luck. There he saw the pale-haired woman approach the sumptuous spread. A moment later, as her friend joined her, Hasan was also at her side, serving himself fruit salad while overhearing the pair’s enthusiastic chatter.
“Isn’t it something, after all these years of being pen pals, to find out how many tastes we share?” the Middle Eastern woman said.
“I can’t get over it!” the fair woman enthused. “Now, tell me Nadia, what is the word for this?” She pointed to a coffee urn.
No speaker of the Arabic language would be at a loss for such a word. Riveted, Hasan had to remind himself to act interested in the buffet food while he listened for more. He picked up a roll and a pat of butter.
“I know that’s mishmish, but how about these berries?” the fair woman said, pointing to a tray of fresh strawberries.
“I’m not sure of the word for them. We call a wild berry tukki but these look like they are cultivated.”
“Tukki. What a cute word! And easy to remember, too. It sounds a little bit familiar, but I can’t figure out where I’ve heard it.”
Was it possible this shaqra did not understand his language after all? That her knowledge of Arabic was limited to a few phrases she had learned to say when greeting a pen friend? Could it be she not only did not understand but had barely found memorable the code words he should never have discussed over his two-way radio?
Shaken, the cabdriver spilled coffee down the front of his new trousers. When the shaqra turned to help him, he made a little bow and begged her not to worry. When she realized the spill was in the groin and leg area, she seemed glad to move away while a male waiter stepped in to assist.
Hasan was overcome with dismay. Once a mere messenger of code words in a larger scheme, the full implications of which he was not worthy to know, he now found himself asked to eliminate an innocent woman. He knew he had given out the woman’s location. If he did not do the deed himself, it was only a matter of time until Fa’ud’s associates came to help him “take care of” her. Almost paralyzed with panic, he cast about mentally for some solution. Then it came to him. The only thing to do was to empty the place urgently. That might be done by means of a minor fire. Playing up his recently established awkwardness, he managed to dump over a chafing dish full of hot rolls. As they rolled onto the floor, paper doilies running the length of the buffet table burst into fire, ignited by the blue flame of the Sterno can. It was hardly a major conflagration, but nonetheless, it was enough to set off shrieking fire alarms and sprinklers forcing diners to flee the room.
In the exodus, Hasan saw the fair woman become separated from her friend, as the latter was unable to get on the same elevator with her. The friend also did not make it onto the second elevator, which Hasan was able to catch. During the long descent to the lobby, Hasan could only hope he would arrive in time to find the lady. Meanwhile, he prayed to Allah to help him overcome the emasculating inclination to help the woman flee from the danger she was in.
When Hasan finally arrived in the lobby of the World Trade Center, he saw one of Fa’ud’s proteges lurking beside a potted palm. But Hasan’s trendy Gap outfit was not what the operative was looking for. In addition, the arrival of firemen on the scene added to the chaos.
A fireman had already taken Ellen firmly by the arm and maneuvered her away from the elevator bay. So when Hasan gripped her shoulder and, with a hand at the small of her back, urged her forward briskly, she was not entirely surprised.
“This way, ma’am, this way,” he said keeping his face out of sight over her shoulder, as emergency personnel handled other confused individuals similarly. Ellen cried out when he threw open a door and thrust her into a janitor’s closet, but, in the confusion, no one seemed to notice. With the door shut, Hasan turned her to face him and said, “Allah help us. I have made a grievous mistake.”
Gravesend Street, Allston, Massachusetts,
Christmas Day, 2000
Christmas Day dawned silvery gray and glaring as the sunshine streaked intermittently through oyster- colored clouds. With her hair all haywire because she had gone to bed when it was still damp, Liz took some time to dampen and re-dry her auburn waves, while coffee brewed in her kitchen. After dressing in a black lamb’s wool sweater, black slacks, and a festive gold and cream scarf, she phoned both her mother and Janice to leave them holiday messages. She knew they both kept their phones turned down overnight. It was better to leave one for each of them now than to get consumed in a day of reporting and miss sending her love on the holiday.
Hanging up after leaving her second message, Liz considered how sad Veronica must be feeling, wondering each time the phone rang if it would be her mother calling. And here it was Christmas, with no word of her.
Pouring coffee, Liz picked up the unread copy of the World. Amusingly, like the Banner, its front page also featured the poem The Night Before Christmas, but thanks to its larger format, it also contained articles on world and local news. Leading the paper’s Western Suburbs section, Liz found a piece by Nancy Knight bearing the headline, “Tragedy Haunts Past of Missing Newton Woman.”
Although the article revealed no more than could be found in news archives—the accidental drowning of Ellen Johansson’s father—the unearthing of old news was apparently enough to raise the ire of Olga Swenson, who phoned Liz moments later.
“It was only a matter of time until those old press clippings would be dug up. You know that, Mrs. Swenson,” Liz said. “They’re a part of the public record, after all. This is what happens when there are no new leads on a case that has gripped the public’s imagination.”
“All right, all right,” Olga Swenson said. “I understand what you’re saying, but it’s painful, nonetheless. Now that it’s out there in big type again, I’m wondering if anything I told you is getting you any closer to bringing my daughter home to me.”
“Not directly,” Liz said. The desperate, pleading tone of Mrs. Swenson’s voice caused the reporter to feel apologetic. Even though it had only been a few days since she’d learned about the boy from the school for troubled teens, she felt remiss in having no ready answers for Ellen’s mother. “But you can help me put to rest one item.”
“Oh, here’s Veronica,” Mrs. Swenson said. “It’s Christmas morning, after all, and we must open gifts. Let me meet you a little bit later. I shall need to walk Hershey.”
“Could we make it somewhere other than the topiary garden, please?” Liz asked.
“All right. I’ll meet you in two hours at the Wellesley College faculty club parking lot. We can stroll around the campus.”
“Assuming my editor okays this, I’ll be there. I’ll phone you only if the editor says no.”
“And, Liz?” Olga Swenson said.
“Yes, Mrs. Swenson?”
“Thank you for devoting your Christmas to this.”
“You’re welcome. May your day be the best it can be, under the circumstances. Please give my love to Veronica.”
“Yes, of course.”
Olga Swenson’s call gave Liz the opportunity she’d been looking for to design her own Christmas Day assignments. If she were given the okay by phone, she would not even have to drive in to the newsroom until the afternoon. Fortunately, Esther O’Faolin was ruling the roost. And she was in better spirits than usual.
“Gobble, gobble,” Esther said. “Cute turkey piece in today’s paper. Not that anyone will read it. Sales are close to zero on Christmas Day.”
“I may be onto something that will give us some news for tomorrow’s paper, when everyone picks it up for
