He was shocked by how much Bianca Medina had changed in the twenty-two hours since he’d last seen her. She wore jeans and a beige sweater that was too short for her five-foot-ten-inch frame, and she lay sprawled across a small bed in the small room. She looked tired, drawn. She wore no makeup, and he could see the dark circles under her eyes that told him she hadn’t slept in nearly two days.
The wall behind her was the stone outer wall of the farmhouse, and the floors were cold tile. The room smelled like damp stone. A private bathroom looked well kept, and there was an uneaten plate of fish and rice that had been brought down for Bianca from the kitchen. An empty bottle of champagne sat on the table, and not a brand a top European fashion model would normally drink, Court determined. Someone, Court presumed it was Bianca herself, had meticulously picked at the label until it lay torn in little bits on the table.
She clearly wasn’t being mistreated here, but it wasn’t much of an existence for someone who was accustomed to living well.
Upon recognizing the American who fought her away from the Syrian guards and the Islamic State attackers the evening before, she pushed herself up to a sitting position and spoke in English. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
Court slid a simple wooden chair closer to her and sat down. “Did you hear what happened today?”
“I haven’t heard anything. No one will talk to me.”
“A pair of local police detectives, working on behalf of either Ahmed or Shakira Azzam, attacked the Halabys. They were looking for you.”
Bianca rubbed her red eyes, although no tears drained from them. “Ahmed won’t rest until I am found. I guess Shakira won’t rest until I’m dead.” She asked the next question in a matter-of-fact tone. “How are the Halabys?”
“They survived . . . this time. The two Paris police detectives were killed.”
“Let me take a guess. You killed them, right?”
Court did not answer.
She reached over into a plastic cooler next to her bed, and from it she pulled out a fresh bottle of champagne. Water dripped from the bottle, but she ignored the mess as it collected on the floor and on her jeans. While Court looked on, she expertly removed the foil, the wire, and the cork.
Off his look, Bianca said, “I wanted something to help me relax. I meant Xanax, Valium. They brought me scotch.” She sniffed wet congestion. “I put up a fight and got this. Haven’t drunk anything so cheap since I was fifteen years old.” She gulped from the bottle, then held it out to Court. He just shook his head.
Bianca swigged again, then nodded. “I’m an alcoholic, I guess. Have been since I was a kid. Ahmed used that to his advantage. Among other things. I stayed off booze during the pregnancy . . . and I was good after Jamal was born . . . till I came up here.” She shrugged. “Now look at me.” She put the bottle on the floor between her knees. “The contaminating influence of the West, I suppose.”
“People drink in Syria. It’s not exactly Saudi Arabia.”
Bianca shrugged. “Yeah . . . and I was one of them.” She looked up to Court. “Hey, can you ask them to get me a phone? I want to call Jamal’s au pair. My son needs me. I’ve been gone too long.”
Court didn’t answer her; there was zero chance this prisoner was going to get a phone to call home, but he wasn’t going to tell her that right now.
Instead he said, “Help me understand . . . How did you get caught up with Azzam in the first place?”
Bianca smiled a little. She was sad, stressed, tired, but Court saw that she could still look beautiful with only a smile. “My grandfather on my father’s side was from Tartus, Syria, on the Mediterranean coast. I’d visited twice as a child, then four years ago I was invited to a party in Damascus. It meant a lot to my parents for me to go, so I went, and I met Shakira. We became friends, and she introduced me to Ahmed. They were very kind to me, treated me like I belonged in their nation. I decided to stay for a season, to show my solidarity for Syria and the Alawis . . . I am an Alawi, if you did not know.”
Court said, “I knew.”
Bianca raised her eyebrows. “You researched me?”
“I wanted to know if you would put up a fight in the hotel. I thought any religious or tribal affiliations might be relevant. Of course, that was before I was let in on the joke.”
“The joke?”
“That I’d be grabbing you at the exact moment the terrorists attacked.”
“Ah,” she said. “That made everything easy, didn’t it?”
“Not everything. Just you.”
A look of anger flashed across her face, but it dissipated, and she kept talking. “I bought a home in Damascus. I wanted to stand against the lies perpetrated by the West against my people. Shakira thanked me personally for my actions. We would have lunch every week, and we went on shopping trips in the city together, if you can believe such a thing now.”
She gulped another swig of champagne.
“Then Ahmed asked to see me privately. Of course I knew what was going on, but I was flattered. He is one of the most important men in the world, obviously.”
He’s a psycho, Court wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He needed this woman on his side right now.
“Our relationship developed quickly. I’m convinced Shakira knew all along and did not mind.”
“Apparently she minds now,” Court said.
“Only because of my son. My son is a threat to the future of her children, or at least she thinks he is. Ahmed wants to leave her and bring me into the palace, but it’s complicated because of the war. Shakira is Sunni, and she has power with the Sunni groups helping the Alawi government. But when the war is over . . . when it is safe, he will send Shakira out of the country with some money and her kids, and . . .”
Her voice trailed off oddly.
“You all right?”
Her eyes went distant. “I think that’s what I wanted once. I don’t want that anymore.”
Court sat there, patiently waiting for her.
She said, “I thought I loved Ahmed. I became his mistress, and then . . . slowly, I began to feel like a prisoner. I thought it was just because of the war, and the Western lies . . . but when I became pregnant, I thought maybe I should kill myself.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid, I suppose. Then I had Jamal.” Her eyes fixed again and beamed; she stared into Court’s eyes and their brilliance made him uneasy. “When I saw Jamal I realized I had never felt love before that moment. I had finally done something right. I finally had a purpose to my life.” She kept looking at Court. “I am wondering. Does a man like you even know what it feels like to love?” She drank some more champagne from the bottle while she waited for an answer, never taking her eyes from his.
Court looked away and changed the subject. “You still live in your house?”
“No. Ahmed bought me a new home in Damascus, in a neighborhood he can get to quickly and quietly from the palace. Neither his name nor my name were used in the purchase.”
“Your baby. He stays with you?”
She cocked her head. “Of course he stays with me. What kind of question is—”
“Will Ahmed move him now that you’ve disappeared?”
“He can’t. He is careful about Jamal. He uses special guards who work for him directly, so there is no connection back to the presidential palace. It would hurt him with the Sunnis if word got out about his other family, because it would hurt Shakira’s standing, and she’s the one thing keeping the Sunni militias from rising up against him.”
“How many security officers at your house?”
“Why do you ask?”
“How many?”
“It . . . it depends. About five or so.”
“I want to know everything about your home.”
She seemed surprised by the change in the conversation, and she lowered the bottle, held it between her knees. “Why?”
“Because the Halabys need your help, and the only way you’ll give it to them is if some idiot goes to Syria to get your kid.”
She regarded him for a long time, then snorted out an angry laugh. “What . . . you will just fly into Damascus, knock on the gate to my house, and ask the guards if you can take my baby for a drive?”
“Think that would work?”
Bianca did not smile, but her chin rose, her eyes widened. “Do you really think you can do this?”
“I have a plan.”
“It had better be a good one.”