Controlling Interest (33 page)

Matt looked up. “That's all?”

Dr. Kasuri spread his hands. “She stops abruptly as though interrupted. Maybe that is when the plane landed.”

Natalie took the paper and peered at it as though she might see an invisible message. “She mentioned a note from Zach. I wonder what happened to it.”

“You're a woman. What would you do with something like that?” Matt glanced at her curiously.

“I'm not the kind of girl men write love notes to.” She shrugged. “But I suppose if it were me, I'd keep it on my person.”

Cole pulled his lip. “If she did, we're out of luck. But what if she put it somewhere else? Where'd you find this notebook?”

“In the backpack.” Natalie lifted the backpack in her lap. “Along with the Bible and that scarf-like thing the women wear over their heads.”

“A
dupatta
,” supplied the professor.

“Yeah, that.” Natalie unzipped the bag. “And this wallet. It's got her passport, a credit card, and a little American and Pakistani money.”

“We've each looked through it several times,” said Matt.

The little office was quiet. The professor sat back, a little quirk between his eyes. “There is one thing I do not understand. In the next-to-last entry there is a phrase I skipped, not knowing how to translate it.”

“Really? That's weird.” Matt reached for the notebook to turn it around. “Show me.” Like he was going to be able to read Urdu when a native with a PhD couldn't.

Dr. Kasuri tapped a series of words with a neatly trimmed fingernail. “Here. ‘Pins up cola.' It sounds like an American phrase, doesn't it?”

“Sure does.” Matt frowned, unenlightened.

“Pins up cola. Piinnsss-uupppp-coooolaaa . . . Pinsup — ” Natalie laughed. “Pensacola. That's where Yasmine's headed — at least, according to Oksana. Maybe she's hoping to meet Zach at the base.”

Cole nodded. “She may already be there. She's got a pretty good head-start on you.”

“Maybe. We haven't heard back from Carothers.” Matt stood up, retrieving Yasmine's notebook and ripping the sheet containing the professor's translation off the legal pad. “Let's go.”

“I wish I could come with you guys, but I've got an article due to the
Journal
this afternoon.” Cole stood in the doorway with Laurel. “Keep us posted, okay?”

“Will do.” Matt shook hands with Cole. Praise the Lord for good friends like these.

Natalie hugged Laurel. “Pray for us. And tell Charles Wallace I'm bringing my mask next time he wants to sleep with me.”

Laurel laughed. “I'm glad you're feeling better.”

Natalie's cell phone rang. She checked the ID and snatched it open. “Liba!”

“Put her on speaker,” Matt commanded.

Natalie punched the speaker button. “Liba, I'm here with Matt. How are you?”

“I am . . .” Yasmine's sister took an audible breath. “I have to hurry. My mother does not know I am calling you.”

“Why? What's the matter?”

“It's Yasmine. She called me last night.”

“Last night!” Matt grabbed the phone. “And you're just now letting us know?”

“I had to think about what to do. My sister is in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble? Where is she?”

“She is in Japan. A village called Satsuma.”

“Japan!” Natalie looked dumbfounded. “How'd she get to Japan?”

Laurel burst into laughter, and Cole snickered.

“What's so funny?” Matt demanded.

“Satsuma's not in — ” Laurel hiccupped, laughed some more, and got control of her giggles. “It's not in Japan. It's right here in Mobile County, about fifteen miles up the interstate.”

Natalie had to smile. “Liba, what else did she say? How did she get there? Did she say why she ran away?”

“She is frightened. And homesick. But in many ways she does not sound like my sister. I do not tell my mother because Yasmine will break her heart. She says she has become Christian and does not want to marry Jarrar Haq.” Liba paused, then blurted, “How can she do this to our family?”

“I knew it,” Natalie muttered.

“She couldn't have gotten this far alone,” said Matt, frowning. “Who is she with?”

“She traveled with an elderly man and woman with a name something like Curtis and Jule Hardy. They bring her to their village and let her stay in a room with many dolls and quilts. She would not tell me anything else. Just that she would not come home.”

Natalie shook her head. “Why not?”

“You do not understand my father. He will cut her off. It is a very serious thing to renounce Islam. Even if she repents, he will make her to marry Jarrar Haq.” Liba hesitated. “She says she will never see me again, and is sorry to hurt Ammi and Abbi. She asked me to tell no one that she called, and I promised. But I — ” Liba's voice broke — “I lied.”

Matt could hear the girl crying on the other end of the line. “Hey, don't do that! You did the right thing. We'll find her and make sure she's okay — ”

“You do not understand,” Liba said again. “My father loves me, but he will punish me when he finds out I didn't tell him immediately. But I worry about Yasmine, and I had to tell someone. Please find her, but don't tell my father she has broken our faith. The Haqs will be so angry and insulted. Make her change her mind!”

Natalie bit her lip. “I don't know, Liba,” she stalled.

Matt took a breath. “We'll handle it. Don't worry. Can I call you at this number?”

“No, my mother is coming. I have to go. I will call you again when I get a chance.”

“Wait!” Matt clutched the phone hard. “Give me the number Yasmine called from.”

“I am so stupid — I should have — goodbye,” Liba whispered hastily, and the phone went dead.

Words Matt hadn't needed in a long time burned his tongue. Somehow he managed to keep control. Laurel's laughter had disappeared. Cole was frowning.

Natalie tried to pry the phone out of Matt's hand. “We have to find her right now! How do you get to Satsuma?”

“Wait. Just hold your horses.” Giving up the phone, Matt held up a hand. “First we call this Curtis and Jule, whoever they are, and get their address. We can't just start knocking on doors in Satsuma.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.” Natalie put a hand to her forehead. “Laurel, could we borrow your phone book?”

“Come on in. I'll get it.” Cole stepped into the kitchen and came back with a huge phone book, which he plunked on the coffee table. “Hardy, right?”

“I think that's what she said.” Matt leaned over Cole's shoulder. “Good night, there are a million of them.”

“Yeah, and three of them are Curtis. Popular name. Wait, here's one that's Curtis and Jewel. That's ‘Jule' in South Alabama lingo.” Cole winked at Laurel. “I'm getting pretty fluent.”

“Let's call and make sure they're the right ones.” Matt took out his phone.

It rang four times and went to voice mail. “This is Jewel. We can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message or call later. Bye.”

Disappointment crushed Matt for a split second. But the Lord was in control. The recorder clicked on. “My name's Matt Hogan,” he said. “I'm a friend of Yasmine Patel, whom I believe is staying with you. We think she's in great danger, and we have a message for her from her friend Zach. I'd appreciate it if you'd have her call us back.” Matt left his and Natalie's phone numbers, ended the call, and looked at Natalie. “I think I should go ahead to Penscola, since she's so far ahead of us. You drive up to Satsuma, see if Yasmine's still there, and call me.”

“Good idea. Except we're short on cars.”

“She can borrow mine,” Cole offered. “I'm working at home today.”

“Thanks, man.” Matt absently hugged Natalie. “Looks like God's answering prayer.”

Yasmine had grown up in Karachi, a coastal city which some claimed to be the second largest city in the world in terms of population. She had gone to school in England and lived and worked two years in the capital city of Islamabad, a bustling metropolis. In comparison, Mobile, Alabama, was a little tidewater village.

But riding a public bus in this enormous foreign country — knowing that Jarrar Haq could still overtake her before she reached Zach — left her feeling exposed, her nerve endings raw. How long had she been on the bus? Jewel had bought her a ticket and seen her off at the station in Mobile — it seemed like an hour ago. Wasn't that how long the trip to the base should take?

The bus, stopping several times along the way, took a route along a wide tree-lined boulevard, crossed a bridge, twisted around an interstate connection, then dipped through a long, dark tunnel. On the other side, daylight flared, blinding her. The bus started across a long, six-lane bridge.

Then she saw a sign that made her heart leap with relief:
Battleship Parkway
. Evidently she had reached her destination, the naval base, without realizing how far she had come. And there was the battleship. It loomed off in the distance to the right of the causeway, a hulking gray-steel beauty.

The bus slowed and took the exit ramp.

Her heart pounded. She was almost there.

The bus traveled a half mile or so, and she saw the ship, the USS
Alabama.
Surely there should be more than one, if this was a naval base. At the entrance a fighter jet hovered on top of a pole like a green dragonfly. More small jets lined an airfield, with a submarine poised on the far side of the ship. To her surprise, nobody stopped the bus as it entered a broad parking lot and stopped behind several cars and an RV or two. Shouldn't there be a security checkpoint at a gate? If American military security was this lax, no wonder they were having trouble in the Middle East.

She sat for a moment, afraid to get off. After a couple of other people exited, she followed them toward a small building sitting at the end of the parking lot. “Gift Shop,” the sign said.

Gift shop?

Yasmine approached a young woman tending a computerized cash register. “Excuse me. I'm trying to find Lieutenant Zach Carothers. He's stationed here at the air station. Do you know how I can find — ”

The young woman cut her off with a look of utter confusion. “Air station? Ma'am, this is a museum.”

“A museum? But there's a ship . . .” Yasmine stopped, feeling foolish. “Museum?”

“This is a World War II battleship and submarine.” The girl laughed. “The only lieutenants here are mannequins dressed up in 1940s gear.”

Yasmine grabbed for her dignity. “Then could you tell me where I could find Pensacola Naval Air Station?”

“Oh, wow. You
are
lost. You're nowhere near Pensacola. It's almost an hour away. Get back on the causeway, take the exit to I – 10 east, and head over to Florida. When you get to Pensacola, you'll take the . . .”

The instructions jumbled in Yasmine's brain. She stared at the young woman, seeing only numbers and bridges and vast expanses of water. If she'd been at home in Karachi or Islamabad — or even England, where she'd gone to boarding school — there would have been no problem. But here, in this enormous country of mile-long tunnels and rivers so wide one could not see across them, fear filled her with nausea. She had gotten off the bus too soon.

The young woman finally stopped talking. “See? It's easy.” She smiled, a perfect specimen of American orthodontics.

Yasmine produced an answering smile from somewhere. “Yes. Thank you.” She turned and ran back through the gift shop.

The bus was gone. She stared at the towering turrets of the battleship. It represented Zach. It also reminded her that she was alone and utterly out of place.
Oh, Lord. What do I do?

Suddenly she longed for a familiar face, or at least a familiar voice. She could not call Liba again. Her sister, she sensed, was on the verge of giving her up.