A good spy came early. Staked out the handoff location, the ruins of the castello. Watched for any suspicious movement, any hint of trouble.
Prepared for surprises.
Like her former husband showing up with his crew of cohorts.
Signe had watched from her room last night, overlooking the castello as Ham and his group of Americans toured the ruins, took pictures, and generally acted as if they might be on vacation.
Not setting up security for a covert drop of information.
Hamilton Jones, what are you doing here?
Oh, the man looked good. Better, even, than the last time she’d seen him, three months ago. He’d been sitting at a cafe in the central square of Catania, and she’d made the mistake of stepping out of the shadow of a booth to get a better look at him.
She’d lost her heart all over again at the sight of him, his sandy blond hair cut short, his wide shoulders, the way he carried himself, as if, although he shouldered the entire world, he could manage it.
Of course he could. Nothing ruffled Ham.
He’d turned her direction, then, and his gaze fixed on her.
And for a second, the questions flashed through her. What if she told him the truth? Told him how she’d been in way over her head? How she’d longed to change her mind and how she dreamed of him for years storming the camp, yanking her out of trouble like he had their entire childhood.
No. Because the other what-if was too terrible.
What if he hated her?
So, she’d bolted. Sprinted through the crowd, down an alley, her heart in her throat.
Then, as if haunting her, a week later, he’d called her on the secret burner phone she’d given Aggie.
It took all her strength to beg him not to come looking for her. Instead, she’d managed, “Don’t try to find me.”
Of course he hadn’t listened to her. She should have suspected it, but the fact of it still burned like a live coal inside her. Because if he wasn’t with Aggie, then she might be in danger. And the one thing she needed him to do—the one thing—was protect their daughter.
How had he gotten wrapped up in this exchange? What if he was here to apprehend her? Because it couldn’t be coincidence that he’d shown up at the designated drop location twenty-four hours before she was supposed to meet Roy.
Ham did like to show up in her life when she least expected it and complicate things.
Signe had sat up most of the night in her tiny room, staring out at the sea, debating her options.
Making decisions.
She would track him down before their scheduled drop, just in case he—or more likely, whoever was following him—had something else planned for her. Then, she’d determine just how he ended up in the middle of this mess, maybe hand him the jump drive and . . . walk away.
Really. She’d walk away for the good of all of them.
Run if she had to.
Now, she stood just out of eyesight of Ham, around the corner, near the serving station on the terrace of his hotel, trying to stir up the courage to walk out and . . .
Not lose her heart, do something stupid, and cost them all their lives.
Yeah, no problem.
The sky arched overhead—cloudless and bright, save for the whispering of gray smoke over a smoldering Mount Etna. The Mediterranean Sea was a clear, glorious blue, the sailboats at dock or moored in the bay. The aroma of moka pot coffee seasoned the air from the nearby two-burner hot plates, and a stack of jelly-filled bomboloni tempted her to grab one.
The waitress had just left to fill Ham’s cup with coffee, and then Signe had watched him have a conversation with one of his male friends. A good-looking man with brown hair and aviator sunglasses.
Ham’s words had drifted her direction and practically stopped her heart. “I don’t know why she did what she did, but I’m going to forgive her.”
“What?” His friend had voiced her exact thought.
Oh Ham. You don’t know what you’re doing.
The waitress returned, and Signe wrapped her scarf around her face and walked out to the edge of the roof, out of Ham’s view. She lost his voice for a minute but stood beside a planted palm tree and heard the last.
“Regardless of how I feel, I’ve never stopped loving her. And I guess that’s the part that matters.”
“Ma’am, can I seat you?” The waitress had come up behind her, a beautiful dark-skinned woman with golden braids.
Signe shook her head, not looking at her. Because her eyes burned.
“So, yes, I’m going to forgive her.”
Oh, she hated herself for what she was about to do.
The waitress walked away, and Signe blinked, drying her eyes, staring out at the street below. She spotted the man who’d been talking to Ham emerge and head toward the castello.
Now. Before any of his other cohorts showed up.
She took a breath. Turned.
Ham sat in profile to her, wearing a pair of sunglasses, the sun beautiful in his hair, lifting golden threads from the brown. He hadn’t shaved, so a hint of dark whiskers raked his face, and he wore a pair of cargo pants, flip-flops, and a button-down shirt.
She walked up, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
He just stared at her, unmoving. His mouth opened slightly. Then he closed it again and nodded. “It was you I saw a couple months ago.”
She nodded, her jaw tight.
He drew in a breath, then looked away, and only then did she see it.
The swallow, the slightest tremor of his chest.
Unflappable Ham, biting back his emotions.
Yeah, well, maybe SEALs didn’t cry either.
He drew in a long breath, and then he was back. “How are you?”
She opened her mouth and didn’t even know where to start, so, “Is Aggie okay?”
“Yes. She’s with family friends and she’s safe. She misses you, though.”
She looked away, refused to let his words lodge inside her. Although, “Tell her I love her.”
A pause.
“Signe—”
“Why are you here?” She looked straight at him, seeing his eyes through his sunglasses. Good. Her voice hadn’t started shaking. “You’re not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be meeting—”
“Roy. I know.”
What? “How do you know Roy?”
He shook his head. “It’s a long story, and not for now, but—”
“I need to know, Ham. This is . . . there are people’s lives at risk—”
“I know you have the list.” His voice was low.
She drew in a breath. “Okay.”
“And I know that your cover was blown at your last meet.”
She frowned, but yes, he might know that, if he’d talked to Roy. Or maybe Martin? “Was Roy compromised?”
“He just said that you wouldn’t trust him if you saw him, and you needed a friendly face.” He affected a smile.
Friendly. That was a loaded word. But, “I’m going to forgive her.”
The waitress came over. “Coffee?”
She nodded, just needing something to hold on to. The woman poured her a cup of thick espresso. Set a pot of steaming water on the table for her to add to it.
“Croissant?”
“Yes, please.”
Signe wrapped her hands around the warm cup. Inhaled the aroma.
“What’s going on, Signe? How did you get involved in this? And how is it that I have a ten-year-old daughter I didn’t even know about?”
He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t sound accusatory, but his question was a knife to her heart.
“You remember Pavel Tsarnaev, right?”
“Yes. The Chechen warlord who attacked the refugee camp you were working at. The man who kidnapped you, and the man I thought the US had killed with a missile strike to his bunker. The bunker you were in.”
Only at the end did his voice strain, and she had a small hint of what it might have cost him to watch her die. “We we
re out of the bunker by then. I wasn’t hurt.”
He let out a breath.
“It was well into the war in Afghanistan, and the CIA knew he had terrorist training camps. They wanted me to find out who was in those camps and what they had planned. I was supposed to act as an aid worker, establish assets, discover his network, work from the outside. But when Pavel attacked the camp, well . . . I changed the plan.”
He took off his glasses. His blue eyes could still hold her captive, especially when he asked, quietly, “Bypassing the fact that you were in the CIA and didn’t tell me . . . did you know you were pregnant?”
“No.” She met his gaze and silently begged him not to ask if knowing would have made a difference. If she would have left, gone home with him, been his wife.
Probably. She hoped so.
But she’d been pretty idealistic back then.
He didn’t ask. “How did Pavel Tsarnaev get the NOC list?”
She studied him. “How did you get this assignment?”
“Senator White asked me to meet you. He knew, given our history, that you might trust me.” He left that hanging there, a real question behind it.
She wanted to. Of course she did. It was Ham.
“Senator White is running for president, isn’t he?”
Ham nodded.
“And his running mate is Senator Reba Jackson?”
“Yes, why?”
Right then she could have told him. Could have revealed what she’d seen, what she’d heard.
But she paused. Mostly because she didn’t know how far into this Ham had gotten. Or if the powers that be intended to use him for something nefarious.
But also because, behind Ham, Mount Etna began to shiver.
She glanced at the black smoke billowing off the mountain.
Ham turned. “Oh my—”
And that was as far as he got before the top came off the mountain.
The boom echoed across the blue sky. Ash and smoke poured out.
Ham dove for her as the cloud rolled down into the valley. He tackled her off her chair, barely cushioning her as they landed on the tile. She heard glassware breaking as the force swept tables over. As the world began to shake, he curled his body around her, holding her against him, one arm over her head, his own head pressed down against hers.
She held onto his arms as the building rocked, as the structure tore from its foundation, as the tiles surged and buckled and cracked.
The floor began to open.
Ham saw it first. “Get up!” He jumped to his feet, grabbing her up. “Run!”
Run where? But he had her hand and headed toward the stairwell in the center of the building.
A terrible roaring followed them as the mountain raged fire and smoke. The air turned rotten, poisonous.
Instead of the stairwell, he pushed her into the open elevator.
What?
“Get down!” He crouched over her, slamming his hand on the close door button.
She didn’t know much about volcanoes—or earthquakes, but maybe they should find a bathroom or get under a door frame or—
The door closed, and for a second, all went silent as the lift began to carry them down. She looked up at him, caught a glimpse of his face.
His eyes met hers, fierce and blue, and she had this crazy, terrible urge to wrap her hands in his shirt and just hold on. Because even in the midst of crazy, here he was, braced over her, solid, safe—
The elevator lurched. She screamed.
Then everything went black and they began to fall.
She just needed a peace offering.
A way to show up at Orion’s door and get him to listen to her.
Because Jenny hadn’t traveled four thousand miles to let Orion walk away.
Okay, yes, three days ago she’d been the one running, but since then . . . well, since then she’d woken up in Italy.
Italy, with the overflowing geraniums and begonias in giant terra-cotta pots flanking the door of their four-story hotel. Italy, with its old-world architecture, the Renaissance windows and ornate marble flooring, even in her bathroom. Italy, with the glorious blue Mediterranean Sea out her third-story window, and the stomach-stirring smell of baking bread and rich, dark coffee beckoning her to throw off her cotton covers and stand at the open window.
Sailboats rose and fell in the soft waves of the sea, the sun glinting off their high masts. Dogs walked with their owners, bicyclists rode along the sidewalk. A few fishermen unloaded baskets onto the dock.
“Don’t run, Jenny. Give Orion a chance to fix this. You don’t know what he’ll do if you don’t give him a chance.”
Scarlett’s words had followed Jenny across the ocean, through two airports, and haunted her all day yesterday as Ham and Orion ran through the meet at the castello down the road. She took pictures as they talked through scenarios and tried not to regret the yes she’d said to Ham when he asked if she’d join them on the trip. Apparently, the contact he wanted to meet was an old friend—and might be in trouble. Ham wanted her to be available should she need counseling.
Or maybe Orion had told him that he’d seen her leaving and suggested Ham rope her into his clandestine mission.
She’d let her guilt speak for her. Because she couldn’t escape the look on Orion’s face, either. “Of course you’re leaving. Without telling anyone.”
So yes, they should talk. But so far, he’d avoided her like she might have Ebola.
Enough. Orion loved coffee. And maybe if she could find a Starbucks or something like it he’d . . .
Well, she didn’t allow herself to dream that they might have a happy ending, but he deserved the truth. Regardless of how it hurt her to speak it.
Jenny stood at the window for a long second, breathing in the fragrant air, then threw on a pair of pants, her sandals, and a T-shirt and headed downstairs.
Ham was up early, of course, and standing at the front desk, getting the password for the internet. He glanced at her. “Going out?”
“Just for a morning stroll. I’ll be back.”
“Don’t get lost.”
He was in a good mood today. But then again, Ham was always in a good mood.
She walked out the front door, past the lobby where an older man in dress pants swept the front walk. His white hair had the finest trace of black, and his gaze was warm. A name tag on the front of his short-sleeve shirt read Jacopo.
“Ciao,” he said.
“Ciao.” She paused, then, “Do you speak English?”
He nodded.
“Do you know where I might find a cup of American coffee? And maybe a pastry?”
Jacopo pointed down the cobblestone street, past a row of parked European cars to a white awning. “Caffe Greco. Best coffee in Sicily.” He winked at her and she thanked him and headed down the street.
She walked past a gate thick with climbing roses, then down the cobblestone street, past brick and stone buildings, women holding baskets filled with bread, children walking with backpacks.
The shop hosted a couple tables outside, but she went in and the smell swept through her, found her bones.
Get coffee, offer it to Orion, and tell him, well . . . all of it.
She didn’t want to have children, ever, because . . . well, because she didn’t deserve to have a child.
Which meant she’d have to tell him about Brendan.
She blew out a breath and got in line, trying to decide on any of the pastries in the glass case, trying to sound out their names.
Too soon she got to the counter. “Two coffees. Americano.” She hadn’t really a clue what those might be, but hopefully they’d be close enough. Her only real time overseas had been in Afghanistan, and the base there had always served the coffee sludge black.
She also pointed to a chocolate croissant and held up two fingers.
Orion, I’m so sorry I ran from you. Can we please talk?
She paid, then grabbed the bag and went to wait at the counter for her coffee.
Around her, patrons drank their morning beverages in white cups with foam on top, or just black. She watched a barista froth milk in the massive cappuccino maker along the wall, another ground espresso into a portafilter, then affixed it to the machine to pull the shot.
Laughter and the hum of Italian filled the tiny cafe.
And she was here, without Orion.
She pressed her hand to her stomach, hating the roil against the emptiness. Orion, I know I really hurt you. I was panicked, and foolish—but I have to tell you something—
“Ma’am? Your coffee.” A man with a little black hat and an apron set two cups on the counter.
She stared at the coffee, steaming in two white cups nestled in white saucers. Oops. “Excuse me—” What did they say in Italian? “Scusami?”
The man turned, walked back to her. “Si?”
“Can I get this to go?”
He frowned at her. “Go?” He looked behind him, at one of the baristas, and said something.
She came over. A pretty blonde, she said, “I speak English. How can I help you?”
“Can I get this in to-go cups?”
She turned to the man and they had a moment of conversation. Then she turned back. “You want to go with the coffee?”
“Yes. In a cup?” She made a gesture that she guessed didn’t help at all. “A paper cup?”
The woman sighed, turned to the man, explained, then turned back. “I’m sorry. We have no paper.”
No paper. Right. No wonder the shop was full.
She picked up the cups and brought them to the end of the counter. Okay, so her peace offering would be minus the coffee. Still, she had the croissant.
She took a sip of the coffee. Nearly coughed but managed to hold it in, swallow, scalding her mouth.
“You okay?”
A college-aged man in shorts, the sides of his head shaven and the rest pulled back into a bun, handed her a cloth napkin. “Italian coffee takes some getting used to.”
“I asked for an Americano. It’s on the board, but I guess I was expecting American coffee.”
He laughed. “It’s diluted espresso and it’ll take the hair off your chest. Here.” He reached into his backpack and handed her a couple packets of what looked like sweetener. “I always travel with a little coffee kit. Sweetener, some creamer.”
The Price of Valor Page 8