14
The Sheikh watched from the shed as the two police officers stepped off Irene’s front porch, apologizing for waking her, assuring her that she shouldn’t worry, that it was probably nothing. Irene hadn’t invited them in, and Bilaal knew they couldn’t search the premises without her consent or probable cause.
He’d listened to the officers explain that they were looking for a tall, muscular man of Middle-Eastern ethnicity who’d attacked some folks in the gas station and diner. They didn’t have his name, because the car had been rented in the name of a private company based in New Jersey, whose only registered contact was a law firm in Philadelphia. They were trying to identify him from gas station footage, and they said they’d bring her a still-shot when they had it. No, he hadn’t killed anyone, they assured her, but he was certainly dangerous. They told her it was possible that the man had a photograph of her on his phone, but the men who’d reported it had been drinking so they may have been mistaken. They hesitantly asked about dating sites, which Irene genuinely laughed off, much to the relief of the embarrassed officers.
“Is there any other reason a Middle-Eastern man would have your photograph, Ms. Inman?” the first officer had asked. “I know Dan traveled a lot for work. Could it be related to—”
“I don’t think so,” she’d said, her voice shaking in a way that the Sheikh could tell was feigned. He knew that no one in town besides Irene knew that Dan had worked for the CIA, and the Sheikh listened with growing fascination as Irene handled all their questions just right, playing the role of a concerned woman who was oh-so-grateful for the protection and assurance of the police.
By the time the police left, the Sheikh’s own questions had been answered. He’d been surprised when Irene refused to even talk to him after they’d made love, like she’d made a decision to shut him out. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism, he’d thought at first. Maybe she was so embarrassed and mortified for having sex with a stranger that she wanted to just forget about the whole thing, pretend it never happened. Then the police had called to check on her and say they were coming over. She had to have guessed there was some connection. Of course, Irene couldn’t know the real reason. But perhaps her instincts told her it was something neither of them could speak of, not even to themselves perhaps. Not yet, at least.
And so, when the Sheikh returned to the house, he used her phone and called for his bodyguard to drive an unassuming pickup truck and meet him on a country back-road which Irene told him he could get to from behind her property (in case the police were watching the ranch). Then he sat quietly as she put a fresh dressing on his wound, her face stoic and determined, her eye contact brief and guarded. Finally he put his dry clothes back on and gathered his broken phone and wallet.
As he put his wallet away it occurred to him that he had an international drivers license and multiple cards with his name on them, all of which would have been on display if she’d flipped the wallet open while he was passed out. It also occurred to him that she could have taken a photograph of his face as he slept and run an image search on Google, which would have easily turned up a match with one of the public photographs of Sheikh Bilaal Al-Khiyani—who was not quite a worldwide celebrity but was by no means “off the grid.” How could she not have looked at his wallet? How could she not have been curious about who he was, why he had come? She must have looked last night. Did she? Or was it possible she truly stopped herself from learning his identity even though it was right there to see?
This woman is more than I expected, the Sheikh thought as he looked at her pretty face again, willing her to make the eye contact she was denying him. Not only did I underestimate her, but I suspect Dan himself underestimated her. She is without guile but she knows how to keep things to herself, to keep parts of herself hidden. She knew her husband worked for the CIA and was killed overseas, possibly in the Middle-East or the Asian subcontinent. She must have sensed a connection between her husband’s job or even his death and my mysterious arrival, yes? Was she not worried that I was perhaps sent by enemies Dan made overseas? Was she not concerned that I was some Arab hitman sent to take revenge for something Dan had done? In fact, I still might be, for all she knows.
Ya Allah, he thought as he headed to the back door and turned to look at her one last time. She stood there in the kitchen, those strong curves devastating and deadly in a blue summer dress, bare legs and open feet, brown hair kissing her shoulders. Her left hand was placed gently on the round of her belly as she slowly looked up from the floor and into his eyes, just the hint of a smile on her lips.
She will be a good mother, he thought as he narrowed his eyes for a moment. A worthy mother. Worthy of bearing my child.