The Witness Page 9

  Rania gave an apologetic look to her husband, who smiled his forgiveness.

  Reaching for Marwan’s extended left hand, Kadeen said, “Old friend, you are about to experience the reason I married this woman.”

  “The only reason?” Rania said playfully.

  “Well, I can think of a few others,” Kadeen answered with a wink. “But this is probably not the time to get into those.”

  23

  It was almost nine when Marwan Accad drove away from the al-Wadhi home and into the night. Where was he supposed to go? He didn’t know anyone else in the country. He didn’t dare stay at a hotel. And he had to assume that those hunting him would track him to Morocco soon, if they weren’t already here.

  It had been a bittersweet parting. Kadeen was clearly unhappy with Marwan’s decision to leave, calling it foolish and unnecessary. While foolish may be accurate, I have to believe it was necessary. Marwan just wished it were possible to erase any trail that someone could follow to Kadeen and his family.

  He glanced at the passenger seat, at the Bible that Kadeen had given him as he was walking out the door.

  “This is my personal Bible,” Kadeen had said. “Believe it or not, it’s the only one I have currently in the house. Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been studying with it for years and it’s marked up quite a bit.”

  “Thank you,” Marwan said, embracing his friend. “I will cherish it deeply.” Although the chances of my actually opening it are slim.

  Now, as he drove, he ran his thumb along the book’s cracked and peeling binding. It would be nice to have the kind of peace and clear direction that Kadeen and Rania have. Maybe someday. But there is definitely no chance for peace today.

  He was still managing a fever, though it was down to 101. Every joint in his body ached, and the throbbing in his shoulder was intense. And as he drove, he continued to beat himself up. Going to Kadeen’s had been a stupid mistake. How could he have been so foolish?

  He was the center of this whole problem. He was the lightning rod. If it weren’t for him, no one would be in any danger. Darkness began to creep into his thinking—thoughts of taking his own life, thoughts of ending all his pain and escaping into the abyss.

  But then, too, came thoughts of his brother, who was working so hard to help him get to safety. He could never abandon Ramy. His parents would never have forgiven him, and no matter what happened, he couldn’t dishonor their memory.

  But what exactly was he supposed to do? He had nowhere to stay, no one to turn to, and the clock was ticking. Someone was coming after him, and one wrong move could be fatal. All the planning he had done while at Kadeen’s now either seemed ludicrous or had dissipated into a pain-soaked fog.

  Marwan was able to think clearly enough to know that the rental car was one more link to his whereabouts. So he drove it several kilometers away from Kadeen’s neighborhood and abandoned it on a quiet side street, leaving the keys in the trunk. Then he flagged down a taxicab and took it back to Mohammed V International Airport, where he called his brother from a pay phone using a credit card linked to one of his aliases.

  “Ramy, it’s me, Marwan. Sorry to call you at home.”

  “What are you doing?” Ramy asked. “I told you to call from a satellite phone.”

  Marwan shook his head. He didn’t want to start the conversation with an argument. “I know, but I didn’t have time.”

  “And you were supposed to wait three days. It’s barely been one.”

  “I need to come home.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a long story,” Marwan said.

  “How long could it be?” Ramy asked. “You haven’t even been there twenty-four hours.”

  “Look, I can’t talk about it, not on an unsecure line,” Marwan insisted. “Just book me a ticket.”

  “No,” Ramy said. “Beirut is not a good idea. Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not safe. Not right now.”

  Marwan pounded the wall above the phone, sending shards of pain shooting through his arm, shoulder, and neck. “Well, I can’t stay here. I can’t go back to Europe. How about São Paulo?”

  “Very funny,” Ramy said, sounding exhausted.

  “Why not?” Marwan asked. “I can help track down Claudette.”

  “I’ve got people doing that, but not you.”

  “The U.S. is out?”

  “You’d never get a visa.”

  “How about Cairo?”

  “Why Cairo?”

  “Why not?” Marwan said, spotting several Moroccan police officers gathering by one of the exits. “There are 7 million people there. I can disappear.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Ramy said. “Why can’t you just stay in Casa?”

  “I just can’t,” Marwan said, knowing that his visit to Kadeen al-Wadhi would be the one thing that would set his brother’s blood to boiling. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Fine, I’ll book you to Cairo. When do you want to leave?”

  “Now.”

  “What do you mean, now? Where are you?”

  “I’m at the airport.”

  “Already? Wait, hold on a moment.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s a breaking news story on French television.”

  “What?” Marwan watched the police as he waited for Ramy. They seemed to be just talking, but . . .

  “They’ve found the car you left in Marseille, not to mention the body of the taxi driver in Saint Michel,” Ramy said.

  “What else are they saying?” Marwan asked, the sweat coming now from more than just his fever. “Have they said anything about me or about Morocco?”

  “No, not yet,” Ramy said. “They’re saying police are still gathering information, no leads yet.”

  “They’re lying,” Marwan said. “They’re onto me. I’ve got to get out of here now.”

  “Okay. What name should I use for your departure?”

  Marwan quickly ran through his aliases in his mind. “Book the flight under the name of Tariq Jameel.”

  “Got it,” Ramy said. “What else?”

  “I need a place to stay when I get there.”

  “Hotel?”

  “No, too risky, too easy to track me down.”

  “Then what?” Ramy asked.

  “Get me a flat.”

  “A flat? How long are you planning to stay?”

  “I have no idea, but it could be a while.”

  “How long is ‘a while’?” Ramy asked incredulously.

  “I don’t know,” Marwan said. “But you said it yourself, Ramy. I can’t come home. I can’t go after Claudette. Where else am I going to go?”

  Ramy said nothing.

  “Just find me a place quickly—I don’t care how much it costs.” Marwan’s head was starting to spin. He knew he needed to finish the call quickly. “FedEx me a satellite phone, some cash, and some business cards.”

  “Business cards?”

  “Something to make me seem legitimate.”

  “Like what?” Ramy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Marwan said. “Make me a computer salesman—no, a consultant. Make up some company name and logo. And put up a fake Web site for it right away.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Hey,” Marwan said, managing a small grin, “what are little brothers for?”

  24

  By 11:30 p.m., Marwan was boarding EgyptAir flight 848, which departed at five minutes past twelve. By 7:05 a.m., he had landed in Cairo, though for the life of him he did not know how he had made it.

  No one had stopped him. No one had questioned him. No one appeared to be following him. Why? Was it a trap? maybe some kind of gift from heaven? It didn’t feel like a trap. But why would God suddenly be merciful to him now?

  It didn’t make sense, but he would take whatever sliver of good fortune he could find. The more important question was not how he had gotten here but what he was goi
ng to do.

  To begin with, he had to remember that he was now Tariq Jameel. That’s what his passport said. That’s what his tickets said. That was the name on the lease for the flat. He had to start getting used to it. He had to start thinking of himself as Tariq Jameel. And he needed a convincing cover story to go with it.

  He worked his way through the airport crowds, paid for his visa, and caught a cab to Sheraton Royal Gardens on Helmiat Al Ahram Street, just a few kilometers from the airport. He wasn’t going to check in. He just needed a base camp for a few hours from which he could contact his brother, have something to eat, and plan his next moves.

  He went to the business center and found a clerk.

  “Good morning,” the clerk said upon seeing him. “May I help you?”

  “I’d like to rent a computer.”

  “Of course, sir. Are you a guest here at the hotel?”

  “No, I’m meeting a colleague, but I forgot my laptop and I need to check my e-mail.”

  “No problem, sir,” the clerk said. “How long will you need it?”

  “Just an hour or so.”

  “My pleasure, sir. I just need you to fill out this form. May I have your name?”

  “Tariq Jameel,” he replied without hesitation.

  “Very good, Mr. Jameel. You will also need to buy a wireless access card.”

  “How much?”

  “One hour is forty-five pounds, sir.”

  “Fine. Do you take Visa?”

  A few minutes later, Marwan/Tariq was sitting in a dark corner of the lobby, sipping some orange juice. He logged on to the Internet and opened up an instant messaging system.

  Ramy, you there? . . . It’s me, Tariq. . . . I’ve made it.

  He waited a few moments, and then a reply popped up on his screen.

  You’re okay?

  Fine . . . clear sailing. Any luck with a flat?

  Sort of.

  Meaning?

  I found a place, but it hasn’t been lived in for a while. The owner says it needs a little work, but he also said you could move in today if you don’t mind.

  The pain in Tariq’s shoulder had dissipated some with time and a load of painkillers that Kadeen had supplied him with. However, he still found himself having to type one-handed.

  How much work?

  A little cleaning, some painting, a few repairs—who knows? Obviously I haven’t seen it.

  Where is it?

  Heliopolis—near the airport.

  That’s perfect. I’m at the Sheraton Royal Gardens right now.

  The owner can meet you there whenever you’d like. . . . I think he’s just happy to get rid of the place.

  Will he rent by the month?

  No. He wants a minimum six-month guarantee.

  Tariq shook his head. Six months was way too long, but there was probably a way around the owner’s demands.

  No way. Tell him we’ll pay the first month in cash, but we won’t sign anything until he’s made all the repairs . . . then we’ll consider six months.

  Will do.

  Good—what else?

  I found out who’s working on your case back in Monte Carlo.

  Who?

  There’s two of them, actually. One guy’s name is Jean-Claude Goddard. Born in Nice, grew up in Monaco. 46 years old . . . chief of detectives . . . smart guy, good reputation, highly respected, married with one daughter. The other guy is Marcel Lemieux. 62 years old. Born in Grenoble, grew up in Normandy, now the chief homicide detective in Paris . . . widely considered the best cop in the country. Arguably one of the best inspectors in Europe. He’s cracked some of the EU’s biggest cases. Twice divorced . . . no kids.

  Marwan scribbled the information onto a pad. Then a thought struck him.

  Which one is headed to Morocco?

  How did you know?

  Instinct.

  Lemieux—he could be landing any minute.

  What about Goddard?

  He’s coming here to interrogate me.

  You’re joking.

  Wish I were.

  Get out of the country. You can’t let them find you—not yet.

  I can’t just disappear. I’ve got the business to run.

  Run it from the road—you’ve done it before.

  And where am I supposed to go?

  Don’t we have a team in Baghdad right now with those execs from Exxon Mobil?

  This time Tariq had to wait a full minute before the reply came back.

  Have you completely lost your mind? You want me to fly all the way to Iraq to avoid talking to some cop from Monte Carlo?

  Tariq answered immediately.

  Absolutely. You can’t stay there. . . . If Goddard finds you and you don’t give him what he wants, he’ll have you arrested and extradited on obstruction of justice charges and hindering the prosecution. God only knows what might happen to you then. You absolutely can’t let that happen.

  What if Goddard follows me to Baghdad?

  He won’t. He’d rather stay alive.

  25

  For two days, Tariq Jameel did not emerge from the flat.

  He still had a fever, but with no thermometer, he had no idea how high. It was obvious that Kadeen and Rania had saved his life. However, he was still a long way from well. He had no energy to go out and find a doctor. He had no appetite, so he simply sipped cans of soda and bottled water that he’d brought from the Sheraton Royal Gardens, trying desperately to rehydrate his body. He took the antibiotics that the al-Wadhis’ doctor friend had given him, but he tried to leave the painkillers in his backpack as much as possible.

  Ramy was not kidding about the flat. It was large—much larger than he needed—with three bedrooms and three baths and an enormous living room. But to say that it needed “a little work” was putting it mildly. It had no doubt been a grand and lovely place back in the 1950s and ’60s, but Tariq wondered if it had been cleaned since.

  Dust covered everything, floor to ceiling, and the kitchen table and counters were overlaid with a film of grease. Two of the three showers didn’t work. Two of the three toilets leaked. The kitchen sink didn’t work. The oven didn’t work. Only one of four burners on the stove worked. And at night it got quite cold, and Tariq couldn’t get any of the heaters to work.

  The artwork left much to be desired as well. There was an array of paintings on the walls, including a miniature Mona Lisa and a life-size portrait Tariq dubbed, Spanish Lady with an Attitude. In the dining room hung two identical paintings of a young boy smoking, while in one of the hallways there was a three-dimensional picture of four kittens, one of which had its face punched in. The living room had three large brass statues of Asian dragon-men of some sort and an enormous painting of zoo animals hanging out at a bar. And they were all covered in dust.

  Not that the decor mattered much. Most of the lightbulbs in the place had blown out so that even in the daytime Tariq couldn’t see that well anyway.

  The landlord had promised to have everything cleaned and fixed immediately, but Tariq needed a few days to rest. Having workmen scrubbing and pounding and making all kinds of racket would certainly not be conducive to his recuperation. So he had asked the man not to send the cleaners until Monday. Until then, all he wanted was a thick blanket and a clean pillow and a couch on which to lay his head. Unable to find the first two, he had settled for the couch in the living room, where he had collapsed and slept almost around the clock.

  On the third day, he was suddenly awakened by a knock on the door.

  Instinctively Tariq reached for his gun, then remembered he no longer had one. He checked his watch. It was almost noon, though with the drapes closed and most of the lights not working, the flat was quite dark.

  The knocking began again, louder this time. Tariq’s pulse quickened. No one knew he was in Cairo, much less Heliopolis, and it was only Thursday—no workmen should be there yet. But the knocking continued.

  Tariq got up, grabbed a small lamp, and moved quietly to the door. Had
they found him? If so, why were they knocking? His hand tensed around the midsection of the lamp. It would be little protection if someone was here to take him by force. But he refused to go down without a fight. He reached the door, looked out the peephole, and breathed again. It was a FedEx deliveryman with a stack of large boxes in his hands. He opened the door and saw the man’s startled expression.

  “Are you Tariq Jameel?” the man asked.

  “I am,” he said, realizing how awful he must look—unshaven, unshowered, and in the same clothes he’d had on since he left Casablanca.

  “Sign here.”

  Tariq did, then tipped the man and took the packages. Sure enough, they were all from Beirut. He ripped the first one open like a little kid on his birthday.

  Inside was a brand-new satellite phone with batteries, a charger, and an instruction booklet. Also inside was an envelope containing ten thousand Egyptian pounds—plenty to get him started—and a stack of business cards that read, Tariq Jameel, Managing Director, ICT Consulting, Brussels, Belgium, complete with a Web site, an e-mail address, a post office box number, and a Brussels-area phone number.

  Tariq powered up the sat phone and called the number.

  “Thank you for calling ICT Consulting,” a woman’s voice said in French on the recording. “No one can take your call right now, but please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and someone will get back to you as soon as possible.” The message repeated in English and then again in German. Ramy had thought of everything.

  Tariq ripped open the next box and found a large leather briefcase inside. He pulled it out, unzipped it, and found himself staring at a high-end notebook computer complete with fingerprint security access and a USB satellite hub. Digging further, he found several pairs of blue jeans, khaki trousers, several new shirts, socks, underwear, a couple of sweaters, a shaving kit, and toiletries—toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, soap, a nail clipper, and so forth.

  But it was the third box that surprised Tariq the most. On the top layer was a brand-new handheld digital TV and radio receiver, still in its box. He assumed that was Ramy’s way of helping him keep up with the news, particularly of the intensifying hunt for him. Below that were maps of the city, a list of computer consulting companies based in Cairo, and a stack of newspaper stories—printed off the Internet—on the state of the computer industry in Egypt, all designed to help him build and maintain his new cover.