68
Vanessa felt the soft rush of Khoury’s breath on her cheek. She opened her eyes to a close-up view of his aquiline nose, the thick dark tangle of his lashes, his dark strong brows, his hair tousled from the shower they’d shared after making love. They lay together on the huge hotel bed where they’d briefly fallen asleep.
For a few moments, she didn’t let the world intrude with its cold truths, like a defiant child in a darkened bedroom who squeezed her eyes tightly shut, refusing to let the monster under her bed hold sway.
But instead of closing her eyes against the world, Vanessa opened her heart, her senses, her entire being. She opened to her lover, matching her breath with his, breathing the air he breathed, feeling their hearts beating together, and for those minutes, that was all there was, just the two of them together.
Because it is love that keeps away the monsters.
His voice brought her back to consciousness from some deep place that was not quite sleep. His words were whispers. “Come away with me.”
She lay still, eyes just beginning to open, waiting for her mind to catch up and understand what he was trying to say.
“I love you, Vanessa.”
“I love you back, Khoury,” she said, smiling. The scent of his skin was warm and sexy. Their bodies were pressing so close that their legs and feet and toes were as entwined as roots.
Barely moving, she ran her finger lightly along his cheek where new beard bristled. “We have to get going, I know, but just a few more minutes. You feel so good . . .”
“I really mean it,” Khoury said, very quietly. “Let’s quit this work and go away and start a real life.
Her eyes blinked wide. His were open and watching her intently.
She cleared her throat a little. “Would you repeat that, please?”
“What kind of life are we living? We both said it—we cheated death tonight.”
She sat up. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that life is short. God knows we see it in the business we’re in, and I’ve seen what my parents and grandparents have been through with the wars in Lebanon. And Aisha and her sister. Most people don’t get to choose how to live, but we can. We can quit.”
“What about what you’ve been through?” she asked, resting her hand on his.
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head, giving him the look. “C’mon, the internal investigation, the fact they’ve put you through the poly a hundred times and then shipped you off to Paris so they could question your loyalty even while you put your life on the line. It sucks, Khoury. It’s outrageous. Of course you feel like quitting sometimes.”
“That’s not why,” he said. “I’m thinking about us.”
“Oh. Were you thinking about us when you slept with Aisha?”
He made a face as if he’d been sucker-punched. “I tried to explain . . .”
“Yes, you tried.” She swung herself over Khoury and off the edge of the bed agilely. She walked to the windows that overlooked the canal and opened one to the chill. It was past 0200 and the night’s crowds had gone home—to the mainland or hotel or residence—and the only sounds were faint, like music drifting from a distant radio. Boats jostled and bobbed against their moorings, like restless sleepers caught in dreams. Moonlight danced off the velvety surface of the water while a lone, belated firework exploded into fragments of color and light, all reflected in the estuary even as it sputtered and died.
She felt Khoury standing next to her. “It hurt,” she said quietly, “to think you’d been with someone else.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s too hard.”
“What’s too hard?”
“This. Whatever we have, our relationship, whatever it is.”
Khoury rested his arm on her bare shoulder. “It’s crazy.”
“It is,” she agreed. “It’s insane.”
“Then let’s quit. I mean it.” He shifted so he could see her face and wrap his arms around her. “Will you try it with me? We could take six months—”
The shrill, insistent squawk of her phone filled the room. She opened her mouth just as Khoury’s phone went off, too.
“This has to be bad,” Khoury said, crossing to the bedside table to pick up his phone. He immediately walked into the dressing room area, where he could speak without disturbing Vanessa’s call.
When she answered her cell, Chris was on the line and the first words out of his mouth were “Jesus! Thank God you’re okay.”
“I am,” she said. “We are okay.”
“By ‘we’ I know you mean your impulsive friend because I’ve been in touch with the office in Rome, so let me talk first, and I’m going to keep it simple—”
“And quick, sorry, right,” Vanessa said, knowing that they were speaking on unprotected phones, cell to cell, because of the urgency of the situation. That, along with the need to be cryptic, had them both a bit rattled.
He said, “It seems somebody has offed himself while in police custody.”
Vanessa’s hands went to fists as she swore under her breath. They’d lost the chance to interrogate Scarface about the thefts, True Jihad, and Jeffreys, and Bhoot’s missing nuke.
“I understand it’s upsetting,” Chris said. “And we’ll talk about all this in more detail later. From the information they were able to give me, and it’s still pretty fragmentary, I’m guessing that maybe you were involved with this somehow? Just what the hell happened and where are you and where is your friend?”
“He’s here with me,” she said. “He found me at the restaurant where I was having dinner with my other friend. He warned me about potential trouble and, sure enough, we encountered it, so to speak, on the walk back to the hotel. We, um, prevailed.”
She wasn’t going to mention Aisha’s involvement in the situation and neither was Chris. Not now, not this way. That was a topic for a face-to-face conversation, but she certainly hoped Chris was fully informed about it.
Khoury was off his phone call now, and Vanessa, waking up to the fact she was naked and chilled in the early-morning air, gestured for him to please bring her a hotel robe. Khoury complied, holding it open so she could slide her arms in while keeping her phone shoulder-pressed to her ear.
Cigarette? she mouthed to Khoury, who was now listening in on her call with Chris. The craving had just hit her hard and fast and out of the blue. But he shook his head.
Scowling at her own addiction, Vanessa said, “I know you got the photos—”
“Affirmative. We’ve got a preliminary ID,” Chris said.
Vanessa breathed a quick sigh of relief—that meant at least Zoe had managed to ID Scarface. “Listen, you saw, he was wearing the same . . . piece of jewelry as the person I suspected might be behind all this and more, right? Do you know who I am referring to?”
“Shit. Yes. Of course,” Chris growled. “He’s in midflight over the Mediterranean as we speak.”
“How do you know?”
“X32.”
Zoe. “Right.” Vanessa made a face, her body contracting in frustration. “You know, if I’m right, this may all be going down tomorrow in—”
“Istanbul.” The word came out of Chris in a sort of croaking whisper of realization. “We can’t talk about this anymore, but I’ll fill you in when we meet up.”
And Vanessa felt a creeping cold inside her belly—her own realization of the gravity of the situation. She flashed to Charles and his remark about starting World War III. She felt sick.
She took a deep breath to ward off the nausea. “We’re getting on the next flight this morning—in less than two hours, actually. Where should we meet you?”
For a moment Chris was silent, then he said, “Remember where I told you Maria and I went on our honeymoon?”
Vanessa paced, suddenly able to remember everyone’s honeymoon destination, everyone except Chris and his wife. But it came back suddenly with an association—waving flags and dark glistening water—the
Four Seasons Bosphorus. “Yes, I’ve got you.”
“Meet us there. The room will be under the usual.”
Meaning his usual alias when he traveled for the Agency.
“We’ll get on the next flight from here,” he said.
“Oh—” Vanessa was moving toward the dressing room and her small overnight case. “Don’t forget we need our star geek. We’ll need all the help we can get to keep eyes on our . . . friend.”
“Right.” Chris gave a small snorting laugh.
Vanessa thought it was a good sound. “Thanks for believing in me, boss.”
“We’re not there yet. I’m just glad you’re okay. See you in a few hours.”
—
KHOURY HELD the door to the room open for Vanessa. As she passed him with her bag and laptop, she said, “You know the running-away-together thing?”
“Just spit it out.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe . . . what?” Khoury asked, slowly, letting the door swing shut behind them.
“Maybe is maybe.” Vanessa looked straight into his bruised, beat-up, and very handsome face. She would have to talk to him about Bhoot. Khoury still didn’t know about the phone calls. She’d have to admit how torn she felt. Could she even consider leaving the Agency until she finally got Bhoot? She tipped her head and shrugged. “But let’s take care of this first things first.”
“Like a loose nuke?” Khoury murmured.
“Like a loose effing nuke.”
69
Somehow Chris had persuaded the powers-that-be to move a streamlined Team Viper to a second-floor suite in the Four Seasons Istanbul at the Bosphorus, a converted Ottoman palace just a twenty-minute drive in continually congested traffic from Les Ottomans, site of the secret Middle East peace accord.
At 0950 Vanessa and Khoury walked into a fully functioning command post with laptops covering nearly every mahogany table, yards of cables snaking around cream-colored silk-upholstered chairs, ottomans, and sofas. Handheld radios were scattered atop writing desks and end tables, and plenty of very hot Turkish coffee filled the elegant urns. Exotic sweets like Turkish delight, baklava, halva, and kanafeh were laid out on two huge silver trays.
“Not exactly Dunkin’ Donuts,” Hays said, finger-waving at her from his usual post in front of a monitor. “Hey, guys.”
Even with the Team’s urgent agenda to track Jeffreys and find Bhoot’s stolen nuclear prototype, Vanessa couldn’t resist a brief time-out to savor the incredible view. The living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the hotel’s elegant crystalline swimming pool, deck cabanas, and deck bar—tempting even on a cloudy day in February. A stone’s throw beyond the pool glinted the blue-black waters of the Strait of Bosphorus. At the moment, a huge, sleek yacht glided toward a nearby bridge, providing contrast to the tugs, fishing boats, and commercial tour boats.
Khoury whistled. “What did we do to rate this?”
“Not the usual for a government paycheck,” Vanessa said.
She stood just behind Hays, who had four laptops up and running and was wired in with an earbud. “When did you get set up?”
“About two hours ago?” Hays said, tracking something on the monitor. “You know you’re dead, right?”
“Yes—maybe I know?” Vanessa’s voice rose hesitantly. “Because of Venice?”
“Right,” Hays said. “Zoe took care of planting a small story in the international New York Times. ‘Female Tourist Killed During Carnevale Celebrations in Venice . . . Alleged Attacker Died in Police Custody.’”
“Good call,” Vanessa said. Assuming Jeffreys was responsible for the attack, he would be expecting to hear back from Scarface that the hit was successful. It didn’t escape her that Jeffreys had become the target in her mind. A few days ago she would have wondered if Bhoot had sent Scarface, but now that didn’t feel right. Like a hound on a scent—one of her mom’s favorite lines about Vanessa during her childhood. Her mother had been right about a lot of things.
As for Bhoot, she wondered at his silence since she tried to record their last conversation in Paris. Had he decided to drop all contact after her infraction? She had, after all, broken his rules. Or did he still have eyes on her? If so, apparently he’d been willing to see her die in Venice.
Hearing her name, she turned toward the open doors to the next room of the suite in time to see Chris raise a hand in greeting. But he continued to pace while he talked on his phone.
Vanessa waved back but stayed put. “What do you have?” she asked, leaning over Hays’s shoulder to check the monitors. She felt Khoury standing beside her.
Hays glanced up at them. “If this turns out to be true—” he said softly.
“Then it’s crazy, I know,” Vanessa finished in a whisper.
Khoury asked, “How’s Chris been?”
“Tense.” Hays indicated Chris with one quick shrug of a shoulder. “I’ve heard some shouting on the other end of his phone.”
“There’s a lot riding on this,” Vanessa said.
Khoury raised his eyebrows. “That’s what I call an understatement.”
Vanessa had begun comparing images on the monitors, and she asked Hays, “Are they all live?”
Nodding, Hays said, “We’ve got internal and external feeds from Les Ottomans—the street and service and main entrances, the lobby and reception, elevators and halls, the spa, bar and restaurant, and, of course, the conference room, which is also a small banquet room.” He’d been speaking in one flowing stream of words and now he took a theatrical gasping breath. The effect was intentionally comical. He said, “We’re cutting back and forth.”
“What’s the timeline so far?” Vanessa asked, slipping off her flat-soled leather boots so she was down to her stocking feet. Early that morning, in Venice, she had chosen to dress in casual wool slacks and a raw silk sweater. The outfit was appropriate for Istanbul as well—fashionably understated and comfortable.
For travel she had fastened her hair back in a high ponytail and now let it down and combed it loose with her fingers as she crossed the short distance to the ornate coffee set laid out on a silver-plated tray on a glass table. She found a clean cup and filled it with thick, dark coffee. She took a first sip just as she returned to her post at Hays’s shoulder again. “Oh, this is good,” she murmured, almost moaning with pleasure. She drank again.
“Timeline,” Vanessa reminded Hays.
He said, “Courtesy of the USG, Eagle’s Gulf Stream IV landed at 0716. Eagle was on board with his security guard and his personal aide, who is actually one of his sons, christened Baby Bird by yours truly.” Hays didn’t have to explain who Eagle was—they’d already assigned Jeffreys his code name.
Hays tore his gaze from the monitors long enough to shoot Vanessa a look of puzzled wonderment. “Do you suppose it’s possible that really powerful guys like Eagle clone when they reproduce instead of doing it the regular way?”
Khoury, who had just taken a sip of coffee, snorted, and Vanessa smiled.
“Hey, David, you just dripped coffee on my head,” Hays said, without any apparent umbrage. “I’m asking because Baby Bird, who’s in his twenties, looks exactly like Eagle.”
“He’s just old before his time, and considering his father’s extreme beliefs, it’s no wonder,” Vanessa said, tapping Hays on the head. “Back to the timeline, please.”
“Right. They taxied to the private jet section of Atatürk. It’s as fortified as a military base. Of course, I’m tracking Eagle’s cell phone, too. A car met Eagle, Baby Bird, and their security guard, and took them straight to the conference hotel, Les Ottomans.” Hays whistled. “Man, talk about how you rate, that place is amazing.”
Vanessa clicked her fingers in front of Hays. “Stay with me. Did they check in to their rooms?”
“Yep. Eagle stayed in his, keeping a low profile. The security guard’s made the rounds checking hotel security, alarms, elevators, physical layout, egress, et cetera. But I got to say, Baby Bird’s a work
er, and he’s already met with staff in charge of the conference, and he spent thirty minutes in the kitchen with the chef and then went to the hotel spa to swim. Just watching him made me eat another piece of Turkish delight. I lost count at forty laps and he’s going strong, although he’s been in and out of the sauna a few times.” Hays clicked a few keys and an image jumped up on the monitor. “See for yourself; he wears spandex.”
And, indeed, Vanessa got a pretty clear image of a male swimmer in mid-lap. He wore a tiny suit, cap, and goggles. “He’s got a strong freestyle,” she said, “but make sure he doesn’t leave that pool without us knowing, okay?”
“Gotcha.”
“Who’s got eyes on the ground for Eagle? How will we know when he’s on the move?” Vanessa’s heart was pounding, and it felt like her veins were filled with speed. On the drive from the airport when she glanced in the car’s rearview mirror, she saw what she’d already felt: the stress-induced tic below her left eye, a familiar sign she was hyper-alert but also overloaded. “I should get over there.”
“Whoa.” Khoury shook his head. “Eagle would make you in about ten seconds.”
“Fournier is on the ground at the hotel,” Hays said. “Eagle won’t remember him.”
“You’ll be in the van with us when it’s time to move,” Chris said, now off the phone. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were dark and hard. “Right now, we’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary. No civilian guests will be allowed to check in for the weekend, attendees only. We know the Saudis are there and the Jordanians are pulling up now. Fournier confirms that Eagle went to his room and hasn’t reappeared yet.”
Khoury pulled Chris aside. “What’s the latest on Aisha? Did she contact DCRI?”
Chris shook his head. “She’s gone off the radar. As far as I know, you’re the last one to talk to her.”
“Goddamn it,” Khoury said, almost under his breath. “She could be anywhere.”
“She’s not anywhere.” Vanessa straightened, turning away from the monitors to face Chris and Khoury. “I think Aisha’s here in Istanbul,” she said flatly.
Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) Page 27