I Am India Fox Page 3

  INDIA DID HER last minute gathering of the papers in front of her on the big glass table in the broadcast studio. She smiled into the camera. “And that’s the latest early news. Stay tuned for the Morning Show. Goodbye for now, I’m India Fox, on Broadcast World News First, where America’s morning begins.”

  As the camera moved away, she stood and stretched, then tugged her pink Chanel jacket down. Nothing had happened in the world to get her adrenalin going and she needed a cup of coffee. Maybe Sumner would have some in his office. Of course he would. Sylvia would make sure of that. And he’d told her to come up when she was finished for the day. She went into her office to write up a brief summary of today’s broadcast. It would also include in her notes the pink Chanel suit she wore, as well as her jewelry. Never could be too careful about wearing the same thing too often. Vogue had been making noises about featuring her at some future date. A national mag story wouldn’t hurt.

  INDIA PUSHED OPEN the glass doors to the executive suite. “Hi, Sylvia. Sumner asked me to run up after the morning broadcast. He in?”

  “Yes, he said you’d be along. I’ll tell him you’re here. Good show this morning.”

  India smiled. “Thanks.” She watched as the secretary crossed the carpeted reception area. She’d sensed Sylvia’s slight disapproval after she’d first come, but suspected the woman thought she’d slept with Sumner. Probably in love with him. Isn’t that the way it went in the sitcoms? Well, this new girl hadn’t and it apparently looked like she hadn’t, so Sylvia was beginning to thaw out.

  That was good. India didn’t want to make any enemies. She was learning allies were good.

  ***

  SUMMER HARDWICH LEANED back in the Austrian leather chair, looking over his steeples fingers. “I can’t tell you enough how pleased I’ve been these past months with how you’ve taken over your early broadcast. Our numbers are up. You’re quite a natural.”

  “That’s so gratifying to hear. I wondered how I’d take to the funny hours and it turned out I don’t mind them at all. It’s fun being up before the world gets going.”

  “Would you miss it?” Sumner studied her face.

  Her heart missed a beat. “I…I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not being coy here. Something’s come up. I’ve been unsure about what to do.”

  India raised an eyebrow.

  “Jim Shellenbarger in Iraq has sustained some injuries. Some fanatic took a shot at him. Missed his vital organs fortunately, but he has to return to the States. I’m having to shift some on-air personnel around. Want to pull Bryan Brady from Beirut and put him in Baghdad. You’ve spent time in Lebanon, speak the language. Beirut’s reasonably quiet right now. How would you feel about going there?”

  Indie felt her ears buzz, swallowed hard. Had she heard right? Sumner was asking if she’d like to go to Beirut? “Sumner, I…yes. I can’t believe you’d ask. I’d kill to go there. I loved it when I lived there. Actually I’d kill to go anywhere in the world.”

  He laughed. “Well, I’m not asking anything so drastic, and I want you to know I’ve thought long and hard about sending a twenty-six year-old to the Middle East. But I don’t consider you being young for some reason. You’ve been around in the world, and this began to make sense the more I thought about it. Anyway, the job needs somebody young, with energy and some street smarts, which you’ve got. And, as I said, for the time being, Beirut…Lebanon is relatively quiet. Might be a good place for you to get your feet wet, without bullets flying, which you mentioned you’d experienced from time to time growing up.”

  Indie couldn’t contain herself. She stood and began to pace around the office. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed. “This is just beginning to sink in, Sumner. I’m in a hurry, you know that. I never dreamed an opportunity would come so quickly. But I’m ready. I know I’m ready.”

  “You’ll finish out the month. Be ready to go the first of the year.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Beirut, Lebanon

  January 2011

  INDIA MULLED OVER the significance of this landing in Rafic Mariri International Airport from the last landing she’d made into New York’s Kennedy only a little more than a year ago. The Mount Lebanon Range, its peaks painted with snow and shadows, lay in the background of the Mediterranean seaport. The sea turned from a dark velvety blue to a clear aquamarine as it swept onto the beach in front of the city. Sumner had said Lebanon was quiet now, and truly it hadn’t been much in the news since recovering from the devastating 1990 civil war. But it was in the Middle East, adjoining Syria and Israel. Would it remain quiet for long? Not much of note going on right now and she was here because no “bullets were flying,” or bombs going off. The country had been repairing and rebuilding—re-establishing itself as a tourist and world financial center.

  The plane banked slightly so she could see the distinctive Pigeons—great limestone rock formations just off shore that she had delighted in as a child when her father was ambassador here. Her au pair, or omah in Arabic, still lived in the city the last time they’d communicated, which was Christmas of last year. Her letter this Christmas had gone unanswered and the first thing she planned to do was find out if the woman was ill or even dead. India had been a twelve-years-old when she first came here and the woman, a Maronite Christian, was mature but not old. She must find out. Mariam had had a large family and connections could be helpful, as always in the Middle East.

  The Air France jet touched down and India checked around her seat for her carry-on luggage. An Emil Bashir was meeting her, a French Lebanese who would be her cameraman. He was a friend of her predecessor Bryan Brady and had volunteered to show her around a bit, help her get settled in an apartment.

  Through the window she could see the modern air terminal, the Lebanese flag snapping in the breeze, red bands on the top and bottom, a white band in the middle with the green Cedar of Lebanon tree. The city had changed since she’d lived here, but the familiar flag had not. Maybe there would be some things that she remembered. And Brady had been in Beirut and gone on to Baghdad. Bullets were sure as hell flying around there.

  Emile Bashir turned out to be a handsome, dark-eyed native of the city, dressed in jeans and a San Francisco Giants T-shirt. His smile was a blaze of snowy teeth, his accent only faintly French. He kissed India’s hand extravagantly and deftly took her carry-ons. His lustrous eyes indicated a large appreciation of her blonde hair and good looks.

  “Bryan didn’t tell me his replacement was so young and beautiful.” He grinned and bowed. “I will be available at all times to help you get settled.”

  “Bryan and I never met, and yes, you think I’m young, but I’m very good at what I do and why is a Lebanese wearing a San Francisco T-shirt? I lived in San Francisco and the Giants fans don’t look like you.”

  Emile grinned. “I went to Berkeley. Got my degree in economics there. Wound up being a journalist back in my own country. My father is desolé. He’s an economist at American University here. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. The dismal science seemed even more dismal. Appealed to me less and less. Let’s go grab your luggage. You can go to a hotel or you can stay at Brady’s place. It’s empty of most of his personal stuff, but there’s enough furniture for you to set up house-keeping. Brady didn’t accumulate stuff, liked to travel light”

  “I don’t need much. Right now, just a bed.”

  ***

  EMILE TURNED THE key to the apartment that Bryan Brady had vacated. “Brady had two more months on this lease. If you want it, you can renew, but in any case you’ve got a place to hang your hat until you find something else.”

  India looked around the small apartment. It was simply furnished, but would do for the time being. She had two months to make up her mind. It would give her more time to get acclimated again. With a few hours’ sleep she wanted to get started on re-connecting with Mariam, her old omah.

  “It’s a long flight. Know you must be tired,” Emile said. “But
if you want to rest, then feel up to it, we can have dinner. I can catch you up on the local scene, if you’d like.”

  “I would like, Emile. That’s sweet of you. It’s almost six now. Give me a couple of hours or so to get my head together. I assume dinner hour is late. It was when I lived here before. Say we make it nine o’clock.”

  “You’re on. Here’s my card. If the bottom drops out, you can give me a call. We can make it tomorrow. Well, we can make it tomorrow, too.” He grinned. “I have a lot to tell you.”

  “I think I’ll be fine. I’m keyed up. This is my first honest-to-god overseas job.”

  He laughed. “You’ll do fine, kid.”

  India laughed, too. She had begun to realize that Emile loved showing off his idiomatic English. She felt sure the “bottom wouldn’t drop out” and after she “hung her hat” she’d be ready for a good dinner, maybe in some restaurant she remembered. She’d missed Lebanese food.

  And she knew how young she was. Let people think she was green. She knew better and it would put her at an inestimable advantage to be underestimated. India smiled at the tongue twister, but she’d always found it to be true and a mistake when she got cocky and forgot it.

  Emile left her to look over the simply furnished apartment. It was actually quite nice. Bryan had left behind some interesting touches of Lebanese art objects. She wondered if she should put them in some kind of storage for him. He’d obviously left in a hurry. She’d ask Sumner, but she’d enjoy the ambience for a while. She picked up a blue and white cloisonné bowl and turned it in her hands. It was quite fine. Bryan Brady had good taste. Maybe she’d stay here. Convenient part of town.

  ***

  INDIA TIED HER sweater around her shoulders. The night was brisk, with a slight breeze off the sea, maybe a mile away. She took Emile’s arm. “I’m glad we came here. The street’s got the same buzz I remember. The stores are a little different. A Starbucks for godsake, but they probably have two or three at the South Pole.”

  “Us Lebanese love our coffee” he said. “Not quite what they serve in the States. You can stand your spoon up in it.” He touched her arm. “The restaurant’s across the street. Mounir. It’ll give you an idea how trendy we are.”

  They maneuvered through the crowd to the corner and crossed.

  “I love to see all the people out, enjoying life. Things were tense when I was here before.”

  “When was that?”

  “My father was with the embassy. It was nineteen ninety-four to two thousand. I was fourteen when I left. Things were getting shaky, so I was shipped off to school in Switzerland.”

  “Yeah, a lot was going on then.” He slowed. “Here we are.” Emile held the door for her and the spices of the Mideast brushed her face. Along with clouds of cigarette smoke and the high decibel din of conversation. The maître d’ smiled effusively at Emile, glanced glumly at India, bowed, then escorted them to a table, elaborately holding her chair.

  “Wow. The place is jammed and you’re whisked to a window table.”

  He grinned. “I come here a lot. I also date his sister.”

  “I also caught the shifty glance at me.”

  His face was innocent. “As I said. The sister.”

  She picked up the menu. “You better straighten him out about me. I don’t want anybody mad at me on my first night because I think I like this place.”

  He cleared his throat, his glance running down the menu. “This is the best place in town for kibbeh nayyeh. Our lamb version of beef tartare. Mix the lamb up with bulgur wheat, lots of cumin and cinnamon. They also add feta cheese to it here.”

  “Those spices hit me when we came in the door. Sounds wonderful. I’ll have that. But I also want some goat. My first night in Lebanon I must have goat.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Most Americans don’t care for it.”

  “I got so I liked it. Several times I went out to my omah’s family farm and helped slaughter an animal.” She laughed. “It does get you closer to where your food comes from.”

  “Your mother allowed that? I’m surprised. Young girls don’t usually do that here. Especially Americans.”

  India continued inspecting the menu. “There was a lot I did that my mother didn’t know about.” She felt his puzzlement at her tone, but didn’t look up.

  He motioned to the waiter. “One goat order, coming up. Not my thing. I developed a taste for MacDonald’s when I lived in California.”

  “Good Lord. You turn your back on a fine cuisine for Big Macs. “

  “Well, they have a MacArabia that’s quite tasty.”

  “And what, if I may ask is a MacArabia? I can’t believe I’m asking this.”

  “It’s chicken in spices on khubz.”

  “Pita bread.”

  “Close enough. Want a bottle of wine? The Beqa’a Valley is turning out some pretty good reds.”

  “Sounds good.” India put down the menu. “I think tomorrow I’ll see about getting a car. I’m anxious to track down my old nanny. Think I’ll begin at the embassy and I need to get up to Awkar. Maybe I’ll find somebody who knows where she is.”

  “I have a friend who can get you a good deal on almost any kind of vehicle. Have a preference?”

  “Oh, something with good mileage, sturdy. Four-wheel drive. I want to be able to go anywhere.”

  “I’ll call him in the morning. He’ll fix you up and he’s pretty nearly almost honest,” he said.

  She laughed. “Close enough.”

  The waiter arrived with the wine and as he filled their glasses a shadow fell across their table. “Emile, I’m glad to run into you. You tied up tomorrow? Got some inkling of something interesting going on up north.”

  India and Emile looked up. A tall, dark-haired man stood over Emile’s shoulder, openly looking India over.

  “Oh hi, Jack. Uh, Jack Spear, this is India Fox. Just arrived. She’s taking over Brady’s slot at the WBN.”

  India was accustomed to the appraisal she was getting from this Jack Spear. She reached her hand over the table. “Hi. Emile is gracious enough to get me fed on my first day. Nice to meet you.”

  Spear waited a beat, then gave her hand a brief grasp “Ah! Another slave in the news trenches.” He turned to Emile. “I wonder if you might like to take a quick run up to Tripoli. Word’s around there’s some stuff brewing, maybe. Nothing to put my finger on, but it might be worth a look-see. Bring the cameras.”

  Emile hesitated and gave India a worried look.

  India spoke quickly, “Oh, do go ahead. I’m perfectly fine here. Got to unpack and look around a bit. Please don’t think you have to babysit me. I can find my way around.”

  “Well, yeah, Jack. That’d be good. Kinda quiet here, you’re right. Hey, India. You wanted to check at the embassy. Awkar’s on the way. What do you say, Jack? Could India ride along? She wants to look up her old nanny. Shouldn’t take you out of your way much.”

  Spear raised an eyebrow, studied India for a moment. “Nanny searching? Well. Well? Would you like to come along? As Emile said, there’s not much stirring Beirut-wise. There might be something interesting in the air up north. Don’t know yet. Got the Rover. There’s room. Shouldn’t take much time for you to ask ‘round at the embassy.”

  A smile spread over India’s face. “Would I look too eager if I said I’d jump at the chance? I can unpack any time. Buy a car when I get back.”

  “We’ll leave about seven. Traffic won’t be so bloody murderous. Where are you staying?”

  “At Bryan Brady’s old place. Do you know it?”

  “I know it. I’ll come ‘round for you both in the morning.” He eyed her dress. “Wear something you can get dirty and walk in without falling down.”

  Shithead. After he’d moved away, India turned to Emile. “I’m not sure he’s all too happy I’m going. Are you sure you should have invited me along.”

  “Oh yeah. Jack’s okay. He’s the Reuters guy here. Can be a little abrupt. It’s the Brit in him.”

/>   She sipped her wine. Spear’s abrupt, huh? I can handle abrupt.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Coastal Beirut/Tripoli Highway, the next day

  INDIA STUDIED THE choking mass of trucks and cars from the back seat of the Land Rover. They were traveling along the corniche, the coastal road hugging the chalk cliffs that led to the ancient cities along the arc of the seacoast. Jack Spear maneuvered the Land Rover with the aplomb of someone unintimidated by the wildly aggressive drivers of the Middle East. He turned occasionally to ask a question of India, though she didn’t get the feeling he thought her terribly interesting, or for that matter, competent to take over from her predecessor, Bryan Brady, who apparently had been a friend. There’d been an uncomfortable moment when he’d tossed back, “Emile didn’t mention why you’re looking for your old nanny in Awkar. I take it you lived at the embassy?”

  She hesitated before she answered, “Well, yes. My father was the ambassador. From ninety-four to two thousand. I left to go to prep school in Switzerland in ninety-seven. Mariam left when I did.”

  A moment’s silence. “Ah. An ambassador’s daughter. I should have guessed. Well, well. Left for high school in Switzerland? Little old to have a nanny, were you?”

  India felt a tinge of annoyance. She made her voice silky. “I was fourteen. You’re quite right. Mariam was really just a companion, but it’s what she called herself. Or omah. It was her little joke. I got to be friends with her family.”