“Your grandmother’s quite ill,” he told Matt. “I’m in her bedroom and … right, here she is.” He handed the phone over to his wife and picked up his read file. That boy’s been up to something else, he decided. He’s on his own now. He made a mental note to tell Fraser not to intercede on Matt’s behalf.
“Passport,” the Iraqi customs official demanded, threatening Shoshana with a hard look. She pulled the bogus Canadian passport out of her handbag and tried to look unconcerned as she handed it over. It was her first test and her heart was pounding. The man thumbed through the passport, studying the visa stamps. Habish’s warnings about Arabs reverting to type in their own homeland came back. The customs man glanced up at her then back to her passport.
Shoshana tried to act nonchalant as she waited. She glanced around the customs area in the Baghdad airport. A bit on the seedy side, she thought. She forced herself to concentrate. He’ll ask me some question, try to trick me. She went over the details in her passport. She was thankful for the cover name Habish had chosen for her — it was easy to remember.
“Name!” the official barked.
“Rose Louise Temple.” She had anticipated his question! Her confidence soared, shattering the doubts and fears that were showering over her.
“Religion?” He was still acting skeptical.
“Protestant.”
“Denomination please.” He was somewhat mollified and not so aggressive.
“None,” she answered. The man looked at her, confused.
Then Mana joined her and stared at the official who quickly validated her passport and dashed his initials across the entry stamp. “Welcome to Iraq, Miss Temple. I hope you enjoy your stay.” He forced a smile and looked at Mana, not at her. He had made a bad mistake. The Mana family was not to be trifled with in Iraq.
Nothing about Baghdad surprised her as they drove from the airport. The streets were dusty, the buildings on the seedy side, like the airport. The same Arabic music she had heard in Israel assaulted her ears when she rolled the window down at a stop light. And then it hit her — she could have been in East Jerusalem. The sights and the sounds were the same. Again, her confidence climbed. The change in Is’al did bother her, though; he was much more aggressive than in Spain, but in the chauffeur-driven car his family had sent to meet him, he reverted to the original Is’al. She hoped Habish was wrong.
“This is Sa’adon Street,” Is’al told her. The car stopped in front of an elegant old hotel. “And this is the Baghdad Hotel.”
Inside, the Baghdad Hotel reminded her of an old movie. It was exactly as she imagined a luxury hotel in an Arab city. None of the run-down look invaded the lobby. The room was true to type: high ceiling, spacious, with large windows that opened onto Sa’adon Street. The bathroom was old-fashioned but immaculate. “Oh, Is’al,” she beamed, “I love it.”
“Rose, I must tell you now that I probably won’t see you for a few days. I must attend to my family and arrange for your introduction.” She smiled at his formal, stilted English. Only in the most intimate moments did he become relaxed. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“I don’t mind waiting, but please don’t stay away too long. I brought some books to read and”—she paused as if a thought had just hit her—“can you arrange for a tutor to teach me Arabic? I must learn your language.” He nodded, a pleased look on his face. “And I can do some sightseeing and shopping.” His frown told her she had said the wrong thing.
“You must stay in the hotel until I call.”
Has he reverted to type? she thought. I’ve got to establish some independence or I can never make contact with Habish. “Oh, Is’al.” She smiled at him and touched his cheek. “You know how lonely I get.” He knew no such thing but she felt no need to be rational. “Let the hotel arrange a guide and car for me.” He only shook his head. “Please”—now she was wheedling—“I do need the exercise. Otherwise, I’ll have to spend all my time at the swimming pool.” A shocked look crossed his face. He knew the stir she would cause in Baghdad society once she was seen in a swimsuit. “Is’al,” she breathed his name, “I want to find the most exquisite bowl to hold the ice.” He crumbled and beat a hasty retreat, promising to arrange something.
The next morning, Mana telephoned, telling her that his sister, Nadya, had agreed to be her guide and teach her some Arabic, but that formal lessons were out of the question. She told him that was perfect and hoped they could meet today. Mana arranged for his sister and aunt to meet her for lunch at the hotel. For the next two hours, Shoshana dressed carefully, picking out her most conservative clothes. She was certain Mana wanted her to be carefully chaperoned and watched — a definite problem.
At exactly one o’clock, Shoshana’s phone rang and the clerk announced that Nadya Mana was waiting for her in the lobby. Shoshana resigned herself to the ordeal in front of her and went downstairs. “Miss Temple?” a voice called the moment the elevator doors opened. A beautiful young girl of perhaps twenty was waiting with an older woman, an obvious chaperone. Nadya Mana tried to act very Western as she extended her hand and Shoshana could tell by her expensive Parisian clothes that she was the Mana family’s pampered and spoiled pet.
Lunch proved to be delightful and before too long they were giggling and carrying on like two schoolgirls. Afterward, they went to Shoshana’s room to examine her wardrobe. “Is’al,” Nadya said in exasperation, “should have bought you tons of clothes. Oh, these are beautiful,” she added hurriedly, not wanting to offend Shoshana, “but he should have.” She stomped a dainty foot to emphasize her point.
“He wanted to,” Shoshana explained, “but I wouldn’t let him.”
“Why?” Nadya was incredulous.
Shoshana led her by the hand to the bed and set her down. “You must understand, I love your brother very much. Of course, I can’t tell him that.” Nadya nodded in understanding. Now they were conspirators. “In my country, a woman only accepts expensive gifts from a man if she is his mistress or his wife. I will not be Is’al’s mistress.”
Again, Nadya nodded. “But in my country it is different. Here, a man must show his wealth and how much he cares for you. Come, we’re going to buy you many clothes and Is’al is going to pay for it all!” They laughed like conspirators and hurried to the waiting car, the aunt still in tow.
Nadya’s chaperone was asleep, snoring loudly by the time they reached their first stop. They left her in the car and went into a boutique that would have done a Parisian couturier proud. The two women who ran the shop chased everyone else out and fawned over Nadya. Within minutes, Shoshana was in a back room trying on the many dresses Nadya had thrown at her. Shoshana appraised herself in the mirror, decided she liked one, and went out to show Nadya. But she couldn’t find the girl. Suddenly, the women did not speak English at all. Puzzled, Shoshana went back to the fitting room. She heard a low moan from a room down the hall and walked back, checking to be sure she was alone and careful not to make any noise. The door was slightly ajar and she pushed it open to see inside. Nadya was locked in an embrace with a young man, her skirt up around her hips and her panties on the floor.
Terminally frustrated was the only way to describe Matt. Locke had promised him that he would become the best civil engineer in USAFE, United States Air Force in Europe, and he was determined to prove his squadron commander wrong. But not being able to fly was what hurt the worst, for Locke had grounded him during his forty-five-day confinement to base. He had reluctantly “accepted” the Article 15 Locke had “offered” him after talking to a lawyer. The lawyer had reviewed his case and simply said that he would rather represent the Air Force in Matt’s upcoming court-martial. He got the idea that Locke was serious.