Sudden Deception (A Jill Oliver Thriller) (6 page)

“I won’t keep you, Rine,” Jill said quickly, hoping her friend wasn’t too pissed off or too tired to talk. “Have you found out anything more on Al Binood?”

“I’ve uncovered an off-chance connection that it may be an Al Qaeda meeting place,” she said, her voice a little thick. “But the information was so obscure, it may be a long shot. Oh, and Jill, have you seen any reporters? ‘Cause CNN’s dogs are on it. It’s been all over the news that an American is missing, but it’s only a tagline so far. You know those vultures—they get a whiff of a story and they move on it. So far no messages on your voice-mail, so I don’t think they know it’s David yet.”

“You can bet they will uncover his name soon. Karine, can you send me an e-mail if anything changes with the media? I need to keep on top of whatever comes out.” Before Karine answered, Jill added, “I'll call again soon. Oh, and Karine, I met an Arab guy in the lobby, Jeff mentioned there was a public relations officer. Arabic, he says his name is Zayed. Can you see what you can find on him?”

“How do you know him? Do you think he's dangerous?” She sounded slightly concerned.

“Well, he was here waiting for me. Said he hasn’t heard from David. But you know me, Rine,” Jill said wryly.

“Yeah, just be careful, Jill.” But Karine’s words fell on deaf ears.

Jill had no intention on visiting Al Binood unarmed. She needed some sort of weapon. She had not been able to bring her gun onto the aircraft as she was not on official US Marshall business, and guns were illegal in Qatar. Jill had read of American security contractors being thrown into Qatari jails for merely having a couple of live bullets in their luggage. Not something she needed right now.

She smirked as she pulled out her key-chain lighter and marveled at the cleverness used to disguise her switchblade. The knife's sleek cold metal had never been discovered by even the most observant of airport security. She changed into her dark fatigues, slipped the knife into a side pocket within easy reach on her right leg and left her room.

Zayed looked different sitting in the plump lobby chair. His head nodded, motioning her towards him. His spotless white dishdasha appeared freshly laundered and starched, and he sported traditional Arabic headgear—a black agal held in place the flowing gutra that he had lifted back on both sides and then neatly crossed over at the back. Jill studied him up-close he resembled a figure from an old Arabian movie, a modern-day Lawrence of Arabia.

Sitting across from him was a woman dressed in a black abaya complete with the hijab and burka, holding a large blue shopping bag. Jill could see only her dark brown eyes. She was surprised when the woman looked back at her directly without a hint of shyness. Her eyes were expressionless at first, then Jill saw slight crinkles appear at their edges and she knew the woman must have been smiling.

“She will help you dress to blend in.” Zayed said. The woman stood, then waved her hand directing Jill to follow her. They walked across the gold lobby to a room next to the hotel concierge desk and opened the door. Inside, the room was empty with faded pear-green walls and a small cot in the corner. The silent woman removed the contents of the blue bag and placed them on the unmade cot—an abaya, a black scarf, and a small cotton cloth cap. Without a word the cloaked woman, who now stood in front of her, began to gently stroke Jill’s hair off her face; as if preparing her for a wedding. Jill automatically stiffened slightly. She wasn't accustomed to strangers being in her personal space, let alone touching her in such a familiar way. But there was something comforting about this woman’s presence.

Maneuvering around as deftly as a Park Avenue stylist, the woman pulled Jill’s hair back into a ponytail, then up into a bun. Jill felt the tautness as the tight cap covered her hairline, it was like she was preparing to race in a swim meet. She brushed her fingers along the edge of the cloth cap, not a single hair strayed where it might be seen.

The silent woman stood back in front of her, holding the black robe to Jill’s shoulders. She scrunched it like pantyhose into a ring and gently slid it over her head. The cloaked woman’s face was close to Jill’s and she glimpsed into her misty brown eyes rimmed with crevassed lines. After several adjustments the woman in black clapped her hands. “Yalla yalla,” she said and motioned Jill to turn around.

The glossy polyester robe hung heavy. She looked down and saw just the tips of her toes poking out from under the hem. She wondered how much she would sweat today. Now the woman began to wrap the scarf tightly around her face, meticulously pinning and tying. Jill did not expect that she would breathe easy with her mouth and nose covered. Then she suddenly felt a sense of relief. There was no mirror in the room. No one could see her, no one knew who she was. Turning Jill around one final time, a look of satisfaction lit up the silent woman’s eyes.

“Alhamdulillah.
Praise be to God
,” she said thickly, as she pulled Jill back into the lobby.

Zayed, still in the same spot, was pouring from an Arabic-style coffee pot. Steam rose as coffee hit the toy cup. He looked at Jill approvingly as as she approached.

“Khalas, khalas.
Finish
.” His upright fingers touched quickly, then he opened them again. The dismissed woman turned and crossed the bright lobby; her abaya billowing as she walked out the door.

“What now?” Jill asked.

Zayed stood, said “Khalas,” once again, and headed towards the door, Jill trailing a step behind him.

Unexpectedly, the heat didn’t seem as invasive as it had the day before. Could it be the abaya? Jill wondered. A passing taxi tooted twice when he noticed Zayed’s hail. The robin’s egg blue Corolla pulled up, and Zayed opened the door for Jill to get in first. She hesitated. Jill thought of the taxi she took from the airport last night and kicked herself for not appreciating it more.

The driver was dressed in loose-fitting pants and a long overshirt with slits up the side, which Jill remembered was called 'shalwat kameez,' the pajama-like clothing that is the national dress of Pakistan. He also sported a bright orange, well-trimmed goatee, which contrasted with his baby blue colored attire. A little white crocheted beanie adorned his head. The plastic on the seat crackled and crunched when Jill slid across it. The gaudy seat material shouted through the plastic and reminded Jill of heavy curtains in an old movie theatre. Zayed said something to the driver in Arabic and the car jerked forward. The door, smudged with fingerprints and dirt, rattled ominously and Jill noticed immediately the absence of a door handle on her left side.

The driver’s beady eyes peered at her through the rear-view mirror that was tilted at such an angle that he could see her body. Jill wondered why he continuously stared at her cloaked presence, while driving so erratically. It made her think last night's taxi driver professional in comparison. Jill closed her eyes several times as the car jerked forward and sideways. Honking cars cut them off. The streets were busy and the driver turned on the Arabic music when Jill talked to Zayed in English.

“The streets seem abnormally clean,” Jill said, trying to take her mind off the drive.

“We have very cheap labor here so we have a lot of people to do the work in a short period of time; they usually clean the streets at night.”

The loud music filled the car and left no room for more chitchat.

Suddenly, they made a sharp right, and popped over a speed bump into a giant parking lot. It took Jill several seconds to realize it was not actually a parking lot, but a back street with cars parked in disarray; too many cars for the amount of buildings. Cars were parked down the center of the lot, making forward progress virtually impossible. In some instances the cars were double-parked, making passing unattainable. Nevertheless, the small taxi snaked its way through the vehicles until they came to a bright yellow sign set back from the street. Jill thought it strange to see an English sign for Nestlé Tea in this part of the world, but there it was, its bright yellow glory. Below it was Arabic writing and Jill spied the words in English: Al Binood.

In front of Al Binood lay several dozen sand-stained, tattered, square cushions about eight inches high. In front of the low seating area was a TV perched on a makeshift stand. The TV itself looked to be vintage 1980s and in poor condition, but a power cord ran from it to a socket in the wall. Dust coated everything. Dingy white plastic chairs on the cobblestone suggested that this must also be an outdoor meeting place. Zayed said something in Arabic or possibly Urdu, Jill wasn't certain, to the driver, and handed him some money, then reached his hand over to help Jill out of the car. It was easy to slide across the plastic fabric and Jill was thankful for his help when the bottom of the abaya touched the ground and got in the way of her feet.

“So this is it?” He nodded, and with a show of annoyance, touched his finger to his lips signaling her not to speak. This pissed her off, but this was his turf, so she kept her mouth shut and fell in behind him. She wasn't used to being told what to do. They walked past the chairs and cushions, and through a rickety front door. Jill stopped abruptly and took in the scene before her. She stood in wonder at what she saw. The one-room area was in desperate need of repair. One of its four walls consisted of a bank of dirty windows that surely had not let the sun through in a least a decade. One particularly filthy pane had a long taped-up crack in it. An abundance of plastic tables and plastic chairs checkered the room. On the tables were ashtrays and a smattering of faded plastic yellow flowers. There was a door at the back of the room, which Jill thought might lead to a restroom but saw no sign. On the far wall next to the cashier's desk was a large picture of an obviously important Arabian man. A prince or president, she assumed, based on his decorated gold trimmed clothing.

Zayed motioned her over to a corner table. Jill’s abaya swept the dirt, leaving a hint of a trail across the floor to where she sat down at a wobbly table. There were only two other patrons in the place and looked to be Arabs. A gaggle of slight waiters staff members, all male, stood around anxiously, waiting to serve them.

One of them broke from the group, brought coffee in an Arabic-style decanter, poured the brown liquid into miniature cups. Looking down at the steaming coffee, Jill tried to work out how to drink it with a burqa. Not wanting to raise suspicion, she decided to let it sit there untouched. She looked around the room for anything that appeared irregular. Everything did.

Meanwhile, Zayed engaged the waiter in conversation as the tiny man grinned widely and poured him another cup of coffee. Zayed pulled from the slit side pocket of his dishdasha, a photo of David, and showed it to the waiter. It too all Jill had to stop from grabbing the picture and questioning the man herself. Not knowing the language however, she forced herself to stay quiet and evaluate the discussion as best she could. Although she could not speak Arabic, or any other of the many languages commonly spoke in the Gulf region, she did understand body language; and judging by the server’s, he did not seem to know the man in the photo. Too relaxed, Jill thought. The server then called over another of his colleagues. Wanting to have a closer look at the picture, Jill reached over and gently pulled it from Zayed’s hairy hand. Her chest swelled as she looked at David, so close to her heart and now in her hand. He was sitting in the lobby of the hotel, Le Meridien, the same place in which she herself was staying. The picture was taken from afar, as if done under surveillance; David wasn't looking at the camera, but to Jill it felt like he was saying hello.

As she handed it back to Zayed another waiter nervously approached their table, slight in build. Jill guessed he was from Bangladesh. She based this on her research profiling terrorists from Dhaka. She recalled that they were more frail-looking people; with smaller, rounder, and flatter faces, compared to their Indian neighbors.

“You know this man?” Zayed asked in Arabic. The small man looked at Zayed then at the photo and back to Zayed. A bead of sweat rolled off his forehead. He looked around the room. Then without further warning, he bolted, towards the back of the café and fled through the unsigned door. It clapped shut behind him. Jill was surprised that her first reaction was one of pause, as normally her instinct would be to run after him. Then she heard Zayed’s chair fall over backwards. The flash of Zayed’s crisp dishdasha told her he was well ahead of her thought. In the next instant Jill dashed past the inquisitive staff and raced after Zayed.

The sunlight was blinding after being in the dim café and Jill winced at the brightness—only to find Zayed holding the escapee up against a wall and shouting at him in Arabic. They were standing in a small gated courtyard. Jill had read that in Arab culture people were taught not to raise their voices, let alone hit another, but Zayed’s stance was forceful. He was shouting loudly, while he held the man with one hand and threatened him with the other. The trembling man began to speak to him in broken, Arabic when Zayed pressed his body into the wall harder. More shouting from Zayed.

Finally, he loosened his grip, and the man slumped down the wall onto the ground. He was whimpering and looked like he might break into tears at any moment. Jill knew it was fear. Raw fear. She’d seen it before, she’d felt it before.

Zayed stomped over to Jill and grabbed her arm. “We must go, now!” He whisked her out of the courtyard and down a back street, where he hailed the first taxi he saw. Zayed motioned her not to speak. “Shuay, shuay.
Patience
,” he hissed, opening and closing his upright fingers. Anger once again bubbled inside Jill at being ordered around, but the look on Zayed’s face told Jill to stay quiet on the trip back to the hotel.

Back at Le Meridien Jill and Zayed jumped out of the taxi and, as they started towards the large hotel's glass doors, Jill noticed that Zayed was doing sector scans. This is something she would normally do if she felt threatened. Situational awareness was instilled in trained forces, all agencies, including police or military. Normally a sector scan consisted of assessing potential danger, knowing your exit routes, and understanding who and what was surrounding you. Zayed was doing a sector scan clock style; she knew it well. First, you look ahead: twelve o’clock. From twelve to three is section one. Sector two is from three to six. Sector three is from six to nine. The last is from nine o’clock back to twelve. Military, she thought at once. Telling.