"I'll take a brandy if you have it."

"I do indeed, an excellent choice for a man of means and taste. How would a 1960 Hine cognac suit you?"

"Lovely. A vintage cognac ... rare and expensive."

"As with anything worth having," Dean agreed as he handed V. T. a snifter of the dark amber-colored liquid.

When V. T. held up his hand for the drink, his uncle noted the ring on his finger. "Looks good on you," he said, holding up an exact copy on his own hand. "The triskele. Three golden spiral legs joined in the middle against a field of black. Symbol of the Isle of Man." He held his ring out as if to study it from a distance. "It's really a stylized version of three human legs joined in the middle and running, an ancient symbol that shows up in ancient art from Celtic ruins to Spain and Sicily.
'Quocunque jeceris stabit."'
"Wherever you will throw it, it stands," V. T. translated, raising his glass to his nose to inhale the aroma of leather and spices.

"Ah yes, you were the Latin scholar in boarding school," Dean Newbury recalled. "It's appropriate, too, as the motto of our families for more than two hundred years." He gestured to the skyline. "Hard to believe from this lofty perch that it hasn't always been easy for us. There have been a lot of hard decisions and many obstacles, as well as enemies who wanted us to fail, but we've always been able to prosper."

"If that's the family motto," V. T. asked, confused, "then what's
Myr shegin
dy ve, bee eh?"

"What must be, will be. It's more of an invocation, a statement of purpose ... that in this family, we determine our own fate."

"A good outlook," V. T. acknowledged, feeling the rush of the alcohol. "If you have purpose, you can change the world," Dean Newbury continued. "Make it better."

"To a better world," V. T. toasted.
"Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh."

Dean Newbury's eyes sparkled.
"Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh,
indeed." He put his glass down and leaned forward to study his nephew's face. "So, what did you think of the little soiree this evening?"

V. T. shrugged. "What am I supposed to think? I don't really do anything for the client, except get him from business meeting to party to business meeting to nightclub. All the paperwork has been handled by Mr. White."

"Ah yes, William, the best business-law attorney we have. The son of our other senior partner. He's not much in the courtroom, but he can write a contract so tight God couldn't break it. If anything ever happens to me, and you take over, rely on him."

"Good to know. But I trust you're not going anywhere. I'd prefer not to lose my father and my only uncle in the same year."

"Why thanks, nephew. I appreciate the sentiment. But no fears." He tapped on his bony chest. "Healthy as an ox.... So, this evening's festivities."

"I've attended more black-tie dinners and shaken more hands in a week than a presidential candidate two days before the election, and may I never have to enter another discotheque."

Dean Newbury chortled. "Sorry about that, I'm sure it was an auditory challenge, if not a legal one. But everything I've heard from our client is that you've represented the firm well and that the prince and his people are comfortable with you. They know that people like our Mr. White are foot soldiers, so it's been important to them that we also presented them a general."

"That's quite the promotion from the junior lieutenant I was at the DAO," V. T. replied. "I'm not sure that I did much other than exercise my inherited ability for small talk, but I'm glad I could be of service."

"Yes, leading from behind takes some getting used to," Dean said. "The further up the chain of command we move, the less we're on the chess board where the action is. Still, we're the guys moving the pieces into the right places. However, somebody has to do that well enough, or we'll find ourselves in checkmate."

He looked over at the wall above his shelf of books and pointed to a row of portraits hanging beneath three paintings of sailing ships. "Those men knew how to play the game."

V. T. knew that the portraits were of the Newbury ancestors who'd headed the firm over the past two hundred years. And, as his uncle had once explained, the sailing ships were a reminder of the family's early beginnings "as seagoing men."

"I don't think I need to remind you—not after the way those two niggers beat you bloody and still haven't been caught—that this world is going to hell in a handbasket," Dean said.

The remark caught V. T. by surprise. He felt tears rise up in his eyes, and walked over to the bar where he poured himself another glass of cognac, bringing the bottle over to refresh his uncle's glass.

"The justice system can't deal with the numbers anymore," his uncle continued. "Which leaves the scum of the Earth to terrorize good, hardworking people. In the meantime, illegal immigrants flood across our borders, taking jobs, living off taxpayers, committing crimes with little to fear in consequences. They're like a bunch of cockroaches, hiding from the light, spreading pestilence, reproducing more vermin."

The old man stood up and started to pace. "In Washington, D.C., weak-willed administrations and do-nothing Congresses pussy-foot around the threat of Islamic extremism and rogue nuclear states. They're either so busy appeasing these criminals so that our so-called 'allies' don't get their panties in a bunch, or they blunder about like drunk cowboys, shooting every which way but never really going for the kill. They don't have the balls to do what's necessary to make the world safe for the next generation of white Americans."

V. T. joined him at the window. "So what are a couple of aging attorneys to do about it?" he asked and took another sip of the cognac. His brain felt like someone had turned a fog machine on inside it.

When his uncle turned to face him, V. T. was reminded of the fierce predatory look of eagles and hawks. "We do what we can," he said firmly. "We are in a war, and sometimes in war it's necessary to do things that are unpleasant, sometimes even repugnant. But we keep our eyes on the future and understand that sometimes the ends do justify the means if the cause is a good one."

"There's precedent for the government to usurp civil liberties on a temporary basis in times of war," V. T. noted. "Sometimes liberty must be tempered by realism."

"Exactly. But then the left-wing liberal dogs start whining about their precious liberties; they just don't understand that unless the realities are taken care of, there won't be any civil liberties to lose."

"I get your point."

"I've hoped you would. You've already met my associates and know that they care deeply about where this country is headed. Once you've earned their trust, you can trust them yourself as no other. They're men who are ready to act to save this country, and Western civilization."

As Dean Newbury spoke, his breathing grew faster and more labored. He had to put a hand against the glass window to steady himself.

V. T. shot out a hand to hold him by the elbow. "Are you all right?" Dean Newbury took a sip of cognac. "Ah, yes, thank you, my boy, quite all right. Afraid I get myself a little worked up. For two hundred years this family and others have worked to build something great here, and we won't see it overrun by the immigrant horde, unchecked criminality, and Islamic extremists."

"I'm with you on that."

The old man reached over and gripped his arm so hard it hurt. "You may be called upon to make a hard decision soon," he said. "And at first, the right answer might not seem clear. But your family and your country need you to make the correct choice.
Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh."

V. T. patted his uncle's hand to loosen the grip on his arm. "I hope I'm up to the task when the time comes," he said.

The old man's face looked predatory again when he answered. "So do I, my boy, so do I."

A half hour later, V. T. was still thinking about the conversation when he got out of the taxicab in front of his walkup apartment on Minetta Lane down in the Village. On the outside, it was a modest brick building, constructed well over a hundred years earlier; no one would know by looking at it that he'd purchased the entire top floor and completely remodeled the interior.

V. T. had more money than he knew what to do with from the inheritance he had received from his mother, a New England blueblood whose family went back to the Mayflower and whose fortune originated with the spice trade. His father had quietly amassed a personal fortune as well, through judicious investing of his large salary from the firm.

V. T. had indulged himself with his apartment, which among other things featured the best entertainment system to listen to his beloved jazz. He also drove an Aston Martin, but other than that was not ostentatious with his toys or lifestyle. True, there was the place in the Vermont countryside, and the family beach house in Martha's Vineyard; a painting of himself as a child, picnicking on the sands there with his mother and father, hung in his office. The thought of it now made him nostalgic, which is why his selfpreservation radar didn't pick up the four men who had followed him up the steps. When he opened the door, they shoved him roughly inside.

They were dressed in black, including the ski masks that covered their faces. One of them pointed a gun at his head. "Don't move, Mr. Newbury. We only want to talk to you."

Apparently, the gunman was nervous, because his finger touched the button that released the bullet clip from the gun and it clattered to the floor. The gunman bent over to retrieve the clip, knocking his head against the head of one of his comrades who'd been doing the same thing. They remained crouched over, rubbing their heads and cursing one another.

"Whoever you are," V. T. said, not sure if he should laugh or fight while they were occupied, "you're really not very good at this. I suggest that you let me go before this gets out of hand."

"Shaddup punk," the shortest of the men snarled like a movie gangster. He waved a canister of pepper spray at V. T.'s face. "Don't make me get rough." The fourth man, who had a gray ponytail peeking out from under his ski mask, sighed. "Excuse the theatrics, Mr. Newbury," he said in a low voice obviously meant to disguise his real one. "I wouldn't blame you for thinking that this is some sort of joke. You're right, we're not very good at this. But what we want to talk to you about is very serious."

"Then why don't you take off the ridiculous masks, put away the gun—by the way, I can see that there's no bullet in the clip—and get your friend here doing the James Cagney imitation to take his finger off the pepper spray. And then we can talk like civilized people."

The four men shook their heads. "We can't do that," said the fourth man. "Whatever you may think of our drama here, it's not meant to be a comedy. People have already died, and we can't risk that you're not the man we think you are ... or were. But you should know that this concerns your father and how he was killed."

The partial smile disappeared from V. T.'s face. "What do you mean 'killed'? My father died of a heart attack. If this is some sort of looney theory, I don't appreciate it."

"I can assure you this is not a looney anything," said the heavyset man who'd pulled the gun, which now dangled absently in his hand. "Nor would we go to this extreme—as you've correctly noted, this isn't our usual line of work—if we didn't think this was important."

The portly man added, "Say that we knew your father ... for a long time ... and we liked him very much."