From across the ballroom came a sudden blast of music and they all jumped. The volume was quickly adjusted, but it had caught the attention of everyone in the room.
As Teri watched, a skinny man climbed onto a wobbly makeshift stage. He started to sing “New York, New York” in a voice that shouldn’t have been allowed within fifty feet of a microphone.
“Oh, Christ,” Stan said, with complete and utter despair.
The man was singing in the local dialect, which had too many syllables to fit the notes.
It was beyond absurd and she met Stan’s eyes. Disbelief, horror, and amusement were combined with the warmth of his somehow knowing that she, too, was dangerously close to losing it.
“Welcome to hell,” he told her.
She had to clench her teeth to keep from laughing. Or crying.
“He’s not that bad,” Muldoon protested. “It takes a lot of nerve to get up in front of a crowd of strangers like this.”
“Excuse me, Senior Chief.”
It was Chief Wayne Jefferson—small, black, energetic, and well-known for his skills as an expert sharpshooter. He and Chief Frank O’Leary—tall, skinny, and laconic to the point of near-coma—were the team’s snipers. The two men couldn’t have been less alike.
“We’ve got a snafu with some of the rooms. Silverman, Jenk, Scooter,” Jefferson listed on his fingers, “Cosmo, Horse, and Izzy all got rooms facing the street. I just spent an hour using sign language and baby talk with the hotel manager, getting them reassigned—and their new rooms all face the street. Normally I wouldn’t bother you with this, Senior, but these men are tired as hell. I need to get them into their rooms now, and I recognized that my urge to grab this bastard and rip his smug racist smirk off his motherfucking face wouldn’t speed up the process.” He glanced at Teri. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
“Good call, Chief.” Stan stood up, looked from Muldoon to Teri. “You’ll have to excuse me. This could take a while. If the food comes—eat. Don’t wait for me.” He turned to Jefferson. “Find me Lt. Johnny Nilsson. And then come back here and get yourself fed.”
Jefferson was staring at the karaoke man in disbelief. “I don’t think so, Senior. I’ll be getting mine to go.”
“Nilsson speaks the local language,” Muldoon told her as Stan and Jefferson headed toward the door. “He flew out yesterday with L.T.—Lieutenant Paoletti.”
“Yeah,” Teri said. “I’ve met him. Nilsson, I mean.”
The awkward silence that fell was daunting. Silence, that is, except for the sound created by the Karaoke Man, who hit an impossibly flat note and held it out impossibly long. Ouch.
Muldoon fidgeted in his seat. He was even more uncomfortable now that they were alone.
She prayed for Stan’s swift return. How long could it take to get rooms reassigned in a hotel that was only filled to one-quarter capacity?
“So what’s the deal with the rooms? Inside facing instead of outside . . . ?” Teri asked, searching for something, anything to say. Stan had asked her about her room, too. You’re facing the inside courtyard, right?
“Outside rooms—” Muldoon leapt upon the topic, obviously desperately glad to have something to talk about. “—rooms that have windows looking onto the street—are dangerous. This is a city where drive-by shootings and sniper attacks happen regularly. In a room facing the street, you need to put your mattress up in front of the window to protect against stray bullets, maybe even sleep in the bathtub. Which is about as comfortable as it sounds.”
God, there were people in this city trying to raise children. How on earth did they ever let their kids go outside to play amid the continuous threat of death and destruction?
“Those inner rooms—the ones that face onto that courtyard—are significantly safer than the others,” Muldoon continued. “It’s one of the two main reasons Uncle Sam uses this hotel for billeting troops.”
Teri nodded. “And the other reason—let me guess—is not just the heliport on the roof, but the fact that it’s one of the tallest buildings in this part of the city. When we’re on the roof, only a few people are going to be shooting down at us.” As opposed to some of the other hotels, where they’d be surrounded by taller buildings on all sides.
“You got it.” He relaxed enough to reach for a breadstick, snap it in two. “There’s only one other building that’s taller in this part of the city—and we’ve got Marines posted on that rooftop. The only real potential threat comes from the east-facing windows of the top two floors of that building—and we’re working on getting men stationed in those areas as well. Until then—well, you got the instructions about swift landings and immediate takeoffs, right?”
Teri nodded as she took a sip of the bottled water the waiter had brought. Whenever approaching the hotel, she was to set the helo down fast. Like her passengers, she was to disembark as quickly as possible, running in a zigzag pattern across the roof to the stairwell. Boarding and takeoffs were similarly done. And once in the air, she was to fly like a bat out of hell, as swiftly away from the taller building as possible.
She’d done it three times today already.
Teri put down her glass to find that they’d slipped, once again, into a tense silence.
“I’m not good at this,” Muldoon blurted. “I apologize.”
“No,” Teri said, “don’t. It’s not—”
“Women look at me and they expect—”
“—what you think,” Teri talked over him, but he wasn’t listening.
“—me to be someone else, someone cool and, I don’t know, charismatic, and I’m not, I’m just an engineering nerd and I suck at this and, God, I end up disappointing all but the ones who just want sex, and they end up disappointing me.”
Whoa. Teri could tell from the look on his face that he’d surprised himself with that outburst as much as he’d surprised her.
“Excuse me,” he said, his face starting to turn red. “You probably didn’t want to know that.”
“I didn’t ask Stan to set us up,” Teri told him. Stan. She could do it, she could use his given name—just not to his face. “He did that completely on his own.”
Muldoon cringed. “Oh, God, now I’m really embarrassed.”
“Don’t be—I thought maybe you’d asked Stan to introduce us, so . . .”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
“Obviously.” She couldn’t keep a giggle from slipping out.
He pushed his chair back from the table. “Excuse me. I have to go die now.”
She grabbed for his hand. “Please don’t leave. You can’t imagine how glad I am that you said that. No one’s ever honest, and I’m always second-guessing them, and God, I hate it. I mean, just a few minutes ago, I was thinking one thing and you were thinking another, but we were both wrong. And now we know—and we don’t have to be nervous anymore.”
Mike Muldoon was holding Teri Howe’s hand.
Christ, that was fast.
Stan stood in the doorway of the restaurant, back in the shadows, watching them. He’d been waylaid in the hall by Lieutenant Paoletti, and he hadn’t been able to resist walking back with the CO toward the restaurant and looking in to see how things were going.
Apparently things were going pretty damn well.
Teri leaned closer to Muldoon and said something, and they both laughed.
She pulled her hand free, but the touch was perpetuated by the way they smiled into each other’s eyes.
Fuck.
Hey, Yente. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it?
No.
Yes. Look at them. They were so freaking cute together.
And Teri wasn’t afraid of Muldoon. Her shoulders were relaxed—it was obvious she liked him. Which made sense. Muldoon was a great guy.
Stan had to back off on the envy overdose.
Which was easier said than done—but he’d done plenty of difficult things before. As hard as it was going to be, he could do this, too.
Stan had watch
ed Teri all day today, and he’d made note of the way she’d practically flinched when some of the more, shall we say, exuberant men said hello to her. She’d tensed up, as if she were preparing for battle. Bracing herself for attack.
She needed someone steady, like Muldoon, in her life.
She’d needed more from Stan than a quick fix—he could certainly see that now. By taking her away from San Diego, he’d provided nothing more than a geographic cure.
Teri Howe’s problem wasn’t Lt. Comdr. Joel Hogan.
Teri Howe’s problem was Teri Howe.
How in the hell was he going to fix that?
His cell phone rang.
“Sorry to bother you, Senior Chief, but there’s a problem.” Jenk delivered the news with his usual good cheer. “Gilligan’s stuck in the elevator, and the hotel maintenance crew won’t let us get him out ourselves.”
Amazing. And the power hadn’t even gone out yet.
“He’s going to have to wait in line,” Stan told the kid. “I have to wrangle some asshole at the front desk first. Find Sam Starrett and WildCard Karmody,” he ordered, thinking aloud as he walked swiftly to the stairs. “Tell them to bulldoze over the maintenance crew—to just keep agreeing with them—and get Gilligan the hell out of there anyway. And if I’m not there by the time he gets free, tell Karmody to do his best imitation of me and slice Gilligan into little quivering pieces. What the fuck is he doing getting into an elevator, goddamn knucklehead? Go.”
“Aye aye, Senior Chief.” Jenk signed off.
Fucking Gilligan. Christ. Tonight was off to a roaring start.
Ray Hernandez was going to die.
Gina’s mother was a trauma nurse, and she’d taught all of her children enough first aid for Gina to be certain that unless Ray got to a hospital soon, that blow to the head he’d received from the butt of the hijacker’s gun could very well prove fatal.
That is, if he wasn’t dead already.
A blow like that had probably broken his skull.
Yeah, Ray was going to die. But maybe he was one of the lucky ones—because the way it was looking, they were all going down. At least by being unconscious, he wasn’t scared anymore.
And it was inevitable, really. One by one the hijackers would go through them, smashing their skulls. Starting first with the boys, demanding Karen Crawford step forward.
But Karen couldn’t step forward. She was still back in Athens.
“Karen Crawford,” the too-handsome hijacker—the Backstreet Boy with the pleasant voice and pretty face—said again.
“She’s not in our group.” Dick McGann wept. “I assure you, if she were . . .”
He’d throw her to the wolves. No doubt about it.
“I will count to three,” Backstreet said. “One.”
They probably all would. Gina couldn’t even say that—if Karen Crawford were here—she herself wouldn’t be pointing her out to the gunmen right this very moment.
“Two.”
Gina had always thought of herself as strong and principled, but it was easy to be strong and principled without guns held to your head.
The presence of those guns changed things a whole lot.
“Three.”
No one moved.
Backstreet sighed wearily.
Gina had thought the shorter, more ferocious, snarly pantherman was the leader, but now she saw Backstreet give him a signal. Go ahead.
Pantherman pulled back the butt of his gun, ready to pulverize Trent Engelman’s pretty head.
And Gina yanked herself free from Casey and stood up, stooping to keep from hitting her own head on the overhead luggage compartment. “Don’t!” The word was out of her mouth almost before she realized what she was doing. What the hell was she doing?
She was looking at Backstreet, but she could see Trent from the corner of her eye, his face incredulous. She could also see Mr. McGann gaping at her, too.
“I’m Karen,” she said. Her voice shook, so she said it again. Louder. “I’m Karen Crawford. Please don’t hurt anyone else.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eight
Stanley Wolchonok had Marte’s smile.
As far as Helga could tell, SEAL Team Sixteen’s senior chief hadn’t stopped moving since his plane had set down in Kazabek, but she’d caught enough of a glimpse of him to see that he had his mother’s smile. And the glint of sharp intelligence in his eyes—that was pure Marte as well.
Out of all her regrets in her life, not searching more strenuously for Marte back in the 1960s, when they both would have been about the age Stanley was now, was exceedingly high on the list.
But Helga had been afraid it would hurt too much.
And here she was now, an old woman, forced to find Marte in her grown son’s smile.
She was going to come face-to-face with Stanley later. At a meeting with FBI negotiator Max Bhagat and the SEAL commanders, whose names she had to consult her memo pad to keep straight.
I know your secret.
Every time she opened her pad, the words Des had written there seemed to jump out at her.
Her secret. That she was losing her mind—her brilliant, wonderful, God’s gift of a mind.
Helga didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to acknowledge it, hoping that if she didn’t call it by name, it would disappear.
Knowing that that wasn’t going to happen.
Des had said nothing more to her. But then again, he hadn’t had time to. He’d vanished upon arrival in K-stan, and she could only guess where he’d gone, whom he might be contacting, what he might be doing.
Because she knew his secret, too. He wasn’t formerly with Mossad. He was still with Mossad.
She tried to imagine him slinking around in the shadows like James Bond. Like the games Marte used to play—always moving silently and eavesdropping on everyone from the butcher to her sister, Annebet. She’d forced Helga to learn to climb out of her window and creep around without being heard.
“You never know when this will come in handy,” Marte had told her, in complete seriousness.
And it had. Her ability to move soundlessly had come in very handy on that night when her parents and Hershel had fought.
At first it had been all loud voices. Poppi shouting about gold diggers after the family money. Her mother outraged that Hershel would even consider any kind of liaison with a girl like Annebet Gunvald. She wasn’t even Jewish.
But then her mother stormed upstairs, leaving Hershel and their father. Their voices calmed and Helga had silently crept closer—close to the door of her father’s study.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” she heard Poppi say through the door. “Very tempting. Particularly if she offers—”
“She hasn’t offered anything,” Hershel cut him off, his voice tight.
“These girls at university,” Poppi continued, “freethinking young women who believe, what? That they’re actually going to be doctors . . . ?”
“Yes,” Hershel said. “Annebet believes that, and I believe it, too. She’s wonderful, Father—”
“If it’s marriage you want—”
“Marriage? I just met her.”
“A man in your position must wait until marriage to . . .” Poppi cleared his throat. “Still, you’ve become a man and a man has needs. . . .”
Hershel was silent.
“As you get older, you’ll learn to see beneath the obvious outward trappings of a girl like this. With age, you’ll see her coarseness, her . . . lack of the more lasting virtues. Taking a girl like this as your mistress might seem like a good idea now—”
“Her name is Annebet, and I have no intention of insulting her by making her my mistress.” Hershel was angry. He usually didn’t get loud when he was very angry. He got quiet. Poppi didn’t realize that, but Helga did.
“Good. That’s . . . good.” Poppi cleared his throat again. “Your mother and I weren’t intending to arrange a marriage for
you, like our parents did for us. We hoped you would pick your own wife. But if you’re . . . hesitant to approach a certain girl, a Jewish girl from another well-to-do family, we could speak to her parents and—”
“Well, that’s a hell of a reason to get married, isn’t it?” Hershel sounded strangled. “Simply to get laid?”
“Don’t use that language in my house!” Poppi exploded, and Helga shrank back from the door. “How dare you?”
Troubleshooters 03 Over The Edge Page 13