Page 2 of Afraid to Hope

Morocco…

“Miss? Miss?” The flight attendant reached across the empty aisle seat to softly touch the shoulder of Natasha, who slumbered next to the shaded window.

Natasha jolted awake, blinking furiously as the scene faded and the present came into focus. She stretched her kinked neck this way and that, smiling, hoping to soften the fearful scowl she’d first given the woman upon waking abruptly.

“We are preparing to land, miss. I’m sorry I startled you. Please make sure your seat back is in its full upright position and your seat belt is securely fastened. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Natasha responded, shaking her head in an effort to cast out the remaining dregs of her recurring nightmare—the all-too-real dream of her last moments in Guatemala that would haunt her for some time, perhaps forever.

She slid the window shade up and peered out. The plane reduced speed and dropped below thefluffy cumulus, banking sharp left,revealing the white city nestled between the terra-cotta desert and bluish-gray Atlantic. Emotion closed her throat and wet her eyes as memories assaulted her. It had been far too long since she had been back to Casablanca.

The plane righted itself and dropped lower, buffeted by crosswind. In short order, the wheels bounced and the plane lifted slightly before they touched again, scorching the tarmac, reverse thrusters on. Now fully awake as the plane taxied toward the Jetway, Natasha reflected on the last days that had put her on this flight to Casa, the nickname she and others affectionately called their beloved city.

After transporting Dr. Eric Schaus, the American, to a hospital in Belize to address the injuries he sustained in the fall—or push, as he claimed—Natasha had looked forward to going home. She had not been to South Africa in nearly two years. Assignments had taken her all over the globe, and after finally nabbing the elusive looter and having him charged with international trafficking of national treasures, Natasha intended on taking a very long and well-earned holiday.

South Africa, Two days earlier…

Natasha had only been back in Cape Town for a few days, fully believing she had time to settle back into her town house and address its sparseness and obvious lack of occupation when her cell rang.

The caller identified herself as Mrs. Bradley from INTERPOL, Executive Director Emmet Cantrell’s assistant. “We need you in Morocco, Dr. Jordaan,” she said in a clipped British accent. “A package is arriving by courier within the hour. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning.”

Natasha’s door buzzed as she disconnected the call.

Sunlight slanted onto the hardwood floor, warming her bare feet as she padded to her front door in the early hour. Survival habits kicked in. Natasha looked through the peephole, contemplating the tall, suited man on the other side. Surely it was the courier. After checking the sidearm at her hip, she opened the door carefully.

“Dr. Jordaan?”

Natasha nodded but didn’t speak.

“No flowers yet?” he asked, glancing at the large empty ceramic pots baking in the hot sun next to the walkway.

She replied with the designated code. “So, can you suggest a good nursery?”

“Sea Point has a nice selection.” He handed the large white cardboard envelope to her. “Enjoy your day.”

“Thanks. Have a nice day.” She backed into her town home and closed the door, locking it and waiting for his retreating steps. A fresh blanket of fatigue wrapped around her. Natasha felt far older than her thirty-six years.

During the Red Notice debriefings on the agency jet while flying from Guatemala to Cape Town, Natasha had not been able to reconcile the paranormal aspects of what she had witnessed. Neither had Assistant Deputy Drummond. The last hours spent in Guatemala haunted her twenty-four seven, awake or asleep. It didn’t matter. Any sound sleep broke into nightmarish fragments. She was exhausted.

Natasha’s throat burned as she stared at the framed photos in her kitchen, on the shelf to the left of the coffee maker—one of her grandparents and her, taken weeks before Pépé died, and the other was of her parents, brothers, and herself—the last family photo taken before she lost all of them. She kept smaller copies in her wallet. God, how she missed them.

The envelope felt more substantial with each step toward her long-untended garden. Plopping into a chair shaded by the pergola, Natasha drank deeply from her cup, fortifying herself with steaming coffee before extracting the contents. The Disney Princess mug—a silly exchange gift from a departmental party when she taught at university—mocked her. She didn’t feel like a princess. She felt like one of the old, wizened crones Disney favored in its fairy tales. INTERPOL was giving her little time to recover from the ordeal in Guatemala or to catch up on much-needed sleep.

Heaving a long sigh and rubbing the bridge of her nose, Natasha placed her SIG and cup on the wicker table next to her and opened the cardboard packet, shaking the contents out onto her lap. Two envelopes, several out-of-focus photos of a building that looked old and tired, and a small key attached to a rusting Fatima.

The Fatima was heavy, larger than her hand. The key reminded her of the one her grandmother had given her when she was twenty-one. She shifted it in the sunlight. It was engraved. L-91. What did it open?

A large solid brass Fatima had graced the beguiling blue door of her grandparents’ riad in Casablanca for as long as she could remember—a symbol of protection—and she had been enamored with it. Natasha had wonderful memories of time spent there.

She rotated her left hand, revealing the small Fatima on her wrist just inked after her grandmother died last year. Tears pricked her eyes as she considered what the tattoo signified. It was in remembrance of Mémé, who had loved her deeply and provided wise guidance and emotional support to her after her parents and two younger brothers were killed in Madrid’s Atocha Station bombings in 2004.

Natasha was supposed to have been with them, but she had accepted an invitation from her best friend the night before to see a limited still-life painting exhibit at the Prado. The plan was for her to meet her parents and brothers later, after they returned from their day trip toAlcalá. Natasha slept while the coordinated terror attack killed nearly two hundred and injured thousands during the morning’s rush hour. Upon waking and hearing what had happened, she was unable to reach her family. She and her friend never made it to the Prado. Instead, Natasha stayed with her friend, barely functioning, alternating between fits of sobbing, rage, and vomiting until her grandparents arrived from Morocco. She insisted on accompanying them to the morgue but was forced to remain with authorities in the sterile hallway. No amount of screwing her eyes shut could make the morgue disappear, and her hands covering her ears did nothing to block the keening of Mémé and Pépé as they identified their daughter, son-in-law, and two young grandsons.

She placed the Fatima and attached key next to her mug and wiped her eyes, swallowing her sadness and bitterness, and opened the first envelope. The short memo—embossed with INTERPOL’s logo—stated she had a new, open-ended assignment and details would be provided when she arrived at the Moroccan office. It was signed by Executive Director Emmet Cantrell, Rabat, Morocco.

The second envelope held a visa and one-way, business-class ticket to Casablanca, early afternoon the following day, and a generous check for incidentals. Only INTERPOL would be able to finagle the Moroccan visa required for South Africans on such short notice. She swept the photos that held no meaning, the executive director’s memo, Fatima and key, and plane ticket back into the packet.

Dammit. A full day of flying. Just what I need.Grimacing, Natasha chugged the rest of her coffee, then stood and stretched. She had a lot to do before she left for the airport and took a notepad from the counter to write her list: finish laundry, shop, go to the bank to cash the check and exchange money, request her grandparents’riadbe freshened up for her arrival, and check her PO box. Her travel tote and red suitcase were still lying open in the living room from her trip to Guatemala. She had pulled clothing from the suitcase when she needed something to wear—a tee, her favorite cargo pants, underwear—but her mostly depleted travel toiletries remained untouched.

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