9/11 TWO Chapter 4. Family

4. Family

“Passports and tickets. You’re leaving out of Cairo.” The driver of the old Toyota, with one hand on the steering wheel, turned to hand Sarah a Ziploc bag containing their travel documents. She rustled around in her backpack while Shalah lit a cigarette and turned to look at her. She smiled coyly. She was excited, he could see.

“Are you looking forward to seeing your uncle Sergey? I bet he’ll be surprised when he sees you.”

“I feel like I already know him, especially if he’s anything like my father.”

“From what you’ve told me of your dad, I doubt it. He's Russian mafia, after all.”

“I know, I know. But dad’s detachment, his, his lack of feeling, at least towards me anyway. I could see how it would be a positive attribute for a mafia boss.”

“And he really is a boss, a big boss. My people tell me he is probably the number 1 or 2 in the Russian mafia. That’s quite an accomplishment, a scary accomplishment.”

“Yes, it’s scary. But I’m his long lost niece. I’m sure it will be alright.”

“You won’t let him bully you?”

“Hey, I don’t let you bully me, now do I?”

Shalah smiled, his curly lip smile. “Ah, that’s different, though. I don’t bully you, do I?”

“You would if I let you. Look how you bullied Halid. He hates you.”

“Not hate. Fear. He fears me. And so he should. Seriously, are you sure you can strike a deal with your cunning uncle?”

Sarah lightly kissed Shalah on the cheek. “He’s mafia. If there’s enough money, no problem.”

“I’ll go to fifteen million dollars, no more. And that includes missile reassembly, and adding nuclear tips.”

“So there’re two missiles?”

“That was my deal with the Pakistanis. I’ll know in a couple of days after I meet with them.”

“And they’ll be shipped from Mumbai, right? Disassembled?”

“That’s the plan.”

The Toyota stopped in front of a café next to the Egged central bus station. The driver turned to them once again.

“This is as far as I go. You’ll find your guide through the back of the café. Safe trip!”

“Where’s our luggage?” asked Sarah.

“Your guide should have it. That right Dr. Muhammad?”

“Should be. Thanks for the ride.”

As they stepped out of the car, Shalah grabbed Sarah’s arm so tightly that she winced. He guided her towards a pedestrian walkway instead of the café.

“Now I’m telling you,” he said in Arabic, his voice in a low grumbling monotone, “you must get clear assurances that they can add the nuclear tips. Offer half up front, the rest only after the missiles have reached their target.” He stopped and pulled her towards him and looked almost angrily into her pale blue eyes, their noses almost touching. “You understand?”

“Don’t worry. I can do it. He’s my uncle after all.”

“That’s what I'm worried about. I tell you, never trust a Russian, especially Russian mafia.”

“Shalah, you’re hurting me.”

Surprised, Shalah let go. “Oops, sorry. Let’s get a coffee and find our guide.”

They turned towards the café, linked arms and walked together, the picture of an old married couple.

“By the way,” Sarah said with a mischievous look, “you seem to have forgotten that I am Russian.”

“No you’re not. You’re American. Haven’t you figured that out yet? You Americans, you have such identity problems.”

*

Their guide was seated across the café along with their luggage. They had a half hour to kill until they left. For “various reasons” their guide had informed them, they should not set out for Cairo just yet. Sarah was becoming used to these mysterious logistical arrangements. She still had not quite come to the realization of just how famous a terrorist Shalah was, if not among his enemies in the west, most certainly among the loose and fragmented terror networks throughout the Middle East. All his contacts were obviously respectful, even in awe of him; through fear or simply because of his many accomplishments? She didn’t know.

Sarah ordered English tea as usual, Shalah, just mineral water. Now she watched him go through his ritual. He emptied all his pockets, jacket, pants, everything and placed them in neat rows in front of him. You can tell a lot about a person by what he keeps in his pockets, she thought. Systematically he rearranged the rows. On the left were his wallet and money clip. He opened his wallet and leafed through its contents, not all that much. The money clip was bulging to the max. She was used to him carrying around mountains of cash, always in large bills. It caused a lot of trouble. He did use a credit card, always a different one, but rarely. Then on the right were his cell phones, three of them at the moment. Sometimes he had four on the go. Yet he kept them mostly switched off. Then in the middle were his lighter and cigarettes, a small, flat metal container containing his favorite cigarillos that he occasionally smoked on a special occasion, and of course a box cutter. Even his handkerchief, an old fashioned one because he was allergic to tissues, he carefully folded into a small square and placed to the right briefly, before returning it to his breast pocket. Finally, he carefully sifted through the package of travel documents the driver had given them.

He handed Sarah hers and laid his out to make sure everything was there.

“All done now?” she joked.

“At least I will not lose or forget something vital. You would be well advised to do the same.”

“I do, but I do it all in my head. I’m not senile yet,” she jibed.

“Hah, hah,” Shalah responded, not all that amused, as he carefully and methodically returned all the items to his pockets. “Don’t make fun of my OCD of which I am proud. It’s how I have survived for so long doing what I do.”

Their guide approached their table and drew up a chair. “It’s not safe for Dr. Muhammad to fly out of Israel right now, so we are going to drive to Cairo.”

“How long?” asked Shalah.

“It will take about eight hours, depending on the border, but we should be able to smooth that out. I have people on the other side. It’s the Israeli checkpoints that pose the risk, but they are not as thorough as at the airport. I’ve arranged a limousine, stretch Mercedes. So you should be nice and comfortable crossing the desert. And the café has put together a lunch basket for you.”

“When do we leave?”

“The limo should be here any minute. You may want to visit the bathroom before we leave.”

*

Rent control. It reminded them of home. Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky rented their apartment in Washington heights back in 1996 so they could be near Sarah when she went to college and later to law school at Columbia. It seemed a bit expensive then, but now it was amazingly cheap, thanks to rent control. It was just a small tenement, basically two rooms, typical of many in New York City. Mrs. Kohmsky remembered the day they moved in. It was stinking hot, and the elevator did not work. They had to lug everything up five floors. And inside, everything was lovely and clean, that’s what the agent said. And New Yorkers seemed to think so too.

What they meant was that everything had been painted over with cheap white paint, so everything did look clean. Trouble was that it made everything look so ugly. The many coatings of paint laid like an elephant skin over the walls, ceilings, window sills, doors and moldings. Mrs.

Kohmsky disliked especially the moldings that showed bumps and dints that had been covered over with countless layers of paint. There wasn’t a smooth surface in the entire tenement. But she had to admit, it was way better than what they had in Tulgovichi where there was no attempt to cover up the dirt and decay at all, and besides, there they had just one room, no toilet, no kitchen both of which they shared with the other five families in the communal building.

It was a beautiful day and Mrs. Kohmsky suggested to her husband that they go for a walk in Fort Tryon Park. There were beautiful trails there and a favorite seat where they both liked to sit and enjoy the view over the Hudson River. It was rare, though, that Mr. Kohmsky ventured out for such pleasure. But this time he joined her.

Their tenement building was at the top of the hill right close to Fort Tryon Park, so it was an easy walk. Mrs. Kohmsky considered asking her husband whether they might perhaps drop by the Cloisters Art Museum as well, but decided against it. Why give him unnecessary opportunities to say “No?” They passed by the gardens, full of bright summer flowers, then walked down one of the western paths. Mrs. Kohmsky marveled at the existence of such a big park, by no means the biggest, in New York City, surrounded as it was by large, densely populated apartment buildings. The parks in New York. The New Yorkers of old had got something right.

They reached the seat and there was, thankfully, no one else there. They sat right in the middle of it, and Mr. Kohmsky pulled out his book and began his reading. Mrs. Kohmsky chewed her lip and tried not to think of Sarah with whom she had taken a few quiet walks along these trails. It was early morning, the breeze was still cool, but the sun was already bathing the trees with warm light, every now and again filtering through to their seat. Mrs. Kohmsky pulled her old woolen cardigan around her and shivered a little.

Down the path a tall young woman jogged towards them. Her light blue track suit fitted her curvaceous body snuggly and as she came closer, Mrs. Kohmsky could see that her long blonde hair was tied at the back with a bright red ribbon. The young lady wore too much makeup for a jogger, thought Mrs. Kohmsky, especially the bright red lipstick. The jogger stopped right by their seat, hands on hips, and turned to look at the view. She then turned to Mrs. Kohmsky and said, “may I?”

Mrs. Kohmsky smiled and nodded. Mr. Kohmsky lifted his eyes from his book ever so briefly.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, beautiful,” answered Mrs. Kohmsky.

“Do you come here often?”

“Yes, but not as often as we’d like.”

“You’re Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky, right?”

Mr. Kohmsky, startled, shifted in his seat and looked up. It was as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning from the past. Back home in Russia, you knew that you were being watched. But here, he never thought it possible. “What business is it of yours?” he growled.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Agent Silenzio. I work for the CIA.

I understand you wanted to contact us about your daughter Sarah?” She handed her badge to Mrs. Kohmsky who examined it then passed it to Mr.

Kohmsky.

“But, how did you know we were here? We left only a phone number.”

The question of course answered itself. Mrs. Kohmsky felt a little silly.

“I’m CIA. We’re spies. We are supposed to know these things,” Silenzio answered, smiling, “now how can I help you?”

Mrs. Kohmsky told her their story, how they had not heard from Sarah for more than eight years, how she went away to Oxford university and never came back. How they received mysterious packages of money. How they had told all this to the NYPD and the FBI who claimed she was dead.

But neither she nor her husband believed them.

“We will try to help you find her, Mr. and Mrs. Kohmsky. But I need a little information about her first.”

“Oh thank you Agent Silenzio. What do you want to know?” asked Mrs. Kohmsky.

“Did she have any associates, people she hung out with?

“We don’t know. She never told us anything.”

“She never sent you a postcard or anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen this photograph before? Silenzio opened a large envelope and produced a rough photocopy of a photograph of the group the day Sarah graduated from Oxford.

Mrs. Kohmsky’s eyes widened. She took the photo and passed it to Mr.

Kohmsky. He too was startled.

“Where did you get this?” they both asked, almost in unison.

“That doesn’t matter right now. As I said, we are spies, it’s our job to collect intelligence. Do you know any of the people in that photo? The one that Sarah is standing close to, perhaps?”

They both stared closely at the photo. But both shook their heads.

“We recognize none of them,” said Mr. Kohmsky, “when was it taken?”

“We think the day she graduated from Oxford, and of course, the place is Oxford. You can see the famous library in the background.”

“Then if you are spies, you must be able to track her. Where is she now?” asked Mr. Kohmsky.

“Unfortunately, that’s the bad news. She has not been sighted since.”

“But you will keep looking for her?”

“We will. We are trying to track down the person who is closest to her in the photo there. The older one with the nicely groomed beard. Hopefully, we will find him soon, and when we do, perhaps he will be able to help us locate Sarah.”

“How long will it take you?”

“Spying is a messy and unpredictable business, Mr. Kohmsky. I just don’t know.”

“But we have waited so long,” complained Mrs. Kohmsky.

Silenzio stood up, began to jog on the spot. “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. I will do the best I can. In the meantime you may keep that photo.”

And with that, she jogged away.