Prologue

Anger which is covered up is dangerous; hatred openly expressed loses the opportunity of revenge.

Seneca. Medea.

 

Lieutenant Yūsuf Zubana peered from the top of the dune into the dusty Saharan dawn, straining to detect enemy movement. There were no tell-tale dusty columns, all the way to the horizon; there was already too much activity in the camp behind him to hear anything. The air was already heating up; it would be hot for January. Half walking, half sliding, back down the sandy slope, he returned to his tent to get the rest of his gear. He heard the driver arriving to take him to inspect the line of gun positions before he reported to battalion headquarters.

 

He was still in his tent when the first French jets came, swooping low over the sand, bombing and strafing. He was just jerking the tent flap open when the napalm exploded behind him, scorching the parched sand, setting off ammunition and gasoline stores, engulfing several trucks in billowing flames. A large sticky, flaming remnant sailed onto the tent, some splashing on his driver's vehicle, setting it afire. Screaming, he jumped out but unable to get far before the gasoline detonated. Yūsuf had just broken free of the collapsing, burning canvas when another small fiery glob struck him in the chest.

 

He had the presence of mind to drop and roll, but the furiously burning gel melted his tunic, searing flesh. He passed out before all the flames died away.

 

Rushing to the Tripoli military hospital where he had been evacuated, Jād, his father, saw a horribly burned body, barely kept alive by constant infusion of fluids. He couldn't even talk to his son, who was in a coma. Leaving the hospital, he felt a growing, icy rage. The French had mutilated and disfigured his son. He would be avenged. As an senior operative in Gaddaffi's intelligence service, he knew how.

Chapter 1. Changing Life

Therefore she is immortally my bride;

Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair

—Robert Browning. Any Wife to Any Husband

 

Kurt Retten got home early. He left his bag in the hall, wandered into the living room where he put on Suite Bergamasque and then went to the kitchen where Clare was assembling a salad. He stood by the door, just watching his bride of nearly six years, looking exactly like he discovered her that day in Monterey. Admiring her arrestingly beauteous face—high cheek bones and luscious lips, and a frown that could be mischievous or daunting—he wanted to crush in his fingers the soft mahogany hair which fell in flowing cascades past her impossibly emerald eyes and onto her shoulders, and inhale its perfume. He had spent long minutes gazing into those eyes since that day he found her on the side of the road, fuming over an unreliable car. He feasted on her long dancer’s legs silhouetted in tight jeans, and the frayed old frilly top that emphasized her perfectly formed body.

 

She noticed him. Standing just shy of six feet, fit, with a slender swimmer’s physique, his dark hair was no longer cut Army regulation short, but growing over the ears, above a high forehead and twinkling, steel-blue eyes. His chin was square, under lips usually turned up in an appealing grin. But not just now.

 

She knew her lover. When he put on Debussy, especially that piece, he was feeling sentimental, or even melancholy.

 

She addressed him in French, her preferred language.  “Love you, chéri. Home early, how come?”

 

“All done.”

 

“That never brought you home early before.”

 

“Ah, oui, never before.”

 

“How did it go, with assignment branch?”

 

He was quiet. She looked at him, her eyes asking.

 

“'That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.' This post was not allotted by the gods. I gave them my resignation.”

 

She left the utensils in the salad, approaching him from around the counter. “You make a life-altering decision, and justify it with Tennyson! What will you do? The Army is your life!”

 

“You are my life. It would have meant leaving you behind. I couldn’t accept the separation.”

 

She put her arms around him. “You could have changed that.”

 

“Oui, but, well, your own career has been pinched. I can take a hiatus.”

 

It was her turn to be quiet. After a moment, she spoke. “It might not last forever. Us. You’ve given up your retirement.”

 

“Nothing is forever. I’ll be fine. I believe in us.”

 

Reluctantly she released him and went back to the salad.  “You’re doing this because I want to go to Sorbonne.”

 

“It crossed my mind. We could’ve survived the separation, but I thought, why do that? 'Absence from whom we love is worse than death.'"

 

“You’ll miss the work.”

 

“Non, not the work. The people. Anyway, Priscilla’s decided to get out. It wouldn’t be the same at the office. I tried to do something for her—you know she wants to be a photographer—apparently that didn't work out."

 

“Oh, you’re admitting to your affair!”

 

“Not funny. We’ve been through a lot. We all have.”

 

Clare was quiet, thinking of nice Mrs. Grover, murdered by that miserable spy.

 

“I can do a lot for you, while you study. There’ll be calls all day long. You’ll still be in the Market. And there’s your father. He calls several times a week.”

 

“Oh oui…Mother will be there all the time. Could you stand babysitting her? To keep her entertained so I can study?”

 

“Your mother is a sweetheart.”

 

They both had to laugh.

 

“Really, since your father’s bypass surgery, she’s been wonderful, now that she feels like she has something to contribute. It’s made a tremendous difference in their marriage.”

 

“Ours too, chéri.”

 

“Anyway, it’s done. You can dump me, but I’m quit with the Army, effective Friday.”

 

She finished the salad, and indicated that he should bring out bowls. They sat in the kitchen nook, where she dished out the greens. He held up a bottle of chardonnay; she nodded; he poured.

 

“Where will we live?” she asked.

 

“Paris, obviously.”

 

“You don't like Frogs.”

 

“Just because I sent one to the guillotine doesn’t mean I hate the French. Sorry, they’ve abolished the death penalty. He was Hungarian, anyway. He’ll rot until he dies."

 

"Vienna was very nice…well, until…"

 

"You can't stand the Boche, yet you married one.”

 

"South Carolina redneck, chéri."

 

"Yeah, well, that too."

 

Her lips found his cheek. “I feel sorry for his wife. She didn’t know anything.”

 

He nodded, some lettuce sticking out of his lips. She affectionately pushed it into his mouth with her finger, which he kissed.

 

“He ruined a lot of lives, Marie's included,” Kurt agreed. “Well,” changing the subject, “Left Bank or Right Bank?”

 

“Somewhere outlying, I think.”

 

“Why not near the university?”

 

“I’ve been to Paris, my dear. I want a house. Close in we'd have to be in an apartment.”

 

“Oh oui, like this place.”

 

“I like this place! I’ll miss it! Once we found Mrs. King, it became a quite acceptable—bungalow.”

 

“Well, we can’t take her to Paris.”

 

“Non, but she'll be needed here, to look after the place. John said it would make a nice guest house. He's buying it from me.”

 

“Mrs. King goes with the deal?” Grinning at her nod, he continued, “How will that go over with some of John's business guests? Or her?”

 

They both laughed at the thought.

 

“Unless she wants to give up the salary, I suspect she'll stand for it.”

 

“OK,” he agreed, pouring her another finger of wine. “Back to Paris.”

 

“Oh, we’ll find someone. Maybe—young, cute, and willing!”

 

“Oh oui, I really do want to die in Paris.”

 

“You’re accusing me. I wouldn’t kill you if you cheated!”

 

“Oh non, you’d leave me alive and crippled, so I could suffer until I was old.”

 

They were both laughing so hard that they were having trouble talking.

 

She got serious. “Are you sure?”

 

“It’s done. 'It’s over, and can’t be helped, and that’s one consolation, as they always says in Turkey.'”

 

“Maybe Rick would take you.”

 

“Rick,” he said, grimacing, “can kiss my ass. I’m done with that. You don't want me to work for the Agency! I'd be gone all the time!”

 

“You’ll miss it.”

 

“I’d miss you more.”

 

She leaned across the table for a kiss.

 



 

 

Farès Yamin and Dāwūd Dabaran shivered as they left the stone building, trudging toward the Métro station.

 

"It's a cold place," Dabaran complained.

 

"You would rather be in Oran?" Yamin retorted, "This is a wonderful opportunity!"

 

"It's disgusting. We are shunned. The students don't like us—the teachers barely tolerate us."

 

"And you're failing. You must apply yourself. You will be put out. Do you want to be sent back?!"

 

"I want to be respected!"

 

"Allah willing. Finish, get a degree, then you'll be respected—in Algeria."

 

Dabaran tugged at his thin jacket. "It's so cold! The wind is blowing through my trousers!"

 

"I have an extra sweater. I will give it to you when we get back."

 

Ahead of them was the arrestingly beautiful dark-haired woman they kept seeing in the halls of the Sorbonne. She shared none of their classes, which was frustrating, especially for Yamin. He had overheard her name, Salma, but wasn't able to meet her.

 

They followed her into the Métro station. Yamin thought it a good opportunity to 'bump' into her. He almost got to her when she took the tunnel under the tracks—she was going in the opposite direction, toward the fashionable neighborhoods. He did get close enough to get a good view of her clothes. He stopped. She came from money. He would have to overcome that as well. His family also had money, but his father gave him no more than enough to live, telling him that he could live in comfort after he earned his degree.

 

He stewed on the train. "It's not fair. I finally see a pretty Muslim girl and she's got money and probably a rich boyfriend!"

 

Dabaran patted him on the shoulder.

 

"Why would you want to meet her? She would hardly make a good Muslim wife! She doesn't even cover her hair!"

 

"We're in France! I don't notice you wearing a beard!"

 

"You don't know that she's Muslim, just because her name is Salma."

 

"She's definitely African."

 

"There are Christians in Africa!"

 

"Well, I'm going to find out."

 

  

 

 

Northern Ireland continued to suffer from the 'Troubles.' The IRA had rung in the new year with a bombing, followed the next several weeks with more bombings and killings. These were answered by Protestant outrages against Catholics. In Lebanon, Guerrillas celebrated the New Year by bombing a French cultural center and blowing up the car of a Christian militia leader.

 

Clare put down the newspaper. Troubles far away that figured not at all in her life. Lebanon brought to mind the nice taxi driver, in Vienna. He had to flee his country, but was able to get his family out. <What was his name?>

 

Sound reached her consciousness; Bach playing softly, almost below hearing, wafting pleasantly around her. She smiled, thinking that before Kurt she would never have put it on. She would have had some rockabilly or pop singer instead. She liked that, the changes he had made in her. She didn't tell him that, but she did mention the newspaper stories, repeating that at least there would be none of that in France.

 

Kurt forbore to mention the killing in Corsica, that month, or the bombing in a Paris suburb.

 

 

 

 

Jād Zubana stepped into the street, shivering in the January cold, his eyes searching for a taxi. It was a prosaic beginning to a big mission. He steeled himself <Nobody knows me. There aren't Sureté agents all around. Calm yourself, Jād!>

 

He had the taxi take him to a pension, but after the driver pulled away, he walked around the corner, hailing another. He did this twice more, before he was dropped off in front of an apartment, two blocks from the pension in Goutte d'Or he had chosen for himself. If anyone had followed, they were particularly good. The run down neighborhood was a polyglot of minorities, mainly North African. He wouldn't be noticed.

 

He started to relax. He was there, and after resting, would begin. In his room he found a Qur’an in his bag , added by his wife. Too tired to go out, even to eat, he fell on the bed, with the book. He began to read.

 

The next morning he familiarized himself with the neighborhood. Within a few blocks he found the mosque, which was in one of the ubiquitous beige stone buildings that crowded against the narrow street. South was a park surrounded by trees; open, flat grassy, with a thin dusting of snow. On the corner north of the mosque, on the ground floor under four stories of apartments was a cafe. No open area at all, except the crossings. It would be difficult to elude surveillance, but equally hard to surveil. Not like home. Not anything like home. But he knew that. He knew France. He knew Paris.

 

<Now, for the mission. I need a place.>

 

 

 

 

There was much more to do than just pack. In the kitchen Clare surprised Kurt with a letter, accepting his application to read for a PhD in English Literature—at Oxford.

 

"How are we going to manage that?"

 

"Oh, it's usually just four days a week in class. You'll be spending most of your time researching anyway. You can pop down to Paris on weekends. Sometimes I'll fly up. Maybe. Just to check on you. We'll manage."

 

"When did I apply?"

 

"Oh, I arranged all that the summer we vacationed. You remember, with Maureen, when we did the…what did you say? Oh yes, the 'troika.'"

 

"I remember. That's when Maureen and I became 'sisters' over espresso, while you were off at Sorbonne."

 

"Oh, you never told me! Sisters! I always knew you were a little…funny."

 

"My sister! My sweet sister! If a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine."

 

"Could I be…your sister?" she asked impishly.

 

"Not unless you want us to practice celibacy—or..."

 

She frowned at him.  "We were talking about living arrangements."

 

"OK. You will be in Sorbonne, surrounded by those—what did you tell me, so long ago?—those delicious French men. I will be stuck in the chilly English climes, learning what means all this poetry I spout."

 

"OK, it's settled."

 

"You're taking the Mercedes?"

 

"Non…it's three years old. I'll get a new one. As for your car…well, the steering wheel is on the wrong side." She stopped, her face brightening. "I just had a wicked—I mean wonderful thought! We'll give the Jag to Liza! She's sixteen, and driving now! With her looks and that car, the boys will hover like drunken bees!"

 

"Liza isn't wild, willful, impetuous—like some women I know.

 

But where should we find leash or band

For dame that loves to rove?

Let the wild falcon soar her swing,

She’ll stoop when she has tired her wing."

 

"Who's tired?! From where I sit, you're the invalid!" She swung, bouncing her fist off his rock hard abs.

 

"Anyway, her parents will object."

 

"Tosh! Who then?"

 

"I thought Mrs. King. She'll need something, particularly since she's agreed to live in, watching the house for John."

 

"I guess—we'll just give her the keys, to use when we're not here."

 

"We won't ever be here."

 

Clare grinned, mischief in her eyes. “Would she be appalled?”

 

“Perhaps, but she'll drive it.”

 

"Natasha asked about the Mercedes. What do you think?"

 

"She's your friend. Henry can't possibly object."

 

"They can afford it. OK, now what?"

 

"I think that would about do it. I assume you're taking your clothes and jewelry."

 

"And you…you can put everything you own into an overnight bag."

 

He grinned.  “That may have been true—once.”

 

"The books…they are so heavy!"

 

"They go."

 

"Of course. We'll have to divide them up. Some for Oxford, and some for Paris. You keep the German tomes. I don't want Boche books in my home. Take the other ones too. I don't speak Russian. I don't need the Spanish."

 

He intoned grandiloquently,

 

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,

And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South.

 

"Stop it! Get out! I need to make dinner!"

 

"Do you need any help?"

 

"Go away. Pack something."

 

"Cooks are not to be taught in their own kitchen."

 

"Some—I use this word advisedly—poets, don't know when to shut up!"

 

"I'll leave now, before you start throwing things."

 

"Oui, chéri. I'll start with the knives."

 

He went out to finish the Byron in the living room. Seeing the open case on the mantel, he picked it up, padding back to the kitchen.

 

"I'll put this in your stuff. You're the one who got Smolka," he said, holding it up, so she could see the Médaille de la Défense Nationale.

 

She peered, not understanding, then wrinkled her nose. "OK, but only so you won't wear it around Oxford. Ah oui, I know there's been some bombings. You won't get involved.”

 

“Perish the thought! It's sad, but mostly in Northern Ireland, like yesterday. I doubt there'll be any problems around Oxford.”

 

She looked at his face searchingly, doubtfully. But nodded.

 

He didn't mention the kidnap and killing in Birmingham by Indian nationalists. They wouldn't be doing anything in Oxford, either. Why would they?

 



 

 

Zubana fumed; Gaddafi decided not to attack France, at least for the time being. He was to obtain a safehouse, a warehouse, and to gather information about dissidents and other exiles. Putting down the newspaper, not caring what Muslim nationalists were doing in England, he grumbled to himself.

<They're wasting my time! I should be planning an attack which will hurt these Frogs!>

 

Heading back to his pension, Zubana wondered if he could convince the Chief of Station, Ubaydallāh Al Qa'id, to intercede, so that he could do something positive. He thought to look in the book for a passage which supported him. He couldn't find one, but found much to contemplate.

 

 

 

 

Just a few days from flying out, Kurt and Clare enjoyed an unaccustomed morning in bed, with the sun already peeking above the horizon, lazing together.

 

"Any regrets?" Clare asked.

 

Kurt gazed at the supine figure next to him. He gently ran his finger from under her chin down to her navel and beyond, admiring the lightly tanned, creamy smooth skin.

 

"Just that some fumbling sixteen-year-old was the one who took your virginity."

 

"Oh, jealousy! That's different! He was fifteen."

 

"Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind!" he looked away for a moment. "I told you before…it was none of my business. It still isn't. I didn't say I didn't have an opinion about it."

 

"And you? Who took your virginity?"

 

"I did a lot of stupid things, before I met you. With women, with guns, skulking in back alleys."

 

"And now?"

 

"This separation will put our marriage under the severest strain."

 

"I'll tell you strain. When those bastards tried to kill you. Don't you think that we can handle it?”

 

“Tried to kill us.”

 

“We've been separated before, like when I had to take over Daddy's business."

 

"That was a few weeks. This will be for two years."

 

"We'll have the weekends."

 

"You know what will happen. Something will come up. I won't be able to make it. You can't spend all your time studying."

 

"You're worried…"

 

"We all stumble. That's what people do. If I stumbled…"

 

Her eyes flashed, but the anger fled as quickly as it arose.

 

"That's what I mean."

 

"But…if you stumbled…"

 

"I wouldn't survive it." His eyebrow arched significantly.

 

She was shocked.  "I would—I would never hurt you!"

 

He gazed at her, saying nothing.

 

She knew he was right.  "You haven't mentioned if…I…"

 

"You will make your choices."

 

"That's not fair. You won't even threaten me."

 

"I couldn't threaten you…if I wasn't there. Look, I can go to school any time. Let me stay with you, in Paris, until you have your degree. I don't need to go to Oxford."

 

Her eyes narrowed.  "I will not be Madame Doctor, married to-to someone with nothing!"

 

"Fate leads the willing but drives the stubborn."

 

"It won't work."

 

"All right. We'll need a big pile in Paris."

 

"Why?"

 

"For the live-in housekeeper and chauffeur."

 

She cocked her head, eyeing him dubiously.

 

"You never wanted those amenities before."

 

"I was never gone before. Besides…this thing with Smolka. It might not be over. Especially with you in France. I would feel better if there was somebody there. And there's the other."

 

“What other?”

 

He sat up, putting his feet over the side of the bed.  “Those killings, right in Paris.”

 

“The Iranians?”

 

“And the UAE ambassador. I would feel a lot better if there was someone with you.”

 

"You have anyone in mind?"

 

"Oui, as a matter of fact. You'll like him! 'Then he should be faithful, ugly, and fierce.' Are you thinking who I'm thinking?"

 

"Oui. Will you be able to find him?"

 

"I think so. He's probably still in Vienna."

 

Kurt called the taxi company in Vienna, wondering idly which language he would be speaking. It was probably going to be German, but he wouldn't have been surprised by English. French was possible.

 

A man's voice greeted him in German.

 

"Guten Tag," Kurt began, "I would like to speak to Herr Chamoun, if he is available."

 

There was a pause. "Who is calling? Herr…"

 

"Retten. I am calling from America. Is he near the phone?"

 

Another pause. Kurt heard noises in the background. Then somebody picked up the handset, noisily.

 

"Pierre Chamoun speaking."

 

"Monsieur Chamoun," Kurt answered, switching to French, "Do you remember a fare in Vienna? A very willful but pretty and generous lady?"

 

"I'm sorry, sir…"

 

"I would have thought you'd remember squeezing under the car…"

 

"Ah, ah! Oui, how is she, mademoiselle—sorry, Madame Retten?"

 

"Very well. We are moving to Paris. I would like you to consider moving there too, to come work for us."

 

"Monsieur…"

 

"What are you making now? I will make it very much worth your while to come."

 

"Monsieur, I am married!"

 

"Bring your wife. Your children…"

 

"They are grown."

 

"Would Madame Chamoun object to running a house? You would live with us. She would be châtelaine. We will have an apartment for you in the house."

 

"Monsieur, that is very generous…"

 

"Please, think about it. We will talk again. Mercí, Au revoir."

 

 

 



Zubana was irritated.  <Killing one another, when the real enemy is France! Ah, doing Khomeini's bidding, hunting down the old regime. A waste. And why kill the ambassador? They'll just send another one! And what am I doing?!! Tracking down people who have fled Libya. They are not worth the...>

 

It was time to go out. He needed to see that woman about a place. He would need someplace private, when the explosives started arriving.

Chapter 2. France

Still bent to make some port he knows not where,

Still standing for some false impossible shore.

—Matthew Arnold. A Summer Night.

 

It was close to lunch time when Yamin saw Salma crossing the quad. He had to run to catch her.

 

Panting a little, he addressed her in Arabic. "Good day to you, Salma."

 

Startled, she turned to face him, speaking in French, "Sorry…do I know you? Please speak French. I only know enough Arabic to say my prayers."

 

Yamin was daunted and offended. <A Muslim girl who doesn't know Arabic?!>

 

"Excuse me, I've seen you many times, but we never seemed to meet. I am Farès Yamin. I am new. I just started last fall."

 

Not able to disguise her unease, Salma attempted to be polite.  "That would explain why we haven't met. I am in my second year, ahead of you. Nice to meet you. But I have to go see some people, sorry."

 

She turned and hurried away, glancing once over her shoulder to see if he was following.

 

Yamin stood there for some moments, frustrated. <Ahead of you…and in more ways than one!> He could smell her perfume. It was expensive, like the businessmen's wives would wear, back home.

 

Dabaran caught up with him. "Well, what did she say?"

 

"That she's awfully sorry, but she doesn't speak Arabic, except to read her prayers! She's a sophomore. That's why we don't share classes. She's stuck up, Westernized." He practically spat the last word.

 

"Well," Dabaran chided, "what did you expect from a woman at the Sorbonne?! She probably has all kinds of Christian men taking her out! I bet…"

 

"Don't! Let's go! I need to eat before afternoon classes."

 

Entering Administration, Salma went to the counselor's office, where she explained that her father was very unhappy with her living arrangements, even to the point of threatening to take her from the school. They were Muslims, and the way her classmates conducted themselves…she left the sentence unfinished.

 

 

 

 

Kurt was not unmoved by the suffering in Northern Ireland. The first ten days of the month saw four killed, much damage, and more fear. It was sad, but it was not his problem. Not any longer. Never was, when he thought about it, reminding him of the verses.

 

Think only what concerns thee and thy being;

Dream not of other worlds, what creatures there

Live, in what state, condition, or degree,

Contented that thus far hath been revealed

Not of earth only, but of highest heaven.

 

Milton's injunction was unpersuasive, even unsettling.  <Not my affair. The woman in Paris is my concern, and what she wants.>

 



 

 

Edith Amblen conducted Clare through the large house. It was old and in need of repair, but it was the only place large enough that close to the university. With private walled grounds, like the other homes in the neighborhood, the imposing edifice afforded privacy. The price was unreasonable for the structure's condition.

 

Clare gritted her teeth, muttering, "I'll take it," and wrote a check.

 

Edith was taken aback. "I will have to…"

 

"I know. Call it earnest money, sufficient, I hope, to take possession. Tell me, do you know a good renovation firm? It needs carpet, paint, god knows what else."

 

Fumbling in her purse, Edith found a card.

 

Clare went back to the street where Pierre was waiting in the new Mercedes. His wife was still at the hotel, fussing with the staff to ensure that everything was perfect for her new employer.



 

Al Qa'id shifted uncomfortably in the restaurant chair.  "We can't meet. It is too dangerous."

 

"I'm being wasted. I am…"

 

Al Qa'id interrupted, "I know. It's just—they sent you, but don't know how to use you. You're too valuable to just be expended in an attack."

 

Zubana's look was dark.  “At least they're doing something in London. But we're just targeting exiles.”

 

“Yes,” Al Qa'id countered, “but what would good Muslims be doing in a nightclub?”

 

“Or their own home? Or a restaurant?”

 

Al Qa'id peered at him, then relaxed.  "They are enemies of the state. I'll have someone contact you. An intermediary. Somebody not connected…just a functionary. You have your instructions. You have a warehouse?"

 

"Yes. I have contracted a place. Not as good…" Zubana stopped, leaving the sentence dangling.

 

Al Qa'id ignored the hesitation.  "You'll be contacted."

 

 

 

 

Kurt nodded at the estate agent. He would take the house. It was too big for just him, but Clare insisted. He went into the living room, the floors still covered in drop cloths, to edge the heat up a degree, to help the paint dry.

 

<At least the coal strike won't affect me. Unless they stop delivery of gas or interrupt electricity.>

 

A workman found him, asking about something.

 

Back up from the cellar, Kurt grabbed a mug of hot tea and opened the newspaper. He ignored the news in Northern Ireland; more bombings shootings. It did not escape him that the Protestants were killing people too.

 

In any case, he had sufficient concerns right there.

 



 

 

The women sat around a table in a conference room outside the registrar's office. Clare regarded the three. There was Renée, dark-haired like herself, with smooth high cheekbones and arching eyebrows that gave her the look of a haughty runway model. Eva, a pretty, vivacious sophomore with chestnut hair and ready smile, looked at her expectantly. The third woman had dark, almost black hair, hidden under a scarf. Her looks were striking, but her thick eyebrows needed tending. Her long pianist's fingers ended in manicured but uncolored nails. Clare had narrowed her search to these three, although taking Salma, who could afford to pay, was a favor to the counselor.

 

"Thank you for coming to see me. I know you are busy getting ready for your next class. I would like you to come live in my home while you go to school."

 

The women said nothing but looked at each other.

 

At length Renée spoke up. "I appreciate it! But…I cannot afford to pay much."

 

"I think they told you when you interviewed, since you are on financial aid, there would be no charge, but…my home is not just a place to stay. You must fit in with my family. My rules are not, I think, onerous, but rigid and perhaps unusual. I told you that no man can see you in your room—ever." She allowed them to absorb the statement. "There is one more thing. I practice martial arts, twice a week. Unless you are incapacitated, I would expect you to be there too, for the exercise."

 

Eva looked distraught. "I cannot afford—I mean…"

 

"Tosh! It is part of living in my home. I said it before but I reiterate, I expect only that you help out, like you would in your own parents' home. If you are getting anything to live, you keep it.” She regarded them.

 

“Well, ladies?" She pulled sheets of paper from a folder. "This is the agreement. I would like you each to sign it. Then we have no misunderstandings."

 

She could tell that Salma was having a problem. "Would you like to speak, Salma?"

 

Salma hesitated, looking worried. "Can we talk—in private?"

 

"Certainly." Clare led her out to the corridor.

 

"Madame Retten, I must pay something! My father—he will insist!"

 

Clare smiled.  "That's fine. If your father insists on paying something, then he can. I didn't talk about it at the table—I wanted you to feel the same as the others."

 

Salma was grateful. "You have no idea how much this means to me! When you brought me to the house! What a place! And Madame Chamoun…she speaks English!"

 

"Oui, but you won't. Not in my home. Only French! Let's go back and sign so my lawyer will be happy. Then we'll go home!"

 

Renée gave her the paper, and had a question. "There are rooms for four. Who is the other lodger?"

 

"Right now it is only you three. I am still looking at candidates. Someone to balance the group, I think."

 

"There's a girl—her family just arrived from Morocco. Can I bring her over to see you?" Eva asked.

 

"Certainment, but don't give her the idea that she can just move in. I will speak with her."



 

After three weeks in Oxford getting a place to live, buying a car and contracting for a housekeeper, Kurt was glad to be able to get to Paris and Clare.

 

Arriving at Orly, he couldn't keep from smiling when he gave the taxi driver the address. "Rue Bosc, s'il vous plait."

 

Knowing her aversion to the Germans, Clare's distress at the pun was obvious when she called to tell him where the house was.

 

The taxi let Kurt off in front of a large stone house which sat behind an imposing stone wall. Standing just outside the ornate wrought iron gate he could make out basement windows as well. It was big enough to be a hotel. Judging from the windows, there were six or eight rooms above the ground floor, and at least four more in the garret above that. The ground floor was graced by enormous picture windows on the left of the front door, in front and along the side and back of the building, with smaller windows visible on the right side of the front entrance.

 

Looking around, he saw behind the trees that lined the street on both sides, wide cobblestone sidewalks abutting more stone, brick and masonry walls of their neighbors.

 

Pushing open the gate, Kurt tread on the old stone flagstones to the front porch, where a workman was touching up the paint around the door. Seeing the man's pained expression, Kurt redirected his steps to the left, following the garden path of decorative bright white gravel around the side to the back, where he found other attractions. Hidden within the walls, dotted with trees, among them two of the eponymous pears, was an English garden. The previous owners could not have been French. Many 'Americanisms' were evident, from an expansive stone patio, a gazebo, and…he stopped in wonder. A covered outdoor barbecue pit. He burst into laughter.

 

A pretty young woman with chestnut hair falling to her shoulders stepped out of the back door, gazing at him askance.

 

"Je suis Kurt Retten," he said to her, his mouth still turned up with mirth.

 

"Ah, Monsieur Retten, your wife said you were coming." Her English was impeccable, if heavily accented. "I am Eva, one of your, uh, student lodgers."

 

"Nous pouvons parler français, si vous vous le désirez."

 

"Oh, no. I need to practice English, for you."

 

"That won't be necessary," Kurt responded in French, "Clare insists that we speak only French at home. Well, I try. You can hear that I'm not doing well at it.”

 

Another woman, middle-aged, stocky, with a scowl, came out. She started to fuss.

 

"Ah, Madame Chamoun, I presume?"

 

"It is Monsieur Retten," Eva volunteered.

 

Her expression changed to pleased surprise.  "Ah, Monsieur Retten! We have expected you."

 

Kurt ran up the steps onto the veranda and followed her into the kitchen.

 

"Where is Madame?"

 

"Upstairs, in the garret. She is scolding the workmen."

 

"Let me see if I can rescue them," he replied with a knowing grin.

 

He stopped in the hall to admire the small elevator surrounded by an ornate iron cage. A workman came out, grumbling. Wrapping around the elevator were newly carpeted stairs, which Kurt sprinted two flights up, where he found his wife in the hallway, upbraiding a painter. When she saw him her cross expression changed to elation.

 

She leapt into his arms; he spun her around with a kiss. That, he noticed, changed the workman's face from glum to a wry smile.

 

"Oh chéri, I'm so glad you're here!"

 

"Quite a house you bought. Not quite the lodgings I would expect for les Pauvres Clarisses.

 

O’erjoyed was he to find,

That though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind."

 

"Oh oui, you would expect us to rough it? We must be comfortable, n’est-ce pas?  How much have you seen?"

 

"Just the kitchen and the lift. I met Madame Chamoun and your lodger. Eva isn't it?"

 

"Yes, also Renée—she's reading for French Lit, like me—and Salma, whose father is a rather rich businessman in London. I understand she has a younger, even prettier sister. She'll be entering university in about two years or so."

 

"Do I detect a 'hands off the girls' tone of voice?"

 

"I couldn't have said it better—buster!"

 

They both grinned while he kissed her again.

 

Then she frowned.  "What a mess! The last people here trashed the place!"

 

"Americans from the look of it. I saw the back."

 

"Oui. Boorish diplomats, I understand."

 

"Boorish! Must have been Agency. We'll have to get the place swept for bugs. Where's Pierre?"

 

"He getting the car gassed up."

 

"Your roadster?"

 

"No. They haven't delivered it yet. It's the 500, so he can drive us, get groceries, and like that. Do you need something? I can call him on his car phone."

 

"Uh no, just asking. Not going halfway, are you? Yours too?"

 

"You've got one."

 

"Because you told me to. As if I'd ever use it."

 

"I might need to call you!"

 

"Good luck. I'm not in the car much."

 

"That's why I didn't get you a car for here."

 

"That's fine. Do I get a room, in the garret?"

 

"Oh non…" she grinned, but her eyes frowned at him with a twinkle. "Let's go downstairs."

 

She took him on the elevator, not stopping until they were in the cellar. The basement had been improved, 'ruined' the realtor complained. Kurt saw an enormous open space, about half as big as the house footprint, covered with indoor/outdoor carpeting.

 

"I'll get some of that torn up and replaced with parquet, for dancing. There'll still be plenty of room for a billiard table. We'll get some chairs, tables and a couple of sofas too."

 

"You can get some mats for exercising too."

 

She nodded. "And over there, against the wall I'll put in a mirror and a barre."

 

On two adjacent sides of the room were doors. One, behind the bar, she explained, led to a kitchen. The door next to it opened onto a hallway to a bathroom and a storeroom. Straight back was a third door.

 

“I'll have that prepared,” he said.

 

On the other wall there were double doors which connected to the garage. She opened one of those, inviting him through. The garage was large enough for three cars, each with its own door. There was a tool bench running along the back wall. A door in the far corner led to the furnace room.

 

"You planning on opening a restaurant, or bar, or a…?"

 

"Just make it comfy, like our place in Arlington was."

 

"How many girls…sorry, women are you going to rent to? It looks like you have room for a dozen. That’ll make the payments, won't it?"

 

"Tosh! Have you found a place, in Oxford?"

 

"Oui. There's a nice mixed martial arts academy just a couple of miles away. You?"

 

"Oui. It's farther. I'm afraid if we all go the 500 isn't big enough."

 

"Just get another one. Or a BMW, or Jag."

 

"I'll think about it."

 

"I always meant to ask. The way you feel about the Germans, why do you buy Mercedes?"

 

"I love the French, but the Boche are engineers."

 

"Ah, the hardnosed business woman. You were talking about the house."

 

"Oui. Half of the premier etage is for the Chamouns. There are…will be—if the workmen ever finish—four nice rooms in the garret. And a common room. I had a time getting permission to put in bathrooms for each room. There are a couple more rooms across the hall from the Chamoun apartment, but I would rather not use them, unless there is a special case. Keep them for guests."

 

"So, you will advertise?"

 

He was joshing her; she refused to bite.

 

"There's only room for one more. I am looking for the right candidate. Renée suggested one—an African, like Salma. They would have to meet Madame Chamoun's standards."

 

Kurt laughed. "If you didn't own the place, I'm not sure we would meet her standards."

 

"Oui," she purred, getting close, "I'm afraid that we will shock her sensibilities, and this weekend too!"

 

 

 

 

Back in Oxford, Kurt drove the Jaguar into the garage, wondering what maintaining two large houses was putting back his bride. Although he rattled around in the place, it had to be big enough to accommodate the clothes and other things Clare kept there for her occasional visits. And she insisted there be rooms for guests. It had been built after the war; Kurt mused absently that it was put in to replace flats which had been bombed, when there wasn't money to put up a faux Tudor façade. The tan brick walls didn't match the neighborhood. Like the house in Paris, this one could accommodate four students in the garret plus a common room and kitchenette. There was a small apartment and three other bedrooms on the first floor. Unlike some other houses nearby, this one had some grounds in front and back, separated by high hedges and brick walls. There were not that many places like this, in a more fashionable neighborhood, not near to where any of his classmates lived. Of course, many of them stayed on campus in one of the halls.

 

Downstairs the house was quite similar to their place in Arlington, with a large master bedroom, formal dining room, a sitting room, living room, and den. The large kitchen had a breakfast nook. The basement was finished; it previously had been subdivided for more student rooms. Kurt would have most of the rooms removed, leaving a large carpeted space to accommodate a pool table, and generous section for a wood parquet dance floor that with mats would double for exercise and practice.

 

He could wait until later to decide whether to bring anyone in. Since he was bacheloring, he was determined that there would be no complications. No women.

 

Except the housekeeper. The agency found a strong-willed simple woman to manage the house. Mrs. Mahoney was young for a widow—only fifty. It would have been hard going for her to trudge the stairs, but the tiny elevator Clare insisted on solved that.

 

He instructed the woman to engage some help to come in two or three times a week to clean.

 

"Do you drive, Mrs. Mahoney?"

 

"I'm sorry sir. No I don't."

 

"How are you going to bring groceries?"

 

"I can bring them on the bus, sir."

 

"That won't do. If I have students here I'll be cooking for five or six, not to mention guests. Don't look at me that way. You'll soon discover that I am an accomplished chef." He thought for a moment. "Do you have a son, nephew, somebody you trust, who can drive you around?"

 

"There's my youngest brother's boy, Clark. He just finished school and is looking for work. He's a good lad."

 

"All right. Get him hired by your agency. I'll bring him on as a driver. Now, can you browbeat workmen?"

 

"Sir?"

 

"The place needs fixing up. I'll be in school. I need for you to supervise the workmen, so they paint and repair, and not cheat me."

 

"I can do that sir."

 

"If they don't do exactly as you say, run them off. We'll deal with their employers later."

 

"I think I'm going to enjoy working for you, Mr. Retten."

 

"Well, Mrs. Mahoney, you haven't met my wife yet. 'He that has a wife has a master.' Especially Clare."

 

"Oh I know that Scottish proverb, Mr. Retten! It don't seem like you."

 

"You'll see when she's here."

 

 

 



Freshly showered, wearing night clothes, wrapped in thin robes, the women lay crumpled in the chairs and sofa around the living room. Clare came in barefoot, her body still warm from the shower, smelling of bath powder, wearing a teddy under a negligent open robe, unceremoniously pushing Renée's feet off the couch so she could sit.

 

"I am so sore!" Eva moaned. Renée and Salma nodded in aching agreement.

 

"You say we have to do this every week?!" Renée complained.

 

"Twice each week. Mondays and Thursdays," Clare answered, grinning at their groans, "When I first started, I thought I would die! At Stanford I swam and ran track, but when I started practice with Kurt I was so sore I couldn't move! I couldn't make love!"

 

"When would we ever need this?" Salma asked, trying not to move too much.

 

"You'll be disappointed how often you need to get physical to protect yourself." Clare eyed each of her lodgers, then went on, "Now I'll tell you something the instructors won't. If you do have to defend yourself, or your honor, remember: The legs are your strongest limbs. With a single kick you can kill. If you have to hit someone, you should try to kill them. Even if you fail, it may give you time to get away."

 

Salma looked back with distaste. Renée nodded; she was listening.

 

"Well, you'll all sleep well tonight. Don't do anything strenuous tomorrow. "

 

She was greeted by groans.

 

"Oh do grow up! Eva, bring me some wine. A nice Pinot blanc."

 

Eva struggled painfully to her feet, went to bar. She looked significantly to Renée, who shrugged and nodded; for Salma she pulled up a bottle of Perrier. Mme Chamoun entered the room, and scowled at the display of flesh.

 

Clare waved her away. "We're just college girls, Madame. We can pour our own drinks. Have a good evening."

 

“Did you hear, Madame, that somebody shot an American diplomat in Strasbourg?”

 

“I didn't. Alors!”

 

Still frowning, the châtelaine left them, closing the door to the hallway.

 

A few blocks away Zubana sat in his car, writing down the movements of the women, noting the time that they left to go to the martial arts studio, and the time they returned.  <Why do they practice the art? Why do they need such skills?>

 

 

Clare was scolding her lodgers. "I will not have you haggard in my home! We go to the salon, tonight! Take your reading!"

 

"I can't afford the expense!" Renée complained, "I only go for a big date!"

 

"Tosh! You act like you are paying! If you live under my roof, you must be presentable!" She turned to Salma. "Now, chérie, I know you are sensitive about your hair. They will pamper you, do your nails—you can wear your scarf, but you will get your hair done!"

 

Salma was frowning. "I don't hide my hair all the time."

 

"Then it's settled! Off we go, then we'll all go out to dinner. Pierre! Get the car!"

 

Shivering in the gloomy weather, cupping a cigarette to protect it from the wind, Zubana peered unhappily at the large stone house on Rue Bosc. He watched as four women, one in a scarf, entered the big white Mercedes waiting at the curb. Under their light spring coats he could see bare calfs; they were all wearing dresses or skirts. Although it was not unusual in France to see Muslim women in western dress, he found it unsettling to see the young Alsafi woman in the company of Christians, and a man driving.

 

The house would have been ideal for his purposes, with its large underground room for storage and high brick walls for privacy, but this American woman had swooped in and bought it. He was loathe to report back to Tripoli that not only had the house been taken from under his nose, but the eldest daughter of an exile was living there. If she needed to take in lodgers for money—how was she able to afford the wanting price?!

 

He stomped out the cigarette. He had had to find another place; it cost more. Tripoli was not be happy. He had found a small commercial warehouse, but nothing to compare with this place.

 

<No,> he decided, <I will not report the presence of the Libyan girl. It is her father who is our enemy. He is still in England. Maybe though...>

 

He hoped to get permission for an operation soon, before tempers cooled; before Gaddafi decided not, after all, to punish the French for interfering in Chad. He thought bitterly of his son, still lying in the burn ward in Benghazi. He wondered about the summons from Al Qa'id. A small errand, the message said. <I'll learn of that soon enough. Hopefully something positive.>

 

As he was about to go to his own car he saw two young men approaching the house as the Mercedes drove past. They were obviously from North Africa. Keeping to his covered outpost by the tree, he lingered to watch. They stopped at the iron gate; one pressed the buzzer. After the second ring he heard indistinct sounds coming from the intercom. They exchanged words for almost half a minute, one of them gesturing futilely, before they gave up, trudging off. Wondering who they were he followed discreetly until he saw them get to a bus stop, where they waited. Curious, but not willing to get on the bus, he went back to his car, and drove off in the opposite direction.

 

Returning to his room, Zubana met his landlady, a fat and suspicious Algerian. Greeting her cordially, tipping his snap brim like an Englishman, Zubana smiled at the glowering woman.

 

"How long did you say you would be staying?"

 

"I didn't, Madame, but I expect to be here at least until at least summer. Is there a problem?"

 

She peered at him. "No, there is no problem. Good day."

 

“As Allah wills.”

 

Leaving her in the hallway, he trudged up the stairs to his room, smiling to himself. He knew she had been in the room. He had prepared, and she had disturbed, the surreptitious detectors. She would find nothing there, because he kept nothing there. There was only a Qur’an and a prayer rug. No letters. There was nothing there except clothes, all bought locally. Except for the loosely made bed, he might not even exist. It was in the safehouse—the warehouse—where he kept incriminating documents. He doubted that a thorough police search would find those, either.

 

 

Sitting on the bus Yamin was quiet, stewing.

 

Dabaran nudged him, frowning. "What did you expect? Big house, a housekeeper—she can really scold in Arabic, can't she?!"

 

Yamin cast his friend a sidelong glance.

 

"I don't know what I expected. I didn't expect a mansion, with stone walls. 'She has gone out with Madame.' Then she wouldn't answer any more questions, and threatened to call the police! Did you recognize that accent?"

 

"Lebanese or Syrian maybe. Well, if she's in a Muslim household, you don't have a chance of getting near her!"

 

"There's always school."

 

"Yeah, in your shabby clothes! Some chance!"

 

Yamin glowered at him, his face getting red.  "Damn our stingy parents!"

 

 

 

 

Mrs. Mahoney found Kurt in his den, hunched in an arm chair under the light of a reading lamp.

 

"What are you doing, sir?" She was incredulous.

 

"Just sewing a button, and mending a sleeve."

 

"You can't do that! Here, give it to me!"

 

"You think I can't sew?"

 

She looked at his handiwork dubiously.

 

"All right, I'm not the neatest, but the shirt's just for knocking around the house."

 

"That's all right, I'll do it."

 

Kurt stood, surrendering the shirt.

 

"Take that upstairs, but first, get Clark. We're going shopping! And tell him to wear blue jeans. There'll be lugging."

 

Barely a man, the eighteen-year-old with a tussle of sandy hair and slight build was soft spoken, polite, and intelligent. He proudly but carefully drove the new Ford estate wagon, carrying his aunt to the store, running errands, and seeing to needs at the house.

 

They stopped at a fabric shop. Inside, Mrs. Mahoney objected when Kurt showed her what he intended. "You can't spend that! That sewing machine is too…too…"

 

"Don't say it. Now, this looks useful," Kurt said, inspecting a sewing cabinet, filled with thread, buttons and so forth.

 

"Clark, get the clerk over here. What, Mrs. Mahoney, you can't use this equipment?"

 

"Certainly I can, but it's so expensive!"

 

"As my wife would say, Tosh! If you're going to insist on sewing, I don't want you spending days and hours. With this equipment you can make short work of it, no?"

 

"Well, yes sir, but…"

 

"Could we forbear dispute and practice love, we should agree as angels do above."

 

A middle-aged woman came up. Kurt pulled out a credit card.

 

While she was writing up the purchase Kurt walked around.  "Is there anything

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Chris R. Beals
Bildmaterialien: Chris R. Beals, or public domain
Cover: Chris R. Beals, or public domain
Lektorat: Chris R. Beals
Satz: Chris R. Beals
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 27.04.2018
ISBN: 978-3-7438-6694-2

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