Mirage Read online

  "Abracadabra! There's a new Scheherazade in town and her name is Soheir Khashoggi. Now that she's woven one tale let's hope she has a thousand more. Mirage is arresting, breathtaking, up to date, sophisticated, erotic, fascinating, heart rending, and suspenseful. This timely saga certainly puts a whole new spin on Sleeping with the Enemy, and lifts the veil of secrecy from Moslem traditions, relationships, and, above all, family ties. Stunning. I couldn't put it down!"

  —Judith Gould, author of Sins

  "Breathless, larger than life. Khashoggi paints in glamorous and startling colors. Her depiction of the rarefied, claustrophobic lives of many privileged Arab women, as well as of the jet set world of their families, adds depth and sparkle."

  —Publishers Weekly

  "A bright comet from the East. A commanding novel every woman will want to read and every man should read."

  —Cape Coral, Daily Breeze

  "A stunning first novel that pushes contemporary buttons while offering the more traditional consolations of exotic settings, glamorous characters, and a fast moving plot. Khashoggi spins an irresistible tale of romance and heart pounding drama in that rarest of fictions. An intelligent page turner."

  —Kirkus (starred review)

  "A spellbinding story of one woman's struggle to escape the gilded cage of the Middle Eastern aristocracy. I inhaled it!"

  —Cindy Adams, syndicated columnist

  "A bright comet from the east … A commanding novel every woman will want to read and every man should read."

  —Cape Coral Daily Breeze

  "The drama and glamour of her story carries the reader along."

  —Herald Sunday (New Hampshire)

  "Compelling!"

  —Connecticut Post

  "One of those rare books on Middle Eastern women that is lively, provocative and thought-provoking"

  —Jean Sasson, author of Princess

  "Mirage is a captivating tale painted with finesse against a glittering international canvas"

  —Ronald Kessler, author of Inside the CIA.

  "Soheir Khashoggi is a born storyteller! Mirage is rich in emotion and human drama, a story I wish would never end, First-rate entertainment!"

  —Lucian Goldberg, bestselling author of Madam Cleo's Girls and People will talk

  "Khashoggi, is a natural-born storyteller who quickly engages her reader in a role that is stylish, suspenseful, and entertaining."

  —Booklist (starred review)

  Mirage

  Copyright © 2020 Soheir Khashoggi. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

  www.fullcyclepublications.com

  P. O. Box 57005, Murray, Utah 84157 Tel: 1 (801) 299-2705 • Fax: 1 (801) 905-3348

  Email: info fullcyclepublications.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover art by Soheir Khashoggi Interior book and cover design by Ted Ruybal

  Copy editing by Kim Patrick

  ISBN: 978-1-7325961-0-8

  eISBN: 978-1-7354715-1-8

  LCCN: 2018959994 • Registration number TX 4-259-789

  FIC044000 | FICTION / Women FIC031100 | FICTION / Thrillers / Domestic FIC030000 | FICTION / Thrillers / Suspense

  First edition: February 1996. Second edition: February 2019.

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  This is a work of fiction.

  All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated in memory of my dear brother Adnan, whose love and guidance have helped me become a stronger and better woman. The bond between us will remain forever in my heart. I miss you dearly, my dear brother.

  To my darling daughters Samiha, Naela, Farida and Hana. I couldn't have written this book without you. Thank you for being wonderful and loving, and most of all, for waiting so patiently … I would also like to dedicate it to the memories of my mother, Samiha, and my sister, Samira, who inspired me to write about the special bonds that exist between women in other places and other times, and about the kind of love that endures for a lifetime and beyond.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Part One

  1. Amira Babir

  2. Sorrow

  3. Malik

  Part Two

  4. Childhood

  5. Nanny Karin

  6. Friendship

  7. Black Dream

  8. The End of Childhood

  Part Three

  9. Jihan

  10. Good-Byes

  11. Alone

  Part Four

  12. Ali

  13. Honeymoon

  14. Marriage

  15. Motherhood

  16. Philippe

  17.A Man in The Night

  Part Five

  18. Fear

  19. Remali Police

  20. Morning Visitors

  21. Prodigal’ Return

  22. Escape

  23. Brother Peter

  24. M. Cheverny

  25. Enemies

  26. A New Woman

  Part Six

  27. An All- American Boy

  28. Genevieve

  29. Carolyn

  30. Incident In Toronto

  31. Laila

  32. Cameron

  33. Mustafa

  34. Ali

  35. Karim

  36. Travis

  37. Evasion

  38. Brad

  39. Mirages

  Part Seven

  40. Truth

  41. Retribution

  42. Redemption

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Time's Up

  In 1996, “Time Was Up” for me when I wrote my first novel, Mirage, about the survival of a woman and her escape from a male-dominated land.

  After this novel, I continued to express my thoughts through the voices of strong female protagonists in my next two novels, Nadia’s Song and Mosaic.

  Now, I applaud the women who have come out and let their voices be heard directly, women whose actions courageously represent the #metoo movement. It is this recent chain of events that prompted me to republish my three books—as a reminder that not so very long ago, women like me believed, with reason, that their voices would not be heard. My voice spoke only through my books.

  In this new day, it is time for women from all walks of life to stand together, become united, and have a voice.

  There is a seductive shimmer on the horizon of life.

  Within it lies the promise of love, the joy of fulfillment, and the tranquility of peace. Approach it with great care, for it is as fragile as a mirage.

  —Layla K.—

  Acknowledgments

  I want to express my deepest appreciation to Lillian Africano for her hard work in making this book possible. Her motivation and interest, and especially her knowledge of the Arab world, have added immeasurably to this book. Thank you, Lillian—it was really a pleasure working with you.

  I’d also like to thank my wonderful family: Adnan, for being a marvelous big brother, protector, and friend; my brother, Adil, for his support and love; my brother, Essam, for his encouragement and enthusiasm; my brother, Amr, for his research and terrific sense of humor
; my sister, Assia, for her loving care. I’m fortunate to have you all.

  Thanks to all my friends.

  My appreciation to Barry, for his encouragement and friendship.

  To my agent, Sterling Lord, who helped make this dream come true, my gratitude. And to my editor, Natalia Aponte, my thanks for her support and guidance.

  And, finally, to my dear sister-in-law, Layla Khashoggi, who proofread and wrote a lovely quotation, my love and gratitude.

  Prologue

  Boston. The Present

  The studio in which Barry Manning taped his radio show—a show that Jenna Sorrel disliked on principle but on which she was to be the guest in an hour—was in a renovated warehouse on Commercial Street, overlooking the Boston Harbor. Jenna had not seen this block in years and was amazed at how gentrified it had become. As she got out of the taxi, she was so taken with the proudly refurbished loveliness of the old buildings that she hardly noticed the blue car slowly passing—or the red-haired man in it looking disinterestedly at her, then turning away.

  She’d taken three steps up the sidewalk before she realized that she had seen the man before—that morning, near her favorite bookstore on Newbury Street—and that he had given her the same casual, businesslike glance then.

  Her first instinct was to run. She turned back to the cab, opened the door, stopped.

  “You forget somet’ing, lady?” The cabbie, a young Haitian, looked up from writing in his trip book.

  “No. No. I thought I had.” She sounded foolish even to herself. She was foolish, she decided. The blue car moved steadily down the street.

  There had been a time when the fear of being followed was as much a part of Jenna’s life as eating or sleeping. But the years had passed and nothing had happened, and now she could not remember the last time she had worried about the man who seemed always to be at the bus stop or the woman who seemed always to be walking her corgi or the car that seemed always to be in the rearview mirror.

  Until just now.

  She was sure it was the man she had seen near the bookstore. Almost sure. But what if he was? Boston wasn’t such a large place. It was possible for a person to be on Newbury Street in the morning and on Commercial Street in the after- noon. But still …

  Far down the street, the blue car turned right and disappeared.

  Jenna stood watching for a moment, then took a couple of deep breaths. Forget it, she told herself, it's nothing. Nothing has happened in fifteen years, and nothing is happening now.

  She went into the building. A security guard sat at a mahogany desk. For a split second, Jenna thought of asking him to look out for a red-haired man. Forget it. Relax.

  She signed the in-out register. “I’m here for the Barry Manning show. Has a Mr. Pierce arrived?”

  The guard scanned the page. “Pierce? No. Don’t see him.”

  Damn. Jenna had hoped that Brad would be there to help her through her stage fright—the butterflies were already beginning to flutter their cold little wings—but apparently he was still angry. Or perhaps he wanted to remind her what it was like to be alone.

  “He’s not gonna be on the show, is he?” the guard asked.

  “No. He’s just … a friend. But if he does come, let him know where I am, will you? Wherever that might be?”

  “Third floor. Right this way.” The guard escorted her to the elevator and pressed the button.

  The offices of the Manning organization were surprisingly small, and the few people all looked to be caught up in crises. Finally, a woman with earphones dangling around her neck like a doctor’s stethoscope noticed Jenna and introduced herself as Courteney Cornmeyer, the show’s producer.

  “We’re very happy to have you,” she said sincerely, adding somewhat less convincingly, “I was reading your new book just the other night.”

  She propelled Jenna to the station “green room.” “You can do your makeup here,” she said, indicating a mirrored vanity table, “unless you want to change your mind and use Angela. She’s awfully good.”

  “No! No, thank you,” Jenna added hastily, realizing how inappropriately vehement she’d sounded. Professional makeup would be nice, but Jenna didn’t want a stranger studying her face, noticing things she’d kept hidden for so many years.

  “Suit yourself,” Ms. Cornmeyer said agreeably. “Just make yourself comfort- able, and I’ll be back with Barry in a bit.”

  After closing the door behind her, Jenna sank into the upholstered makeup chair took the cosmetic case from her oversized bag, and leaned towards the three-way mirror. First, she brushed her thick chestnut hair.

  God, roots already? It seemed that she was having to go to the colorist every other week.

  Pretending to be someone else was hard work, she thought for perhaps the thousandth time. A constant effort. The hair, the green contact lenses covering her own brown eyes. And the lies.

  As she’d been instructed to do, Jenna laid on the foundation with a heavy hand—the Manning radio show had a studio audience and harsh studio lights. Unconsciously, her fingers traced a delicate scar just above her left brow and another just at the hairline. The surgery to repair her face had been expert, but traces of it lingered, along with the memory of the man who had tried to destroy her beauty—and her life.

  When she had given her olive complexion a flawless matte finish, she applied a cinnamon blusher and smudged her eyelids with charcoal shadow.

  She finished with black-brown mascara and paprika lipstick.

  Jenna was lucky in her looks, she knew, and lucky in the way she had kept them—her next birthday would be her fortieth, but people always assumed that she was in her early thirties. Now, with just a few minutes of deft smoothing and contouring and highlighting, she looked a young thirty. And gorgeous.

  She folded her hands, then unfolded them, drumming her fingers against her knees as she waited. Her throat was suddenly dry, her stomach clenched. Was it just stage fright that had her so jangled? The fight with Brad? The strange feeling of being followed?

  Jenna got up, smoothed the wrinkles in her cream-colored cashmere suit, and wandered out into the hall. She almost collided with Courteney Cornmeyer, who had in tow a short, round-faced man with orangish skin.

  His coloring made Jenna wonder if perhaps he ate too many carrots or used a defective sunlamp.

  “Dr. Sorrel, I presume? Barry Manning.” He extended a hand. As he did so, his pale gray eyes flicked over her—an inspection that, from most men, would have been straightforwardly sexual, but from him, seemed more neutral, perhaps simply professional. “What do you think, C.C.? Our distinguished guest is the world’s leading authority on the abuse of women, the evil that lurks in the hearts of men, et cetera, yet here she stands, painted like a scarlet woman.”

  It was his voice, Jenna realized, that saved Barry from being a comic figure. With his moon-round face and orange skin, he resembled a jack-o’-lantern. He stood no more than five feet six—an inch or two shorter than she—but his voice was deep, resonant, commanding. At the same time, it was almost a parody of itself. How can you be offended at anything I say, it asked, when I sound so absurdly authoritative?

  “Don’t the men on your show wear makeup, Mr. Manning?” she asked conversationally, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

  “Sure they do. I do myself. In fact, we’ve never had a man refuse makeup. What was it, C.C., three weeks ago? —we had the president of the Hell’s Angels. No complaint. As often as that crew bathes, he’s probably still wearing the stuff.” “I’ll bet you didn’t suggest to the president of the Hell’s Angels that he looked like a scarlet woman.”

  Manning laughed somewhat theatrically. “Touché! We’ve got a live one, C.C.”

  “Five minutes to air,” said Courteney. “I’ll be in the booth.”

  “So, what happens now?” Jenna asked Manning. The butterflies were now in full flutter. “Is there anything I need to know? I’ve never been on the radio.”

  “TV?”


  “No.”

  “Aha! A virgin. Sorry. Figure of speech. But, seriously, there’s nothing to it. C.C. will give us a countdown, the red light will come on, I’ll introduce you, ask you about your book, you’ll tell me about your book, we’ll take some questions, you’ll answer, I’ll make some comments, and it’ll all be over before you know it. Forty people in the audience. You’ve been at bigger cocktail parties. In fact, that’s the best way to think of it: as if you’re at a party where you meet people, and they ask about what you do. It’s just talk. No need to lecture.”

  Jenna breathed deeply. “All right. Let’s go.”

  “Whoa! We’ve got four minutes—an eternity in this business, as you’d know if you’d ever had to fill up that much dead air. Let me ask you something. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? I mean, why my show? Why not Donahue or one of those other sensitive types?

  Even Larry King?” Manning smiled, no doubt aware of his reputation for skewering guests, especially those he deemed deserving of such treatment.

  Yet, for the first time in their conversation, Jenna felt that he was not playing a role, but seriously wanted an answer. “You know the saying ‘preaching to the converted?'” she asked. “Lately, I’ve begun to think that’s what I’ve been doing in my work. I spoke at a symposium at Harvard yesterday—psychiatrists, psychologists, psychiatric social workers—and every one of them knew what I was going to say and agreed with it in advance, except maybe for a technical objection here or there. But your show, it’s on a hundred stations—”

  “A hundred and six and more every day. Move over, Rush Limbaugh.” “—most of them in very conservative markets. Many of your listeners haven’t heard what I have to say, and many of them won’t agree with me when they do hear it. I may or may not convert a single one, but at least I won’t be preaching to the converted to start with. That’s why I accepted the invitation to be on your show—although I admit I debated it for days.”