The Regime: Evil Advances (29 page)

“Might as well get the speech out of the way now too,” Chloe said, “so I can put this behind me and start over.”

Does that ever sound like me, Rayford thought. “Fair enough. Let me tell you what disappoints me the most, Chloe. This is so beneath you. You’re smart, and not just academically. You have street smarts and you’re intelligent. You start getting into this kind of nonsense and you’re going to see your grades slip, your scholarship chances dry up, your acceptances to good schools disappear. You want to be a professional person, a successful, self-made woman. Well, this is self-made too, and it’s a mess. Is this what you want?”

She shook her head.

“Don’t do something now that will stay with you the rest of your life. Can you imagine if you’d hit another car while under the influence? Or a pedestrian? Killed someone?”

“Don’t get dramatic now, Dad.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Chloe. This happens every day.

You’d never forgive yourself, and your life would never be the same.”

Chloe wept openly now, her lip fat. “I don’t want you to be disappointed in me, Dad. I want you to respect me.”

“That’s not easy tonight, is it?”

She shook her head.

He embraced her, rocking her as she sobbed. “Do me a favor?” he said.

She pulled back. “What?”

“Do the hard thing and do it first.”

“What?”

“Your mother is still awake, and she needs to hear from you.”

“Oh, Dad, no! Not tonight! Tomorrow?”

He just looked at her, and she trudged toward the master bedroom.

Irene wondered what was taking so long. She had to admit she was jealous that Chloe would talk to Rayford but never to her—at least not in a civil tone.

When the door opened and the dim light from the hall invaded, she could tell from the silhouette that it was Chloe and not Rayford. Irene quickly sat up and gathered her crying daughter in her arms.

“I’m so sorry,” Chloe managed. “It won’t happen again.”

“I’m just relieved you weren’t hurt worse,” Irene said.

“I lied to you, Mom. I was only at the library long

enough to check out a couple of books, and then we were at Sherry’s and we were all drinking. I didn’t have a flat tire, and I ignored your phone calls till I thought I’d better try to buy some time. I shouldn’t have been driving, and I’m sorry about the garage and the car.”

“How’s your mouth?”

“It’ll be all right in the morning. Does this mean you forgive me?”

“Of course, sweetheart. I love you.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love you too.”

“I could use one more apology though.”

“For what?”

“For how you talked to me today about Raymie.”

Chloe sighed. “I’m tired. We’d better not talk about this.”

“You’re not sorry then?”

“I’m sorry if I was disrespectful, but I’ve got to tell you, Mom, we disagree on this. Raymie’s way too young for you to be trying to push your religion on him.”

“Good night, Chloe.”

Abdullah Ababneh found himself preoccupied all day-- not a good thing when flying fighter jets. He taught, he trained pilots, he flew test flights. And all he could think of was Yasmine. He felt responsible for her, and with good reason.

Such a sweet girl. She always had been. A good mother. A good wife. He wanted that she at least be

happy, as happy as a woman could be in his culture. Life was harder for women than for men; he was sure of that.

Abdullah had always been able to tell when something was troubling Yasmine. Though she was naturally quiet, there was also something about her carriage, her very presence, that changed when anything was on her mind. She had acted this way when first she realized that he was not as rigid in his religious practices as he had been when they met.

What she didn’t know, of course, was that he had never been as pious as he put on. He wanted to impress his own parents, who were true Muslim believers. And he wanted to impress Yasmine so she would marry him.

But when she had broached the subject about what was up with him, why he had seemed to change, he was surprised at what she had to say. He had feared, of course, that she was going to express alarm, disappointment, concern. Actually the opposite was true. She had danced around the subject for a long time, then eventually admitted that she had also been shirking her prayer life when he was not around. “I had no idea what you would think, Abdullah. What would you have thought if I refused to pray with you at the appointed times?”

He had to think about that one. It was one thing to decide such things for himself. And it might have been similar if he had decided for her that she could become more lax in her religious life. But for her, on her own, to choose to privately rebel like that, well, he didn’t know what he thought or might have said or done had he known.

“Does it make you feel guilty?” he had said.

“Sometimes. Less now than at first. At first I wondered if Allah would hate me, cast me out, kill me. Did you fear the same, Abdullah?”

He smiled and nodded. “Yes, at first. But now I wonder if he even exists.”

“Careful.”

“I know. But if he is such an exacting, stringent god, how does he allow his people to turn on him like this?”

“Do you miss him, Abdullah?”

“Miss him? No. I never really knew him. You?”

She smiled shyly and shook her head.

Since that conversation a couple of years before, they had not discussed it. Neither prayed except in public, when it was expected and would have horrified others if they hadn’t. But religion was not practiced in their home, not even with their children. They attended the mosque just enough to deflect suspicion.

But what could be on Yasmine’s mind now? Could anything be as dire as, in essence, losing one’s religion? All Abdullah wanted was to get home to see if she was ready to talk about whatever was on her mind. And yet another part of him dreaded knowing.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Buck Williams—even he had embraced the nickname now—had never been to the White House. But now as he sat in the Oval Office with his boss and his boss’s boss and a photographer, not to mention both President Gerald Fitzhugh and his wife, Wilma, Buck fought to keep his composure. Inside he felt like a kid, eager to get out of here and tell one and all where he had been, whom he had been with, and gush every detail.

But, of course, this was not about him. This was about a president elected for a second term and having been chosen a second time as
Global Weekly’s
Newsmaker of the Year. Buck could save his enthusiasm for later. Now he had to look and sound and act professional. He wanted this to not be the highlight of his career. He foresaw international assignments and--he hoped-- more cover stories.

Buck wasn’t even half the president’s age, but his charm kicked in the moment he met the man and the First Lady. He maintained eye contact, listened, didn’t talk about himself, and yet was able to empathize and show true interest when they talked about their home and their children. Mrs. Fitzhugh clearly seemed to connect with Buck, and the president had to notice.

Gerald Fitzhugh quickly lost his formal air, crossed his legs, gestured more broadly, was funnier than normal. At one point he stood and shed his suit coat, his wife whispering that he might want to reconsider that, due to the magazine photographer capturing every moment.

“Ah, it’s all right, Wilma,” he said. “It’s not like I can run again anyway.”

Cameron had expected the president to be vulgar and profane, which was his reputation. Fitzhugh had often been compared to a young Lyndon Johnson. Perhaps it was because of the presence of his wife, but Fitzhugh did not utter so much as a mild epithet the whole time. His outbursts were legendary among staff members, but Buck found him merely robust and youthful. Exuberant.

Buck’s style was not to come in with a prescribed list of questions he would have to keep referring to. Rather, he listed on a small index card five areas he wanted the president to discuss. He hoped to not refer to it unless he thoroughly blanked, and he planned to base his follow-up questions on Fitzhugh’s responses. That made it less formal, more like a conversation than an interview, and allowed Cameron to remain engaged rather than

constantly scanning a notebook. His colleagues had proved more helpful than he had expected, suggesting tough questions and even tougher follow-ups, predicting the stock answers.

Every time Fitzhugh gave a canned response, Buck pressed him, respectfully but forcefully, making him explain himself to the public. Buck believed that was the highest calling of the journalist.

They discussed international trade, defense, the budget, health care, and Social Security. Finally Buck even delved into personal style. “Is it true?” he said. “Are you a shouter? a man with a short fuse?”

Fitzhugh didn’t hesitate. “Guilty,” he said, glancing at his wife. “Of course, I don’t get away with that with this one in the private quarters. Can’t fire her, know what I mean? But, yeah, I’ve been working on toning it down with my people. We’ve got a lot to do, and I don’t have a lot of patience. I can improve in that area. Will I? I doubt it.”

After a little less than an hour, Fitzhugh’s chief of staff entered and signaled that the time was short. The president stood and put his jacket back on, thrust out his hand, and vigorously shook Buck’s. “Don’t think I don’t know what a baby you are, son.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve got a staff that researches all this stuff, no surprise to you. I know your age, your background, your credentials. And I got to tell you, this was as enjoyable an hour as I’ve spent with a journalist since I’ve been in office.”

“Well, thank you, sir.”

“He’s not just saying that,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said. “I seldom see him this relaxed. I trust you won’t take advantage.”

“Take advantage?”

“He was more forthcoming than his people would suggest.”

“Well, ma’am, it was all on the record.”

“I know,” she said. “I just hope this wasn’t an ambush. We have had people come in here and pretend to be allies, then go back and write awful things.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m an ally, but you may rest assured I am not going to ambush you either. This will be a straightforward Newsmaker of the Year piece, giving the president a chance to speak his mind, which I feel he did here.”

Maddeningly, Yasmine chose to wait until after the evening meal and the kids were in bed before being willing to talk seriously. That only added to Abdullah’s frustration and worry. He found himself eating too quickly and too much, which was wholly unlike him. Then he sat studying her as she tidied up and put the kids down, searching her sad, tense face for any clue of what was to come.

Finally they sat together before an open window, Abdullah hoping for even a small breeze, anything to move the air inside the house where the temperature remained stiflingly hot.

For the longest time they just sat, Abdullah waiting, Yasmine sighing as if she was about to begin, then falling silent again. Abdullah thought he would go mad.

Finally he could take it no longer. “What is it, Yasmine? Tell me.”

“I met someone,” she said quietly.

Abdullah froze. Then he stood. “You met someone? There is another man?”

“Sit down, Abdullah. It wasn’t a man.”

“You think that makes it better? You met someone and it’s a woman?”

“Sit. No, it’s not like that. You need not worry about my loyalty to you. I am worrying about yours to me after you hear this.”

“Hear what?” he said, sitting. “Please!”

“About three weeks ago I was in a market near the airport when tourists came through. They had a longer layover than expected, and someone at the airport suggested they get a taste of the local culture and sent them to the bazaar.”

“So you met one of them.”

Yasmine nodded. “Elle Lindquist. In her sixties, I would guess. Married, though her husband was not with her. They are missionaries to the United Arab Emirates. He is waiting there for her. She had been back to the United States to visit family.”

“What kind of missionaries?
CIA
, oil, Catholic, what?”

“She called herself an evangelical Christian.”

“You talked to her long enough to learn that?”

“It was one of the first things she said, Abdullah. She

was wonderful and sweet, but I did not know what to think. So often when you are accosted by a stranger in public, they want something from you. Money. Your time. Something.”

“What did she want?”

“Elle just wanted to know me. She said she felt drawn to me in some way and was curious about our life and ways. The differences and similarities between here and the
UAE
seemed to fascinate her.”

“Go on.”

“Almost immediately, after courteously determining that I had time to talk—and I have to say, Abdullah, I felt a bond with her right away too; I have no idea why—she asked me directly about my religion. She said, ‘I assume you are Muslim.’

“I said, ‘You assume correctly.’

“Elle said she had studied our religion and wondered if I could confirm some things for her. She asked all about the mosque and rituals and the prayers, and I told her she had apparently studied good sources. Then she asked how I felt I benefited from Islam.”

Yasmine looked Abdullah full in the face with a knowing expression. It had been the very issue he and she had talked about years ago.

“What in the world did you say?”

“I didn’t know what to say, Abdullah. What could I say? I planned a lie. I wanted to tell her that I felt content and fulfilled and obedient and that I looked forward to eternal rewards someday.”

“But?”

“But I could not speak. Every time I opened my mouth I had to choke back my tears.”

“Your tears?”

“Elle was looking at me with such curiosity and love and sympathy that I was overcome with the need to tell her the truth. I did not understand it, Abdullah. I had known her only a few minutes and there I stood in public, trying to speak and able only to weep.”

“What did she do?”

“She touched me. You know how rare that is here. She guided me to a tiny cafe, where we sat outside. She apologized for upsetting me and told me I did not have to answer, that I could collect myself and that she would carry the conversation for a while if I didn’t mind. Not only did I not mind, but I was impressed anew at her sensitivity. It was just what I wanted and needed. I just nodded, and as we sat sipping coffee, she told me about herself.”