A Cross to Kill

by Andrew Huff

  Christine sighed with relief. As soon as Mike got back, she would treat him to a steak dinner. And she would get Jacobs to pay for it.

  “Listen, Christine.” Jacobs was suddenly all business. “There is no expectation for you to jump right back in. I’ve already talked it over with Pat. You take as much time as you need to get back into the swing of things. You’ll always have a desk at NABC.”

  It would be the millionth time, but she said “thank you” anyway. “I’m good,” she continued. “I know what’s ahead. And I’m ready for it.”

  Janeen’s smile grew wider. “That’s my girl,” she said with a squeeze at Christine’s waist. “We’ve already been fielding other networks, newspapers, magazines, even movie producers. Of course, you get the final say. If I were you, I’d accept nothing less than Rosamund Pike playing myself in the movie.”

  “Wait. You mean playing me or actually playing you? She doesn’t have the hips for you.”

  Janeen cocked an eyebrow and let her arms fall to her sides. “Looks like somebody’s sense of humor survived too.”

  The glint in Janeen’s eye made Christine feel more at home than any of the computer monitors or cubicle walls ever could.

  Jacobs waved his hand in a rude manner. “Janeen, if you would excuse us, I’d like to go over some things with Christine. Then when we’ve got a game plan, I promise you can take off and spend the rest of the afternoon reminding her why this is the greatest city in the world.”

  “You heard the man. It’s a promise.” Janeen smacked her palm against Christine’s backside and trotted off.

  “I know I don’t have to tell you this, Chris, but Pat and the others are expecting you to be all anyone is talking about for the next few weeks.”

  Christine guzzled the lukewarm latte as Jacobs reclined in his oversized leather desk chair. Though small, the office boasted a window overlooking Forty-Ninth Street that added a touch of luxury despite the mirrored glass of an adjacent building obscuring 90 percent of the view.

  “We’re all willing to work with your schedule when you feel ready for it, but I’ve got to tell you, the Evening Report is busting down the door to get you on tonight at the latest. They wanted you live on the plane, and I had to give up my Christmas bonus to keep them from showing up at your house.” Jacobs interrupted his spiel with a handful of pecans from a dish on his desk.

  “I get it, Steven, and I’m good. I really am.”

  Jacobs snorted and lobbed a curse in her direction. “Come on. You can’t be serious. Insurgents held you for months under extreme conditions. You dropped like a dress size and a half. Don’t get me wrong. You needed the help, but it couldn’t have been a trip to the spa.”

  Christine lifted the cup to her lips and rolled her eyes as Jacobs tossed another handful of pecans down his throat. Classic. He knew how to be charming when he needed to be, but the misogyny was strong with this one.

  In between audible chewing, he asked, “How was it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Where you were being held. What was it like?”

  Christine paused. She’d given her parents the story in its entirety, but now she needed to edit. How she’d been treated for months in captivity, the really scintillating details, would be perfect fodder for the news-hounds. The specifics of the attempted execution needed editorial care.

  “It was the worst thing I’ve ever been through.” For the next fifteen minutes, she gave him everything he wanted. Well, maybe not everything. But she added all the best notes in her summary of the kidnapping and her subsequent detention. The dark, windowless room she had been held in. Being chained to a chair for hours on end. The lack of proper food or hydration. Her bout with dysentery.

  Jacobs salivated at the guaranteed boost from the publicity.

  “Then,” she continued after another mouthful of the cold coffee, “last Saturday something changed. I could hear the men arguing. I was given new clothes to wear and then dragged into a larger room. They put me in a chair and pointed a video camera at me.”

  Jacobs’s eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth drooped. “Hold on,” he said as he held up a hand. “They were really going to execute you?”

  “How did you know?”

  Jacobs bolted from his chair and sifted through paper stacked in neat piles atop filing cabinets. It looked like a mess, but Jacobs searched with calculated hands and within half a minute he found what he was looking for. He sat on his desk and held a photo in front of her face.

  Christine gasped. She snatched the photo from his hands and studied it closer. A man stood in a black robe holding a knife while another sat on his knees, his hands behind him, dressed in an orange jumpsuit. They appeared to be in the desert. “What is this?”

  Jacobs tapped the photo with his finger on the body of the man in orange. “Jared Downey, BBC. Those Islamic Alliance dopes have been putting execution videos on the Internet. They seem to find the irony of beheading newspeople to make the news.”

  “Alliance of Islamic Military,” Christine murmured, her eyes still locked on the eyes of the man wrapped in the black robe. The memories intensified. Details came into focus. Her heart beat against her rib cage. Could it be the same man? “When did this happen?”

  “Last month. It was the last one in a string of them. I guess you were going to be their next statement.”

  Christine felt the flood of emotion forcing its way to her tear ducts. She broke her stare and thrust the photo back at Jacobs. He took it and placed it facedown on his desk. His eyebrows squeezed in, and he leaned forward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you.”

  Christine took a deep breath and pressed a finger against her eyelid. Dry, but no doubt red. “It’s fine. It’s just sometimes hard to believe I came that close …”

  “Tell me what happened. Just like you will in tonight’s interview.” Jacobs leaned back and folded his arms. His eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head to one side, his ready-to-offer-critique pose.

  His rudeness helped her regain composure, and she finished off the latte before continuing. “They made me read a statement into the camera, but before anything else could happen, the rescue team took out the terrorists.”

  One lie.

  “It all happened so fast, I don’t really remember how it all went down.”

  Now two.

  “Somehow I got smacked in the face, and the next thing I knew the men were all lying on the floor.”

  That one didn’t really count as a lie.

  Christine paused to rewrite her next statement, and Jacobs interjected, “Were they dead?”

  “Yes.”

  An unnecessary third lie. Christine caught herself before she said another word. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. Just vague.

  Jacobs held his breath.

  “I mean, no,” she added. “I don’t know. It was all so unreal, like a dream. There was blood.” True, her own. “But there was also a stun gun involved. After the men were down, the team pulled me out of the room and I was taken to a helicopter that flew us all out of the city.”

  Jacobs shook his head. “Wow.” He repeated the word, then stepped around the desk and dropped back into his chair. “This is going to be great.” He held up a hand. “I mean, no offense. I’m sorry for what you experienced and glad you’re alive, but I don’t know if any of us realize how big this is going to be.”

  “And that’s not even the real story.”

  Jacobs’s expression blanked. He held back any words.

  “You asked me to tell you what I’m going to say tonight, and that’s what I did. I told you the story I’m going to tell everyone. But it’s not the real story.” Christine leaned forward and poked her finger into his desk. “The real story is even bigger. And as soon as I can prove it, it’s going to launch this whole thing into space.”

  Jacobs cursed and grabbed the can of pecans with enough force to launch a couple of them onto the floor. “What are you talking about?”

  “It was
n’t a team who got me out of Jordan. It was one man. One man on his own. He stopped the execution, fought off the terrorists, and delivered me to the unit that flew me out. I never saw him again, never knew his name. He had to have been a covert intelligence officer. CIA, I don’t know. No one will own this, but I’m going to track him down and prove it.”

  Jacobs didn’t jump out of his chair, let out a war cry, and start dancing, as she imagined he would. Instead, he sat in his chair crunching a pecan between his teeth and rubbing his temple with an index finger. “You mean to tell me,” he finally said, “a spy rescued you?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “Was he British?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Did he have an accent?”

  Was this a dream? Christine shook her head, hoping a different, more caring Steven Jacobs would magically appear. It didn’t work. “No, he was American. I’m telling you the truth, Steven. A man named John rescued me from the execution, and kidnappers chased us through Amman.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know his name.”

  “Well, he said his name was John, but that’s obviously not it.”

  “You don’t know that. Maybe it is his name. I don’t think James Bond ever used an alias on his missions.”

  “He wasn’t British.” Jacobs chuckled but averted his eyes as Christine gritted her teeth and folded her arms. “I’m being serious,” she said. “I’m not going to tell the whole story yet because the government will just deny it. Let me find him and prove to you it happened. Think about the legs this story will have if I can prove I’m right.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to tell me.” Jacobs dug his fingers into the can of pecans only to pull them out empty. He frowned and wiped the fingers against his pant leg under the table. “A story about an American spy rescuing a beautiful journalist prints its own money. Hollywood would make the film whether you wanted them to or not.”

  “So let me do it.”

  “What, prove your story?”

  Christine nodded.

  Jacobs rolled his eyes. He sat silent for a moment, staring into Christine’s face. She thanked God he couldn’t read her thoughts. Suddenly, he bolted upright in his chair, grabbed a legal pad, and began writing. “I tell you what,” he said as he wrote. “I want you to call this number. A guy named Kevin is going to pick up. Works for an RBS affiliate in Washington.” Jacobs handed the paper to Christine. “He’s going to want to set you up in an interview. Let him. In return, he’ll get you connected with some sources out of the intelligence community. If your guy John exists, this would be the best place to start in tracking him down.”

  Christine held her new possession in a firm grip and expressed her joy with bright eyes and a smile. “Steven, thank you for this. I promise, it’s going to be big.”

  “Just do me one favor.”

  Her smile faded, positive he would ask for a date.

  “When you find the guy, thank him for me.”

  Confused, Christine stammered, “Why?”

  “For bringing you home.”

  The hints of charm were a sly trick. Still, the sentiment felt genuine, so she smiled and blushed. Rising to leave, she replied, “Don’t worry. That’s the first thing I’m going to do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CROSS ENTERED THE house after sunset for the third day in a row. He ignored the light switch and headed for the kitchen for his customary dinner of bran. The memory of eating Mrs. Templeton’s green bean casserole the previous Monday presented itself in his mind, as did the temptation to order out. It took a deep plunge into his reservoir of inner strength to quench the flame of selfish desire.

  His self-imposed dietary purgatory served as a contemporary update to mortification of the flesh—pious Christians of the past paying penance for sins with self-inflicted abuse. He made exception for the casserole after the weight of guilt he carried from the first time she’d brought him one and he’d thrown it away. Same with the endless occurrence of church potlucks. He only ever ate enough to be kind to the aspirant cooks of the congregation.

  Cross’s version of mortification of the flesh extended beyond his humble diet. The guilt hiding in the corners of his heart demanded extreme reparation. Nothing pleasant to eat or drink, only enough sleep to survive, no entertainment whatsoever. If he wasn’t caring for members of his congregation, meeting new people in the community, studying to preach, or working on class assignments, he read and prayed.

  Thanks to years of honing the art of discipline, Cross buried the temptation of a hot, appetizing meal and dug into the bran flakes and milk. Instead of carrying the bowl into the living room to study while he ate, Cross granted himself the luxury of leaning against the counter.

  In the moment of stillness, he thought of Christine. An odd habit had formed since his return. Amman wasn’t his first rescue mission, and though he could recall every face and name, the others rarely interrupted his thoughts. Christine did. What was it? Why did she stick?

  He replayed the operation in his mind, focusing on her. She’d thrown out the script they’d handed her and defiantly offered her own last words. She’d rebounded from her injury and matched his pace during the escape. She’d pushed him out of the way of the SUV. And knew a thing or two about handguns.

  More than anything, he remembered his own feelings when they’d finally reached the awaiting Black Hawk. The relief he felt knowing she was safe. He wanted her to be safe. Wanted her to be home.

  He wanted to know how she was.

  I could call her. The thought came so suddenly, he dropped the spoon. He watched it fall and clatter on the floor. Call her? Out of the question. He didn’t have her number. He bent his knees and retrieved the spoon.

  I could get it.

  Calling her risked blowing his cover. He assumed she was good at her job. The wrong move and she could expose his name, location, maybe more. And who knew what might be brought down on the little community he called home.

  She wouldn’t do that.

  Even if Christine kept his secret, she’d be vulnerable. All someone would need was the hint of a connection. The old John Cross had enough enemies.

  Just one call.

  The urge grew in strength. He balanced the spoon on the bowl, dug his hand into his pocket, and pulled out the phone. With his thumb, he flipped the burner phone open, and the twelve simple buttons glowed back at him in envy green. He stood still, the bowl cupped in one hand, the phone in the other, and stared at the buttons. She could be his second call. It would take approximately six minutes before he would hear her voice.

  The display flashed brighter, and the ringer shrieked. The bowl slipped from his palm, but he squeezed his fingers tight and prevented a cereal catastrophe. He examined the incoming number. Area code 202.

  DC.

  But it wasn’t Simpson or a CIA number. He didn’t recognize it offhand, though something about it did feel familiar. Curious, he pressed the Confirmation button and held the phone to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  Multiple scenarios played through his mind. Depending on the response he received, there were no less than seven available escape plans, two of which involved an accidental fire to the parsonage.

  Stop it, he told himself. You’re not going to set fire to the house.

  “Officer … sorry, Mr. Cross? It’s Eric Paulson. From Langley. I was your driver last weekend. Do you remember me?”

  The house survived another night. Cross slid the cereal bowl onto the counter and shifted his cautious tone to a cheerful pastoral register. “Yes, Officer Paulson, I remember you. Thank you for calling me.”

  “Is now a bad time? I understand if you don’t feel comfortable with this, since, well, you know.”

  “Since I made my retirement status official?” Cross laughed into the receiver. “I think that makes it OK, Eric. You’re only talking to a pastor now.”

  Paulson breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir, um,
I mean Mr. Cross.”

  “You can call me John.”

  “That’s going to take some getting used to, if you don’t mind … John.” His name felt like a foreign object fighting its way out of Paulson’s tight lips.

  “I also accept Reverend Cross, Brother John, and Preacher.”

  He got a laugh out of Paulson with that one.

  “I’m sure your new life has taken some getting used to.”

  “You have no idea.” Cross liked talking to the younger man. He didn’t feel the need to hide feelings and details about his choice to leave his previous occupation. “Did you get a chance to try out that church we found?”

  “That’s part of why I’m calling. I know you wanted to know how it went.”

  “I’m only a little surprised you actually went through with it.”

  “I almost didn’t. I had made up my mind not to the night before, but honestly I was afraid you might call me right after.”

  Cross mentally kicked himself for not thinking to call after church the previous morning. A careless, uncharacteristic neglect. Come to think of it, there’d been multiple occasions over the previous week where he failed to remember important details. After the call, he’d diagnose whatever brain disease afflicted him. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

  “I am too. It was refreshing. What I needed.”

  “Anything stand out to you?”

  “Well, you’re not going to believe this, but the sermon was out of the book of Philippians.”

  “Uh-oh,” Cross replied. “Now you know how bad I am at my job.”

  Paulson laughed again. “It was interesting to hear someone else preach after we’d just had that conversation. It was a lot more similar than you think.”

  “I’m glad I’m keeping up with the experts. Do you think you’ll go back?”

  Paulson paused. Cross imagined the younger man trying to determine the most delicate way to say no. But the pause lasted longer than it should have. “Eric? You can say no.”

  “Sorry, sir, I was distracted.” The “sir” was back, and his voice was softer.