Zara

by Jade Kerrion

  “It’s hard to roll with it when she’s got an apparent death wish. Like right now.” His gaze locked on Zara. “Why Alhassan?”

  “Because he’s obviously working with Americans, and over the past two days, my faith in Americans has eroded to nothing. I don’t have enough ammo to shoot everyone ‘just in case.’ I need the truth before I run out of bullets.”

  “Why not just talk to the ambassador?”

  “Because I just got his daughter killed, and if I were him, I’d arrest me.”

  Klah sighed. “Fine, I understand why you need to talk to Alhassan, but I don’t see why you can’t just reserve a room at the hotel instead of resorting to potentially neck-breaking stunts.”

  She shrugged. “I’m on the Burj Al Arab’s blacklist.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone important died at the hotel.”

  “And his death coincided with your visit?”

  She smiled. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Klah’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “So why would they let you in for drinks?”

  “Because their security systems are not as coordinated as they would like to believe. Room reservations and dining reservations reside on different systems. Besides, Prince Abdullah made the reservation.” She glanced at Nazrol, who wore a Saville Row business suit and sported a conservative haircut that transformed him from a scruffy Hezbollah lieutenant to wealthy Arab princeling.

  Zara smoothed her long sleeved, form-fitting black dress, zipped along the side. The tapered hem brushed against her ankles, and a diamond necklace draped around her neck, the teardrop-shaped gem resting above the dip of her cleavage. A pair of four-inch heels and a glittering handbag completed the picture. “You know what you have to do?”

  Both Nazrol and Klah nodded.

  Zara shook her hair back from her face. “All right, gentlemen. It’s time for the fun and games.”

  Klah pulled the limousine to a smooth stop in the driveway of the hotel. Zara smiled up at the valet who held the car door open for her. His gaze did not wander below her neck, and his smile was properly polite as Nazrol emerged from the car and offered Zara his arm.

  The bold use of clashing colors, abundance of gold leaf, and over-the-top opulence of the Burj Al Arab tended to stun visitors into silence. Gawkers—tourists whose sole claims to fame included an overpriced meal at the Burj—milled in the lobby, taking and posing for photographs. Nazrol, duly coached by Zara on the interior layout of the Burj, escorted her to the elevators as if it was something he did every day, albeit with different partners on his arm.

  “The Skyline Bar,” Nazrol told the hotel employee who manned the elevators.

  “Very good, sir.” The man pressed the button for the twenty-seventh floor.

  The elevator rose, its glass walls offering premium views of the gulf stretching out to the west of Dubai. The messy realities of the world fell away; luxury had a way of creating perfect isolation.

  Nazrol’s muscles tensed although his face remained impassive. Zara flicked him a sideways glance; there was too much white in his eyes. His gaze darted to the window, and then away.

  She had forgotten about Nazrol’s fear of heights. He rarely made a big deal of it—desert fighting didn’t lend itself to fighting from great heights, and Nazrol’s acrophobia was usually perfectly under control, until he looked down. She pressed her fingertips against Nazrol’s lower arm to steady him. A thin smile wavered on his lips as he drew in a deep breath and kept his eyes fixed on the elevator control panel.

  When the elevator doors opened, Zara tightened her grip on Nazrol’s arm.

  He did not run from the elevator, but his pace was brisk as he stepped out. “Abdullah Wahid Al-Rahj,” Nazrol told the attractive hostess who met them in the spacious elevator lobby.

  “Of course. This way please, Prince Abdullah. Your table is ready.”

  The Skyview Bar, in contrast to the lobby, was a soothing blend of blues and greens in undulating patterns, reflecting the hypnotic movement of the white-capped ocean waves visible from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The armchairs clustered around low glass tables were covered in soft leather the color of wet sand.

  Zara cast an appreciative glance at the setting sun as it painted the ocean and the sky in a swirl of red and orange. The view was almost worth the price of entry. Nazrol glanced at the cocktail menu and ordered for the both of them as would be expected for an Arab princeling and his lady of the hour. His upper crust accent was passable; his practice had paid off.

  Zara and Nazrol chatted idly over predetermined topics until the sky darkened to night. “Please excuse me,” she murmured in Arabic, excusing herself from the table.

  “Good luck.” Klah’s voice sounded tiny through the earpiece.

  She wove around the tables and the well-dressed clientele to the restrooms. Fully decked out with black marble countertops, live flower arrangements of pink and orange lilies, and low mood lighting, the ladies’ restroom was more luxurious than most hotel rooms.

  The smiling attendant, standing discreetly in a corner, however, was an inconvenience. It appeared that her sole function was to hand out embroidered linen hand towels for ladies to dry their hands. Zara leaned over the counter to touch up her makeup, and as she straightened, her hand brushed against her little makeup pouch, sending it tumbling to the floor. Tiny shards of shattered glass sprayed across the marble floor. Crushed lipstick turned crimson in the puddle of spilled perfume.

  The attendant turned bright red with dismay. Murmuring apologies even though it wasn’t her fault, she placed a hand towel over the mess to keep others from stepping on it and then hurried from the restroom, no doubt in search of cleaners.

  Five minutes, no more.

  Zara entered the farthest stall and reached for the narrow window high in the ceiling. The latch was tight, but it gave with use of force. The rush of ocean breezes swept the scent of sea salt into the bathroom. From her handbag, she took out a grappling hook-like device that she attached to the exterior wall before hooking the other end of the thin, military-grade wire to her belt. She grabbed the edge of the open window and crawled through it to stand on the narrow ledge beneath it. The main restroom door whooshed open as the attendant returned to find an apparently empty restroom. She huffed a sigh before kneeling to clean up the mess Zara had left on the floor.

  Slowly, Zara lowered the window before straightening to stand on the four-inch ledge. The issue wasn’t the width; it was the twenty-seven-floor drop. Pressing against the wall kept her from being buffeted by the worst of the winds, but even so, the corner of the building seemed exceptionally far away. She took several steps forward and then reached back to disconnect the grappling hook before reattaching it ahead of her. A strong gust of wind sent her reeling, but she regained her balance before it became necessary to test the strength of her safety line.

  The murmurs of conversation and quiet laughter drifted up to her as she turned the corner. If the floor plans and Alhassan’s suite preferences remained unchanged, she was right over his suite.

  And he wasn’t alone.

  Teeth gritted, she continued around the next corner and was greeted by silence. Perfect. Stepping off the ledge always required a step of faith, even when secured by a safety line. She gripped the side of the ledge and lowered herself over the edge. She swung once, twice, gathering momentum. When her feet pointed toward the twenty-sixth floor ledge, she let go.

  The impact against the wall smashed the breath out of her. For an instant, her vision went black, but she slammed her second grappling hook against the wall at the moment of contact. The steel pincers sank into concrete and grabbed hold, keeping her in place until the laws of physics stopped jostling for dominance.

  She unhooked the wire to the grappling hook and continued along the ledge toward the balcony. She climbed over the railing, and for a moment, reveled in the safety of something more than four inches wide beneath her. Several moments passed before her heart
beat returned to normal. She lowered her chin to speak into the microphone attached to her pendant. “I’m on the twenty-sixth floor.”

  “Good,” Klah said.

  “Hold your position for now, Nazrol,” she continued. “I need to find my way in.” She crouched by the balcony doors and withdrew a lock pick from her belt. Moments later, the lock clicked and she slid the glass doors open. Zara stepped into one of the rooms of the opulent 8,000-square-foot Presidential suite. Alhassan did have a reputation for doing things in excessive style and with profound cost.

  Reaching for the fully loaded handgun strapped to her inner thigh, she stood beside the door and listened to the quiet murmur of voices in the next room. She could make out Alhassan’s sonorous baritone as he spoke in English to a woman whose American accent was subtly familiar. They compared notes on sailing and fine dining, and their conversation lapsed briefly into silence before Alhassan said, “I have something to show you. I’ll be right back.”

  Zara pressed against the wall as Alhassan’s footsteps approached.

  “Don’t do this on your own, Zara,” Klah warned, his voice sounding tiny in the earpiece. “Stick to the plan.”

  Alhassan strode through the doorway and went to the desk at the far corner of the room. His back to her, he rummaged through the papers on its surface.

  “Zara,” Klah’s voice sounded more intensely in her ear. “Are you sticking to the plan?”

  Of course not. When had she ever stuck to the plan? Life was far more fun when she didn’t.

  She closed and locked the door. The click was scarcely audible, but Alhassan spun around. He was in his mid-fifties, but his trim frame would have belonged on a younger man. His slender fingers moved reflexively across his jacket, but he paused when she smiled at him and shook her head. His dark eyes fixed on her handgun and then flicked up to her face. To his credit, he did not stare at the gun.

  He frowned, although the movement of his lips was scarcely visible beneath his goatee. “You are Zara Itani.”

  She stepped away from the door. “We’ve never met.”

  Klah’s sigh resonated through her ear. “Zara, damn it.”

  Alhassan smiled, displaying straight, white teeth. “I’ve made it a point not to attract your attention. The people who speak of you mention your skill as an assassin. Few speak of your beauty.”

  “The beauty was accidental. The skill was hard to come by.”

  “I suspect many who see you don’t live to speak of it.”

  Zara shrugged. Her gun did not sway with the motion. “Where are my friends?”

  “Is that all you care to know? You stand at the brink of a renewed war in the Middle East, and all you care about are your friends?”

  “This region has been at war for millennia. We’ve just been resting up for the next big one. I don’t know about you, but I feel fairly well rested.”

  Alhassan laughed. “What would the world do if you ever decided to use your skills for good?”

  “It would be horribly bored, I suppose.” The thin shadow of her smile vanished. “Where are my friends?”

  He shook his head. “Your priorities are misplaced.”

  “I’ve never been a big picture person. In the end, it always comes to personal loyalties.”

  “So you say. You’ve wreaked national and even international havoc in pursuing your personal goals.”

  “I make it a point to dream big.”

  “I could use someone like you on my team, Zara. I want you to join me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t afford me. Where are my friends?”

  “You haven’t even heard me out.”

  “Let me put it this way. If they’re not released, unharmed, now, not only do you not have a chance of convincing me to join you, you don’t have a prayer of leaving this room alive either. I want you to reach for the phone on the desk behind you and make the call you need to release them.”

  “They’re not in my custody.”

  “Then you had better be convincing.”

  “Before you collect your friends, there is someone you have to meet.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  “You need to take the time.” He tapped a number into the electronic keypad.

  In the next room, a phone rang.

  Alhassan did not take his eyes off Zara as he spoke into the receiver. “She’s here, just as you said she would be.” He chuckled softly. “No, she’s irritated enough with me as it is; I did not dare tell her she was late. Perhaps you’d like to do so?” He disconnected the call. “With your permission, may I open the door?”

  Circling each other like tigers on the verge of battle, they exchanged positions. Alhassan unlocked the door and swung it open. The young Asian woman framed in the doorway smiled. “Hello, Zara. What kept you?”

  23

  Zara’s eyes widened. “Nazrol, Klah, stand down, for now,” she murmured into her microphone before turning it off. She did not, however, put her gun away. “What are you doing here, Xin?”

  The National Security Agency analyst who stirred every international crisis with her delicately tapered fingers strolled into the room. Xin had once worked for Zara on the side; she had been instrumental in helping Zara break into Pioneer Labs, which brought Zara into contact with Galahad. “I’ve been here for the past two weeks trying to stay on top of the situation. I couldn’t get any real traction until I had the admiral bring you into the game.”

  “It’s not a game.” Zara strode up to Xin. “The ambassador’s daughter is dead, and a SEAL team was massacred. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be fighting Nakob, American mercenaries, or Navy SEALs.” She bared her teeth in a smile. “And you know my default option.”

  “Shoot everyone just to be safe?” Xin glanced at Alhassan. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer a private conversation with Zara.”

  “Of course,” Alhassan said. “I’ll make arrangements for dinner. Please excuse me.” He inclined his head to Zara and Xin before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

  A faint smile curved Xin’s lips. “Now, that’s a very obliging man.”

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “Using him, most certainly. Sleeping with him? That’s your style, Zara, not mine.”

  Zara scowled. “What’s going on here?”

  “Someone wants an American war in the Middle East.”

  “The same person who concealed the fact that Yasmin was related to a terrorist leader whose brains were splattered by NATO troops?” Zara asked caustically.

  Xin nodded. “Likely the same person who lead a SEAL morally astray.”

  “Then you know who the SEAL traitor is.”

  Xin waved her hand at an armchair, inviting Zara to join her. “The day after the kidnapping, I flew out here to meet with Alhassan. He’s the biggest advocate for peace in the Middle East, if only because war disrupts his tourism empire. We agreed that he would attempt to negotiate with Nakob to free all the girls, but in the end, Nakob’s principles trumped their materialism.”

  “Shocking,” Zara murmured.

  Xin continued as if she hadn’t heard Zara’s comment. “Alhassan only managed to free Lila Forrester, but it was enough. We figured that with the ambassador’s daughter safe, we would have more time to come up with a plan to free the others before American Special Forces came charging down.”

  “So Alhassan kept her at his Beirut compound.”

  Xin nodded. “It didn’t seem politically correct to send her home when the other girls were still with Nakob, so I arranged for embassy Marines to guard her at Alhassan’s home. We didn’t count on the SEALs storming the compound. Perhaps I should have expected it, though, considering your involvement.”

  “My involvement? The next time you want me to behave according to your plan, send me the damned script in advance.” Zara scowled. “And the SEALs? Why were they kept in the dark about Lila’s position?”

  “I don’t know. I filed my report on Lila�
��s release with the NSA. Any Naval Intelligence officer worth his salt should have found it in a standard pre-operation analysis and briefed the SEALs accordingly.”

  “But no one did. Why?”

  “Because the report was deleted.”

  “By whom?”

  Xin shrugged. “I don’t know. People tend not to use their official IDs to hack the system, but the data trail suggests it was the same person who deleted the information on Yasmin’s father.”

  Zara hissed. “So we don’t know who’s responsible?”

  “I didn’t say that. About a year ago, SEAL Team Three was sent on a mission to dispose of a Somalian warlord. They returned with a haul of diamonds. The CIA suspected that the haul was smaller than it should have been and insisted Naval Intelligence open an investigation.”

  “The insurance plan,” Zara murmured. She had heard rumors of a Special Forces’ fund that supplemented the inadequate government support for families of service members injured or killed in the line of duty. The fund’s resources came from stolen spoils of war, which more than likely included an unreported stash of blood diamonds from Somalia.

  Xin nodded. “Naval Intelligence managed to keep the investigation quiet. Nothing came of it, even though the CIA approached Sergeant Charles O’Malley and asked if he had any concerns to share.”

  “Annie…Chuck ratted on the team?”

  “Not then, but about six months later, his closest buddy, Jason Allen, was killed in action. Naval Intelligence suspected it was a bad call made by the team leader, but the team closed ranks behind Lieutenant Bowden and insisted Allen had screwed up.”

  “And Chuck?”

  “If Chuck had anything to say, it was omitted from the final report.”

  Zara stood to pace the room. “Chuck’s faith in the team is shaken. So what? The team protects itself. It’s understood. It’s no big deal.”

  “Until his sister committed suicide three months ago while he was back on leave. Two years earlier, she claimed she had been raped at a bar frequented by sailors. She filed a police report, but nothing came of it.”