The whole of heaven is off-balance as they rumble out of the city: clouds one
moment, darting sunlight the next. A dust shroud swirling around the Land Rover
prevents Caddie from seeing where they are going or where they’ve been. Far
behind them, a mosque wails its hellfire summons to those who believe. It’s
noon, then, and men of conviction are submitting their foreheads to the ground
in a graceful wave, while she barrels forward into the formless, blind middle of
a day.
The Land Rover rattles like a crate of scrap metal. Her shoulders ache,
she’s inhaling cupfuls of powdered dirt and they have at least another ninety
minutes to go. But those are only irritants. Her real worry is the driver, a
complete unknown. Rob and the hotel concierge rounded him up when the regular
chauffeur, the one Rob assured her was "the best in Beirut," didn’t
show. A driver is their lifeline in dusty, uncharted territory. This guy,
well—she catches her breath as he swerves sharply and clips a roadside bush,
aiming directly for half a dozen desert larks. The birds scatter and arc
overhead, their fury sharp enough to be heard above the thrash of the engine.
"Christ," Caddie mumbles. In the rearview mirror, the driver gives
her a squinty glare. Cobwebs form at the outer corners of his eyes, and dried
grime thick enough to scrape off with a fingernail is caked behind his right
ear. "Who the hell is he?" Caddie mutters to Marcus, next to her in
the backseat. "Should we really be—?"
"Cautious Caddie," Marcus says. "He’s okay. Rob wouldn’t
use him otherwise." He leans over Caddie to address Rob, who’s on her
left. "Right-o, Rob?"
"He’s fine. Told you. Checked him out." Rob is focused on
adjusting his tape recorder’s input level. With his scruffy hair and taut
energy, he looks like a street tough instead of a network radio reporter. Here,
that aura serves him well.
"See?" Marcus says to Caddie. "Anyway, what’s our choice?
Sit on our bums all day?"
She smiles at him saying "bums" in his refined British accent.
Something in him—his inflection maybe, or his humor, or his experience in the
field—unknots her, and relieves her of the responsibility of having to control
everything. Anyway, he’s right. This story is too hot to pass: a Q-and-A with
Musaf Yaladi, fiery-eyed, Princeton-educated thug-darling of the West, in his
south Lebanon hideout. The elusive Yaladi is a Lebanese crime king, dabbler in
terrorism and chief distributor for weapons, bogus American one-hundred-dollar
bills and the raw materials for heroin produced in the Bekaa Valley. With a
couple punchy quotes from him, the piece will write itself. She’ll be the only
print reporter to have it. Page One for sure.
They’ll be fine, just fine. Caddie would prefer fewer variables, but
she’s done her usual checking, narrowed the risks to a pinpoint. She’s
confirmed that they aren’t traveling through disputed territory, that Yaladi
knows they are coming, that he wants to do the interview. The only drawback is
that she doesn’t know this particular minefield very well. With Israel, the
West Bank or Gaza, it would be different. She’s worked that territory for more
than four years now, she and Marcus, and those back roads are carved in her
mind.
Marcus fingers the leather band on his left wrist, a gift from an Arab mother
he once photographed and managed to—connect with, he would say. Caddie would
say charm. He stretches his arms, the muscled forearms tapering to delicate
wrists, then widening to broad hands, and smiles sideways at her in a way that
excludes Rob, the driver, all of Lebanon. She imagines licking lemonade from his
lips, its sour taste undercut with tangy sweetness. She rotates her shoulders to
loosen them.
From The Distance Between Us by Masha Hamilton. Copyright
2004. All rights reserved. No part of this book maybe reproduced
without written permission from the publisher, Unbridled Books.
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