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 theyve been. Far
behind them, a mosque wails its hellfire summons to those who believe. Its
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
The Land Rover rattles like a crate of scrap metal. Her shoulders ache, shes 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," didnt show. A driver is their lifeline in dusty, uncharted territory. This guy, wellshe 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. "Hes okay. Rob wouldnt use him otherwise." He leans over Caddie to address Rob, whos on her left. "Right-o, Rob?"
"Hes fine. Told you. Checked him out." Rob is focused on adjusting his tape recorders 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, whats our choice? Sit on our bums all day?"
She smiles at him saying "bums" in his refined British accent. Something in himhis inflection maybe, or his humor, or his experience in the fieldunknots her, and relieves her of the responsibility of having to control everything. Anyway, hes 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. Shell be the only print reporter to have it. Page One for sure.
Theyll be fine, just fine. Caddie would prefer fewer variables, but shes done her usual checking, narrowed the risks to a pinpoint. Shes confirmed that they arent traveling through disputed territory, that Yaladi knows they are coming, that he wants to do the interview. The only drawback is that she doesnt know this particular minefield very well. With Israel, the West Bank or Gaza, it would be different. Shes 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 toconnect 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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