Christopher Reich - Rules of Deception

A birthday? Jonathan’s thirty-eighth was March 13, more than a month off. “That must be it. Thank you.”

Closing the door, he walked to the bedroom, turning the envelope over in his hands. Emma Ransom. Hotel Bellevue. Poststrasse, Arosa. The postmark was smudged. While the date remained legible, the name of the town where the letter had been posted was blurred. The first letter was an “A,” unless, of course, it was an “R.” The second letter was a “c,” or an “o,” or maybe an “e.” The third an “l” or an “i.”

He gave up. It was useless.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he slipped a thumb beneath the flap. Taken by the blue express stamp, he paused. It meant the letter had been mailed Friday for next-day delivery.

Again, he turned it over. No return address.

How long had he suspected? Six months? A year? Was it only after Emma’s trip to Paris, or had there been intimations before? Hints that he should have picked up on, but had been too busy to notice.

It was no exaggeration to say that he loved her madly. “Madly” was such a frightening word. It suggested carelessness and danger and abandon. Nothing like his feelings for Emma. His love for Emma had been based on an absolute absence of doubt. He saw her and he knew. The crooked grin that said, “Try me. I’m game.” The wild mane of auburn hair that she refused to tame. The torn jeans that cried out for mending. “There are more important things, Jonathan, than putting your hair in braids and wearing a clean frock.” The challenging gaze that demanded the best of him. It was as if she had been run up and made especially for him. He held nothing back, because she didn’t either.

Yes, he loved her madly. But he had not loved her blindly.

Over the past months, she’d shown a growing disinterest in work. Once routine fourteen-hour days were cut to twelve, and then to eight. As a regional director of logistics for Doctors Without Borders, Emma was in charge of coordinating relief operations for the Middle East. This meant she supervised the hiring and training of staff and volunteers, oversaw shipments of supplies, liaised with local government agencies, and kept a handle on finances needed to keep the operation up and running. It was a hectic job, to say the least.

At first, he attributed her slowing down to burnout. Emma had always been one to drive herself too hard. Her flame burned too brightly. “Incandescent” was not too strong a word. It was natural to need a rest.

But there were other signs. Headaches. Solitary walks. Protracted silences. He had felt the distance between them growing day by day.

All of it had begun after Paris.

Jonathan ran the envelope back and forth between his fingers. It weighed nothing. He guessed there was a single sheet of paper inside. He flipped the letter over and stared at the blank expanse where a return address belonged. A Swiss who didn’t put his name on an envelope was one step removed from a traitor. It was a national offense right up there with violating bank secrecy and filching the recipe for Lindt’s milk chocolate.

If not a traitor, then what?

A succession of four sonorous beeps emanated from the radio. An officious British voice announced: “It is twelve o’clock noon Greenwich Mean Time. This is the World Service of the BBC. The news read by…”

But in Jonathan’s mind, a different voice was speaking. Open it, it urged him. Open it now and get it over with.

If only it were that simple, he mused.

The fact was, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to open it at all. Emma was dead. His memories of her were all that remained. He didn’t want to taint them. He brought the letter closer and his thoughts traveled to the one place he never wanted them to visit again.

Paris…where Emma had gone for a girls’ weekend to drown herself in culture and croissants and the new Chagall exhibit.

Paris…where Emma had disappeared for two days and two nights and not even his most fevered messages could reach her.

Paris…

Jonathan is asleep in his tent, lying on top of his cot in boxers and nothing else. At three in the morning, the heat is still oppressive. It has been a hot summer, even by the taxing standards of the Middle East. During the months he has lived and worked in the Bekaa Valley, he has learned to sleep and sweat at the same time.

The cot next to him is empty. Emma has left for a week’s visit to Europe. Four days at the agency headquarters in Geneva, then three days in Paris, where she will join her best friend, Simone, for a whirlwind tour of the City of Light. There will be an afternoon at the Jeu de Paume, an evening enjoying the Son et Lumière at Versailles. With her old exuberance, Emma has blocked out every minute of their days.

The sound of motors awakens him. The night growls with the approach of a mechanized invasion. Jonathan raises his head from his pillow. A gunshot shatters the darkness.

Jonathan scrambles from his bed and rushes outside. Rashid, a young Palestinian, stands in front of the hospital, arms outstretched, blocking entry. Two mud-encrusted pickups are parked nearby. Music blares from their speakers. A minor-key melody with a sledgehammer beat. A squad of armed militiamen encircles the boy, prodding at him with the barrels of their machine guns, shouting at him to unlock the doors. Jonathan forces his way into their midst. “What do you want?” he asks in rudimentary Arabic.

“You are in charge?” says the leader, a sallow youth of twenty with a wispy beard and catlike eyes. “You are the doctor?”

“I’m the doctor,” Jonathan answers.

“We need medicine. Tell this boy to get out of the way.”

“Never,” shouts Rashid. He is an angry youth, fifteen years old and fiercely independent. Since Jonathan and Emma’s arrival, he has been at their side constantly. Jonathan is his idol and mentor, his patron saint and most sacred charge. Rashid plans on studying medicine, if only to care for his numerous relatives. The hospital belongs to him as much as the aid workers.

“Please,” says Jonathan, with a smile to soothe raw nerves. “Let me help. Are you ill? Is one of your men hurt?”

“It is my father,” says the rabble’s leader. “His heart. He requires medicine.”

“Bring him here,” says Jonathan. “We’ll be happy to treat him.” He notes the boy’s glazed eyes, his dreamy smile. Is he drunk? High? On what? Raki? Hash? Meth?

“He doesn’t have the time.”

“Have you tried the hospital at El Ain? If your father has a heart ailment, I recommend that he go to Beirut.”

But Beirut is an eight-hour drive and the road to El Ain is impassable due to flash floods.

“Out of the way,” says the leader, pushing past Rashid. Rashid pushes back. Before Jonathan can react, before he can warn the boy to yield, the leader raises his rifle and fires a bullet into Rashid’s face.

“My father requires nitroglycerine for his heart,” the leader says, stepping over the body. “And we”-he gestures to his men-“We require something for our souls.”

One look at Rashid tells Jonathan that there is nothing to be done. He leads the militiamen to the dispensary. It is a raiding party. Greedy hands clear the shelves of morphine, Vicodin, and codeine. In minutes, the dispensary is bare. It is over as quickly as it began. Wishing the Prophet’s blessing upon him, the militiamen climb into their trucks and drive away.

A minute later, Jonathan has the phone to his ear, frantically hoping to reach Paris. Emma must fly to Geneva and go directly to DWB headquarters. He will telephone ahead to arrange a money order that she must take with her so he can resupply the hospital.