He trudged behind the other passengers into a wide, brightly lit terminal, thinking the immigration service would probably give him a good going-over.
Ruhi wished that the intelligence agents who had recruited him had given him a phony passport. He hadn’t even thought of that till now. But perhaps U.S. intelligence knew that he could never pass himself off as someone else — not entering a country where his family had close associations with terrorists even more disgusted with royal rule than the expatriate now arriving home.
Within minutes, he queued up in the cavernous entry area. Nothing unusual. Not yet. His imaginings of Saudi secret police descending on him right away had not materialized.
He shuffled forward with his lone bag, obedient as a dog. He knew better than to draw attention to himself at a Middle Eastern border crossing, especially not in Saudi Arabia, where the officials held the keys to a bona fide kingdom.
Even the word “kingdom” spoke of a bygone era that still thrived in his homeland. Women were not permitted to drive or vote, but the Saudi king had recently decreed that they could have a seat on the Shura Council, an assembly that considered laws and offered counsel to the king. But the Shura had no real power, certainly not to legislate, and the women would not be permitted to mingle with the men.
Big whoop.
He knew from one of his six sisters that the nascent feminist movement in the emirate was gaining steam. But the great majority of women were subject to strict religious guidelines about the clothing they were permitted to wear, just like Ruhi’s cousin, Ahmed, wanted for every woman in the world. Forced conversions and hijabs for all.
A Saudi immigration officer in a long-sleeve white one-piece thawb and a keffiyeh signaled Ruhi to come to a table. While the officer looked from Ruhi’s passport to a computer terminal and entered data on a keyboard, another similarly attired officer combed through Ruhi’s carry-on.
Ruhi realized that he was holding his breath. You’re such a spy, he chided himself. Try breathing.
“Purpose of your visit, Mr. Mancur?”
“I’m visiting my family.”
“It appears that your parents haven’t been back in many years. When will we have the pleasure of a visit from them? Or don’t they care about the country that succored their souls?”
“They care very much. But my father is working so hard.”
“Yes, you do have to work like a slave in the great United States of America. It’s all work, work, work. And now it is a disaster there. So is that the reason you have come back? Because it’s so unbearable to be in your America now?”
“I won’t deny that Saudi Arabia is in much better shape. I—”
“And you,” he interrupted, “are you in much better shape after what you have been through?”
“I am okay.”
“Okay? Really? I would think what you went through was all but unbearable.”
Play hard to get, the Middle East expert at the Farm had counseled Ruhi. Make it appear that you’re too traumatized to talk about the torture.
“I am very happy to be in Saudi Arabia,” Ruhi said carefully.
“Of course you are. But look at what you were doing in your America. You were making fossil fuels out to be a tool of the devil. At the Natural Resources Defense Council you were smearing the emirate. The source of our wealth, our financial lifeline, and you were doing all you could to demonize it.” He shook his head. “They say you are a terrorist. Maybe that is true?”
“No, they admit it was a mistake.”
“But they let you leave. They wanted to get rid of you. And they did torture you. It says so right here.” He looked at his computer screen, hidden from Ruhi. “Do you hate them?” He leaned so close to Ruhi that he could see a lone gray hair in the man’s beard. “What did they do to you?”
“It hurt,” Ruhi said, hoping to leave it at that.
“And is there any evidence that it hurt?”
Ruhi nodded, filled with revulsion at the man’s manner, his eagerness, but he also realized that his reaction might be seen by the officer as appropriate for someone who had been severely violated, who had suffered a dog bite and burns from electrodes.
“How long do you plan to visit your family?” the officer asked, changing the subject abruptly.
“A few weeks, maybe a month or two.”
“Why not stay here? What do you owe a country that tortured you?” He wasn’t interested in an answer. “I will tell you, Mr. Mancur. Not a thing. You owe those devils nothing. Millions of good Muslims can’t wait to get to the land of Mecca and Medina. But you?” He shook his head again. “You come just to visit. After what they did to you? But maybe they didn’t do anything. Maybe that explains why you’re here and why you plan to go back. Maybe there are secrets about your ‘torture,’ beginning with the fact that there was no torture.”
“There was,” Ruhi said fiercely. “I can show you.”
“Maybe in time you will,” he said, sending a chill through Ruhi.
“And I might stay. I miss my country. My family.”
“And you would leave your parents in that hellhole over there? Is that what a loyal son does now in America?”
I can’t win to lose with this guy.
“No, I would bring them back home, too.”
“That is the right word, Mr. Mancur. The magic word: ‘home.’ Use it wisely. Do not abuse it. Think about it.”
The officer slapped Ruhi’s passport closed and, for the first time, spoke without feeling: “Welcome to Saudi Arabia. Enjoy your visit.”
Granted, Tanesa was black, and that was cool. Granted, she’d saved her mom’s life, and that was cool, too. And, granted, she was a massive improvement over Mrs. J… Then again, a stone effigy of Kermit the Frog could have carried that load. But Emma was starting to have her doubts about Tanesa. They’d just checked out the upstairs bathroom and stepped into her room. Up till now, the new caregiver had oohed and ahhed every few seconds.
But now she was raising her eyebrows. Okay, the room was a mess, but that’s not what drew the new caregiver’s attention. It was a can of strawberry-pineapple Palm Bay, a purple thong, and the picture of Emma with her skirt up in the ambulance. Skateboarder Boy, whose name was Shane, had left them for her in their mailbox, and Emma had failed to hide them very well after hurrying them upstairs.
“Where’d that garbage come from?” Tanesa demanded, holding up the panties. Then she picked up the Palm Bay. “And you’ve got no business drinking this stuff.”
Emma tried to strike a casual tone, explaining that she’d met Shane in the ambulance. “He gave them to me. They’re like a get-well gift.”
“Get-well gift? They’re a disgrace is what they are. And taking a nasty picture of you when you’re hurt and can’t do anything about it? That’s just wrong.”
“It’s no big deal. You can’t see much. And look at my face. I look good.”
“He’s not looking at your face, I’ll tell you that. And yes, it is a big deal, and if he’s bringing you alcohol and a thong, he’s going to want pictures of you in that too. He’s definitely not welcome when I’m around.”
“We’ll see about that.”
But Emma felt less sure than she might have sounded. She checked her watch and saw that things could come to a head very quickly: Shane had texted that he was coming over with another “surprise.”
“Yes, we will,” Tanesa vowed.
Now, as Emma headed downstairs, the doorbell, indeed, rang. She raced to open it. Shane, arm in a sling, held out a little bag with his other hand.