A Picture of Guilt (29 page)

Rachel and I slept late the next morning. Then we did a huge Thanksgiving shopping at the supermarket. She was subdued; we chatted about inconsequential things. I wanted to fully process last night before we talked. For now, I was grateful that she wasn’t hurt. And that the SUV turned out to be Derek’s.

When we got back, Fouad was on the front lawn removing the last of my annuals. It was hard to believe the wiry twigs and stems he was pulling out were once petunias and impatiens. He helped us unload the groceries. Rachel put them away.

Back outside, he started in on the prairie grass flanking my driveway. The weak November sun made the dry stems seem luminous. Against an empty, lavender sky, the effect was pure Georgia O’Keefe.

Fouad’s red and black lumber jacket was open at the neck. Wiry black chest hairs spilled out above his T-shirt as he slashed through the grass.

“They’re saying it might snow tonight,” he said.

I drew in a breath. Sometimes there’s a tangy, metallic scent that precedes snow, but I didn’t smell it.

“Where have you been?” I asked. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“My son had some problems. We went to Duke to work them out.”

Ahmed was a stellar premed student. I couldn’t imagine what kind of problems he’d have. I asked.

“Someone set fire to his dorm room.”

I swallowed.

Fouad didn’t look up. “Fortunately, the damage was minor.”

“Fouad, I’m so sorry. What did you do?”

He shrugged. “We spoke to the dean, his advisor, and the dormitory monitor. They were full of apologies.” He kept hacking through the grasses.

I waited for him to say more.

He didn’t.

I shook my head. “I don’t know how you do it, Fouad. You’ve been here thirty years. How do you deal with it—with such—equanimity?”

He was quiet. Then he got up, looked at me, and moved to the other side of the driveway. “I want to tell you a story. It was told to me by your friend David.”

“My David?”

He nodded and started in on the grasses on that side. “Last summer, the night we went looking for you, we were here….” He motioned to the house. “We were worried. We did not know where you were. So we agreed to wait for a few minutes.”

I remembered the night.

“While we waited, we talked. He told me about a young girl in Germany. During the Thirties. About the same age as your Rachel is now. Maybe a year or two older.

“She grew up in Freiburg. Her father was a tailor. Not a wealthy man, but he managed. She had a brother and a sister. She went to school, had friends. She had a happy childhood.” He threw a glance over his shoulder. “But then, she was told she could not go to school anymore. Her friends were no longer permitted to play with her. Her father was forbidden from working. The family was restricted as to where they could go. They were forced to wear a sign on their clothing. They endured cruel taunts from neighbors who a few months before had been their friends. One day she was forced to watch her father strip down to his underwear in the middle of the street while others—their former friends and neighbors—gathered around to jeer.”

He put down the scythe and looked up. “Whenever I think it is bad here, I remember the story about David’s mother. And I thank Allah I am where I am.” He scooped up the ends of the prairie grass and stuffed them into a plastic bag. “You understand?”

I nodded.

“There are many Muslims who share my view. Despite what you hear on the television.” He stood up, the bag in one hand, the scythe in the other. “I take care of the landscaping at the mosque over in Northbrook, you know. I hear the young men, the students, talking before and after prayers. Most of them love this country. They are grateful to be here.” We walked back toward his truck. “They do everything they can to fit in. They dress American, they eat American, they even Americanize their names.
Fariq
becomes Frank,
Samir
becomes Sammy,
Rayann
becomes Ray—”

I stopped. “What did you say?”

He turned around. “I said they do everything they—”

“No. The name. Sammy. It’s short for what?”

“
Samir
. S-A-M-I-R. It means entertaining companion.” He tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”

I shook my head. “I—I—it’s probably nothing. I mean, there are probably lots of Samirs in Chicago, right?”

“Yes. It’s a very common name. Surname, too.”

“A surname, too?”

“Sam is.” He went on. “If the family name is
Sam
, a young man might call himself Sammy. There is also
Sami
, which means high, lofty, or elevated. Or
Samman
, which means grocer.”

I followed him to his pickup. “Is there any way to determine which name someone who calls himself Sammy might be using?”

He shook his head. “It would be like someone who calls himself Al. Is he Albert, Alfred, or Alphonse?” He lay the scythe in the bed of the truck. “By the way…speaking of names…I spoke to my friend the other day. The one from Riyadh.”

It took me a few seconds to focus. “Riyadh?”

“Your friend from the royal family.”

A jolt of uneasiness shot through me. “Abdul.”

Fouad nodded. “My friend said there is a database on the Saudi royal family on the Internet.”

Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

“It is not an official site, you understand. Just a private effort to keep track and organize some of them. Over two thousand names are listed. It is not complete by any means; there are over five thousand royals. I searched for the name you gave me.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He held up his palm. “No, do not thank me. I found nothing.”

I stiffened.

“But you see, most Muslim family records are based on the progeny of the mother, not the father.”

“Like Jews.”

He nodded. “If a mother is not listed, it could mean that no one, including the Sauds themselves, is sure who was doing what with whom. There also is the issue of polygamy. It is sometimes difficult to identify the children when there are four or more wives in the family. And there is also the desire for privacy, particularly where females are concerned. Sometimes information comes to light only when the mother’s obituary is published.”

“What are you saying, Fouad? Is Abdul a phony?”

He answered carefully. “I can only tell you that the name does not come up on any of the branches of the family that are publicly known.”

***

I couldn’t sleep that night. I’d gone online and found—or didn’t find—the same thing as Fouad. Did that mean Abdul was an imposter? Posing as a Saudi royal while David helped him purchase a chemical company? And if he wasn’t, why would he lie about it? What was he trying to hide? Even if it turned out he was a member of the royal family, he was still spending a lot of time and money in Chicago. And harboring some kind of connection to Dale Reedy.

And now there was a man named Sam who called Dale Reedy. Plus a man named Sammy from Calumet Park, possibly ferrying diving equipment, who may have killed Mary Jo. And Sam and Sammy were common Arabic names.

I bunched up the pillow in front of me. I’d read how terrorist operations were sometimes financed by wealthy, seemingly legitimate Arabs, who, in reality, were covertly supporting a terrorist cell or two. Was Abdul one of them? He conducted business at the highest levels of society: the Greenbrier, international currency markets. He seemed to have money to burn. And I had reason to doubt his veracity.

Was Sammy part of his cell? He wasn’t enrolled in flight school—he took diving lessons instead—but what difference did that make, if the goal was some terrorist action?

I rolled over and turned on the light. I couldn’t accuse Abdul of terrorism; that would be the worst kind of racism. There was always the chance that Abdul
was
a member of the royal family. Maybe his mother, an exotic princess or daughter of an emir, had slipped through the family records.

Still, there seemed to be some connection between the RF damage on a videotape, a British woman at Great Lakes Oil, the intake cribs, and possibly an Arab. Something just beyond my grasp.

I threw the covers off. I felt as if I were in the maw of some mysterious creature, unable to figure out what it was. My theories might make sense if I knew its genus, its habitat, its routine. But it was keeping itself hidden. Unapproachable.

I stared at the phone, feeling frustrated and helpless and alone.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-NINE

David answered on the second ring. “Linden here.”

“Hello, David.”

“Ellie.” His voice was unreadable. “How are you?”

I felt like skipping the ritualized dialogue that begins most conversations, but David probably needed the words—and the time. “Okay. You?”

“I’m good,” he said. “It’s pretty late.”

I checked the clock. Almost midnight. “Sorry.”

“So, what’s up?”

Pass the ball. State your case.

“I—I need to ask you a couple of questions. About Abdul.”

“Abdul?” Disappointment colored his voice.

I felt like I should apologize and irritated that I felt that way. “It’s important.”

He sighed. “What’s the question?”

“How did he become your client?”

“What kind of a question is that? You know how it happened. You were there.”

“He met you at the Greenbrier, was impressed by your credentials, and decided to hire you?”

“Well…basically, yes.”

“Well then, why did you take him on?”

“What is this, the third degree?”

“I’m sorry. I guess what I’m asking is why you didn’t delegate him to one of your staff.”

“He needed someone with expertise in foreign exchange. I’m the head of the department. Ellie, what’s this about? Have you been bothering him? Because if—”

My irritation grew. “Actually, it’s the other way around. He called me a day or so ago. He was here.”

“I told you before, he likes you.”

“David.” I hesitated. “I think he’s a phony.”

There was silence. Then, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“David, I don’t think he’s related to the Saudi royal family— Fouad checked. And now I’m starting to wonder if he’s really a businessman.”

“Ellie. Stop. Don’t go any further. Abdul and I are working on a major purchase. I don’t need any interference. Especially from you.”

“Okay. Answer this. Where are you in the deal, David? Has Abdul put up any money yet?”

“That’s none of your damn business.”

“David. I would never insinuate myself into your business dealings without a good reason, just like I know you wouldn’t insinuate yourself into my work.”

Silence.

“He hasn’t put up a dime, has he?”

“We’re not at that stage yet. You heard him at dinner a few weeks ago. We need to rethink a few things.”

“David, he’s stalling you.”

“Why would he do that?” His voice sounded less certain.

“Because he isn’t who he says he is. Because he’s using you as a cover for what he’s really up to.”

“And what would that be?”

“I’m not sure.”

I heard a long exhalation. “Ellie—”

“David, listen to me. I can’t explain it. But the timing is suspicious. You meet him, and barely a week or so later, he’s your client.”

“It happens.”

“And he just happens to want to buy a plant near Chicago?”

“Ellie…”

“Which forces him to come out here on a regular basis.”

“So what?”

“How do you know he doesn’t have some ulterior motive? That he’s playing you?”

“What possible reason would he have to do that?”

I should have told him my suspicions. Explained everything that was happening. But I was afraid he wouldn’t believe me. And given our problems, he might even think I was sabotaging him. I couldn’t risk it.

“Remember how he played host at the Four Seasons? He was smooth, wasn’t he? It made me wonder if he was a pro.”

“A pro? At what?”

“Pumping me about the trial and the tape and the RF.”

It takes David a long time to trust someone, but once he does, he’s enduringly loyal. It would never occur to him to question a friend’s motives.

“Ellie, what are you accusing him of?”

“Didn’t you ever wonder how he knew about the abandoned coal mines at the Greenbrier?”

“What are you talking about now?”

“David. Remember the rafting? When I hiked back through the woods with Rachel? Abdul knew we would be passing the old coal mines in the area. Tell me something. How does a Saudi sheik know that?”

“Maybe he took a walk. Maybe he had been there before. What’s your point?”

“Something isn’t right. It hasn’t been since I met him. I get the feeling he already knows the answers to the questions he asks. And now, I’ve discovered a connection between him and a woman at Great Lakes Oil who—”

“I would hope so.”

“David, this woman doesn’t have anything to do with his acquisition. She’s in Training and Development. I did a video proposal for her, and I found out they’ve been in touch with each other. Then she abruptly cancels my video. It’s all getting very bizarre.”

He cut me off. “Ellie, I know things are not going well right now. I know you’ve got some problems. But this is off the charts. You can’t make my client out to be some kind of scam artist. I won’t permit it.”

A flicker of anger pulsed through me. “Fine. Just remember it was our trip to the Greenbrier that started everything.”

“What do you mean by ‘everything’?”

“Everything you can’t seem to handle.” Damn. It slipped out.

“I see. We’re back to me now. Ellie, I don’t have to justify myself to you. Who I do business with is not your concern. If you want to pick a fight with me, you’re going to have to do it another way.” He cleared his throat. “Look, it’s late. I need to get some shut-eye. I think this conversation is just about over.”

“No, wait,” I cried miserably. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“Then what do you mean?”

As an instrument of communication, the telephone has its limitations. “I—I don’t know. Things are just—very strange. And I miss you.”