The Other Side Of The Orange Grove

Algeria, 1997

Arrival

1

He’s in Algeria only two days and he’s already fucking things up.

Sarah is in the shower singing and he lies in bed trying to piece together the events of the previous evening.

What happened?

He doesn’t remember much. 

He glances out the window. The sun is beginning to rise. The prayer calls from the local mosque echoes around the neighborhood. It clashes with Sarah’s singing, creating a cacophony that only further aggravates his splitting headache. He pulls on the waistband of his boxers, peers down at his raw and chafed member.

Again, what happened?

He remembers drinks, a lounge, loud music, and not much else. He momentarily panics, rips the sheets away from him, looks around. There it is, the crumpled condom, next to the bed. At least he had the wherewithal to use one. However he doesn’t remember anything about the experience.

He drops back on the bed. The prayer call finishes but Sarah goes on singing. It’s a nice tune, whatever it is. She sounds happy. Perhaps she remembers something... 

2

He was told that Sarah, a new correspondent at the network’s North African-Middle Eastern bureau, was to meet him at the airport when he arrived. Although new to the team, Sarah had already become one of the network’s most popular correspondents. Not only did her latest work demonstrate her willingness to put herself in some of the region’s most dangerous places but to do so and come back with a headline grabbing stories in the process. She’d be perfect to go on assignment with him, his managing editor told him, although there was concern about sending a woman along to get the exclusive interview Omar Abbadi, the so-called spiritual leader of the Algerian Islamic Front.   The group is just one of the many wreaking havoc across the region and they weren’t sure how Abbadi would feel about having a woman present. Not that they felt the need to appease this mysterious and elusive ‘sheikh’. They wanted this story, especially since it was their network Abaddi’s various handlers had decided to contact over the competetiton. It was agreed that only be four present at the interview: Claudio, Sarah, their interpreter Rachid, and their cameraman, Jason.

Claudio was informed about the massacres in some of the more remote villages outside of Algiers — massacres that Omar Abbadi denied having any responsibility for — but since he was one of the more influential leaders in the region, the network thought it best to speak to him about the country’s ongoing problems, to ‘get the Islamist perspective’. Claudio balked at first, having heard horror stories about journalists being kidnapped, beheaded, disappeared, but Abbadi, although considered highly dangerous, wasn’t known for violence towards journalists. After some careful consideration, Claudio agreed to take on the assignment. Three days later was on a flight from JFK to Algiers. 

After Claudio finished going through customs, he saw Sarah waiting for him, holding a sign, his name written in a distinctively female hand. He didn’t approach her immediately, preferring to stall a little by checking the contents of his wallet, fumble with his luggage, all as an excuse to give him a moment to observe this Mediterranean beauty who awaited him.

The first thing he noticed were her eyes, dark and penetrating accentuated by long, dark lashes and a pair of thick, dark eyebrows which nearly joined at the bridge of her nose. Her hair, full of dark brown curls, fell loosely about her shoulders. Her dark blue sweater, it’s sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealed two thin, lightly hairy arms. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, he thought, but her youth certainly hadn’t betrayed naïveté. Her natural expression bore a tale of someone who knew how to take care of herself and wasn’t easily manipulated by any smooth talking man that may come her way.

He approached her and introduced himself. She seemed friendly enough at first, breaking into a warm smile, her hand firm in his grasp. Her English was impeccable. As they walked towards the exit he allowed himself to fall back a pace or two so he could get a good look at her ass, albeit discreetly, or so he thought.

It was a little cooler than he expected. He was lightly dressed — a pair of khakis, a light blue button up shirt and a tweed blazer. He could feel a chill in the air.

He again dropped back a couple of paces, dragging his suitcase along behind him, when Sarah paused for him to catch up, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

How was your flight? she asked.

Brutal, he said. As always. You’d think the network would spring for first class or business class for long flights like this.

A little laughed slipped through her lips. It was the laugh of someone with a wry sense of humor.

Being crammed in like cattle for over ten hours is not my idea of fun, he continued. Maybe next time I’ll fucking upgrade the damn seat myself.

Sarah smiled, a lovely smile, he thought, but she didn’t reply.

I was told you’re new to the team, he said. How’s it going so far?

Sarah noted the sarcasm.

Well, she said, other than the lecherous old men in upper management and how little respect I’m getting from my male colleagues, or how too many men around the bureau only see tits and ass, or how they’re reluctant to send me on the more risky assignments because I’m a woman, even though that was the reason why they hired me in the first place, I’d say things are working out fairly well so far.

Claudio looked at her. Message sent. His initial impressions about her confirmed. Not that he hadn’t worked with women journalists in the past and when he did he always treated them with the utmost respect and professionalism, despite his own penchant for womanizing. There was something else afoot here, he thought. There was something about her that seemed to provoke a strong reaction in people.

So where are you from, Sarah?

Tunis, she said. Not much else to say about it, really.

What made you want to become a journalist?

Don’t tell me your one of these men who feel women shouldn’t be.

I didn’t mean to imply that, Claudio said. I’m just trying to make conversation.

Sarah smiled, studied her new colleague. Sometimes I get the feeling they hired me because they felt they needed some eye candy.

The ‘lecherous old men in upper management’, huh?

It wouldn’t surprise me. It wouldn’t be the first time. My husband seems to think so.

You’re married.

Yes. And? I’m married.

I’m married, too, he said. I have a daughter as well. Six years old. She’s just starting first grade.

They didn’t talk much as they drove into the city. If he was going to work with her, he hoped she’d be a bit more of a conversationalist. When she did speak she kept her answers to one word or short sentences, getting right to the point. No small talk. During the silent moments Claudio took the time to absorb Algiers’ French colonial architecture and thought it a shame that there was so much turmoil in such a beautiful country. 

The Hotel Aurassi, one of the city’s more exclusive hotels, was popular with most visiting journalists, something he hadn’t known until Sarah told him. He didn’t handle any of the arrangements. When she pulled up to the entrance, a rather young looking bellhop immediately opened his door. Claudio only had his one suitcase and he preferred to carry it himself, though he still gave the kid a tip for being kind enough to open the door for him.

What they didn’t spend on the flight they certainly made it up by booking you here, Sarah said.

It’s the least they could have done. Are you coming inside?

What for? 

I don’t know. To go over the game plan?

She thought about it a moment. Let me park the car, she said. Go inside and get yourself settled in. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.

They have valet parking here, apparently. He pointed to one of the bellhops commandeering another guest’s vehicle.

I’d rather park it myself, she said. Go on, I’ll meet you inside.

Forty minutes later, he stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby.

What, did you take a nap?

I had to check in, unpack my things, go to the bathroom, make some phone calls, let the wife know I arrived alive. Is that okay with you? Besides, I didn’t think you were really coming back.

Is this how it’s going to be?

This is who I am, he said. They didn’t warn you?

They decided to have a drink together in the hotel bar and go over the particulars of the assignment. They were to leave for the village in two day’s time. They were to pick up Jason Murphy, the cameraman and Rachid, a young interpreter to accompany them. From what Sarah understood, the arrangements to meet Omar Abbadi were made through one of Abbadi’s spokesmen, a man who called himself Adem. This information came via Rachid, who would be their interpreter. They were to drive to a location of their choosing. No specifics just yet, a detail which made Claudio a bit uneasy.

Who is this Rachid? Can he be trusted?

Absolutely, Sarah said, twirling the wine around in her glass. He’d been on assignments before, months ago, when a bus was attacked by a group of militants, killing everyone on board. This happened in another, even more remote village than the one we’re going to. These aren’t people to take lightly. Of course Abbadi denied any involvement in those attacks as well, even going as far to denounce them as un-Islamic.

She sipped her wine. Whatever, she continued. They’re all the same as far as I’m concerned.

Why are we even meeting this guy? Why give him a platform?

He’s the movement’s so-called spiritual leader, Sarah said, which usually means that there’s tacit approval of these massacres on his part, even though he personally may not have directed them. He’s another one you can’t take likely. He’s a very dangerous man,