Rosemary Herbert - Front Page Teaser

Then in September 2001, everything changed. Everything.

On the second of the month, Liz returned to Gravesend Street to find in her mailbox the long-awaited letter from Nadia. Tearing it open, she stood in her tiny driveway, oblivious to the sounds of passing traffic and of Prudence meowing inside a window. Posted from Jerusalem, the letter read:

Dear Liz Higgins,

Forgive me for my delay in contacting you, which is made all the more dreadful by the fact, which I have just learned from your letters, that my dear friend Ellen is missing. I’m afraid my work keeps me world hopping, and my stays in each destination are too short to make the forwarding of letters practicable.

Ellen did share some confidences with me when we met in New York City. I swore I would hold them secret for all my life, and I find it difficult to reconcile this promise to her with the needs of this investigation into her whereabouts. This is, in part, because she may, as is suggested in the news clippings you sent me, have decided to leave her home by choice.

Still, I remember Ellen spoke highly of you. Thus am I willing to meet with you and discuss the matter further. Unfortunately, I depart again tomorrow morning for more travels. Would it be impossible for you to meet with me in Singapore? It is a long way to go to meet a woman who might disappoint you once you get there. I make no promises about how much I will confide, and even if I trust you wholly, the information I have to share is limited. Still, I must pass through Singapore three times during the next two months. The first time, I will be staying at the Fullerton hotel on the nights of 6–9 September. Please don’t send Erik in your place, or let him know we are communicating. I will explain why, if and when I see you.

Yours sincerely,

Nadia

Without much hope of receiving an answer, Liz phoned Nadia’s Jerusalem number again. It rang and rang and rang, with the strange double-ring pattern that is common outside the United States.

Certain the Banner would not pay for a speculative jaunt to Singapore, Liz went straight to the newsroom, looked up the Singapore Tourism Board on the Internet, and discovered there was a celebrated orchid garden in that city. If the Banner saw her as a garden writer, it might be to her advantage. Collaring the travel editor, Susan Damon, she pitched a story about the orchids and great ethnic shopping, while reminding Susan she had vacation time available to spend on the enterprise. Susan composed a letter to the tourism board, which Liz faxed immediately. A half-hour later, she followed up with a phone call.

“Certainly, we’d love to host you at the Fullerton hotel. It’s just been renovated and the management is looking for coverage,” the public relations manager said. “As long as it is midweek, we can make the arrangements.”

The airfare was another story. It cost the earth. But Liz decided to go for it. She smiled to think a garden- and travel-writing assignment might provide her ticket to the front page again. Even more important, it might help her keep her promise to Veronica.

Singapore, September 9, 2001

While she tried to recline in the cramped economy-class seat of a Singapore Airlines jet, Liz experienced the longest sleepless night of her life, as she traveled westward over the international dateline, and into the next day in the process. In Singapore, a city that savvy travelers dubbed “Asia Lite,” Liz was whizzed from the airport to her hotel in air-conditioned ease. After leaving a message for Nadia announcing her arrival, she fell into a deep sleep.

Seven hours later, a room service meal she had not ordered was delivered to her door, along with a ticket for the cable-car ride that overlooked the city and its harbor. A small vase of orchids on the tray bore a card that read, “Let me show you Singapore! Let’s meet at the cable-car station at 4:00 p.m.—Nadia”

Liz ate a leisurely meal of tropical fruits, an egg-white omelet, and coffee, then showered and dressed for tropical heat and humidity. After riding the elevator downstairs to the hotel’s expansive, marble-floored lobby, she took a taxi to the cable-car station. With a picture of Nadia and Ellen in hand, Liz had no trouble recognizing Nadia. Before much could be said, the two were seated in their own cable car, which lifted off on a trip across Singapore Harbor to Sentosa Island.

Distracted by the vista of the huge Merlion statue—a half-mermaid, half-lion mythological beast that is said to guard the port of Singapore—Liz nonetheless managed to fill Nadia in on her efforts to find Ellen, and she made sure to let on that she had paid for this trip out of her own funds. “Beyond that, I’m not certain how to convince you that I care about her well-being,” Liz added. “I know it appears she left of her own volition, but if that is so, I would like to know why. Yes, solving this case would be a boon to my career. But more important is my promise to Veronica. I told her I would find her mother.”

“Your traveling this far is proof enough that you care, Liz. Ah, here we are on the landing station. You’ve come so far. Let me make your trip memorable.”

Although Liz was itching to learn more about Nadia’s insights into Ellen, it was clear the Palestinian woman would not talk about this in public. So Liz dutifully—and with increasing pleasure—accompanied Nadia through the interactive Singapore History Museum, then climbed the Merlion statue to get a view from the observation window that was also its mouth, and strolled through the tropical gardens on the island. As she answered many questions from her companion, Liz realized Nadia was trying to learn as much as she could about the reporter. Liz was glad to cooperate in hopes of winning the woman’s trust. In return, however, the Palestinian woman revealed little about herself.

Back in the cable car, Liz mentioned how she had tried without success to reach Nadia through the United Nations and said she guessed Nadia was an international consultant with a mission other than translation.

Nadia looked her straight in the eyes and said, “Let’s just say my translation skills are necessary to my work and leave it at that. There is much static these days that must be sorted out, for the good of us all.”

“You mean international misunderstanding?”

“Worse than that.” Nadia turned her attention to the panoramic view until the cable car reached its station. “Now, let me take you along to the Raffles Hotel. The bar there is quite famous, you know.” Nadia waved a cab away and signaled for a rickshaw instead. “I always promised Ellen I’d take her on a rickshaw ride here when Veronica is grown up and Ellen has the time to travel.”

The British-built, white colonial edifice that was the Raffles Hotel screamed “Raj,” and there was no denying it was elegant. Fronted by a circular drive lined with traveler’s palms—so-named, Nadia explained, because they held water cupped in the base of their fan-like display of leaves—the hotel looked like an imperialist’s dream come true. At sunset, the long bar was mostly populated by Japanese tourists, the men in white suits and Panama hats and the women well coiffed and dressed in long, sleeveless frocks.

Nadia steered Liz to a pair of plush-cushioned rattan chairs with high backs that curved over their heads. Then she ordered two Singapore Slings, sweet alcoholic drinks that arrived in martini glasses. Only after the waiter stepped away did Nadia lean forward and say, “I have debated at length about this, and I hope I am making the right decision. I do not break confidences easily and I hope you won’t break mine without serious cause, either.”