"But nobody would ever find out, I swear. Trust me. I'm sick of writing about politics, and sniffing out government scandals. I know I've been lucky and done well, but I still haven't come across the big story, and this could be it."
"How can this be your big story if you're not going to say or write a word?"
"Look, I'll make you a deal. You let me investigate on my own, without saying anything to anybody. I'll tell you what I find out-if, that is, I find out anything. If in the end I come across a lead, or whatever, that helps Marco close the case, then I'll expect permission to let me tell the story, or at least part of it. But nothing before the case is closed."
"No way."
"Why not?"
"Which part don't you get? This thing doesn't belong to me, and I won't-can't-make deals, with you or anybody. Jesus, why did I ever take you to Marco's house with me?"
"Take it easy, Santiago. I love you and I'd never do anything to hurt you. I love what I do, but you come first. I never put my job before people, ever. Much less in your case."
"I want to trust you, Ana, I do. I don't have a choice. But you're leaving tomorrow, back to Spain. You're out of here."
15
ZAFARIN LET HIS EYES WANDER OVER THE heavily trafficked highway. The truck driver taking him to Urfa seemed to be as mute as he was-he'd hardly spoken a word to him since they left Istanbul.
That morning at the house where he had been hidden overnight, Zafarin had recognized him as an Urfa man, one whom Addaio trusted.
He wished for news of Addaio, of his family, of his town, but the man just drove, in stubborn silence. During their journey he spoke only two or three times, to ask Zafarin if he was hungry or needed to go to the bathroom.
He looked tired after so many hours behind the wheel, so Zafarin made a gesture indicating that he could drive, but the truck driver refused.
"It is not far now, and I do not want problems. Addaio would not forgive me if I failed him. We have had enough failure recently."
Zafarin clenched his teeth. A brother had died, he himself had risked his life, and this stupid man was rebuking him for having failed. What did he know of the danger he and his comrades had faced! Of the sacrifices they had made!
There were more and more cars and trucks on the road as they went on. The E-24 was one of Turkey's busiest highways, since it led into Iraq and the Iraqi oil fields. There were also many military trucks and cars patrolling the Syrian-Turkish border, watching especially for the Kurdish militias that operated in the area.
In less than an hour he would be home, and that was the only thing that mattered.
"Zafarin! Zafarin!"
His mother's voice, choked with emotion, was like the music of heaven. There she was, small and lean, her hair covered by a hijab, the ever-present head scarf worn by Near Eastern women. Despite her small stature, Zafarin's mother ruled the family-his father, his brothers and sisters, him, and of course his wife, Ayat, and his daughter. None of them dared go against her wishes.
Ayat's eyes were filled with tears. She had begged him not to go, not to accept the mission. Not to allow himself to be mutilated forever. But how could he refuse an order by Addaio and the most sacred calling of their community, a calling his brother had answered before him? His family's shame would have been unbearable.
He got down out of the truck and in a second felt Ayat's arms around his neck, while his mother also grappled to embrace him. His daughter, frightened, began to cry.
His father looked on with emotion, waiting for the women to stop pulling and pushing him with their shows of affection. At last the two men could embrace, and Zafarin, feeling the strength of his peasant father's arms around him, was overcome and began to weep, to weep as he had as a young boy in his father's arms, bearing the marks of some fight he'd had on the street or at school. His father had always given him that sense of security, the security that he could count on him, that whatever happened, he would be there to protect him. Zafarin knew he would need all his father's strength when they stood before Addaio.
16
THE LAWN AND GARDEN OF THE GEORGIAN-style mansion were awash in light. A breeze off the bay cooled the exclusive Boston neighborhood, as local police and Secret Service agents competed to guarantee the security of the guests at the dinner party. The President of the United States and his wife were among those invited, as were the Secretaries of Treasury and Defense, a number of influential senators and representatives from across the political spectrum, the CEOs of various American and European multinationals, a dozen or so bankers, and a sprinkling of doctors, scientists, white-shoe lawyers, and stars from the academic world.
The occasion for the gathering was Mary Stuart's fiftieth birthday, which her husband, James, had wanted to celebrate with all their friends. The truth was, thought Mary, there were more acquaintances than friends present that evening. She would never hurt James by telling him that she would have preferred that he surprise her with a trip to Italy, with no fixed itinerary, no social engagements. Just the two of them, wandering through Tuscany, as they had done on their honeymoon thirty years ago. But that would never have occurred to James. They were, in fact, traveling to Rome the week after next, but that was primarily for business, with a few days of tightly scheduled social and cultural engagements shoehorned in.
A tall man skillfully maneuvered his way toward her through the crowd. She smiled with genuine pleasure. "Umberto!"
"Mary, my love, happy birthday."
"I'm so glad to see you and honored that you came!"
"I'm the one who's honored to be invited. Here, something for you. I hope you like it."
He held out a small box wrapped in shiny white paper.
"Oh, Umberto, you shouldn't have… May I open it?"
"Of course. You must open it immediately," he said, smiling.
Mary was transfixed by the figure that nestled within the tissue paper inside the box.
"It's a figure from the second century b.c. A lady as beautiful and charming as you."
"Umberto, it's beautiful. Thank you, thank you so much. I'm overwhelmed." Mary felt an arm slip around her waist as her husband joined them, and she held up the box for him to see. The two men shook hands warmly.
"What incredible surprise have you brought my wife this time, Umberto? Oh, how wonderful! But not fair-now my humble offering pales into insignificance!"
"James, stop this second. You know I adore these. He gave me this ring and these earrings, Umberto. They're the most perfect pearls I've ever seen."
"They're the most perfect pearls there are, my dear. All right, go put this glorious lady somewhere safe while I get Umberto a drink."
Steel-fabricating plants, pharmaceutical laboratories, technology interests, and a vast range of other businesses made James Stuart, at sixty-two, one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the world. He and D'Alaqua continued to chat as they moved together back into the throng.