The Ambassador's Wife (36 page)

DECEMBER 1, 2010

Miranda

Miranda is sleeping when they come for her. The voices wake her, the voices of several men, directly outside her prison. She sits up, pulling her crumpled blouse down over her stomach. She never bothers to undress anymore. There is no way to wash and she rarely receives other clothing. She had thought she would grow accustomed to the fetid smell of her body, its festering funk, but she still feels a wave of nausea when a sudden movement releases her scent on the breeze. Only Luloah seems oblivious, clinging to her skin when she comes, chortling with joy.

A loud rapping at the door, followed by
“Allah Allah Allah!”
She is surprised that they bother making sure she is modest. Do they really imagine that she strips down to sleep on the unforgiving stone of this cell? In these desert nights? Instinctively, she looks around for her possessions—a notebook, a pencil, a key ring—before remembering that she has none. Something heavy, a shoulder, a gun, lands on the door, shoving it open. Miranda blinks, trying to see the men, but can make out only dim, hulking outlines.

“Get up,” says one. “Move.” No
salaama aleikum
. For the second time since her kidnapping, the traditional greeting was omitted. At least Aisha managed this basic reassurance.

For a moment, Miranda contemplates pretending not to understand, before realizing how futile that would be. Slowly, she struggles to her feet, stiff and cold. She has to pee. She should have thought of that before they burst in on her. She might have had time to use the bucket. Whatever these men want, she hopes it won't take long.

“Feyn Aisha?”
she asks.
“Feyn Luloah?”

None of the men answer. Instead, one comes toward her and prods her with the barrel of his rifle.
“Yalla,”
he says.

Ducking her head as she walks through the small doorway, Miranda is stunned by the purity of the air outside, clean and soft like the breath exhaled by laundry as it is shaken out and folded. How long has it been since she has taken a free breath? One month? Two? She gulps the cool, dry air as if she can store it up.

Again, the cold metal pressing against the thin cotton shielding her rib cage. They probably just don't want to touch her, Miranda reasons. Good Muslims, even as they prod her along with their weapons.

She walks. It is too dark to see anything in front of her—or to the sides of her, for that matter. And because she was moved to her latest prison when she was unconscious, she is not even sure where it is, in relation to her old hut with Aisha and the huts of the men. There is no moon, and she sees no lights that might indicate nearby buildings. Though it is the middle of the night; why would there be lights? Her legs are heavy, difficult to move. She feels a burning in her quadriceps, but is relieved to find that she can put weight on her ankle without too much pain. The wound was slow to heal, but miraculously she had developed only a minor infection, a reddish swelling around the hole from which Aisha had pried the bullet. Nothing had ever been so painful, not even childbirth. She would have screamed had Aisha not stuffed a rag in her mouth before she started. Instead, she simply passed out. It is possible that the bone in her ankle is shattered. She sometimes feels a sharp stab when she stands, like a needle in the joint. When she is free, she should see a doctor about it.

She shakes this thought from her mind. Is she really still imagining that someday she will be free? In her weaker moments, Miranda ephemerally wishes she were German. They pay ransoms. But bad enough that she had been taken from Cressida, she couldn't wish this fate on another parent. Or child. Or on anyone. Crime must not pay. She reflexively recalls the debates in her Art and Ethics class, during her undergrad years at the University of Washington, over whether financial rewards should be offered in the pursuit of stolen artworks. Wouldn't such compensation simply reward criminals? Or should art be preserved at any cost? She had argued against compensating thieves. Otherwise, wouldn't every artwork be at risk? Now here she is, a Turner painting, lost indefinitely.

Finn had always been firmly against ransoms; she wonders if this has swayed him. She hopes it hasn't. One of the things she relies on most is Finn's utter consistency. There is something relaxing about knowing what kind of tea he wants every single morning (Earl Grey), what he always wants for breakfast (muesli—unless they are in France, when he will eat a plain butter croissant), what kind of tea he wants before bed at night (chai), and what kind of face cream he uses every day (Body Shop for Men). These are the small things, the insignificant details, but he is consistent in the larger things as well. Like love.

He is slow, methodical, a perfectionist. He could not be rushed, which meant he pulled as many all-nighters as a college student, trying to keep up with his work. Miranda had long ago given up trying to get him to come to bed before he was finished with a project, though there were a few nights when she crept downstairs at 3:00 a.m. and found him asleep facedown on his keyboard, and he allowed himself to be led upstairs. Her heart staggers at the thought of Finn, of the way his face crumples in sleep, and she feels the emptiness of her arms.

She hears a rumble of voices ahead of her. The men are speaking quietly, for Mazrooqis.
Did you tell Aisha?

No, she is sleeping. She would try to stop us
.

Alarmed, Miranda's feet slow. They are taking her from Aisha? From Luloah? From sanity? Not wanting to alert the men to her comprehension, she forces her feet to move forward.

She wouldn't try to stop us if she knew they were coming
, the first one said.

She still worries the child won't survive
.

No one will survive if we don't move her. We don't have a choice. They could be here any time now
.

Maybe she'll feel more at home up there
. For some reason, this strikes the men as funny and they emit a joint snort of laughter.
Anyway, they're more likely to actually do something with her than the lazy dogs here
.

Bile rises in Miranda's throat. Luloah has not saved her after all. Nor has she saved the child. But—who is coming? Help?

Her body trembles as she walks, alert now. They haven't blindfolded her, perhaps because it is simply unnecessary in this unrelenting
dark. Her mouth is dry, and the pressure on her bladder is growing urgent. Abruptly, her shin hits something cold and unyielding. “Get in,” says one of the men who have been shadowing her. Miranda takes a step backward. “Why?” she asks. “Where are you taking me? Where is the baby? Where is Luloah?”

They do not answer. “Get. In.” A rifle butt provides the punctuation.

“No.” Miranda is trembling violently now. “Please, tell me where is Luloah.”

There are two guns now, prodding at the flesh above her ribs. “The child is no business of yours,” one says.

A flash of liquid rage courses through her blood. “No business of mine?” Her voice is raw and hoarse, unrecognizable. “She is my business as much as anyone in the world is my business. I keep her
alive
.” Immediately she regrets her outburst. “Please, punish me, but don't punish Luloah. She still needs me. She won't survive. She won't—”

Suddenly hands grip her sides and she finds herself hauled into the back of what can only be a pickup truck, cold and gritty beneath her knees. The tailgate slams shut behind her. “She doesn't need you anymore,” a man says. He walks around to the driver's side while the other two vault into the back with her. One holds her wrists together while the other binds them with a thick, scratchy rope. A new panic wrenching her insides, Miranda doesn't even think to resist. When the men have similarly trussed her feet, they roll her onto her back with a shove. A moment later, her view of the stars is obscured by a blanket. She turns her head to the side so she can breathe, inhaling some kind of rank animal scent. Rigid with grief and too frightened to cry, she remains motionless. Are they selling her to another group? Is that why they are moving her? Or are they simply fleeing possible rescuers? But how would they know of a possible rescue? Her brain won't stop spinning with the possibilities. Exhausted but far from sleep, she tries to imagine escape. She wiggles her fingers and feet, but they are tightly bound. Even if she could rise somehow, could launch herself over the side of the pickup and out onto the road, she would not be able to free herself. On one side of her she feels the heavy presence of the two men.

Rage rises and floods her body; she can feel it pressing outward against her skin. But there is nowhere for it to go, no escape valve. It is a useless and most certainly dangerous emotion. She has worked hard to stifle her fury at these men, at their delusions. She must try to stay calm. And alert. Watch for any opportunity to flee. But in the unlikely event that she frees herself, where would she go? Would she first search for Luloah or try to find a ride straight back to Arnabiya, to Cressie and Finn? How could she return home, knowing the fate to which she was abandoning Luloah? And how could she go first to Luloah, knowing that she was risking never seeing her own daughter again? Either choice would eviscerate her. At the moment, however, there are no choices to be made.

It is getting lighter. Soon it will be dawn and Luloah will be hungry. She is not old enough yet to go without any kind of milk. How long will she survive without Miranda? They would be feeding her dirty water and sweet tea. She might not last a week.

JUNE 23, 2007

Finn

Miranda and Finn had been (officially) living together for less than two weeks when Finn decided it was time to host their first dinner party. Actually, it wasn't much of a choice. The Middle East editor of
The Guardian
was in town, and expecting to be appropriately feted. Dinner parties weren't exactly an optional part of the job. They sounded glamorous to friends and family back home, but dinner parties were how much of the business of diplomacy got done. And they were hard work. Particularly for him. There were speeches to be made (in Arabic), alliances to be formed, uncomfortable subjects to be broached, dragging conversations to be prodded along. There were the endless courses of soups and meats and salads and puddings, followed by tea and coffee in the parlor and brandy and port on the veranda for the lingerers. Few of these night owls ever seemed to consider the fact that their host had to be back in the office by 7:30 the
next morning, and that he could not go to bed until they did. Not that he always went straight to bed. Often, he still had hours of work to do in his home office, managing to slip into bed just as the muezzins were sounding their calls for morning prayers.

He wasn't actually sure that Miranda should be present. Changes in partner status were to be reported first to Protocol, and he hadn't gotten around to that yet. He was a busy man. But Miranda lived with him now; she was his life. He wanted her there. Besides, it was likely to be a friendly crowd, mostly locals. The
Guardian
editor was rumored to be an intelligent enough bloke, and Finn wanted to make sure he connected him with sources who actually knew what was going on in the country. This place was an onion, layer after layer of tribal loyalties, political maneuvering, half-truths. God knows he was still trying to peel back the first several layers himself.

When Finn returned from the embassy a half-hour before their guests were expected, he found Miranda standing in the middle of their room in her underwear, surrounded by discarded dresses. “I'm going like this,” she said, a touch of frustrated toddler in her voice. Stepping carefully over the puddles of rayon and lace, Finn leaned in to kiss her. “That's one way to ensure a memorable evening,” he said. “But I thought you wanted me to keep my job?”

“My Western dresses are too Western, my Middle Eastern wear is too ugly. I don't want to shock anyone, but I also don't want to be hideous.” Finn suppressed a smile. With her hair curling loose past her shoulders, her face flushed and still bare of makeup, and her breasts barely concealed by lace, she had never looked lovelier. He was not a religious man, but every time he saw her unclothed he wanted to fall to his knees and thank someone.

“Hmmmm, not hideous. There's a challenge,” he said. “Let me see if I can help.” He strode back to her dressing room and opened a closet door. A few minutes later he emerged with a tailored black skirt and jacket, and an aquamarine lace camisole. “What about this?” he said. “Modest with a touch of the feminine? Defiantly not housewifely? A little businessy looking, but I think you can live with that.”

Miranda stared at him. “Are you sure you're not gay?”

Finn looked at his watch. “Do I have time to prove it to you?”

C
HARLOTTE
, S
ECOND
S
ECRETARY
Political, arrived first. Conscientious in the extreme, she always arrived early and stuck to Diet Coke until the meal was served. Miranda had answered the door, looking only slightly rumpled, and Finn was relieved to hear them chatting away in the parlor like old friends. Why had he worried about Miranda? She could make friends with a hedgerow. He headed to the kitchen to check on the staff, though he wasn't sure why he bothered; they were pros. Glass dishes of pistachios, cashew nuts, and almonds already dotted their coffee tables; silver trays lined with white napkins and empty cocktail and wine glasses stood ready on the steel countertops of the kitchen; and Semere was hacking away at the ice, breaking it into usable sizes.

The guest of honor, Aubrey Lewis, arrived next, looking pale and exhausted. “I'm very grateful,” he said, shaking Finn's hand. He'd arrived in the country that morning on the early flight from Dubai and didn't look as though he had had time to nap. The rest of their guests, all Mazrooqi politicians, professors, NGO workers, and ministers, predictably arrived late. Last through the door was Foreign Minister Abbas al-Attas, a short, smiling man with a shining bald head. Miranda told Finn later that she had touched up her lipstick peering into the back of his head. Finn wasn't sure she was joking.