Andrew Kaplan - Carrie's run

“She’ll meet you tonight after midnight at B Dix-Huit. Come alone or you won’t get to talk to her.” The woman frowned. “I’m sorry for all the precaution.”

“No, she’s right. She may be in great danger,” Carrie said.

B018 was in the Karantina district, sandwiched between the Beirut River in its narrow concrete channel and the harbor. In times past, the area was called La Quarantaine and had been a refugee camp for survivors of the Armenian massacre in Turkey during World War I. Later, during the Lebanese civil war, it was a camp for Palestinians. Now it was a working-class industrial area that, as an oddity, housed the most exclusive club in town.

From the outside, the B018 Club looked like a concrete spaceship, and going down the narrow inclined ramp to the underground entrance, Carrie, who’d gone home and changed into her Terani and highest heels, wondered if her midthigh minidress was short enough. It was that kind of place. Coming down to the front-door area, she could hear the music throbbing loud enough to make the walls vibrate.

Even before she got past the six-foot bouncers at the door, a man in a Hugo Boss jacket put his arm around her waist and asked her if she wanted a Johnnie Walker Blue. At club prices, a drink like that could go for five hundred dollars.

“Maybe later,” she said, disentangling herself. After the bouncers gave her a once-over that lasted only a few seconds but felt as probing as a gynecological exam and waved her through-thanks to the Terani and her Jimmy Choos, she thought-she went inside. The main club, with its hangarlike space and endlessly long bar, was jammed with people, many of them dancing for all they were worth to Chris Brown’s “Run It.” A half dozen beautiful women in ultratight miniskirts were writhing to the music on top of the bar to raucous cheers.

Someone shoved a cocktail into her hand, nearly spilling it, while a drop-dead gorgeous girl with gold eye shadow and purple lipstick stared at her and said, “What a pretty face, cherie . Can I kiss you?” Without waiting for an answer, she kissed Carrie full on the lips, her tongue darting in like a little fish. So different than kissing a man, Carrie thought. Softer, the sensation oddly disconcerting and interesting.

“Come with me,” the girl said, putting her hand on Carrie’s breast.

“Maybe later,” Carrie said-it was fast becoming her new mantra-and moved quickly away.

She weaved her way around the dance floor and along the walls, looking for Marielle. All she had to go on was the photograph; she hoped the woman hadn’t changed her hairstyle too much. A man grabbed her free hand and kissed it.

“Have a drink, habibi ,” he said. She freed her hand and moved on. The music was deafening and someone shouted in Arabic that things were just getting started, you kahleteen ! Laserlike lights flashed and someone said they were going to open the retractable roof to the stars, but nothing happened. The music had changed and everyone was going wild to the Finnish heavy metal band Nightwish.

Carrie spotted someone who could have been Marielle seated near the far end of the bar. Crossing the dance floor, she was groped twice and barely escaped getting pulled into a group of three girls dancing so hard their bouncing breasts threatened to escape their décolletage.

When she got closer, she saw that it was Marielle. She’d dyed her hair red, wore a low-cut al-Ansar Sporting Club tank top that showed her cleavage and Escada jeans so tight they could’ve been spray-painted on. She wasn’t as pretty as her photo, but her face was more interesting, Carrie thought, squeezing in next to her.

“Where can we talk?” Carrie asked in Arabic.

“You Carrie?” Marielle said, leaning closer.

“It’s too loud. Let’s go somewhere.”

“I’m not moving till I know you are who you say you are. Where was Dima from? Really from?” the redhead said into her ear.

“The Akkar. Halba.”

“Come,” Marielle said, getting off her stool and marching away. Carrie followed. After a long walk out of the main club to a hallway, they found a line snaking out of the women’s bathroom. Marielle walked past it and, taking out a key, unlocked a side door at the end of the corridor. It opened to an empty storage space. Looking behind them to make sure no one was paying attention, they stepped inside. Except for a single lightbulb, the room was dark, with cartons stacked at the back. They could hear the music throbbing through the walls.

“Is Dima dead?” Marielle asked.

Carrie nodded.

“I knew it. These people. .,” Marielle said, shaking her head bitterly.

“Which people?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know them. I don’t know you. All I know is that it’s dangerous. I knew she was in trouble.”

“How’d you know?”

“Dima and Rana were always playing with fire. Rana is with some guy we think is CIA.”

“Fielding?” Carrie put in.

“American.” She nodded. “Like you. Did you come from him?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m scared, that’s what I think. If they killed Dima, they can kill me. Look at me. My hand is shaking.” She held out her hand in the dim light.

“Less than two months ago, Dima disappeared out of sight. What happened?”

“It was him,” Marielle said.

“Who?”

“Her new boyfriend. Mohammed. Mohammed Siddiqi. She was with him.”

“The one from Dubai?”

“Where’d you hear Dubai?”

“The photographer, François.”

“He’s such a khara liar. Mohammed’s Iraqi. From Baghdad. He claimed to be from Qatar, but I knew he lied, the dog.” She made a face. “At first, she was in love. It was all about how wonderful he was. He had all this money. How good-looking he was. What an incredible lover. They walked on the beach at Saint Georges and watched the sun come up. All that khara .”

“What happened?”

“It was an act. Once he had her, he changed. She was afraid of him. She showed me the bruises. Cigarette burns on the inside of her thighs where no one would see. One time he shoved her face into a toilet and held her under the water till she promised she would do anything he said. I told her to run. Or talk to Rana’s CIA guy, but she was too terrified. All he had to do was look at her and she would go white. She told me there was a woman, someone she thought she could trust. American.” Her eyes searched Carrie’s face, shadowed by the lightbulb in the darkness. “Was that you?”

Carrie nodded. “I failed her,” she said. “I’m sorry. I might’ve helped her, but she disappeared. I couldn’t find her.”

“She was in Doha. In Qatar. With him,” she said, spitting the words out. “I don’t know what they were doing, but before she left, she warned me to stay away. He said I’d be next.”

“So you went to ground in Bourj Hammoud? Is that why? For safety? You’re not Armenian,” Carrie said.

“The people there notice outsiders. They protect us. You won’t tell anyone?”

Carrie shook her head. “This Mohammed Siddiqi. You say he’s Iraqi?” she asked.

Marielle nodded, a grim smile on her face. “He claimed to be Qatari, but he lied.”

“How do you know?”

“My mother’s family spent time in Qatar. I asked him where he went to school. The Doha Academy on B Ring Road? Everyone who’s anyone goes there. He said yes. Liar! Everyone in Qatar knows Doha Academy is in al-Khalifa al-Jadeeda, nowhere near the B Ring. And his slang was Iraqi Arabic, not Qatari or Lebanese.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

She shook her head.

It’s a dead end. We don’t have enough, Carrie thought, casting around desperately for something else. This Mohammed was part of the attack on New York. She was sure of it.