Found in Thyme E-Book

taha lilas

• Herausgeber: Hamad Bin Khalifa University Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A man’s dying wish unearths a tumultuous past and brings
together two lost souls searching for the missing pieces
that will make them whole again…each other.
When a horrific terrorist attack rocks the airport Sami Amara
happens to be transiting through, it triggers a chain reaction of events
which threatens to jeopardize everything he holds dear, including his
relationship with his fiancée, Petra.
From international diplomatic strife to local scandal, Sami finds
himself embroiled in a thrilling conspiracy that ripplesfurther into the
lives of his American-Palestinian family and everyone around him.
It’s a race against the powerful political elite, and this time,
everything’s at stake.
Found in Thyme concludes the whirlwind journey of Lost in Thyme.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

Sami Amara never imagined he would welcome the stench of a neglected public restroom. He dashed into the farthest stall, closed the flimsy door and pushed the teenage girl into the corner by a dingy toilet.

Roiling gunfire outside rivaled bursts of deafening shrieks and anguished screams. If one of the shooters assaulting the mall area of Istanbul Airport continued to spray bullets, the teen at least had the protection of the chipped commode.

Sami had swept the stunned girl standing in his path the instant he regained balance. An explosion ripped through the café they were about to enter and spared them. Aiming for the safety of the restroom, Sami hauled the girl away from the mutilated bodies before her.

Thin, lanky and violently shaking, the teen clung to Sami’s bloody shirt. He pried her hands off. Where did the blood come from? Was it hers, or his?

Someone burst through the main restroom doors.

Sami pressed his index finger to the girl’s lips. He eased onto the toilet and curled his basketball frame into a fetal position. Sharp pain pierced his left side. He clenched his lips and stifled a moan. If it were people taking refuge, he would have heard crying, running, shuffling. But there was stillness, followed by deliberate footsteps.

Sami held his breath. They were trapped. Could he pounce on the shooter, disarm him before he fired his weapon? Impossible. This was not a movie. He possessed no lightning speed or martial arts skills. The odds in his favor could rise if the shooter was miraculously distracted. What if he waited until the gunman approached the stall? He could slam him with the barely standing door and throw him off balance for precious seconds. Would it be time enough to grab the teen, shield her with his body and escape? Absolutely not. He would be riddled with bullets before they reached the exit.

What would happen to his twin girls at home?

They would be orphaned. Again.

No way in hell could he let that happen. He had to survive. He needed a weapon. Nothing on him but his cell phone, passport, and his father’s Parker fountain pen. The solid gold nib could inflict pain. Or could it? Panic screeched in his ears, a frantic entity clawing at his lungs. What to do? What to do?

Heavy black boots showed below the stall’s dangling door. Sami met the teen’s eyes. Stay calm. Please stay calm. The youth clamped both hands over her mouth. Sami poised, gripping his pen as he would a dagger. This was foolish, cartoonish even, but he was desperate.

The main restroom door creaked open. A woman said something in Turkish, unmistakable panic in her voice.

Sami snapped up his head. A mother ushering her family to safety? Run out lady, Sami wanted to yell. The teen grabbed his ankle. He pressed his fist between his teeth.

The black boots turned toward the new arrivals. Sami leapt forward, crashed against the stall’s door, breaking its remaining hinge and landing it atop the shooter. Pinned to the floor, arms trapped by the door under Sami’s full weight, the gunman bellowed a menacing cry and fought to throw Sami off.

Sami lashed out with his pen. Gunshots thundered by his head, shattered mirrors and reverberated around the tiles. Did any bullets hit the teen? The family? He couldn’t see and he couldn’t stop. His beautiful little girls needed him in Houston. Petra waited in Kuwait to become his bride.

He . . . must . . . stay . . . alive.

He ripped the pen into the shooter’s masked face with all the power he could muster, aiming for his eyes, one furious blow after another, over and over and over.

The gunman howled and wailed, a crazed animal. Sami rammed and twisted the pen into the man’s throat to silence him. Blood spattered Sami’s face, pooled under the shooter’s head and shoulders.

Where was the weapon? Was the bastard still moving?

A hand touched his back. His fist paused mid-air. He looked up. The teenager stood trembling before him, her jeans soiled. A crying mother huddled in a corner, shielding two children with her body.

Sami wiped blood and sweat from his face with his sleeve, rose and balanced on the door. He jumped in place several times. More blood seeped from the mangled gunman’s wounds. He was no longer a danger, but could he have comrades lurking outside?

Sami flipped up his thumbs. “Okay?” he asked in a hushed voice.

The teenager nodded. The woman unfurled her body and checked her terrified children.

“Shhhh,” he beseeched them to stop crying.

They huddled around their mother, peering at him with wide eyes. The mother patted their backs, tucked frazzled hair strands under her colorful headscarf.

He leapt to the floor, flipped the door off and hard kicked the lifeless body. Neither a twitch nor a moan emanated. He carried a tall metal trash bin to the entrance door and jammed it under the handle. Eyeing the assault rifle by one of the toilets, he picked it up, checked the gunman’s body for extra ammo, found two full clips and tucked them under his belt. He’d gone deer hunting in Texas once, fired a rifle—never a semi-automatic, but he would defend this spot no matter what. Pointing the muzzle to the floor, he studied the AK-47, located its magazine release lever and engaged it a couple of times, unloading and reloading the clip. He could do this. He had no choice.

Emulating soldiers in movies, he slung the weapon across his shoulder to rest it on his back. He grabbed his kill by the ankles, dragged it inside one of the stalls and closed the door. No telling if the children watched him gouge out the shooter’s eyes. They didn’t need to stare at the grisly carnage.

What was the shooter doing in this restroom? It was as if he followed them. Or was he looking for someone in particular?

Pain shot through Sami’s ribs as the adrenaline dissipated. He gripped his left side. Warm blood oozed, mixed with the congealing fluid on his hand. Shrapnel from the explosion? Or a bullet?

The mother approached, clutching clean diapers. She pointed and motioned for him to lift his arm. He obliged but failed to suppress a moan. She compressed diapers over his wound and used her scarf around his midsection to secure them in place. Her auburn hair shimmered under the florescent lights, same reddish-brown hue as Petra’s.

He swayed, shot his right hand to the wall. He smelled baby powder. Innocence and horror mingled over his skin. What in God's name just happened?

He killed a mass murderer with his father’s pen.

He slid to the floor, swung the weapon to his lap. A black shroud floated down from the restroom corners to engulf him. He fought to keep his eyes focused. He couldn’t lose consciousness. Not now. Not yet.

CHAPTER TWO

Sami swept his tongue over his dry lips.

Cupping her hands, the mother carried water from a sink, helped wet his throat and blotted his forehead.

“Teshekkur,” he croaked his thanks using the only Turkish word he knew.

She smiled and cradled her youngest boy, a toddler clutching the ends of her long jacket. She answered a question from his brother, a nine or ten-year-old. They shuffled toward the teenager standing in a corner, a dazed look on her face. The mother took off her jacket and tied it around the girl’s waist, concealing the stain on her jeans, giving her a measure of dignity.

Sami rested his head against the wall. Smart woman, that mother. She engaged the shocked teen in hushed conversation, their Turkish soft sounding with an abundance of the U vowel at the end of most words.

He gazed around the small restroom. Hanna Vanyos’s voice echoed in his head.

Staying alive? That’s a heightened form of resistance.

Sami rubbed his right hand over his face and neck.Mere survival was not sufficient at the moment. He needed to act, get these people to safety.

Something pricked the base of his wrist. He looked down. His father’s pen poked its bloody tip out of his shirt pocket. When did he retrieve the makeshift weapon from the gunman’s body? A coarse chuckle scraped his throat. What would his peace-loving, non-violent-means-of-resistance-advocating father think of that?

Sami pulled out his cellphone and checked it. Damn it! Red bars flickered on the battery. The long conference call with his team of engineers in Pamukkaleh drained its power. He coughed to get the other's attention and waved his phone in the air until the mother shook her head. The teen pulled out a shattered mini iPod from her back pocket. He looked at the nine-year-old. The boy flipped open his empty hands and shrugged. This couldn’t be happening. Hell, in Houston, even the toddler would hand him a cellphone.

Sami beckoned the mother to come closer and gestured, “Call help, please.” He pointed at the low battery and snapped his fingers. “Police, yes?”

She nodded, dialed 112 instead of 911 and stammered through a brief conversation. She handed Sami the phone.

“I am commandur Mehmet Siyet,” a man said in heavy accent. “Tell me your name.”

“Sami Amara . . . trapped in a public restroom. The woman you’ve spoken to, two of her children and one teenage girl.”

“Whutbuthroom? Tell me where?”

Sami raked his brain to remember the name of the adjacent blown-up café. No use. Before all hell broke loose, he recalled passing a big sign with an exclamation mark. “The small restroom behind the information counter,” he said.

“Stay inside. Askar. . . uh soldurs are close. Womun say you kill terrorist?”

“There are more. I hear sporadic gunshots outside.”

“We know. You huvweapun?”

“I took the shooter’s gun. An AK-47.”

“Can you shoot, Sami Amara?”

“Occasional recreational hunting, sir. Not trained to use a semi-automatic gun. But I will if I have to.”

“Everyone go end of buthroom. You point weapun at door. Shoot anyone entur. When askar arrive, first they say your name to tell for safety. Then they say my name, Mehmet Siyet,” the commander spoke in a hurry. “You huv that?”

“Got it. My name then your name, Meh-met Si-yet. If I don’t hear that, fire away.”

“Don’t shoot askar. They speak English to put down your weapun.”

“Not my weapon,” Sami clarified.

“You understund, Sami Amara?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck.”

Sami stared at the dying phone for a second. The commander’s ending with good wishes rang hollow and failed to reassure. Spraying bullets in the direction of the restroom entry was not a guarantee he would thwart another gunman intent on murder. And anti-terrorism operatives on high alert combating attackers would act before asking any questions. This was not a good plan. He reined in his frustration. No need to further upset the mother and children. He should offer a scant measure of hope, show he was in control of the situation. But, short of a miracle, they were all doomed.

He sucked his upper lip and slowly released it. Better not waste any remaining battery juice on a call home. It was past midnight in Houston. His mother would be fast asleep and wouldn’t have caught any news. No need to launch her on a worried frenzy. Petra in Kuwait, however, would have heard about the airport attack. She would know what to do if he didn’t make it out of here. She would take care of his girls, his mother.

He dialed Petra’s number, cupped his hand over the phone to muffle bursts of gunfire.

“Petra, can you hear me?”

“Sami, thank God, you’re okay!” Petra squealed. “Where are you?”

“I’m—”

The call dropped with signal loss. He raised the phone desperately above his head. A single bar flickered for the service. He tried again. The call went through, then failed. The screen turned black and displayed an empty battery. A short text would go through. He quickly typed, I’M FINE. DON’T WORRY. TAKE CARE OF MY GIRLS.

Before he could send, the phone died.

“Piece of junk!” He swore and shoved the useless gadget in his pocket.

Loud shouts echoed through speakers. Sami sought the others. “Police?”

The boy spoke in a high-pitched tone, “Askar say you are in circle.”

Sami held out his right hand and urged the boy to help him to his feet. Turkish army exerting control over the airport was a good sign. Wound stabbing at him with each step, he ushered everyone to the back of the restroom and cramped them inside the last stall for protection.

“I come with you.” The boy tried to leave. His mother frantically held him back.

“Stay here,” Sami said and backed away.

The boy bolted from his mother’s grip. “I help.” He slammed a fist to his chest. “I am strong.”

“Help me protect your mama.” Sami squeezed the determined boy’s shoulder and pointed at the squirming toddler. “Keep your little brother quiet. Can you do that?”

The boy nodded, marched back to wrap his arms around his mother and brother.

Weapon in hand, Sami headed to the front of the restroom, planted his feet apart and faced the door.

Minutes passed. The diapers bandaging his wound leaked, blood seeped down his leg to spatter his loafers. Tense with dread, he sagged against the wall for support. Running footsteps approached the door. He tried to count how many. Impossible.

A clattering sound echoed in the tiled room. He looked around, then realized his hands shook, clanging the metal fasteners of the semi-automatic’s sling against the clips tucked in his belt. He raised his arms to stop the rattle, placed his finger on the trigger and blew-out a steadying breath.

A crescendo of shooting erupted outside flared faster and louder. Sami strained to hear his name or the commander’s name. Nothing but the confusing raucous of chaos.

Something slammed against the door and dislodged the trash bin. Soiled paper and crushed water bottles scattered everywhere.

Was it time to say goodbye to his sweet girls, his ever-lost mother? Bid farewell to life, to brave Petra, and to all the love he was so ready to give?

The restroom lights flickered. The door slammed open.

Sami squeezed the trigger. The weapon jolted his shoulder. Waves of liquid fire burned his left side. Blinded and deafened by the amalgam of bright flashes and roaring clamor, he kept shooting until the gun expelled its last bullet. In the eternity of seconds it took to replace the empty clip, he glimpsed a masked man crumpled in a black and crimson heap on the floor.

Sami aimed at the wide-open entrance. This was it. Time to join his kind brother and misunderstood father on the other side. Time to square off with the past.

He yanked the bolt to chamber a round.

“Sami Amara!” a blaring voice boomed. “We are Turkish Armed Forces. Put down your weapon. Airport is under control.”

Sami slid to the floor. A long breath scorched his lungs. He set aside the AK-47 and kicked it away. Men surrounded him within seconds, prodding, yelling.

“Where’s commander Seyit?” Sami asked. He knew he was saying the words, but he couldn’t hear his voice.

A man in green army fatigues shoved him down, pressed a knee to his neck and ground his face to the tiles.

“Wait,” Sami choked, “I’m not . . . one of . . . them.”

The soldier wrenched Sami’s arms back and handcuffed him.

Sami screamed in agony. About to lose the battle to stay conscious, he cried out, “Take me to commander Mehmet Siyet!”

CHAPTER THREE

Petra opened the car door with shaking hands. She barely made it through the endless night since she last heard his voice. Slipping into the backseat, she tugged the seatbelt with an angry realization that she stepped into her mother’s shoes. Twenty-six years ago, her mother walked into the American embassy in Kuwait and reported her husband had gone missing in Beirut. Petra had just filed the same report about Sami, only a fiancé, as the ambassador’s attaché found it fit to clarify. How did her mother hold it together? Did she have by her side trusted friends like Khalid and Mouzah to keep her together?

Frustrated, helpless, choking with fear, she pulled hard on her ponytail to stop from screaming out her lungs. She’d already done that last night at Mouzah’s place. It was time to get past the shock and do something useful.

“I need to change my reservation,” she said. “Can we stop at Lufthansa?”

Mouzah turned from the passenger seat. “You should stay here . . . at least until we hear from the embassy.”

“Sami’s girls, Mouzah. I have to be with the twins. And Sawsan shouldn’t be alone when she learns her son is missing.” Petra shook her head. “They need me.”

“Wait until they release the names of all vic—”

“I’ll book you a ticket on Qatar Airways.” Khalid cut his wife off and floored the car onto the main road. “They fly directly into Houston through a short layover in Doha. Better than wasting hours in Frankfurt.”

“That’s a good idea.” Mouzah settled back in her seat. “Avoid European airports. Who knows which one will be hit next?”

Khalid threw his wife a scolding glance. “Siktai, willi yerham waldaich.”

“Shino? Why do you want me to be quiet?” Mouzah flipped out her palms. “Petra should not risk flying through Europe. You know I’m right.”

“Whichever flight takes me to Houston sooner,” Petra said. Tension rose between the couple. They had stayed up all night, trying to keep her calm, fishing the internet for information about Sami. Fatigue sharpened Mouzah’s knifelike tongue.

“Khalid is asking mercy for my parents.” Mouzah slapped her lap. “As if they didn’t teach me good.”

“Well . . . teach you well,” Petra corrected, attempting to divert Mouzah from escalating the situation.

“Weeh! Proper grammar is not important now.” Mouzah turned to face Petra again. “If you have to leave, let Elias stay here.”

“Can’t do that.”

“He will have fun with the boys. Too much travel is not good for his health. We will take care of him, don’t worry.”

“Of course, you will. But I need my son with me.”

“Elias just returned to school, Petra. Let him finish the term. We will bring him to America during spring break.” Mouzah tapped Khalid’s shoulder. “We promised the boys a trip to Disney World. Moo chithee?”

“Disney World is in Florida, not Texas,” Khalid quipped.

“I know that,” Mouzah shot back. “The boys will learn how cowboys live . . . use those ropes on cows and . . . and to ride bulls.”

“Not everyone in Texas is a cowboy,” Khalid raised his voice and rammed the horn to warn a truck driver swerving out of his lane.

“Well, some are, right?” Mouzah winked at Petra. “It will be easy to find cowboys. We should buy those pointy boots and huge, silver belt buckles for the boys. I want them to blend in.”

“It’s like saying most Kuwaitis live in mansions with oil rigs in their backyards,” Khalid shook his head. “How many times do we go over this nonsense?”

Petra settled in her seat and listened to the banter. Numbness descended, muffling their voices. In a strange, aggravating way, Mouzah was deflecting her from thinking about the bleak reality.

Trapped, unable to block the couple’s irrelevant chatter, Petra closed her eyes. Where was her Sami? What happened to him?

He was not dead, of that she was sure. Turkish authorities would have notified the American embassy if that were the case. His last phone call came after the bomb went off, so he survived the blast. Why didn’t he call again, let her know he was all right?

The ambassador said his staff would search Istanbul hospitals in case he was injured. How long would it take to find him? A day? Two? Could she function until then? Was there a manual on how to handle this torment?

She had endured the agony of grief when her young, vibrant, seemingly healthy husband died, leaving her to raise sick Elias alone. This was different. She was not the naive, young wife who had a sliver of hope that her father was alive while her husband’s sudden departure collapsed the earth under her feet.

Steeled by personal tragedy, she was the daughter of an assassinated leader, a single mother who found the courage to dare and open her heart, fall in love and . . . rejoice again. This time, there was no room for self-pity. She had her vulnerable son old enough to remember and miss a father and Sami’s little girls to care for. She needed to stand strong.

For three long years, her mother endured not knowing her husband’s fate, withered away and left her child to uncertain future. Was she destined to retrace her mother’s tortured footsteps?

Petra opened her eyes. No way in hell would she crawl down that road. She would travel to Houston, feed Sawsan a lie that her son had to stay in Europe to salvage an emergency project. That would explain Sami’s absence to his mother. At the company, she would enlist Robert’s help to keep up the facade. Sami’s trusted assistant would know what to do, now that thieving Vaughn was out of the picture.

She squared her shoulders. She could manage a few days of uncertainty until Sami returned to her arms. And by everything that was holy, sacred, revered and divine, they would marry, raise their children and live happy, fruitful lives.

CHAPTER FOUR

Petra threw a handful of crumpled papers to the floor and glared at Robert. “What do you mean there’s no mention of Sami anywhere?”

“His name doesn’t show up on any hospital list. Our embassy attaché in Turkey turned up nothing.”

“The woman who was with him in the restroom? I saw her interview on CNN. She said Türk Ord . . . Ord . . . du—” Petra struggled with the word the woman had used. “The Turkish Armed Forces?”

“Ordusu,” Robert said. “Soldiers.”

“They arrested an injured, innocent victim. An American citizen. How on earth can our embassy ignore that?” Petra paced Sami’s office, bookcase to windows, past the miniature mock-ups he treasured, back and forth, unable to stand still. “I don’t understand! Why was he even arrested? That woman described what happened. What he did to keep them alive was heroic.”

“They’re probably vetting him. Bureaucracy and crap—to save face. Who knows what the heck happens in situations like these,” Robert broke off and mumbled, “please excuse my language.”

She waved a dismissive hand. She welcomed Robert’s slip. He had always been respectful, but since the moment she landed in Houston, he had been extra cordial, measuring each word he uttered. It made her nervous, less trusting. She couldn’t be the only one in Sami’s life who went crazy with worry. And now, in a twisted way, relief crawled over anxiety. Sami’s loyal, painfully polite assistant lost his composure. She wasn’t alone in this misery.

“The troubleshooter firm I hired said to give them till the end of the week before we have confirmation on where he’s being held,” Robert said. “Then I’ll go myself.”

“No.” Petra stopped before Robert, who stood by the closed office door. “I will. Tonight.”

“And do what?”

“I’ll find him. I’ll . . . I’ll camp in front of the ambassador’s door until he tells me what he knows. Or . . . or I’ll hire more private investigators . . . yes, I can do that. No . . . I’ll pay . . . bribe someone who’ll get me access to a Turkish official.” Firing off possibilities, her pace tripled. Impractical and ridiculous, she couldn’t stop rambling. Short of pulling on her hair until fistfuls of strands littered the floor, without information there was nothing she could do.

“What happens to the kids while you’re gone?”

As if the question were a rock Robert threw at her, she dropped in her spot, landing on the edge of a massive leather chair. No way she would leave her son and Sami’s girls under his mother’s mercy. And no matter how capable and protective Mrs. Madigan was, the nanny had limits.

Sawsan’s flakiness flew off the charts in Sami’s unexpected absence, despite everyone’s best efforts to keep her in the dark. The woman didn’t buy her story, knew something was amiss. A mother sensed when her son was in danger. She couldn’t blame Sawsan’s extra-disturbing behavior, but that didn’t mean she tolerated it. Her nerves already stretched and frayed, she reconsidered her strategy about lying to Sawsan. Perhaps she should tell her the truth, relieve the burden of deception.

She looked up at Robert in defeat. “If you go, who will keep order here? I know nothing about running a company.”

“Not true. You helped expose Vaughn’s illegal activities. You have a keen nose for business.” Robert strode to Sami’s desk and punched the keyboard. “Now, don’t worry. Mr. Amara put together a good team in preparation for the time he’d be away for . . . uh . . .”

“Our honeymoon?”

Robert cleared his throat. “They’re competent, efficient, and very loyal. I’ve hardly done anything of consequence since he’s been gone.” Robert swiveled the computer screen in her direction. “Just follow the morning schedule, answer a few calls. I’ll tie up any loose ends with the executive staff before I leave.” He shifted back his shoulders and offered a warm smile. “You’ll do fine, Mrs. Amara.”

Petra flinched. This was the first time she heard him—or anyone— address her as such. When did she stop being Mrs. Haddad? The world moved too fast. She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t keep up, couldn’t concentrate.

“Sorry, I . . . I thought maybe . . . under the circumstances,” Robert stumbled on, flustered, “I mean you’re about to be married to Mr. Amara—”

“It’s okay, Robert.” She opened her eyes and rose to her feet, slightly steadier. They had a plan, better than twirling her fingers. “Keep me informed of every detail, please . . . and Khalid in Kuwait. He’s been making enquiries through his connections in the region.”

“Yeah, I know. Not sure what he can do, though. We’ll see. We’ll take it one step at a time. First thing is to locate Mr. Amara. Make sure he’s safe.”

She nodded. Robert reverted to his polite manner. Must be his way of regaining control, instilling confidence. She approached him, wrapped her arms around his lanky figure. “I don’t know what I’d do without your help.”

“He’s like an older brother,” Robert said, his voice low, but not enough for her to miss a tremor.

“Sami told me I can trust you.” She pulled back and was surprised to see Robert flush. “He’s right,” she said softly.

“He believed in me. Gave me a chance. Helped me make something of myself.”

“Sami has good instincts.” She embraced Robert again. “I’m glad he chose you.”

Robert’s hands lifted to barely touch her back, then dropped to his sides, grazing her hip on the way. He stiffened in her arms. Her innocent embrace turned to an awkward hug, and she let him go.

Before he could step aside, she squeezed his shoulder. “Bring Sami home, Robert. Bring him back to us.”

***

Petra leaned against the shower’s frosted glass and waited for hot water to wash away her weariness. Excruciatingly long days crept void of worthy news. Sleepless nights followed busy mornings at the office and hectic afternoons at the playground and dance studio. Keeping the kids active distracted them from asking for their Baba, but the daily schedule exhausted her, and dodging Sawsan’s inquisitive squints and stares over long dinners sapped whatever energy she retained.

Elias—her sweet, affectionate Elias—was quiet today. She repeatedly caught him studying her while he dangled from the monkey bars. He hovered closer than usual, interrupted his games to give her long hugs, and when she kissed him goodnight, his palms patted her back. Her six-year old detected her misery, offered unconditional solace, and she had no clue how to reassure him. Each time the phone rang, she swung between anticipation and dread in mere seconds. Disappointment ripped through her swelling heart. Hurt did not leak- it gushed, ripped tissue, weakened muscle.

What if Sami didn’t come back? What then? She wouldn’t abandon his girls, nor his reality-rejecting mother. The company, his family’s legacy, what would happen to it? She had control over her small share. That was it. She hadn’t married Sami, thus no legal standing in any capacity to make business decisions on his behalf. No access to funds, either. And she quit her job in Kuwait. Whatever sat in her bank account would soon run out. What was she to do? How could she support the family? Pay bills, Sawsan’s expenses and therapist? The girls’ nanny?

She rolled her head from side to side and stretched her neck. Her scalp, back, and shoulders throbbed with the relentless assault, millions of liquid pins riddling her flesh with tiny pricks. Her arms and legs turned bright red, yet she couldn’t muster the will to turn off the water.

Why had she allowed herself to fall in love with Sami? She had little personal attributes of him to hold on to; their time together short, a net full of gaping holes sewn with tattered old yarn. What intimacies could she cherish and revisit? Those brief moments of passion, which she had frugally denied him an opportunity to fulfill? Behind her eyelids, Sami’s restrained kisses flashed like lightning and failed to revive her depleted soul. She clung to an image of his nimble fingers working Legos with Elias, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously whenever he stepped inside an elevator, the scratch in his voice that never clears. Could she recall the way he smelled? What he tasted like?

She touched her lips. Generous, the word filled her heart. Sami gifted her bounties of his goodwill, understanding, affection, strength, and even of his means. If benevolence ever developed a taste, it would be of Sami’s.

Anguish burst to life inside her chest, an experienced creature unfurled and wrapped stubborn tentacles around her bones, her arteries. She should squash its ugly head before it overpowered her, before it dragged her to those dark familiar places.

A scream begged to be released. Sliding to the grayish marble floor, she succumbed and set it free. This pain, this torment, this uninvited, obstinate companion; this she remembered all its vile details.

CHAPTER FIVE

The phone call came in the middle of the night. Robert sprang out of the leather chair in Sami’s office, which he’d turned into sleeping quarters. He stumbled into the spacious connecting bathroom. Why did crucial news never arrive during the day, when he was alert, showered and ready?

He hastened to clean up, booked the nearest flight to Turkey online, and fired off emails. He dialed Petra’s cell phone. He’d never called a woman at three in the morning before, but he promised to inform her of any news soon as he received it. He would, however, conceal some facts—until he assessed the situation. Hiding truths shouldn’t be difficult, he’d been doing it ever since he met Petra.

“Please tell me you have something,” Petra answered after the first beep, sounding wired and sharp. She must sleep with the phone under her ear, if she even slept at all. If he were in Sami’s place, would she lose sleep worrying about his wellbeing?

“We found him,” he said.

“Oh, thank God! Where?”

“Ankara.”

“How bad is it?”

“Don’t know, yet. They transferred him to the capital army hospital. Explains why we couldn’t get info in Istanbul fast enough.” Robert trapped the phone by his ear and double-checked documents in his briefcase. “I’m on my way to the airport. Flight leaves at six.”

“I should—” Rustling noise swooshed in the background, then the sound of a pulled zipper “—expect a call from the embassy any minute then?”

Robert paused, imagined her slipping on a dress or a pair of jeans. “Already sent an email to inform them of our findings.”

“Oh, so our trouble shooters are the ones who came through?”

“Told you I hired the best. First stop’s the embassy, though. Need to move in proper channels.”

“Robert, what if . . . what if this becomes a diplomatic tangle?”

“Turkey is an ally, Mrs. Amara. He’s not a hostage in Iran or North Korea.”

“But what if—”

“There are always back channels. If I’ve learned one thing from unearthing the extent of Vaughn’s betrayal to Mr. Amara, it’s that everything has a price tag. There are ways to extract him from whichever situation he’s in.” Robert stepped out of the office and headed to the elevators. “I’m coming back with him one way or another.”

“The minute you reach Sami, call me.”

“Of course.”

“Video call. I don’t want to just hear his voice. I want to see him.”

“Yes, Mrs. Amara.”

“Robert, I . . . I need that. No matter his condition.”

“I will. I promise.”

***

Robert massaged his neck and forced his quivering foot to stop thumping against the linoleum floor. He was about to see Sami for the first time since his arrival in Ankara three weeks ago. It took him four days to secure Sami’s release with the help of the American ambassador, but he spent the rest of the time following red tape—a million signatures and ink stamps—to finalize the task. Turkish authorities hadn’t allowed him to visit Sami at the military medical base, so now he sat on a cold metal bench at this small hospital, waiting for the last stamp to complete Sami’s transfer to this obscure, non-government run facility.

Nurses in pale yellow-brown scrubs filled the halls, an odd color for hospital staff. Who was the genius that sold the administration on this idea? It looked like their uniforms were washed in diarrheic patients’ waste.

He took out his phone and checked the signal, full bars but no WiFi in this building. He’d have to video-call Petra using his data, but he’d protect himself and find a way to leave the room during that conversation. He had his limits, after all.

Ain’t nobody can choose who or what zings yer’ heart, Robby! But ya’ can sure ‘nough figure out what t’do ‘bout it.