Controlling Interest (5 page)

First she had to remove this getup — that was what Zach called it. She unwound the
dupatta
and stuffed it into her backpack. Feeling rebellious, but much less eye-catching, she walked along humming, face lifted to the mild breeze. She'd already run away from the fiancé chosen by her father. What was one more little rebellion?

She stopped. She'd never see Abbi again. Or Ammi or Liba. Or Uncle Rais who treated her like a two-year-old. The staggering import of this truth buckled her knees so that she had to lean against the closest brick wall.

She hoped she was doing the right thing. The Holy Book commanded one to honor mother and father. And she did so in her heart. But how could she marry Jarrar when she didn't know him, let alone love him? How could she align herself with a man who had done the things Jarrar had?

The thought of going back was scarier than going forward.

With a lump in her throat, Yasmine took a step, then another, down the sidewalk. The street was busy, crowded with old buildings lumped together in tawdry fashion, their crumbling bricks forming a messy backdrop to flashing neon. They were nowhere near as ancient as the buildings of Karachi, but they had a tired sort of weight about them, as if they might tumble down if she breathed too hard.

Her sandaled feet ached along the insoles, but she turned around and hurried to catch up to the young woman who had taken her photograph. Perhaps she would be kind as well as tactless enough to photograph a stranger.

“Excuse me,” Yasmine said boldly.

One of the three dark-skinned girls, the one with tight braids and a big laugh, looked around to find Yasmine. Her eyes flicked up and down the yellow-green
shalwar kameez
. “Yeah?”

“I am so sorry bothering you, but could you direct me, please, to the closest cheap store?”

“Sheep store? What's that?” The girls looked at one another and giggled.

Yasmine sighed. If anybody needed an interpreter, it was she. “I need clothing.” She lifted the filmy side panel of her
shalwar kameez
. “Jeans and a T-shirt?”

The girl with the braids smiled. “You don't want a thrift store. You want the mall.”

“No!” She'd seen pictures of American malls. Too many people. “Just send me to the cheap clothes place.”

One of the other girls, notable for clownlike makeup, spoke up. “We could show her to the Salvation Army. That's just a block down on Jackson.”

Yasmine recognized two words. Salvation and army. Salvation she needed, but she wanted to stay as far away from armies as possible.

Before she could protest, the three young women turned in flank and left Yasmine behind. She hurried to catch up. “Wait! I don't want to — ” Then she saw the store's sign. It looked vaguely familiar. A red shield. Oh —
that
kind of salvation.
That
kind of army.

One of the girls opened the door and held it for Yasmine to enter. “Thank you,” Yasmine whispered as she slipped through. “So kind.”

“You gon' be okay?” asked the braided girl, backing outside. “You got some money?”

Abbi owned several oil wells. Of course she had money, though it happened to be in a form she could not spend. “I have enough for cheap clothes. Thank you. I am fine.”

The girl gave her a doubtful look, then disappeared. Yasmine was on her own again.

She looked around the store. She couldn't see where the shield applied.
Salvation Army.
What a peculiar name for a place with so much junk. Rows and rows of clothing were arranged on steel racks — ladies' on one side, men's on the other — apparently sorted by color rather than size. A couple of tired-looking mannequins sported outfits that Yasmine somehow knew were sadly out of style. Perhaps she should rethink her choice of boutique.

She sidled toward the ladies' section. A woman leaning against the cash register near the door didn't seem to be concerned about Yasmine's appearance. Perhaps Middle Easterners in traditional dress shopped in this store on a regular basis.

After a long, confusing search, she found a pair of jeans that looked like they might fit and a T-shirt with Elvis on the front. The young, handsome Elvis, not the older fat one with enormous sideburns. Yasmine was proud of her knowledge of Memphis history. When she'd thought she would have to live here, she'd decided she might as well learn about the place. The T-shirt would help her blend in, here in the King's hometown.

She took the outfit to the fitting room, hurriedly stripped off the
shalwar kameez
, and put on the American clothes. She'd guessed correctly, but —
oh, my
. The jeans weren't as low-cut as those worn by the girls who had brought her here. Still, she felt
bepardah
— exposed
.
Her dressy sandals looked funny with the jeans, so she wandered over to the shoe rack. After examining a row of down-at-heels sneakers, she shrugged and returned to the fitting room. For some reason she couldn't bear the thought of wearing used shoes.

Dressed in her own clothes once more, she took her purchases to the register, which was surrounded by a glass case displaying an amalgam of brooches, earrings, bracelets, and necklaces. She fingered the earrings Abbi had brought from a business trip to Morocco. She wasn't going to buy cheap jewelry, even to blend in.

“How much, please?” She laid the jeans and T-shirt on the counter.

A smile lightened the clerk's lined face. “Good choice, dearie. You can't beat Elvis when he was a young buck. That'll be four dollars for the jeans and two-fifty for the shirt. With tax, it's . . . let's see. Seven-ten.”

Yasmine blinked. She could almost afford another outfit with her U.S. dollars. But she'd best be frugal until she could get to a bank and exchange more rupees. She lifted the
shalwar kameez
draped across the counter. It would take up a lot of room in her small backpack. She looked at the lady. “You may do whatever you want with this. I can't take it with me.”

The lady's eyes widened. “You gonna donate it? You better let me give you a receipt.”

Yasmine frowned. “I get a receipt for giving something away?”

“For your taxes.”

Abbi paid plenty of tax in Pakistan, but clothing donations had no effect on it. Yasmine shook her head. “No. But I think I will keep this.” She picked up the beautiful
dupatta
Ammi had given her for her birthday last summer and stuffed it into her backpack. Parting with it was impossible. She smiled at the clerk. “Thank you. Good-bye.”

Properly dressed — she thought with irony of her mother's comment as she'd put Yasmine on the plane — she walked out of the store into the bright sunshine.

She considered her next move. Across the street was a law office next to a coffee shop whose dark, strong odor brought waves of homesickness. Drawn, she crossed the street and looked in the coffee shop window. People clustered around small tables, intent on conversation or focused on laptop computers. She could treat herself to just one cup of espresso.

But getting to Rafiqah — the one person she knew in this city, the one person from home who would help her escape — was more important. She straightened her shoulders and stepped back from the window. As she walked past the law office, a lady on the inside, cleaning the front window with a blue cloth, peered out. Her stern face and the hidden twinkle in her eye reminded Yasmine of her Aunt Karimah — whose flamboyant turbans and westernized clothing, cigarettes, and expensive perfume everybody tried to hide from Yasmine and Liba.

The lady raised her bottle of cleaning solution in greeting, giving Yasmine a wave with the blue cloth. Yasmine smiled and hurried on.

As she walked toward the smell of the river, she kept thinking about Zach. He'd never explained exactly what his job was, and he would often disappear for days with no explanation other than to apologize when he returned and say he'd missed her. The day he bought her the little silver ring, which she wore on a chain hidden under her blouses, was one of the happiest days of her life. She hadn't taken it off since — even the weekend she went home for holiday and her parents told her about the wedding.

She understood the rules of her culture. One did not flout the wishes of one's parents. Besides, she loved Abbi, who made it clear the connection was one that would benefit him — and that offending the family of the Commerce Minister would create untold awkwardness. So she'd swallowed and said she would think about it, and everybody assumed that meant “yes.” Especially Ammi, overjoyed that her elder daughter was finally marrying suitably, indeed brilliantly. Only Uncle Rais watched Yasmine carefully and said she'd better be sensible or she'd break her parents' hearts.

Yasmine faltered. She looked over her shoulder, caught the eye of the lady in the window, and stumbled on. There was more at stake now than her parents' approval.

She had to get to Zach.

Jarrar Haq was outraged. The moment his private jet landed at Wilson Air Center, attached to Memphis International Airport, he turned on his cell phone and called Yasmine's father.

“You are coming to the U.S., no?” he demanded as he gestured for Feroz to collect the carry-on luggage. “She must be found.”

Feroz, scowling, followed with his own duffel bag and Jarrar's briefcase trapped under one muscle-bound arm. In the other hand he carried a pair of thirty-pound dumbbells.

He deserved to be inconvenienced. Because Jarrar had detected something odd in the tone of Yasmine's last couple of emails, he had sent his bodyguard to retrieve the girl from the airport. Despite every precaution, she had given Feroz the slip, as well as Tubberville's brainless daughter.

Ignoring his grumbling subordinate, Jarrar bounded down the steps to the tarmac and headed for the terminal as a crew of mechanics swarmed the plane. They would clean it and go over it thoroughly before parking it in the hangar Jarrar rented by the year. He paid well for good service.

Which was one reason the marriage must be consummated.

“I am making arrangements.” Patel sounded offended. “My wife and daughter wish to accompany me.”

Jarrar could not have cared less about Patel's feelings. He had bought the man's daughter with his father's good will. Business was business. “How do you propose to find her?”

“I assure you no one cares about my daughter's return more than her mother and me. My colleague Eddie Tubberville has secured a detective who will spare no expense or effort to find Yasmine.”

“Tubberville?” Jarrar entered the air-conditioned terminal and, waving away a solicitous airport employee, shoved open the door of the lounge. “Is not this the man whose stupid daughter lost Yasmine in the first place?”

“Do not be so quick to disparage him. Tubberville knows the value of a daughter.”

Finding the lounge empty, Jarrar covered the phone with a hand. “Feroz, leave my briefcase on that table and deal with the rest of the luggage.” After Feroz had left the room, Jarrar went back to Patel. “I must meet this detective. Make sure he understands the confidential nature of our situation.” He paused, considering how his words must sound. “I am very concerned for Yasmine's reputation. And yours.”

“I assure you,” Patel said quietly, “no one appreciates my honor more than me.”

With that Jarrar had to be satisfied.

The airport was buzzing with activity, and out of habit, Matt kept his eyes peeled as he headed across the central lobby. You never knew when you might see something — or somebody —important.

“So when did you decide you wanted to be a private eye?” Natalie trotted behind him, her sandals making slapping noises against her heels.

Like little gun shots.
Pow! Take that, Hogan, right between the eyes.

Matt got on the down escalator and looked over his shoulder. “It wasn't a conscious decision. I just kind of wandered into it.” All morning she'd been lobbing questions at him. He felt like an interviewee on
Larry King Live
.