“I’m sorry,” Nicole said quietly, “I didn’t mean to pry into your personal life. Let’s just drop it.”
“No, it’s fine. Wait a minute.” Matt breathed. “I remember now. After the death of her father, she changed. In my lovesick memory she was always the same loving girl, full of life, optimism and sensuality. But she changed. I can see it clearly now. I guess I didn’t want to admit it to myself earlier. The truth is she gradually became more and more cynical.”
“What do you mean?”
“She started making off-the-cuff comments about life in the Middle East, the Palestinian situation, even our relationship. At one point just before the bomb explosion I remember her saying that her future was already chosen. She seemed sad and far away.” Matt fell silent, his mind racing. Finally he murmured something.
“What’s that?” Nicole said.
“I said maybe it is possible-maybe her death was faked, and Bedouina’s too. Maybe it was all part of a long-term plot. But what could make two young girls turn into cold-blooded murderers? And suicide bombers?”
“You really don’t know much about women, do you?” Nicole said. “All women feel alienated from their true selves by the rules and stereotypes that prevail in male-dominated societies. And the alienation is proportional to the degree of repression. Did you know that even today, in Jordan, there’s a law that allows a father to kill his daughter if she is seen walking in the street with a man not approved by the family? And it really happens. Imagine living with absolutely no rights? Like chattel. And yet they watch television programs from other parts of the world showing women in powerful positions, being able to speak their minds. It’s easy to see why most of the women in the Middle East are unsure of themselves and highly susceptible to male pressure.”
“You’re saying young women can easily become suicide bombers?”
“Yes. And the terrorists take full advantage. It’s not difficult to convince a young girl that by giving her life for a noble cause she can gain the respect and adulation normally only accorded to men. She can finally be on an equal footing and her family will gain a measure of stature because of her sacrifice. And if she’s suffered some trauma already, rape by a relative, the death of a loved one, then that sense of hopelessness might make her even more susceptible.”
“Maha’s father was killed at the airport.” Matt turned to look out the window.
“Okay. Then add to that a little incentive. Terrorists usually promise a sizeable monetary reward to the family and bingo, you’ve got a candidate ready and willing to blow herself to bits for Allah.” Nicole shuddered. “Think how many bright Muslim women have been turned into bomb-carrying zombies by these madmen. Just recently a suicide bombing was carried out by a young Palestinian lawyer. An educated woman with much to contribute.”
“Didn’t the Israelis kill her brother earlier?”
Nicole nodded and kept driving.
“Guess that makes both Bedouina and Maha likely candidates?” said Matt, subdued. The magnitude of their suffering and loneliness etched across his face. God I’m tired.
After a few miles of awkward silence his words were faint and hesitant. “Do you think it’s too late for her? Maha, I mean, if she’s still alive?”
Nicole stared at him incredulously. “After all you’ve been through in your life you still ask about a woman you haven’t seen for over thirty years? You must have loved her deeply, Matt. You may not realize this but it’s every woman’s dream to have a man love her forever. You are a very special man, Matthew Richards. Very special indeed.” She stared into the rearview mirror. No one following.
The St. James Club, London
They were together again for the second time in two months, unprecedented for the four businessmen. Yet these were unprecedented times. A light snowfall deadened the sounds of traffic slowly moving up St. James’ Street. The lights from the men’s clothing stores on Jermyn Street were bright against the falling snow.
“The time is rapidly approaching when our planning will bear fruit,” Mohammed al Nagib said. They were seated at a quiet corner table at one end of the dark mahogany paneled dining room. “But we need to accelerate certain parts of our plans, gentlemen.”
“What do you mean, accelerate?” asked the Brazilian, Jorge Molinas. “This is supposed to be an opportunistic timetable not a forced one. We will only have one chance.”
“As agreed. However new developments have taken place which we need to discuss. I’m certain after all the facts are known we will arrive at the best decision.” Nagib slowly lit a Cuban cigar. The meal had been outstanding, the service impeccable, the wine nectar.
“Waiter?” Nagib beckoned. “Tell the head chef I have a complaint.”
“Right away, Mr. Nagib.” The tall Swiss-German girl looked worried as she hurried away.
Within moments, Claude Villiers in his spotless white culinary jacket and floral bow tie strode up to the table. “Don’t tell me. My wife always complains that I overcook the beans,” he said, bowing.
“Oh, no. The meal was fabulous as usual. I won’t live long enough to wait for you to make a mistake in the kitchen, my old friend. But I am disappointed with the champagne. Last time I was here you gave me the name of the makers, Daniel and Gerald Fallet, two brothers outside Drachy, as I recall. Well, my personal assistant rang them up and ordered five hundred cases. They told him no. They said they have a limited number of private clients who have been with them for generations and since they only produce a small number of bottles a year they aren’t taking any new clients.
“Can you imagine that? I even offered to buy the entire production at a premium price. They still said no.” Nagib gave the tall slim chef a quizzical look. “Is this your sly handiwork? Making us come to your club in order to sample this outstanding bubbly?”
“I wish it were true,” Villiers said, sighing histrionically. “However, I am allowed very little myself and it is reserved for my favorite guests. Shall I bring you another bottle, then?” He bowed and backed away, then stopped briefly at a nearby table to greet the other guests.
Once they were alone Achilles Antonopolis spoke. “Please enlighten us about this little situation.”
“It seems that someone well connected with the intelligence community in the U.S. believes that a deep-cover cell is in place in the United States. They’re attempting to uncover it.” He looked at each of them.
“But how could anyone know about our plan? You don’t suspect a leak in our group, do you?” The Swiss banker looked at the others suspiciously.
“I do not know,” Nagib flicked white ash from the Cuban cigar. “But what I do know is that somehow they’ve gotten hold of a list of American students attending the American University of Beirut during 1968-69 and they believe one or more of them may be involved. In fact they seem to be using one of the former students to search out the others.”
The Greek shipping magnate began to perspire. “And their objective?”
“If it were me,” said Herr Hofer, “I wouldn’t want to eliminate the cell. I’d want to control it. For example, depending upon the potential benefits I would either expose it and reap the rewards or help it finish its job and reap a different set of rewards. Or maybe even use it for my own political and financial purposes.” He sat back, polishing Dickensian tiny spectacles. “Interesting situation we have here, very interesting.”
“That’s why you’ve been such a good partner all these years, Helmut,” Nagib smiled. “You think of all the ways to profit from any situation.”
“What have you done about this so far?” quizzed the Brazilian.
“So far our associate in one of the major U.S. intelligence agencies has assisted in thwarting their efforts. But it’s only a matter of time. My suggestion is that we accelerate our plan and in the next week or so find the best opportunity available to put our asset into action. In the meantime if we can eliminate or contain the individual they’re using as a ferret it would be helpful.”