That afternoon, in the kitchen, I take a seat at the table while Yael prepares the teakettle. When it’s done, she sets a cup down in front of me and takes the chair next to mine. She’s so close I can feel the warmth coming off her body.
The tea is the minty stuff you find everywhere in the Middle East, and it reminds me of my dad and our time in Cairo. Maybe that’s what Yael means for it to do, make me comfortable and relaxed, a psychological trick to get me to open up. Or maybe she just likes mint tea.
“Start at the beginning, the day your father disappeared,” she says with the gentle voice of a therapist, the voice I remember all the doctors and shrinks using with me after my mom was killed. “Leave nothing out. No matter how unimportant it seems to you.”
Because she’s so close, I don’t have to speak above a whisper. I begin with my dad’s birthday, with him telling me he had to go to Paris. I tell her about the agents, Kavanaugh and Mazlow, and about the timeline I saw on the whiteboard through the window. Feras. Café Durbin. Chase Carlisle and Joey Diaz.
Yael is mostly expressionless as she listens, and only occasionally stops me to ask a question or repeat something. Which floor I was taken to. Carlisle’s job title. What else I saw lying around the room. As I answer, I see Yael close her eyes, not just listening to my story but learning it.
I continue, the story pouring out of me like dirty water draining from a bathtub. It’s a relief to unload the weight. It’s only after it’s done, only after I tell her about breaking the code and the bank accounts, only after Yael gets up to make more tea, that I realize the mistake I’ve made.
My father had meant the code to be a secret. Now I had spoken of its existence to both Terrance and this woman named Yael, called Yael, whom I had met only a few hours ago. Her expression hadn’t changed at all as I told her about the accounts, as if these new facts were of no more importance than anything else I told her. But, then, of course it wouldn’t. She’s a professional.
She pushes a fresh mug of tea in front of me and lifts her own, blowing across the surface and sending up little curls of steam. “The book you used to crack the code,” she says. “Was it a common edition, one currently available? Something someone could find easily?”
“It was old. A cheap paperback. From the seventies, I think. I left it with a friend for safekeeping, along with the coded sheet I found.”
“Give me your friend’s name.”
“It’s not important,” I say. “I don’t want to get him involved.”
“He’s already involved. His name, Gwendolyn.”
I look down, ashamed of myself as I give it to her.
“And the bank account numbers,” she says. “Who has those?”
“Just me.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’m sure. I have them in my backpack.”
She nods at this and sips the tea thoughtfully. “Bring them to me.”
Her tone is that of a commander, calmly certain of her own power over my actions, as if the idea of my refusing isn’t even conceivable. Inside, I feel like I’m about to catch fire with panic. Of what relevance could the account numbers possibly be? But it’s an idiotic question and the answer is obvious: The account numbers are what she’s after.
I open my mouth to speak, but the voice that comes out isn’t mine. It’s a little girl’s voice, high-pitched, weak, feeble. “Why do you—why do you need to see them?”
“Gwendolyn,” she says, leaning forward, eyes locked onto mine, “this isn’t a request.”
What if I refuse? What if I make a run for it? She’d kill me before I made it to the street, that’s what. Like a slavish little robot with no will of her own, I walk to the little room where my cot is and retrieve the folded paper from the notebook where I’d tucked it. Money. It’s always about money. Always and everywhere about money. Well, she can have it, then. I’ll search for my dad on my own.
Yael appears in the doorway, strong, looming, and holds out her hand. “And this Terrance you mentioned—you trust him absolutely?” she says.
“Yes.”
“Certain?”
“Goddammit, yes.”
She takes the sheet from me, unfolds it, and looks it over, just for a few seconds. Then she removes a cigarette lighter from her pocket and holds a flame to the edge. The fire hangs there weakly for a moment, and Yael turns the page upright, allowing the flame to climb.
“What the hell are you doing?” I cry out.
“Your father didn’t go through the trouble of hiding this only to have you hand-deliver it to his captors.” The flames are leaping into the air now, and Yael drops the paper into a wastebasket, where it flares for a moment before pulling back. “What you have here, it can only hurt you, Gwendolyn.”
My words come staggering out of my mouth like an accusation. “So that’s not what you’re after?”
“What, the accounts?”
“Yes. I thought you…”
“No, Gwendolyn,” she says. “I don’t give a shit about the money.”
A chill of relief washes over me. The world, for the past month, has kicked to death any hope I had for it, but here was proof that my trust in at least one of its inhabitants wasn’t misplaced.
“So,” she says. “Whose accounts are they?”
“I don’t know.”
Yael gives the wastebasket a shake to make sure the flames are out, then looks up at me. “Too bad. It would be useful information, especially since they’re going to come after you.”
“My dad—he didn’t steal these,” I say. “He would never steal.”
“All right,” she says, as if whether he did or would is irrelevant. Then she comes closer, places one hand on my wrist, the other on my shoulder. “Gwendolyn, listen to me. Remember this always: Anyone who asks for these account numbers is your enemy.”
Nine
On Yael’s orders, I change into a pair of borrowed yoga pants and an undershirt. I walk barefoot to the center of the mat where she’s waiting for me. She’s changed, too, into track pants and a tank top. There seems to be no fat on her body at all, just taut, ropy muscles.
She begins with a few basic stretches, bending at the waist and placing her palms flat on the floor. I follow along.
“Unlike karate or kung fu, there’s no honor in Krav Maga, not in the version I teach,” Yael says. “This is street fighting. We use our teeth, our nails—whatever it takes. No limits. No rules.”
She drops to the mat, her legs in a wide V, and lowers her forehead to the floor in front of her. I do likewise and feel the tension of the long flight slowly ebbing away.
“Most of your enemies will be experienced fighters but untrained. That’s why you are here with me.” Yael jumps to her feet and goes to one of the metal cabinets. “While we wait for an assignment from the desk monkeys, we’ll do what we can to make you ready. The basics. We won’t have time to make you an expert.”
I nod that I understand. “I just have to be better than my opponent.”