Rosemary Herbert - Front Page Teaser

It was nearly 1:00 a.m. when Liz stepped away from her sink and into her bathroom. Stepping out of her clothes, she showered and washed her hair. Then she took out her vial of Fijian coconut oil and slowly spread it all over her body. It would spot her sheets, but they were old anyway, and the pleasure of slicking her skin with oil from two hemispheres different from her own—the eastern and the southern—was too good to resist.

Slipping between her sheets, Liz turned out her lamp and let her gaze linger on the glowing Christmas tree. Finally, she got up and turned the tree lights out. Back in bed, she lay quietly, wondering, Where in the world is Ellen Johansson? while watching the flickering light reflected from her fireplace as it danced across her ceiling.

New York City, December 16, 2000

Samir Hasan was at a loss. Not dressed adequately for dining in the Windows on the World restaurant, he pondered how he could keep his eye on the women there. Then, noticing another man in the elevator holding a plastic bag from the Gap, he asked him if the shop was located nearby.

“Turn right, out of the elevators,” the fellow said.

Fortunately, the sporty shop located on the World Trade Center’s ground floor did carry navy blazers. Along with a pair of new slacks, a pale blue shirt and tie, and a pair of sunglasses, the blazer would make him look both presentable and unfamiliar to his former taxi passenger. Hasan tried on the outfit, then, cursing the time it took to remove and purchase it, he returned to the dressing room and put on the new clothes again. The whole process took some twenty-four minutes. It took another six for him to reach the restaurant.

Luck was with him as a single businessman gave up a table just as Hasan arrived. But the maitre d’ was in no hurry to give him the uncleared table.

“I am in such a haste,” Hasan explained. “I will be closing a business deal shortly, but with the jet lag and no good meal since I departed London, I am ravishing,” he added earnestly, winning a smile at last from the maitre d’.

Shown to the seat, Hasan was asked if he preferred the buffet or the à la carte menu. Following the waiter’s outstretched hand pointing in the direction of a large buffet spread, the cabbie hardly dared believe his 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 protégés 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.”