Jill Oliver Deception Thrillers Read online

  Jill contemplated what the vision had meant as she stepped into her navy Capri pants and slipped on a smart, slightly wrinkled green shirt. She walked into the washroom, finished her morning flush, brushed her teeth, and put on her face, which consisted simply of her favorite deep burgundy lipstick and black mascara.

  Sunlight burst into the room when she opened the curtains. She felt the sun's heat, even through the thick glass. Below the dust-ridden window was a sea of dingy worn-out rooftops stacked with dilapidated air conditioners.

  Jill was excited that she was close to seeing David, even though she had no idea how to locate him. Jill's carry-on sat on the desk where she had left it. She opened it and pulled out her notebook. As she mind-mapped, things would often randomly pop off the page, something that rarely happened when she worked on her laptop. She quickly recorded last night’s vision, then flipped to the previous page, where she found her last vision—the one she'd had the morning after David left for Doha.

  David and I are lying on a blanket in the warm sun. He is smiling at me as I giggle while he tickles my toes. A shadow passes over us as we look up. A crow flies fast over our heads and lands on the fence beside us.

  Jill sat and stared blankly at the page, flipping back and forth at what she had just written and what she had written the week before. The similarity prickled her. As she leafed through the pages, a business card slipped out of the notebook and fluttered to the floor. She picked it up: DR. GLEN BELL, FORESIC DNA SPECIALIST, MD. It was the card she had found in David's suit pocket just before she had set out in pursuit of the mysterious SUV. She had forgotten that she'd stuffed it in her notebook when she packed for the trip. She wondered for a second time why David would have a need for a DNA specialist. Perhaps the Internet would yield some clues …

  She pulled her laptop out of the bag and placed it on the desk. She accidentally snagged a small leather case with her ring. It tumbled to the floor. Looking down at the weathered pouch it somehow looked different on the plush carpet. She bent over and picked up the worn taupe case. It was the size of a small makeup bag.

  “Hello, you,” she said softly as if greeting an old friend. Comforted, she put the pouch down beside the business card on the desk and switched on the laptop.

  The Le Meridien log-in screen informed her that she needed a password, but no one answered at the front desk.

  She needed coffee anyway—that, and more importantly, food in her stomach—so she headed out the door to the lobby.

  In the smooth elevator ride down, Jill remembered that it might be the Muslim holy month of Ramadan during which you cannot get coffee, food, or even water, for that matter, until after sunset. She was pleased when she entered the lobby café and saw guests loitering around sipping from cups.

  Jill ordered a cappuccino, and was happy when it was delivered in record time. She opened her notebook to the page that she had made notes on, while trying to fall asleep on the plane. It was full of seemingly random words with arrows drawn between them—a way of provoking thought. It looked like a naughty child’s scribbler—one who had doodled and daydreamed when she should have been paying attention to the teacher.

  Al Binood was circled in the middle of the page. Her eyes scanned the words around it. Her conclusion: she needed more information on the restaurant—if in fact it was one. She decided to call Karine to see if she had found out anything more. Circled in the right top corner were the words “mobile phone.” She would ask the hotel where she could rent one when she went to get the log-in password for the Internet.

  Across the bottom left-hand-side of the untidy page she had scrawled “Major Evans” and “clearance.” Jill had contacted his staff sergeant to make arrangements to go to the command post. She had hoped he had managed to organize the list of soldiers David wanted to interview. In the bottom right corner was the word “PRO” and a question mark.

  As she continued to review her notes, something didn’t feel right. Her intuition made her slowly raise her head. She scanned the dining area. Lady-with-the-Martha-Stewart-haircut was busily showing diagrams to hotel staff. Training, Jill thought. A little boy, who looked about three years old and seemed to have no parent, ran around waitresses and tables like they were part of his own private playground before darting over to the windows and licking them.

  “What the—?”

  A handsome Arab man sat alone in one corner, back to the wall, sipping coffee. He stared at her. She stared back. Their eyes locked for a long second until she felt an uncomfortable twinge, then she looked away first. She shrugged off her mild discomfort—just as she had yesterday when she had first entered the hotel and went back to her notes. Before long she felt his gaze boring into her again, and she looked back. Jill wondered if this game of peek-a-boo was part of the Middle Easter culture. Then, without further thought, she plucked herself out of her chair, maneuvered around the table, and strode purposefully toward him. As she got closer, she began to feel a little intimidated by his striking good looks. His strong features and intense brown eyes might have come straight off the cover of GQ. His stubble—neatly shaped like a manicured lawn on his broad chin—accentuated his dark features. Long, wavy hair covered his ears—something you would see on a rock star and it made his cream linen suit look out of place for a man of this culture.

  He nodded slightly, mysteriously, acknowledging her approach, even as his eyes moved cautiously around as if he were concerned that someone might see them speak.

  “Do I know you?” Jill asked boldly.

  “My name is Zayed Saleem,” his voice barely audible. “You must be Jill. I have been expecting you.”

  She took a slight step back. “Me? You've been waiting for me? Why?”

  “David asked me to look out for you,” he replied in a soft voice. “And no, you don't know me.

  A heady mix of hope and astonishment overcame her, and she rushed out, “How do you know David? Do you know where he is?”

  He rose briefly as a matter of courtesy. The wrinkles in his linen pants indicated that he may have been there a while. His hand, palm up, signaled in the direction of the other chair at the table. “Please, Jill, please sit down. I am David’s PRO.”

  Slightly hesitant, yet anxious to find out as much as she could about David's whereabouts, Jill pushed the chair back and sat. She leaned into Zayed. “You have my attention; go on.”

  “The last time I saw David was about three days ago.” Only a hint of his tongue curled as he spoke—he smelled strongly of musk.

  “I'm the public relations officer for Time in Doha. David's contact here. They hired me to help him. You can call me a contractor of sorts.” He lisped slightly, and leaned back looking a bit smug.

  “Where is David now?” Jill eyed Zayed intensely. She didn't flinch, nor did he.

  “That's the problem,” Zayed said, maintaining eye contact, his voice still low. “He told me he was going to go undercover on an assignment, and that he would be out of touch for two days.”

  “If you’re his PRO, why didn’t he tell you where he was going, why the secrecy?”

  “He said he didn’t need my help this time, that he had it covered. He did say that it was a risky story and that the help I could give him was to take care of some things he may need me to do in Doha, and that he would be in touch. I haven’t heard from him since. Before he left he said if something went wrong, and he couldn’t reach you, that you would surely show up.”

  Jill almost missed it. Barely noticeably, Zayed’s glance lowered. Liar! Jill had studied many faces as a profiler. Jill didn’t hate much, but she did hate liars. She learned during her training that in the US they would never use a lie detector test on a suspected Arab terrorist, because lie detectors work by registering heightened anxiety if and when a person lies. If a person feels no compunction about lying, a lie detector test is a waste of time. Most Arab criminals do not have the same connection with lying as Westerner criminals would. In fact, some suspected Arab criminals have been known to
achieve 100% “accurate” scores on lie detector tests, which no individual could achieve by honest means. In any event, Jill definitely saw Zayed's eyes dart downwards. Intriguing, she thought, for this was something positive. He may have been lying, but he cared about it. Jill needed more information.

  “He gave me a detailed description of you,” Zayed explained. “He thought that you might come to this hotel to locate him if he was not back in a reasonable amount of time.”

  Looking into Zayed’s dark eyes, Jill recalled that when she called looking for David at this hotel, there was no message left for her.

  “How would David know that I would come? And what things did he ask you to take care of?”

  “It’s clear by your presence that he must know you well.” Zayed said Yoda-like. “When I did not hear back from him, I paid the hotel clerk to notify me of any reservations under yourself or David’s name.”

  “What did David want you to do for me?”

  “He just wanted me to ensure your safety until he came back,” he replied, then did some fishing of his own: I take it by your presence here that you haven’t heard from him.”

  Jill felt uncomfortable confiding in Zayed. Her jaw perched squarely on her hands now, elbows on the table. Jill inched closer to Zayed.

  “No, I haven’t heard from him in almost a week. That's why I'm here—to try to find him.” She thought hard before she asked her next question. She didn't trust Zayed, but she had no choice but to work with him, he was all she had at this point, and PRO had been written on the fax from David’s office ... So she blurted it out.

  “Do you know of a restaurant called Al Binood?” He lit a cigarette. A whiff of Marlboro crept up Jill's nose; she pulled back. She hadn’t noticed the small black round ashtrays that littered this side of the café.

  “You like one?” His index finger tapped the Marlboro branded case on the table. He turned his head and blew out smoke, then butted the cigarette when Jill shook her head, no.

  “Jill,” he paused looking into her eyes. “Yes, I know of this place. Why do you ask about it?” He showed no emotion, no movement for Jill to decipher.

  Curiously, and before Jill could answer, he said, “I will help you, take you there, as I am an Arab man and this is not a place for a lady to go alone. David said you were stubborn, but he didn’t tell me how much. They will not speak to an English American woman. We must go unnoticed. You will need to change your clothes. I will return with local dress for you to wear.”

  Jill leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her leg flipping nonchalantly up and down. “Why should I trust you?”

  He stood, and looked down at her. “I really don't think you have too many options.” He placed several colorful bills on the table. “Meet me back in the lobby in twenty minutes.” And he walked out of the café.

  Jill rented a mobile phone from the hotel gift shop, where she was able to obtain the Internet password, before heading back to her room. Bright sunlight streamed in through the window, causing a glare on the computer screen. Out of curiosity, Jill ambled over to the window and touched the glass, it felt as if it was on fire. No wonder the air conditioning was on high. She sat down at the desk, and Googled Al Binood. Nothing. Zayed was right. She needed his help. Her chair creaked as she sat back staring at the Google page.

  “Zayed, you say,” Jill spoke to the screen. “Your grammar and syntax is off a bit, Zayed my new friend. What are you hiding?” She knew it could be a language barrier. But slower speech, almost mumbling, was a clear sign of deception. There was no way in hell she was going to trust him. “No way in hell,” she repeated out loud. He was right, though; she really didn’t have much of a choice, and he could earn her trust. Maybe. But what was David’s and Zayed’s relationship? And why hadn't David told Zayed where he was going?

  Jill grabbed the phone and dialed Karine, who sounded groggy when she answered. In her haste, Jill had totally forgotten about the time difference. She immediately apologized to Karine for waking her.

  “I won’t keep you, Rine,” Jill said quickly, hoping her friend wasn’t too pissed off or too tired to talk. “Have you found out anything more on Al Binood?”

  “I’ve uncovered an off-chance connection that it may be an Al Qaeda meeting place,” she said, her voice a little thick. “But the information was so obscure, it may be a long shot. Oh, and Jill, have you seen any reporters? ‘Cause CNN’s dogs are on it. It’s been all over the news that an American is missing, but it’s only a tag-line so far. You know those vultures—they get a whiff of a story and they move on it. So far no messages on your voice-mail, so I don’t think they know it’s David yet.”

  “You can bet they will uncover his name soon. Karine, can you send me an e-mail if anything changes with the media? I need to keep on top of whatever comes out.” Before Karine answered, Jill added, “I'll call again soon. Oh, and Karine, I met an Arab guy in the lobby, Jeff mentioned there was a public relations officer. Arabic, he says his name is Zayed Saleem. Can you see what you can find on him?”

  “How do you know him? Do you think he's dangerous?” She sounded slightly concerned.

  “Well, he was here waiting for me. Said he hasn’t heard from David. But you know me, Rine,” Jill said wryly.

  “Yeah, just be careful, Jill.” But Karine’s words fell on deaf ears.

  Jill had no intention on visiting Al Binood unarmed. She needed some sort of weapon. She had not been able to bring her gun onto the aircraft as she was not on official US Marshal business, and guns were illegal in Qatar. Jill had read of American security contractors being thrown into Qatari jails for merely having a couple of live bullets in their luggage. Not something she needed right now.

  She smirked as she pulled out her key-chain lighter and marveled at the cleverness used to disguise her switchblade. The knife's sleek cold metal had never been discovered by even the most observant of airport security. She changed into her dark fatigues, slipped the knife into a side pocket within easy reach on her right leg and left her room.

  Zayed looked different sitting in the plump lobby chair. His head nodded, motioning her towards him. His spotless white dishdasha appeared freshly laundered and starched, and he sported traditional Arabic headgear—a black agal held in place the flowing gutra that he had lifted back on both sides and then neatly crossed over at the back. Jill studied him up-close he resembled a figure from an old Arabian movie, a modern-day Lawrence of Arabia.

  Sitting across from him was a woman dressed in a black abaya complete with the hijab and burka, holding a large blue shopping bag. Jill could see only her dark brown eyes. She was surprised when the woman looked back at her directly without a hint of shyness. Her eyes were expressionless at first, then Jill saw slight crinkles appear at their edges and she knew the woman must have been smiling.

  “She will help you dress to blend in.” Zayed said. The woman stood, then waved her hand directing Jill to follow her. They walked across the gold lobby to a room next to the hotel concierge desk and opened the door. Inside, the room was empty with faded pear-green walls and a small cot in the corner. The silent woman removed the contents of the blue bag and placed them on the unmade cot—an abaya, a black scarf, and a small cotton cloth cap. Without a word the cloaked woman, who now stood in front of her, began to gently stroke Jill’s hair off her face; as if preparing her for a wedding. Jill automatically stiffened slightly. She wasn't accustomed to strangers being in her personal space, let alone touching her in such a familiar way. But there was something comforting about this woman’s presence.

  Maneuvering around as deftly as a Park Avenue stylist, the woman pulled Jill’s hair back into a ponytail, then up into a bun. Jill felt the tautness as the tight cap covered her hairline, it was like she was preparing to race in a swim meet. She brushed her fingers along the edge of the cloth cap, not a single hair strayed where it might be seen.

  The silent woman stood back in front of her, holding the black robe to Jill’s shoulders. She scrunched i
t like pantyhose into a ring and gently slid it over her head. The cloaked woman’s face was close to Jill’s and she glimpsed into her misty brown eyes rimmed with crevassed lines. After several adjustments the woman in black clapped her hands. “Yalla yalla,” she said and motioned Jill to turn around.

  The glossy polyester robe hung heavy. She looked down and saw just the tips of her toes poking out from under the hem. She wondered how much she would sweat today. Now the woman began to wrap the scarf tightly around her face, meticulously pinning and tying. Jill did not expect that she would breathe easy with her mouth and nose covered. Then she suddenly felt a sense of relief. There was no mirror in the room. No one could see her, no one knew who she was. Turning Jill around one final time, a look of satisfaction lit up the silent woman’s eyes.

  “Alhamdulillah. Praise be to God,” she said thickly, as she pulled Jill back into the lobby.

  Zayed, still in the same spot, was pouring from an Arabic-style coffee pot. Steam rose as coffee hit the toy cup. He looked at Jill approvingly as she approached.

  “Khalas, khalas. Finish.” His upright fingers touched quickly, then he opened them again. The dismissed woman turned and crossed the bright lobby; her abaya billowing as she walked out the door.

  “What now?” Jill asked.

  Zayed stood, said “Khalas,” once again, and headed towards the door, Jill trailing a step behind him.

  Unexpectedly, the heat didn’t seem as invasive as it had the day before. Could it be the abaya? Jill wondered. A passing taxi tooted twice when he noticed Zayed’s hail. The robin’s egg blue Corolla pulled up, and Zayed opened the door for Jill to get in first. She hesitated. Jill thought of the taxi she took from the airport last night and kicked herself for not appreciating it more.

  The driver was dressed in loose-fitting pants and a long over-shirt with slits up the side, which Jill remembered was called 'shalwat kameez,' the pajama-like clothing that is the national dress of Pakistan. He also sported a bright orange, well-trimmed goatee, which contrasted with his baby blue colored attire. A little white crocheted beanie adorned his head. The plastic on the seat crackled and crunched when Jill slid across it. The gaudy seat material shouted through the plastic and reminded Jill of heavy curtains in an old movie theater. Zayed said something to the driver in Arabic and the car jerked forward. The door, smudged with fingerprints and dirt, rattled ominously and Jill noticed immediately the absence of a door handle on her left side.