Consummate Betrayal

by Yungeberg. Mary

  Hands on hips, he gazed at Chad. “For now, I think we’re all right with Danielle being here. She’s damned important to Rowan. God knows he’s lost everything, so let’s not take her away from him, too.”

  Chad’s kind face drooped. “Yeah, OK. I’ll talk to Danielle and let her know we may need to pull her access to Rowan on short notice so she’ll be prepared. And much as I hate to say it, Bettina should go home.”

  Nodding at Chad, he slumped back down in the uncomfortable chair. “It sounds to me like you’ve got things well in hand, so I’m going to lean against this nice wall and take a nap. Wake me when the doc comes out.”

  Chad grunted his assent, so he leaned back and closed his eyes. A huge yawn overtook him. He covered his mouth with his fist, twisted uncomfortably and settled in to wait.

  * * *

  Chad unlocked the door and stepped inside the house. Weary and ready to sleep, he decided he’d better take a quick look at Marta’s emails before he went to bed. Trudging into his office and sliding into a chair at his desk, he yawned and touched the mouse, bringing the screen to life. Forty-five minutes later he stared transfixed at the last of the damning emails, flickering in front of him.

  Muusa Shemal, the Egyptian national, the man Rowan had been suspicious of had put the wheels in motion. It had to be the tip of an iceberg… And why had Muusa Shemal zeroed in on Rowan? The emails Marta had sent and the replies from the man made his blood run cold. The wily jihadist considered Rowan his prize and must be insane. He thought to turn on the printer and begin making hard copies of the emails. Ralph needed to see them and so did Rowan.

  Fresh enthusiasm fired in his weary mind. This could be the lifeline they needed, to begin figuring out why his friend had been targeted for destruction. In the morning he needed to call his father. The conversation with Ralph had spawned seeds of a solution to their problem, had reminded him of a place that existed, where he hadn’t been in years. He’d never wanted to go back, not after Alzheimer’s claimed his mother. The memories were too painful. But now…he leaned back in the chair and sighed. It would take some time to open the place up and check it out. It might need repairs, but the secluded spot he had in mind would be a perfect place to hide not just Rowan, but all of them, if necessary.

  * * *

  Janice Milani threaded her way carefully along the beach to her favorite spot, a broad igneous rock that stood watch at the edge of the Pacific like a massive sentinel. She liked to think of it as her hiding place and had spent many hours seated on its table-like top thinking and praying through whatever life cast her way. Reaching the rock, she sidled onto it and sat with hands flat on the warm surface, knees bent as she gazed across the water to the horizon.

  Being here calmed her troubled mind like nothing else. And Lord knew it needed calming today. Wiping away the tears sliding down her cheeks, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her knees. With thick, curling black hair and a smooth face, everyone said she looked younger than fifty-five, but every year was showing today, of that she was sure.

  She’d grown up a good Catholic girl and then totally blown it, at least according to her raucous, opinionated Italian family by first marrying, of all people, Khalil Milani. Secondly, she’d ditched Catholicism for personal salvation and a relationship with Jesus. That had likely been harder on her family than marrying an immigrant from Iran. Sitting back and lifting her head to the sun she smiled, thinking back to the first time she’d taken her handsome Iranian boyfriend home with her for a weekend. That he had stayed after that experience attested to the depth of his commitment and love for her.

  While Khalil attended college and pursued a career as an electrical engineer, she poured her creative energy into growing flowers, tending the Iranian style courtyard garden they built in the backyard of their home, and raising their two children. The four of them had always had so much fun. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes, willing her mind to quietness. The waves rushed, broke and roared, gulls called, and she felt occasional spray on her cheeks, mingling with the tears she couldn’t stop.

  She pictured Rowan in her mind’s eye as she’d last seen him, the summer of 2001. He’d stopped by the house with secret happiness spilling over, thrilled to show them his fiancée’s engagement ring. It had been breathtakingly beautiful – a square-cut diamond that sparkled with deep fire, a full two carats atop a platinum band inset with sapphires.

  She’d never seen her son so happy and to her sorrow, she had never seen him since. After 9-11, he refused steadfastly to come home, and it was her fault. Striving to be a good Christian, she’d told him that God would punish him for living in sin with his fiancée. Covering her face, unable to believe the horror she’d perpetrated on her son, she despaired of the cutting, self-righteous words that still echoed in her mind. Remember Rowan? I told you – you can’t mock God. This is your fault. You reap what you sow. If you hadn’t chosen to break His laws, God wouldn’t have allowed Michelle to die on 9-11. All her regret couldn’t heal the pain she’d caused and the chasm she’d created between them.

  Thankfully, she’d grown beyond the insidious, blinding, self-righteous pride. But it was too late. Rowan had never been home again and only spoke to her when necessary. She smiled sadly. When she spoke with him on the phone he treated her with kindness, which was more than she deserved, but it was the distant, empty sort he’d give a stranger. But that was the past. She couldn’t change it and needed to concentrate on today. Even though her son rejected her, and with good reason, she still needed to pray for him.

  * * *

  Muusa Shemal slammed his phone shut and tossed it on the table, cursing. The stupid swine – greedy for their own revenge, they’d nearly killed Rowan Milani. Clenching his fists, he fought to control his fury. That was to be his privilege – his alone. Striding angrily to the kitchen of his London flat, he lifted the teapot from the stove, added water, and lit the flame beneath it.

  Reaching for a cup, his moist, shaking fingers couldn’t hold onto the fine china. The cup clattered noisily to the countertop. Wiping his hands on a towel, he sat it upright and dug a tea bag from the collection he kept in a bowl. Eyes narrowed, mouth a grim line, he stared at the rain spattering the tiny window behind the sink.

  Somehow, the ghost agent had learned his identity and had his travel records, going back several years, in his possession when he was captured. Rowan Milani was diabolically cunning, more than even he had realized, which only increased the great respect he had for the man who was now his captive, unaware that though he lay in an American hospital, the shackles on his legs were at his insistence.

  He had made it unalterably clear that when Rowan Milani was apprehended, he must be secured. The man had a preternatural ability to slip away, and he wanted to be sure that the crafty jinn would not somehow escape. He lived for the coming day, when he’d gaze into his prisoner’s kafir eyes and see terror burgeon and flourish as he taught him about retribution for all the warriors he’d slaughtered.

  Raising his hands to Allah, he marched to the cramped front room and watched the traffic on the street outside the rain streaked window. If the ghost agent had studied the pattern of his travels, who knew what else he may have surmised? The Brotherhood’s Project – centered in the sleeper cells he’d worked so diligently to plant, nurture and teach for many years – was at risk as long as Rowan Milani remained in the United States.

  Shaking his fist in frustration, he considered the two men he’d hired. The CIA fools were his errand boys, sent to procure and deliver his prisoner, nothing more. And now their misguided zeal threatened his entire plan. He tugged at his shirt collar and opened another button. The heat of anger left him sweating, heart palpitating crazily in his chest. As the teapot whistled, he returned to the kitchen, switched off the flame, and poured boiling water over the tea. Inhaling the wafting steam, he hoped the jasmine would calm his mind.

  He’d given his life to Allah – recruiting, teaching and prepari
ng for jihad across the heartland of America, the death blow that would slice the belly of the Beast and bleed it to death. The Brotherhood had worked quietly for many years to achieve their goals. Nothing would deter them. Rowan Milani’s activities had only increased his sense of urgency. The ghost agent must be renditioned to Egypt, before the clever man could prove his own innocence…and indict him.

  Stroking his black hair with one hand, he carried the delicate cup in his other as he continued his restless march around the flat. An extensive trip was in the offing, to rejoice with the faithful around the country. Sitting at his desk, he leaned back and closed his eyes, willing his quivering muscles to stillness. All praise to Allah, forever. It would be as he intended – the conqueror and the vanquished, together for as long as he, the conqueror, wanted the vanquished to live – and suffer.

  Opening a battered tin on his desk, he scooped from the mound of Turkish tobacco, carefully rolled it in thin parchment, licked the fragile paper and gently pinched it closed. Striking a wooden match, he lit the fragrant tobacco, inhaling deeply. He burned the life from the crackling leaves – just as he would extinguish the life of Rowan Milani. Closing his eyes, he smiled as Allah’s peace entered his soul at last.

  * * *

  Chad looked down into the inscrutable eyes and thought he’d die. Saying good-bye to Bettina hurt more than he’d ever imagined possible. Feeling guilty because her brother needed to be his first priority, he wanted more than anything to board the plane with her and fly away from every responsibility. At least he’d been able to spend one night with her. They’d had dinner at the same restaurant Danielle had recommended to Rowan. And it had been marvelous. He didn’t have the flair for special effects that his colleague possessed, but he and Bettina sat for hours in the cozy booth. Afterward he’d taken her to his home and into his bed. They’d enjoyed each other’s bodies, made love and to his utter delight, agreed to begin a long-distance relationship.

  Bettina reached up and cupped his cheek in her warm hand. At five feet six inches, she wasn’t exactly short, but he was almost a foot taller. Her red lips quivered. “Thanks for caring so much for Rowan. It helps to know you’re with him. And uh, I can’t – I mean, it’s hard to say good-bye.”

  Bettina sniffled, her eyes filling with tears as he folded her into his arms. Overcome with a fierce desire to protect her, he closed his eyes, held her tight and bent over to murmur into her hair. “I know. I don’t want to say good-bye either. But you can call me anytime. And I’ll let you know how Rowan’s doing every day. Maybe in a couple months I can fly out to California, or you can come back here.”

  Releasing her just enough to kiss her, he concentrated on the soft fullness of her lips. When she slid her arms around him beneath his jacket, he shivered with pleasure. Deepening the kiss, trying to mold her body to his with his hands, he forgot where they were until the overhead announcement of United’s arrival from Chicago brought him back to reality. Whoa, he’d better cool it before someone told them to get a room…and that would be all right with him.

  Bettina had a dreamy expression on her face that pleased him, made him feel like he’d accomplished something. She gazed up at him. “Oh Chad, I don’t want to go. This is too hard.”

  Looking into her dark eyes, he remembered how he’d always laughed at the maudlin, teary-eyed couples mooning around airports. Remaining footloose and free, he’d thought of himself as the superior being. Not anymore. “Bettina, this is it. I’m going to miss you, but we gotta do this. Good-bye, honey. I – I love you. Now go, before you miss your plane. Call me when you land, so I know you’re home safe.” He gathered her in his arms one last time, kissed her hard, and let her go.

  Before she could react, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket, smiled at her stricken face, and walked away. He heard quick footsteps and felt a hand on his arm. Bettina pulled him around. “I love you too, Chad. Bye.” Tears streaming, she fled to the escalator. As he watched her ascend, she wiped her cheeks and waved. Then she was gone, drawn into the crush of people making their way through the security checkpoint.

  Feeling desolate, he slouched through the main entryway and out the double doors. Even the red Mustang didn’t lift his spirit. Until Rowan recovered and they’d taken down Muusa Shemal and whatever organization had targeted his friend for destruction, none of them could relax or even consider a normal existence. Not for the first time since the nightmare had begun, he felt weary, exhausted and at his wits end.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TEN

  One Month Later – First Week In April

  Ralph woke with a start. His left foot had slipped off the narrow cot and was dangling in the chilly air. He pulled on the blanket, uncovering his other foot. Rubbing gritty eyes, he decided to get up since he needed to use the bathroom anyway. The cold floor made him shiver, but at least he was smart enough to wear socks, he thought righteously, glancing at Rowan’s bed. Sunlight poured into the room, making a shiny pool of light on the tiled floor, but it held no warmth. It must be the gray walls, or maybe the absence of pictures. The dry erase boards covered with writing and numbers didn’t do much for the ambience in the cluttered hospital room.

  Scratching his belly, he thought about standing up. Every morning found him so stiff he could barely move until he’d hobbled around for ten minutes. He scowled and planted his hands on the edge of the cot, grunting his way to an awkward, standing position. At least he’d made it out of the cot without upending the damn thing, like he’d done the day before. His right hip bone still hurt from that escapade. His wife Marion had laughed out loud when he’d told her. He’d spank her sweet behind for that, if he ever got to go home again.

  Still sore, he stepped over to check on Rowan. The surgery had been successful and Doctor Williams had told both him and Rowan in great detail what he’d done. How much his friend had absorbed was debatable, but he’d taken extensive notes and Doctor Anderson – Steve – checked in every day to answer his questions. The best news was that both doctors agreed that with proper rehabilitation, Rowan would regain most if not complete use of his hands. The relief in his special agent’s eyes was overwhelming and he was relieved too, more than he’d ever admit.

  He looked down at Rowan again, sleeping with his head turned as usual to the right. The bruises on his face and body had faded. Still, he’d lost weight and looked like hell. Leaning on the cold bed rails, Ralph ruminated over his special agent for a moment longer, marveling at how the younger man maintained a cold, distant demeanor, day after day. For someone like Rowan, with towering self-assurance and more than a smidgeon of arrogance, it must be hell to depend on nurses for everything he needed. That wasn’t about to change either, because the casts on both arms started at his fingers and went damn near to his elbows. His left foot was encased in a cast as well. The CIA bastard had fractured three bones in the foot he’d stomped on.

  The shrill ringing of his phone shattered his melancholy reverie. Limping to the cot where he’d left it lying on the floor, he bent painfully to retrieve it. He’d be damned if it wasn’t Ainsley. What did he want at eight-thirty in the morning? “Johnston,” he answered tersely.

  “Good morning, Ralph. How are things in South Dakota? How’s our prisoner coming along after a month of recovery?” Ainsley’s voice held an undertone of urgency, which raised his suspicions.

  “Well, good morning, sir. It would appear we’re going to have spring in South Dakota. It’s a balmy morning, and we’ve got a good weather forecast for the entire week. And our prisoner is progressing quite well.”

  Ainsley laughed. “That’s great news. We have nothing to prevent us from moving Hassani to Quantico, where he can be safely incarcerated.”

  The bottom fell out of his morning, and he hadn’t even made it to the john. Ainsley’s voice held a temerity that made him uneasy. Clearly, his boss thought he had one up on him. “You might be rushing things, sir. The surgery went well, but rehab is going to ta
ke some time with this. We’re talking months.” He stopped abruptly, with the ugly certainty that he was speaking to a brick wall.

  Ainsley’s voice turned hard, edged with a cruelty he’d never heard from his boss. “Now Ralph – let’s speak candidly. Rehabilitation is not our first priority with this man. This isn’t the special agent you thought you knew. This is an international terrorist. Screw the suspected shit – I’ve had confirmation of that from intelligence the CIA gathered independently of my sources. I don’t give a good goddamn whether he recuperates or not, and frankly, neither should you. I’ve spoken to the president about this Ralph. He concurs.”

  Ah, the one up. Barely holding his temper, he pinched the bridge of his nose. How could he make Ainsley think he was still onboard his fucked up train? He had to be extremely careful. After speaking with the president a week ago, they’d decided to wait and see about moving Rowan anywhere. Now it appeared that Ainsley had weaseled his way in and convinced the president he knew what he was talking about.

  “Well sir, since you put it like that, what can I say?” He affected a hearty chuckle. “Honestly, it would be a tremendous relief for both me and special agent Cantor to wash our hands of this entire operation. We have apparently apprehended the terrorist masterminding the operation we were here to circumvent. The fact that he so effectively infiltrated the FBI explains why we had such a hard time making any headway.” Waving an arm wildly, he rolled his eyes. “All in all, sir, I believe you are quite astute in your perceptions, and I think we’ve effectively cut the head off the snake.” Sweat soaked his armpits. How had he done?