Saving Sophie: A Novel (2 page)

T
WO

S
OMMERS AWOKE ABRUPTLY AS
the plane’s wheels bounced hard on the LAX runway. He shook the cobwebs from his head and checked the time. Barely an hour to make his connection to Honolulu. He lifted his carry-on from the overhead bin and stretched his cramped muscles. Emerging from the Jetway, his hat pulled low over his forehead, he paused to survey the people standing at the gate. What would he do if they were already here? The FBI. The LA police. Waiting to greet him. Not a thing, he supposed. Not a thing he could do.

He exhaled a sigh of relief when no one paid attention to him. Head down, avoiding eye contact with someone who might later say, “Oh, yes, Officer, I saw that man getting on the flight to Hawaii,” he ambled slowly through the crowd and made his way from Terminal 4 to Terminal 6, stopping to buy a newspaper and a couple of bottles of water. Taking a seat in a back row at Gate 16, he slouched and buried his face in the financial section.

Boarding could not come soon enough for Sommers. He had read the same page over and over, never managing to digest a single word. When the flight was finally announced, he merged into line with a noisy tour group and smiled at the gate attendant as she took his ticket, though he failed to respond when she said, “Have a pleasant flight, Mr. Wilson.”

A bittersweet memory stopped him as he stepped onto the Jetway. The last time he’d boarded a plane to Hawaii he was with Alina and Sophie. They were just beginning their first family vacation. Back then, he held hands with his giddy four-year-old, who bounced along, full of glee, bursting with joy. Back then, he and Alina had smiled so proudly as Sophie skipped along beside them. But that was back then.

His window seat was toward the rear of the plane, and for a brief time the adjoining seat was vacant. How fortunate, he thought, as he set his panama hat on the empty seat and took out one of his water bottles. But as the doors were closing, a young woman, the last to board, rushed down the aisle and stood before his row.

“I think that’s my seat. Twenty-two B?”

Sommers nodded, rose, placed his hat on his attaché in the overhead, and slid back into his seat.

“Must be a pretty special hat,” she said, smiling. “It almost had its own seat all the way to Hawaii.”

Sommers returned the smile. He watched the belated traveler compose herself, organize her knicks and knacks, and settle into her seat. She was obviously of Polynesian lineage, with smooth, gentle features and rich, black hair. He judged her to be in her late twenties or so, maybe six or seven years younger than himself. Her skin was tanned, but her face was flushed and her forehead was slightly moist, which Sommers attributed to her dash to catch the plane.

“I almost didn’t make this one,” she said, still breathing hard. “Bad traffic on the 405.” She slipped her magazine into the seat pocket, took a series of deep breaths, and eyed the bottle of water in Sommers’s hand.

He caught the look. “I have an extra bottle, would you like it?”

“Oh, God, yes. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Are you all right?” Sommers said, handing the bottle to her.

She nodded. “Winded, that’s all. I only had a few minutes.”

Sommers thought of other things he could say to keep the conversation going, but decided against it. Perhaps at another time, in another part of his life, it would have been nice to start up a conversation with this pretty Hawaiian girl, pass some of the next four or five hours engaged in pleasant small talk and maybe even catch up with her on the island. But given the present circumstances, he thought it best to say little and retain his anonymity. It would be safer if she didn’t remember him.

The preflight video started and the plane pushed back from the gate. Sommers let his eyes stray every now and then. She was leafing through her magazine when she caught him in the middle of one of his glances. “Malani,” she said with a smile, and held out her hand.

“Jack,” Sommers answered, shaking her hand and immediately sorry that he’d used his real name.

“First time to Hawaii?”

“Yes,” he lied. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Well, you’ll love it. I’ve lived there all my life.”

Sommers buried his attention in a magazine. Malani took out her earbuds, untangled them, and was soon lost in her music.

T
HREE

I
N THE JUDEAN HILLS,
south of Jerusalem, in the ancient city of Hebron, a group had gathered to celebrate a wedding. The mid-winter weather favored them with kind temperatures and soft desert breezes. Though a few of the men wore black coats and wide-brimmed Borselino hats, most were dressed in white, short-sleeve shirts and woven kippot. Women, young and old, surrounded the bride, whose train was carried by two young bridesmaids. A small group of musicians played traditional music as the joyful assembly danced its way up the stone pathway.

The celebrants were not a part of the small community of Jews who lived in the H2 sector of Hebron or the seventy-five hundred or so who resided in the adjacent West Bank town of Kiryat Arba. The wedding party had traveled from Jerusalem by tour bus to witness the exchange of vows at the Tomb of the Patriarchs, Ma’arat HaMachpelah, which Abraham purchased from the Hittites thirty-seven hundred years ago for four hundred silver shekels, and where he, along with Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, and Leah, are buried.

The young groom’s eyes were locked upon his betrothed and a broad smile lit his youthful face. The nervous bride breathed deeply, unable to exhale, as she carefully stepped her way toward the flowered canopy. While the party wound its way toward the sand-colored walls of the holy shrine, a black sedan, its windows down, approached from the south. Suddenly, a clap was heard. Then another. The startled bride grabbed her side, her legs buckled, and she fell to the ground. Crimson slowly seeped through the fabric of her white lace dress as her stunned entourage hustled her to the shelter of the security hut.

More shots. Three men fell. Rivulets of blood filled the crevices of the large stone blocks on King Herod’s walkway. Guards fired at the sedan as it sped up and disappeared around the corner. Shrieks and cries from the wedding party drew some of Hebron’s residents to their windows.

The young bride, bleeding badly and suffering from shock, was carried to the tour bus and laid upon the seats. “She’s losing too much blood,” an elder said. “She won’t make it back to Jerusalem.”

A woman pleaded, “We need a doctor! Someone help us!”

One of the security guards spoke up. “I know of a doctor, but he’s Palestinian. Dr. al-Zahani. He lives just north of here in the Arab sector. Not too far.”

“Please,” the woman cried.

The bus traveled several blocks, through the military checkpoint, to a large, walled compound in the north quadrant of the H1 sector. The guard jumped from the bus, ran to the gates, and pressed the buzzer several times. He was soon met by a powerfully built man whom he addressed as Bashir. After a short and excited discourse in Arabic, Bashir nodded and opened the mechanized gates. The bus pulled in and the unconscious bride was carried to the front door.

Dr. Arif al-Zahani, tall, slender, with a gray goatee and white hair, neatly trimmed, came to the entrance. “What is this, Bashir?”

“A girl has been shot,
Sayyid
,” he said with deference, pointing to the bride, who was carried in the arms of her groom and two others.

Al-Zahani stared at the security guard and the group. His gaze was stern and unfriendly.

“Doctor, please help us,” the groom pleaded. He spoke in Hebrew, but the urgent plea was unmistakable in any language.

Al-Zahani finally nodded. “I will treat the woman in the guest room,” he said to Bashir. “Keep my grandchild in her bedroom.”

He led them down the hall, where the men laid the bride gently down upon the bed. Al-Zahani surveyed the wound. “You must all wait outside.”

Al-Zahani worked for over an hour. When he emerged from the guest room, he spoke dispassionately, addressing his remarks in Arabic to the security guard. “She survives. But she has lost much blood and needs hospital care. You would be well advised to take her to an Israeli hospital.”

The groom, his black coat splattered with blood and dirt, stuck out his hand. “Thank you so much, Doctor. God bless you. I will pay you whatever you wish, but no amount can ever repay the kindness that you have shown.”

Al-Zahani declined the hand. “There is no charge,” he said through the interpreter. “Take her now to the hospital. Do not delay.”

When the group had left, al-Zahani turned to Bashir. “The sheets, the pillows, the bed itself. Dispose of it all.”

F
OUR

W
ALTER JENKINS SLAMMED THE
handset onto the telephone cradle. He’d been trying to connect with Sommers since early afternoon. It wasn’t as if this were an off day. Sommers, who was J&F’s top transactional partner and the point man on a $300 million deal, was AWOL. He was seen at the title company all day yesterday, monitoring the escrow submissions and doing what needed to be done to transfer all of Kelsen’s buildings, machinery, vehicles, and other assets to Leland. And then he doesn’t show up at the office. He doesn’t show up for cocktails. Now Jenkins was getting damn tired of hearing Sommers’s voice-mail message.

Jenkins walked down to the fifteenth floor. “Where the hell’s Sommers?” he said to a secretary who was getting ready to leave for the night.

“I don’t know, sir, people have been trying to reach him all afternoon.”

“Do you have any way of contacting him that I don’t know about?”

“I have his cell phone number.” She shook her head. “But I’ve tried it. No answer. No answer at his home either.” She shrugged. “Sorry.”

Jenkins sighed. “Well, I guess there’s nothing else I can do. I’m sure we’ll see him tomorrow morning when the escrow funds disburse. We’d better.”

“He may be out with Mr. Harrington. Some of the Kelsen people have been calling and asking if Mr. Harrington was here.”

Jenkins shook his head. “They can’t find their guy either. Isn’t that just peachy.”

*   *   *

V
ICTOR KELSEN ARRIVED AT
St. Joseph’s Arena as he customarily did, pulling up to the side entrance in his black Bentley sedan. His driver quickly jumped out of the car and circled around to open the back door. Deacon students in their coats and hoodies huddled on the sidewalk in the frigid evening air waiting for the arena doors to open.

The usher guarding the media entrance smiled. “Good evening, Mr. Kelsen.” The usher stepped aside and handed Kelsen a program. A fixture at the arena, Kelsen could come and go as he pleased. Same center-court seat for the last fourteen years—two rows behind the Deacons’s bench. Kelsen was the athletic department’s most revered booster. He shook several hands on his way into the arena and arrived at courtside during warm-ups.

Deacon players in their blue satin cover-ups were spread around the hardwood for the pregame shootaround. A few players nodded or waved at Kelsen. Two stopped their practice shots to give him a fist bump. Kelsen wandered over to the baseline where Darius McCord was swishing corner jumpers. “Looking sweet, Darius.” Kelsen said.

Darius smiled a little. “Yes, sir, Mr. Kelsen.”

“I think I’m going to see quite a show tonight. Nobody at Northern can guard you.”

Darius never lost his modest smile. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Kelsen.” He spun to his left, pushed off the floor as if he were weightless, and arced an eighteen-footer softly through the bottom of the net.

Kelsen made his way to his section as the arena doors opened and the students scrambled for their seats. The band fired up, the cheerleaders bounced on the sidelines, the JumboTron came to life, and the arena’s energy level began its rocket climb.

A portly man in a Deacons sweatshirt sidled down the second row to the seat next to Kelsen. He set his cup of soda in the holder, took a flask out of his pocket, and dumped a shot or two into the cup. “Hey, Vic, whaddya know? Good one tonight, huh?”

“Mismatch.”

“What’s the line tonight?”

“Eleven, last time I looked, but that’s a soft spread. No way Northern contains Darius. More like eighteen.”

“Agreed.”

*   *   *

T
HE FLIGHT WAS MIDWAY
over the Pacific, dinner had been served, and the cabin lights were dimmed. Sommers had consumed three little bottles of airplane wine and was finally relaxed enough to nod off.

Alina was being coy. Her voice was soft and alluring, her dark eyes enchanting. Her singsong accent made him chuckle.
Zhock,
she called him. She rested her head gently on his shoulder, her silken, black hair smooth upon his face. A hint of her floral perfume filled his senses. “I love you so much,” he said.

“Sshhh, you’ll wake the baby,” Alina said.

He leaned over to kiss her and she shifted her weight, jostling him a bit.

Sommers opened his eyes. Of course, it wasn’t Alina. He would never hold Alina again. It was his tardy seatmate Malani, who had slumped to the side, over the armrest, her head settling softly on his shoulder, her hair brushing his neck. She was sound asleep.
And I almost kissed this stranger,
he thought
. That would’ve been challenging to explain.

The two sat just that way for the next half hour, her head against his body, her breathing slow and deep. Though his muscles were beginning to cramp, Sommers sat very still. His legs were asking to be stretched, and a walk up and down the aisle would have done him good, but then, he’d have had to wake her up. For as long as it would last, he’d let this woman’s physical closeness touch off pleasant memories of Alina. Pleasant but sad. Yet, it calmed him. Comforted him. He leaned his head back, shut his eyes, and gave himself to his memories.

Back then, they had been off to Hawaii on their daughter’s first airplane trip. As the plane droned on, Alina and Sophie had busied themselves looking at pictures of the Hawaiian Islands in a magazine. Sophie’s boundless and enchanting excitement drew the smiles of the neighboring passengers. “She is
so
cute,” Jack heard one woman say, and he thought his chest would burst with pride. Soon, Sophie had dozed off. Alina snuggled next to Jack, and he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. Whatever Hawaii had in store, paradise could be no sweeter.