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He took the bag from me as I dug out my keys. “The n-n-news, the news!” He bumped into me pressing through the door. “Lizzie! They got Lizzie!”

  35.

  The phone was ringing as we walked in the door. I heard a long distance click and decided without evidence, It’s Elizabeth, calling to tell me she’s all right. A woman’s voice came on, not Elizabeth. “Mr. Ronald Stutzer?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Hold the line for Mr. —— .” Elizabeth’s father.

  Four bars of a Muzacked version of “Norwegian Wood” hissed in from New York before the Grumbler got on the line. “Stutzer? Ron? Have you heard the news?”

  “Just this second. A friend told me, I don’t really know what happened.”

  “I thought you might be able to tell me.”

  “No, sir. Last I heard — “

  “I’m coming down to Washington tonight. You can meet me tomorrow morning at the Imperial Hotel, make it eleven-fifteen. Ask at the desk for me, I’m not sure which suite they’ve got me in. I’m talking to people at Defense and State. I’ll have some real news by morning, not that claptrap comes in over the TV. I’m going to solve this. You with me?”

  “Of course. No question.”

  “Tomorrow, eleven-fifteen, Imperial.”

  Before I could respond, he hung up.

  “Who?” Jim asked.

  “Elizabeth’s father. He’s coming tomorrow.” I collapsed onto the couch. “What happened? What am I going to do?”

  Jim brought me a beer from the refrigerator, an Urquell left from my pizza with Elizabeth. “I was out in the fields. Got a Walkman I listen to, but the batteries are too low to run the t-t-tape player, so I was listening to the radio. The news came on and said the car carrying Lizzie got cut off. Men from one of the Muslim groups picked her out special. The radio knew who her father was. I guess the Arabs did, too.”

  “But why?”

  “Ransom? The report I heard on the radio driving in made a lot of this group being Muslim and the other one Christian. I don’t know.”

  “What other one?”

  “With that General last week. I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this. I’m scared for Lizzie.”

  “Me too. So what do I do now?”

  “What can you do?”

  “Wait. See what her father wants. Wait.”

  “Why did she go there? I told you the place stunk.”

  “She went because of the General.”

  “The one who got killed?”

  “Maybe not killed.

  “I thought he got killed.”

  I shrugged. “He was Elizabeth’s boss. That was her plan.”

  “Her plan got him killed? They sent her over as a punishment?”

  “I don’t think it works that way.”

  “So can we go over and get her out?”

  “Who?”

  “The Marines. I don’t know who.”

  I pointed to the phone. “The big man is trying diplomatic channels.”

  “What else is he going to do? B-b-buy the fucking country?” I had never seen Jim so worked up. I thought he was going to punt the coffee table out the window. His limbs began to jangle, he paced the room. “We have to get her out.”

  “Who now?”

  “Us. You and me. We can do it!”

  “We can’t do anything, Jim. It’s ten thousand miles away! They have machine guns! We couldn’t even get into the country, never mind get out with her, if we could find her!”

  “How do you know? Tell me, how do you f-f-fucking know?”

  “I read about it! I live with her! Why are you shouting at me!”

  “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry.” Jim began to sob. His face swelled when he cried, stretched skin taut. He plopped himself down on the couch next to me and I put my arm over his shoulder.

  “We’ll do something,” I promised him. “I don’t know what, but we’ll do something.”

  Like wait, I thought, and cry ourselves wrinkled, old, forever.

  36.

  “Bienenkorb, Housing Characteristics.”

  “It’s Ron Stutzer, sir.”

  “Where are you?”

  The clock read nearly ten. Jim and I drank late and I slept fitfully until sunrise, and then fell into a pounding sleep. “Home.”

  “Home?”

  “You were right, sir.”

  “About what?”

  “The problems, the girl.”

  “You could have told me before.”

  “There was nothing to tell before. The girl is the one who just got taken hostage in Beirut.”

  I knew the silence before it came, but I didn’t know it would last so long. I waited, and waited. “You’re not fooling me, are you, Stutzer?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You tell me if you need some time. We can do this day to day. You’re telling the truth?” Now I used the silence; what could I say? So he said, “Call if you need me. Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  37.

  The Imperial is a classic hotel, ratty and overblown in gimcrackery and aging bellhops. Even the perky young woman behind the counter had dour eyes. “Napoleon Suite, Mr. Stutzer. Gregory will show you the way.”

  I wore a suit instead of my normal tie and sports jacket, but I still felt shabby once shown into the anteroom of the suite. A genial assistant, in a better fitting, cleaner, more subtly-striped suit, offered to get me coffee. He sat me in the low and comfortable leather love seat, which with a matching sofa and an ornately carved wooden chair made up the living room’s conversation group. Elizabeth’s father’s voice came rumbling through the bedroom door in a series of incomprehensible grunts. A cup of coffee and a glazed bun appeared on the squat marble table before me, but I resisted. I didn’t want a sudden handshake to catch me sticky-fingered.

  Elizabeth’s father surprised me just the same. The same aide who greeted me at the door — there were three equally well-dressed — knocked on the jamb of the open bedroom door. “Mr. Stutzer, sir.”

  The big man responded immediately, rolling out of the room, open hand reaching to me. I stood; he covered my hand with both of his. “Ron, Ron, how are you holding up?”

  “I’m managing, sir. But how are you?”

  He made a face which indicated he’d hardly slept. “As well as can be hoped. I’ve been on the phone for hours trying to find out what happened, trying to hatch a plan.”

  “Do you know something more than the news?”

  “Much more, of course, but everyone does. The news only tells what everyone already knows. We have been lucky in one thing: the driver recognized the marks of the abductors. They’re Muslims, not Shiite, less extreme than that. We haven’t heard anything from them.”

  I half-hoped he’d cry, because I know how to handle tears. This startling efficiency left me stony, immobile. My hands trembled in my lap. I didn’t dare sip the coffee, though the warm bitterness would have brought my tongue back to life.

  “I spoke with the ambassador in Beirut, who was sympathetic and lying. I suspect they set her up for capture.” My eyes showed shock. “International politics can be very dirty, Ron. Betsy knew that; she’d studied it long enough. But you know and I know that she never thinks the rules of the world apply to her. Her mother was much the same way. You know about the accident, what is it now, fifteen years ago? Just going too fast for her own good. At least the ambassador agreed to support our efforts, as long as they don’t interfere with the day-to-day operations of our Embassy. That translates: expect nothing, no interference but also no help. So I’ve been working the domestic end. Are you still with me?”

  I couldn’t be sure. My eyes felt slick with glaze. I wanted my Elizabeth. I didn’t u
nderstand what her father wanted. “I’m still in shock, sir. What are we doing here?”

  “We’re working to get Betsy home,” he cried, a more genuine shock than my small protest. “Isn’t that what you thought we were doing?”

  I spluttered, “I had no . . . I couldn’t . . . I . . .” I felt like I think Jim feels, fighting my mouth to get out words I already heard in my head.

  He stared staples into me. “You’re here to help, aren’t you? I didn’t misunderstand your relationship with my daughter?”

  “No, sir,” I erupted, “I will do anything to bring Elizabeth home.”

  “Good, that’s what I’m counting on.”

  That’s when the phone rang. One of the fine suits answered it. Elizabeth’s father said, “From what I have learned, nothing will guarantee her release. We can only try — “

  The suit interrupted with a hiss. “Sir! The vice-president!”

  He excused himself to me and picked up the phone from the leather topped table beside the carved chair, which creaked under his twisting weight. “Howard?”

  Howard Denton, I realized. The Vice-President. Not of the big man’s company, but of his country.

  “I appreciate that, Howard. Your people have been able to count on me in the past, and we’ve been able to count on you.” Elizabeth’s father nodded and grunted. “A cover, credentials and a hands-off policy.” Another short silence, and an explosion: “Of course I realize this is at my risk. I’ve talked with State, I’ve talked with Defense. I’m briefed, but they won’t give approval without a nod from your boss.” He listened. “Not until Thursday night, maybe Friday.”

  The rumbles rose and fell for a whole minute this time. I noticed that the suit had not hung up the other phone and was taking notes on the conversation, the earpiece clapped hard to his head, the mouthpiece buried in his hair. The suit signalled affirmative and Elizabeth’s father said, “Yes, I have that. I offered to carry State’s next packet tonight, that’s when we’d like to go. I hate to ask this, but I think you’ll have to call the Secretaries personally, Howard; memos, channels, anything else will take too long. The President — “ I swear I heard a polite interruption “ — well, thank you, I hope it does too. Give my regards to Barbara and thank her for her concern. Right.”

  The two phones went down simultaneously. “How such a jellyfish of a man has got so far I will never know,” the big man confided in me. “Higuera, call transportation, get the plane ready to fly. No sense pushing official clearance if we’re grounded with technical problems.” The darkest of the suits headed for the phone. “Do you know your Social Security number?”

  “457-57-2028. Why?” The third suit wrote it down.

  “We might need it, if you agree to help.”

  “I said I’d do what I can. What do you have in mind?”

  He settled his bulk into the spindly chair and contemplated me. I believe he contemplated what he would tell me, and I guess he decided on the truth. “Ron, we believe that the people who took Elizabeth took her for political reasons. We also believe their politics have a price. They won’t come forward to ask for a ransom, because they would lose face in Lebanon, but if Elizabeth ‘escapes’ and they find some money that same day, no one will know or care.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. The problem remains that we don’t know where Betsy is, or who leads the kidnappers, or how to get in touch with them. We need a man on the scene. Government agencies won’t handle it; Betsy represents acceptable losses in this chapter of US-Lebanese history. The private group we normally hire to do this work won’t take the job, and they’re frankly not much better to deal with than the people who took her. We need one interested individual to go to Beirut and bring Betsy home.”

  “Don’t ask twice,” I said.

  “I knew I had the right man. We’ll need your driver’s license.”

  38.

  I maybe had a minute here and there between buying supplies for the trip and packing up. Jim had called, left three messages, but I didn’t call him back. The bank called to say that my VISA card had reached its limit but still kept turning up in stores and hotels; could I call them back. Well no, I couldn’t. Elizabeth’s father said his people would take charge of my mail, my work, my life while I was gone. I didn’t expect that to cover my father or Jim or the Control Tower.

  Ten of eight, the doorbell rang. I looked out the window and saw a silver limo floating above the rest of the traffic at the curb. I didn’t buzz the driver in; I could carry my own bags. Didn’t want to keep Elizabeth’s father waiting.

  39.

  I have never understood how an experience so completely new can seem so completely familiar. I never rode in a limousine before, but the feel of the leather seats, the light diffused by the shaded windows and then scattered by three dozen tiny bulbs set in ceiling tracks, the position of the telephone and bar, the odd quiet of the radio and the road, all of it felt reassuringly like a place I’d been before. It’s like being well thought of, like knowing you’re loved, a liquid unreality as easy to accept as a pat on the shoulder and a down comforter.

  “Most of what you need to know you will learn on the flight,” the Grumbler told me, “but I have many years of expertise in giving advice, so I decided to do that part myself.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Wait until you hear it. You might not be so happy about receiving it.” I nodded. “You are going to a strange land. No one really knows what went wrong there. Without social rules, no one knows what is right there. So you must trust no one, no matter how you would feel about them if you met them here.

  “Weaponry will only get you in trouble. If you feel you need a gun, you will find a variety on the plane and someone there to instruct you on their use. Take one if you want, but my sense is you’re more likely to get shot with it than to shoot it.

  “Do not worry about expenses.” He handed me an oak-tag envelope. “These dollars should see you through; if not, banks still work in Beirut. I’ve sent ahead a photograph of you and arranged a personal line of credit.

  “Stick to a ceiling of half a million dollars for the ransom. Start at fifty thousand and let them go up. I will have someone in the American Embassy in Tel Aviv at all times. If you need more money, backup or escape, call.

  “If you get nowhere in ten days, come home. That means they are not interested in negotiations. They will know who and where you are before you do. They will let you find them if they want to tell us anything.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “A million, but I don’t know where to start.” He laughed now, the round bag of money and prestige. His good humor confounded me. His daughter! Elizabeth! No fear? I had to admire the calm. Barely a day since the news broke and already the man had a plan and someone committed to its execution.

  I had to smile too. I’m the executioner.

  “That’s it. You’re going to have to relax. Lebanon is far away and you will need sleep.” I squinted through the window and saw we were back at the hotel. “I’m not going with you out to the airport. I thought you might like the time alone, and some details still need my attention.” The car stopped in front, and Higuera opened the sidewalk-side door. The noise, smell and light of the city trickled into the automotive version of self-confidence.

  “I will do my level best, sir. I love Elizabeth.”

  “Of course you do, Ron, that’s why you’re here. But don’t get yourself killed or captured over there. If you get back safe at least we haven’t lost anything. No foolishness, no heroics.” He took my hand and used my leverage to roll him up from the seat. I passed his hand to Higuera, who walked him out. “I expect to see you in two weeks, looking none the worse for wear,” Elizabeth’s father said, hand on the roof, bent at the waist. “Please don’t disappoint me.”

  I couldn’t answer. The door closed. The ghost driver be
yond the tinted shield eased the car into gear and we floated away.

  40.

  Even at the airport nothing conformed to my experience. We drove to a far end of Dulles, a complex of buildings like a busy small airport off to the side of a huge inactive one.

  But we didn’t stop in any of the buildings, except the checkpoint at the gate. We drove, as clear as I could make out in the burgeoning dark, across the tarmac where the private planes slept. About fifty yards past the last of the small props sat a small jet. It bore no markings other than registration numbers: no logo on the tail, no characteristic colors, nothing out of the ordinary except the unbelievable ordinariness of flight. A dozen people hovered around the plane, stowing supplies and gassing it up. At the top of the fold-up stair, the Grumbler’s light-suited man slowly swung the door back and forth on its hinges. As I stepped out of the car toward the trunk for my luggage, he chanted, “Stutzer! Mr. Stutzer! This way, Mr. Stutzer.” The driver and one of the jump-suited loaders already heaved my bags out from behind. “Watch your step!” He had changed his suit for what looked to me like boating clothes. Flat canvas sneakers, light cotton twill pants and a summer-green polo shirt. He put his hand out half in support and half in politeness. “We didn’t get introduced before. My name is Noah Jacobs. I’ll be coordinating support in Israel. We have a cold buffet set up in the conference room.”

  He pointed through the open door to a cramped version of a boardroom: big table in the middle, comfortable high-backed chairs all around. Trays of food glittered. Inside, the plane looked just like the pictures I’d seen in brochures of expensive but rentable yachts, all dark wood and brass. No ugly polyester curtains separated classes; rather a string of rooms trailed back into the tail. A short man with thick glasses and curly thinning hair fading black to white sat at the table sampling the goodies. A huge man with blond hair on his bare arms bulked against the wall and then seemed to laugh as I stepped in. The short man looked up at me when Jacobs spoke to him. “Professor Nusanti?” His eyes gave a twitch behind the lenses. “Please meet Ron Stutzer. He’s the man you’ll brief.” Jacobs turned to me. “Professor Nusanti teaches at Columbia. He’s the firm’s independent expert on the Middle East.”