Taking Fire

by Cindy Gerard

  “Do they know anything about Ted Jensen? About casualties in general?” she asked.

  “Ted’s going to be okay. The death toll is much less than I expected, considering there were around two hundred people inside. Seven dead at last count. Many more hospitalized, some in critical condition.”

  And she wasn’t supposed to feel guilty. She closed her eyes, saw her dead aide. Wondered how many others might still die. She’d thought she heard a voice at one point during their struggle to get out of the building, but her ears had been ringing so loudly she couldn’t tell what direction it came from. Even if she could have found them, what could she have done? “They might still be alive if—”

  He cut her off again. “You aren’t responsible.”

  “But if I hadn’t come to Muscat—”

  “Hakeem, Amir, and the rest of their al-Attar Hamas brothers are the bad guys here. So stop with the guilt trip. It won’t do Meir any good. We need to look forward, not back.”

  He was right. “So what else?” she asked, and returned to bandaging her feet.

  “The word on Hakeem is that he’s hotheaded. Very radical. Very devoted to his unholy cause and the memory of his father. And he’s out for vengeance. Clearly, he didn’t think about the fallout of bombing a U.S. embassy. Both the Pentagon and DOD are in a tailspin, trying to figure out a strategic and diplomatic plan for addressing the bombing. So requests are apt to get knotted up in the red tape. Which is actually good for us. It means we may not have to dodge a U.S. military operation that could screw up our search—at least, not right away.”

  “What about Amir?”

  “A false religious zealot. The worst kind. He spouts all the ‘Hamas versus infidel’ propaganda, but he likes his alcohol and women. He might be the weak link that leads us to Meir. Rhonda will text us pictures of both Amir and Hakeem.”

  The SAT phone rang just as he said it. But it wasn’t photos of Hakeem and Amir. It was another call from Rhonda.

  * * *

  “I’m going to put you on speakerphone so Talia can hear the conversation, okay, babe?” Taggart hit the speaker icon and set the phone on the coffee table in front of them. “All right. Shoot.”

  “Talia. Hello.” A strong woman’s voice came over the line. “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these conditions. But we’re going to get your son back, okay? You’ve got the best people possible working on it.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for helping,” Talia said, suddenly overwhelmed by the idea that someone she didn’t know was doing so much for Meir.

  “Talk to me, sweetheart,” Bobby said.

  “Okay. I’ve got a lot of info, so I’m starting from the top, and it’s coming fast, so hang on. First, we got an FRS match”—

  “Facial recognition software,” Taggart mouthed to Talia.

  —“on one of the dead men. Known associate of Hakeem al-Attar, so they were definitely his men. I suspect we’ll get a match on the other three soon, but we’re not waiting around for confirmation. We’re moving on this.

  “Next, I believe I already told you that Hakeem and Amir are on the terrorist watch list. We got real lucky. Hakeem was last spotted five days ago at a rental-car desk at the Muscat International Airport. So he’s definitely in Muscat, because there’ve been zero sightings of him anywhere else since. And now we know that in addition to a white VW Golf—that was the vehicle, right?”

  “Right,” Taggart said.

  “In addition to the white Golf, they rented two more vehicles: a light blue four-door Golf and a cream-colored Toyota Highlander. I’ll text you the plate numbers after we hang up.”

  “So we’re looking at four more men fitting inside the blue Golf and five in the Toyota?” Talia asked.

  “Sounds right. They could maybe squeeze another into the Toyota, but why? We’re thinking they’d want cargo space for weapons and supplies.”

  Nine, Talia thought, as a sickening knot formed in her stomach. Nine more men had her baby.

  “We’ve also put a watch on the airport for Meir or any child with an Israeli or American passport attempting to leave the city,” Rhonda continued, helping Talia to focus on what they had, not what they didn’t have. “We don’t think they’d have had the foresight to prepare false papers for Meir, but just in case, we’ve got that area covered. I hacked the school’s database and found a picture of Meir that’s been sent out over the wire. No one’s getting that boy out of Muscat by air without someone in security recognizing him. So far, no children have been flagged.”

  “They could transport him on the ground,” Talia said, and Taggart nodded in accord.

  “They could,” Rhonda agreed. “But why move him out of Muscat? You’re their target, not the boy. He’s their ticket to get to you. We think they’ll want to use him as bait to draw you out. And as frightening as that sounds, we think that’s a good thing, Talia.”

  “How can that be good?” She couldn’t help it; fear for Meir got the best of her.

  “The general consensus is they’re not taking him anywhere. The odds are they’ll attempt to ransom him—for you. We feel this very strongly. And when they finally make that call, you’re going to ask for proof of life. You’re going to demand that they let you talk to him. And they are going to anticipate that. For that reason alone, we’re sure Meir is alive.”

  Talia let that settle, then looked to Taggart for some indication that he agreed with Rhonda. He nodded, looking confident.

  “Talia, do they have any way of getting in touch with you?” Rhonda asked.

  “Yes,” Taggart answered for her. “I think they do. I searched the dead bodyguard’s car and didn’t find his cell phone. Makes sense that if they plan to ransom the boy, they’d need that phone to contact Talia. Her number would be stored on it.”

  “That does make sense,” Talia agreed. “We attempted to reach Jonathan several times. My name would have shown up on his missed-call log.”

  “Good. That’s good,” Rhonda said. “Then we wait for the call. But we’re going to find Meir long before you have to worry about meeting any ransom demands. Right now, there’s a 737 cargo jet filled with equipment fueled up and ready to go at Dulles Airport. And guess who Nate persuaded the Pentagon to send over to investigate the bombing?”

  A smile bloomed on Taggart’s face. “I knew he’d figure out a way.”

  “We’re just waiting for the guys to touch down at Dulles, then they’ll be wheels up.”

  “Wait?” Talia asked as alarm shot through her. “Why do they have to wait?”

  “Rather than tie up the line, I’ll let Bobby fill you in. I’ve still got a lot of info to feed you.”

  Something wasn’t as it should be; she could feel it. Why weren’t they already on their way?

  “Okay.” Rhonda drew a deep breath. “Bobby, after we disconnect, watch for my texts with those plate numbers and the photos of Hakeem and Amir to come through—I’ll send to both the SAT phone and Talia’s cell. You’re going to need them to start your search tonight, even though I still think you should both get some rest and start looking tomorrow.”

  “Noted. But we’re going out tonight. What about transpo?”

  He’d surprised Talia again; she hadn’t been sure he’d be on board with her plan to search tonight. She was beyond relieved that he was. It had been a long time since someone had had her back.

  “Get a pen and paper,” Rhonda said.

  “Just shoot it to me.”

  “All right, Memory Man. I knew you wouldn’t take my advice and start tomorrow. So in forty-five minutes, you’re to walk to the following intersection.” She very precisely gave him the street names. “That location should be exactly six blocks from the safe house. I don’t have to tell you to take measures to make sure you aren’t followed. There’ll be a city taxi, number 393, waiting for you. That’s 393,” she repeated.

&
nbsp; “Copy that,” he said firmly.

  “Don’t get into any cab but that one. If another cab shows up, leave, call me, and we’ll regroup. You’ll find what you asked me for in the backseat. Should be enough money to get you in and out of where you need to go. And Talia, if the clothes don’t fit, blame Bobby, not me.”

  Talia was impressed that Taggart had thought of that very important detail. They needed to blend in. And she wondered again what kind of organization he worked for that had assets here capable of arranging the things Rhonda had managed on this very short notice.

  “One final thing,” Rhonda added. “Unfortunately, you two made quite a stir with the media. And you look like hell, Bobby. Talia, you look a little rough, too, sweetie. Are you sure you’re both up to going out tonight?”

  “Your point?” Bobby said, rolling past Rhonda’s concern.

  “My point is, you have to be very careful out there. There’s a ‘be on the lookout’ for both of you. Not only the embassy staff but the local police and the military want you for questioning about the bombing.”

  “I figured that would happen when we didn’t show up among the living or the dead at the compound. The news coverage didn’t help any.” Bobby sounded disgusted. “Isn’t there anything you can do to squash that BOLO?”

  “I’m working on it, but these things take time.”

  “Don’t worry about it, babe. We’ll be careful.”

  “All right, then, chickies.” Rhonda’s voice was soft with concern and affection. “Keep your eyes open, and watch each other’s back, okay?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Taggart assured her.

  “You’d better be. And Talia, you have every reason to hope for the very best outcome. We’re going to get him out. If you two get lucky on your search tonight, we’ll have him back even sooner.”

  Talia closed her eyes and nodded, unable to speak. She wanted to be hopeful. She needed to be hopeful.

  “I’ll be back in touch with an ETA for the team’s arrival. Keep the phone charged, and keep it close. And for God’s sake, Bobby—”

  “I know,” he cut in. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  22

  “Who are we waiting for?” Talia looked up from the sofa. “I thought they’d already be on their way.”

  Bobby had known this was coming. “Some of the guys were doing drills in the field, down in Central America. The good news is they weren’t running black, so Nate was able to call them back.”

  All the blood drained from her face.

  “Don’t. Just don’t,” he said, seeing her panic set in. If this was a flat-out op where her child wasn’t involved, she’d be icy cool. So he cut her a little slack. “They’re already on a charter flight back to Virginia. Should touch down within three hours.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Because I’ve done those same drills. I know how quickly they can gear up and get home. That 737 in Dulles will be wheels up shortly after midnight Oman time.”

  “So we’re looking at what? Another twenty-four hours?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. The miles are there, they have to fly them.”

  “And then what? How do they clear their landing with the Omani government? It’s not as though the United States has a military base here.”

  “They’ll make it happen. They’ll be cleared, okay?”

  She still looked skeptical. “It’s too long.”

  “It’s not too long. And it’s the time frame we’ve got to work with, so you need to accept it. With a little luck, by the time they arrive, we’ll have something for them to go on.”

  She lowered her head, clearly frustrated and attempting to control it. “We’re looking for a sand pebble on a beach. How can we possibly—”

  “You’re not thinking like an operative,” he snapped. “You have to get your mind-set right.”

  She gathered herself. Drew a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I will.”

  Her phone rang.

  She grabbed it, checked the screen. “Text from Rhonda.”

  “I’m going to change into a dishdasha,” he said. “No one’s going to be looking for a local.”

  “No,” she said, glancing up from the phone. “They’re going to be looking for a Caucasian with a huge bandage on his head.”

  “Got it covered.” He headed for the bedroom.

  “Virginia?”

  He looked over his shoulder, one hand on the door frame. “What about it?”

  “You said the charter flight from Central America was on its way back to Virginia. And Rhonda said the Pentagon approved your ‘team’ to investigate. CIA? Is that who you’re with now?”

  She didn’t miss much. The ITAP team was stationed out of CIA headquarters in Langley, and Nate had worked his magic and gotten the Pentagon to sanction this op. But that was where the connection ended. “No. Not CIA. Look, don’t sweat the small stuff. We’ve got you covered. All you have to do is keep it together.”

  * * *

  Along with the dishdashas, he’d found a few pieces of traditional men’s headwear. He was pretty sure that here in Oman, they called the white cap he put on first to hold his hair in place—no biggie for him—a thagiyah. The gutrah, a scarflike white head covering, fell a little past his shoulders in back and almost to his brows in front.

  Someone would have to be looking really hard to pick up on the bandage on his forehead. Both the thagiyah and the gutrah were held in place by an ogal, a black band that surrounded the top of his head. Too bad he couldn’t figure out how to get the damn thing to stay put.

  He walked out of the bedroom dressed in the dishdasha, the ogal in his hand. “I need some help with this.”

  Talia looked up at him, her expression wild.

  “What?” he asked.

  She held up the phone, screen toward him so he could see Rhonda’s text. A head shot of a young Arab man filled the screen.

  “Hakeem?”

  She became a warrior before his eyes. “If he hurts my child, I’ll kill him.”

  He stared into the face of a dead man walking. “You’re going to have to stand in line. She send a pic of Amir?”

  She nodded, found the other text, and brought Amir al-Attar’s head shot up to view. A shiver ran through her body as she held up the phone for him to see again.

  Jesus. Straight out of Ali Baba and the Forty Degenerates. Amir had a mean, crazed look in his eyes, and for the first time, Bobby gave in to a stark, gut-clenching fear for Meir. If that bastard touched him—

  He stopped. Shut off his thoughts. He couldn’t think of the possibility of the child being hurt by this man, or he wouldn’t be able to function.

  “Those license-plate numbers come through?” he asked, taking the phone from her hand.

  She nodded and looked away, but not before he saw the haunted look in her eyes. He understood, but it wouldn’t do either of them any good to live in that mind frame.

  He walked to the kitchen, opened a drawer where he’d spotted a charger cord earlier, and plugged in her phone. Then he returned to the living area and held up the ogal. “I can’t get it fastened.”

  She rose from the sofa and took it from him. “Clothes may make the man, but they can’t make you into an Arab man. Your skin is too light.”

  “It’ll be fine. The places we’re going will be dark. No one’s going to notice.”

  “And where exactly are we going?”

  “To hunt for Amir in his playground.”

  She studied the ogal and then his head. “Back up to the coffee table so I can reach you.” Then she stepped up onto the low table.

  He should have thought about proximity, his to her, before he gave up on the ogal. Too late now. He backed up to the table, and she looped the cord around his forehead, then brought the ends to the back of his head.

&n
bsp; “Hold still.” He sensed her unease at being this close to him again as she pulled the band tight.

  “Easy.”

  “Sorry. Um . . . can you move the cord so it hits someplace where it doesn’t bother you? Then I’ll tie it.”

  He reached across his body with his right hand to position the ogal and the gutrah over the bandage on the left side of his forehead, and his fingers touched hers. Touched and, after a moment’s hesitation, covered. Large over small. Rough over smooth.

  It would have been a forgotten moment if he’d merely moved his hand away. But he didn’t. For some reason, it felt as if he couldn’t. The unexpected physical contact seemed to tether them in an unbreakable hold. And for long, tentative moments, they both stood frozen, neither of them capable of moving.

  Only the tips of their fingers touched, one soul reaching out to another and hanging on, because both needed something to hang on to so badly.

  She slowly turned her hand into his, and nothing in the world could have kept him from lacing their fingers together and holding on.

  Just holding on.

  “We’re going to get him back,” he whispered, as much for his sake as for hers.

  “I know.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “I know.”

  For another long moment, they stood that way. And then her fingers tightened in his, tugging on strings attached to memories of how good they’d been together and to thoughts of what could have been, what should have been, and to a very big piece of his heart. He turned and faced her.

  “You . . . you could have walked away,” she whispered, her eyes glistening as she searched his. “You could have—”

  “I couldn’t,” he interrupted. “I wouldn’t,” he assured her. And because he couldn’t tell which one of them had started to tremble, he slid his arms around her and pulled her close.

  She leaned into him, laid her head against his shoulder, and drew him tighter. And there they stood, locked in an embrace of emotions that bound them together with a common history, a common fear, and one common goal.