CHAPTER SEVEN
Ana could hear the low buzz of propellers and feel the tug of gravity in her stomach. They were taking off.
She fought to remember what day it was. Tuesday? No, Thursday. It was an impossible game. Still, she was grateful for the challenge. Kept her busy, her mind occupied. And when her mind was occupied, it was easier to fight the pull of the drugs. Besides, lucidity was her only asset.
She could never escape. There were too many of them. At least they wouldn’t kill her. They’d had plenty of opportunity for that. But something kept them stalling.
They thought she had something. Some kind of key information involving her father. Perhaps her ignorance was her salvation. If she’d given them what they’d wanted in the jungle, surely they would have slain her there. But why keep her alive if she claimed to know nothing?
Two reasons, she figured: one, because they thought she was lying and planned to eventually torture it out of her; or two, because she was a hostage and somehow valuable as an exchange. But to whom? To her mother, who probably knew no more than she did? No, it was ludicrous.
The engines roared and the plane leveled off at a steady altitude. She realized she was seated upright in an airline chair, her wrists and ankles bound, her shoulders strapped to the seat with reinforced tape. Their ascent had been a short one. Too short, she realized, for the average airliner. She’d been flying all her life, long enough to know what was typical. There was only one probable explanation.
Her project concerned the delivery of pharmaceuticals to field hospitals in Costa Negra. There were certain controlled substances involved, valuable medicines when prescribed through legitimate channels but a bureaucratic nightmare when taken into the wrong hands. She and her team members had been warned to defend against system abuse, particularly with Costa Negran drug runners working so closely with the Colombians. She’d been given a background paper to read, some thing unclassified about smuggling tactics prepared by the DEA for State. Smugglers generally flew at low altitudes to avoid radar detection. 'Nap-of-the-earth flying,' it was called, '...flying low, hugging the features of the terrain.'
She had no way of knowing for certain how high up they were, but the craft did feel small. It seemed to pivot and vault in the air and didn’t have the steady drag of a jet.
Ana got this funny feeling. She remembered the fury in El Dedo’s voice as he held the raw edge of his blade to her throat: '...a lot of money at stake here. Comprende? Mucho dinero!'
This wasn’t just any kidnapping.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It took Mark a full two hours to decode and read the messages Jarvis sent from Washington. The tie between El Dedo and Carnova looked promising, if one could use such a word to describe their liaison. As far as Mark could tell, it looked like Carnova was using El Dedo's Latin American connections to help secure weapons for his Spanish uprising.
Mark could smell the money involved and knew the Colombians' reputation for stockpiling weapons. It was a well- known fact that contraband weapons were often smuggled along drug-trafficking routes. Everything was starting to fall into place. The missing link was Ana.
Even if Albert Kane had been involved for many years in covert operations, what did that have to do with his daughter? Kane had worked in Iberia during the War. Maybe someone there had an old axe to grind. But the man was dead. Waging war with his ghost seemed a wasted battle. Wasted, and yet Ana’s kidnapping had turned American Intelligence protocol on its head.
Mark's intuition told him this terrorist triangle involving Colombia, Costa Negra and Spain had Ana Kane caught squarely in its middle.
All at once, with no facts to prove it, he knew he was right. She was no longer in Costa Negra. He would proceed with the routine checks and border patrol calls. But first, he would telephone Jarvis to say he was coming home.
Mark made his calls and breakfasted in the hotel bar. Then he checked with the concierge regarding Ana's belongings. Not surprisingly, her room had been cleared, and all remaining items boxed on the morning of Mark's arrival.
At first, the clerk was reluctant to grant him access to the storage area but, after a persuasive grease of the palm, he’d been happy to show Mark to the over-stuffed wooden crate sequestered in a musky corner of the basement.
Nothing really seemed out of place. A couple of business suits, pantyhose, makeup and the like. He closed the zipper on the small suitcase and was just standing to go when two canceled U.S. postage stamps caught his eye. He pulled the envelope from the front flap of the bag and examined its return address. Scott Denton, Washington, DC.
Mark stuffed the envelope into his coat pocket and checked his watch. Eleven-thirty. Not much time before catching his one o'clock flight to Miami.
As he crossed through the hotel lobby with his bags, the concierge stopped him with urgency. 'Senor Taylor, el telefono!'
He took the call at the switchboard while Gustavo waited impatiently outside. Mark motioned for the cabby to wait and picked up the receiver.
It was a winded Ambassador Mooney; he could barely hold his air to speak. 'I've got someone here who needs to talk to you.'
Mark couldn't waste time with preliminaries. He knew he was on the right track and would have to make haste.
'I'm on my way to the airport. I think I've got a lead on Ana and Joe.'
'Precisely what I need to see you about. We've found the Embassy jeep and Joe.'
Mark's heart bounded in his chest. He had assumed Joe was still with Ana. Although, of course, Ana was the target and Joe had just been in the way. Mark steadied his voice in an effort to convey concern. 'Is he –?'
'Alive? Yes, thank God. Took a couple of slugs to the shoulder, but he'll live. He's a tough one.'
Mark was surprised the kidnappers had left this loose end and figured there must be more to the story.
'I'll bet he is. Listen, I'm glad your nephew's all right. Looks like I'll need to talk to him after all. The sooner, the better. Where are you?'
'We're at my house on Avenida de la Constitucion. Gustavo knows where it is,' Mooney said, still out of breath.
'Good, I'll stop by on my way to the airport.'
Mark quickly scanned the room to be sure he hadn't been overheard, then hurried down the stairs to the taxi where his driver was waiting.
Mark sat in a beige patio chair sipping a rum and coke and surveying the face before him. So this was Ana's idea of a rugged Romeo, he thought with amusement, swirling the ice in his glass. McFadden was a brawny guy, beefy through the shoulders, but also a little too wide in the gut. Still, he held a certain appeal, Mark supposed, for women who liked that rough-riding type.
McFadden was shaking his head, massaging the shoulder portion of the heavy bandage that crossed his bare chest. He had a three-day growth of reddish beard and spoke in an affected southern twang. Not Deep South. One of the Carolinas, probably. Maybe even Virginia.
A stillness settled into McFadden's eyes. 'What the hell do you make of it, Mr. DOD?'
'Neal, the name’s Neal, son,' Mooney interposed, sounding a bit embarrassed on his nephew's behalf.
Mark examined the marbled pattern of the patio, taking his time to speak. He could feel McFadden assessing him, weighing his countenance against some projected image.
'What I make of it, Mr. McFadden, is really Defense Department information and therefore none of your goddamned business.'
'Look, asshole, Ana Kane is a damned good friend of mine, so whatever concerns her safety is my fucking business!'
Mark stayed coolly in his chair. McFadden took one big stride in Mark's direction. Mooney stepped forward to intervene. 'Now, now, boys,' he said, forcing a placating smile. 'We all want the same thing here.'
McFadden returned to his seat and sank low in his chair, the blood draining from his face, as Mark downed his last bit of cubalibre. 'So, McFadden, according to your story, they left you for dead.'
'My story?' he said, glancing at his uncle. 'Who the hell does this g
uy think he is?'
Mooney ignored him, and went back to the bar to refill his drink. He motioned to Mark, offering a second round, but Mark declined with a shake of his head. There was still something about McFadden’s story that didn’t add up.
'Tell me something, McFadden. How is it that half a dozen armed insurgents didn’t put your lights out?'
McFadden shifted in his seat and tugged at the bandage. 'Flak vest.'
'Body armor? You went out into the jungle suited up?'
'And why not? I thought there might be trouble.'
'Trouble enough for you, but not Miss Kane?'
'Lady’s got a mind of her own.'
'Tell me what rots with this picture. Last time I checked, flak vests weren’t State Department issue.'
Joe took a swig from his bottle of beer. 'No, Mr. DOD, you got me there. Let’s just say being the Ambassador’s nephew has its perks.'
Mark decided to look into it later. His priority now was Ana. Everything he’d heard confirmed his suspicions. Even though McFadden couldn’t make a positive ID, this ambush had El Dedo’s greasy fingerprints all over it.
Mark stood and carried his empty glass to the bar, relieved to see McFadden rise and clear the room.
'Ambassador, thank you for your hospitality, but I have a plane to catch.'
'Not so fast, young man.' Mooney stopped him by standing directly in his path. 'You're going to have a little company for the road.'
Mark met the older man's look with an appraising frown. The Ambassador didn't seem prepared for travel.
McFadden appeared in the doorway, a blue duffel bag under his arm.
Oh God, tell me this isn't happening. Mark could feel the walls of his stomach closing in. He turned to Mooney for clarification. Surely this was some sort of maniacal State Department joke.
'Sorry, son, but it’s true. Joe’s going back to Washington with you. Everything's already been settled with George.'
Mark turned to Mooney, praying for an inconceivable out. Beyond the doorway, the two of them could hear the flap of Joe's sandals descending the polished front steps.
Mooney ventured a smile. 'I'm sure he knows enough not to get in your way. Besides, you never know when a fellow like Joe might come in handy.'
The jet took off. Joe reclined in his seat and fidgeted with the air control. Neal, his nose in a magazine, was ignoring him completely.
Joe’s eyes flickered over Neal with contempt. Fine, let the fucker read his magazine. This DOD asshole doesn't give a damn about me. It's all about operational protocol. I've seen the type. Always dotting all the 'I's' and crossing all those goddamned 'T's'. How the hell did he get to be an operative anyway? Operatives don't play by the rules. Operatives play to win.
And this time, winning was all that mattered. He had to get her back. All that time wasted. All that time caught up with one fucking Peace Corps volunteer who didn't know his ass from his elbow, much less a good woman when he had one. All that time since that faraway night at the beach house when Joe should have given her what she deserved and made things real.
Joe loosened his seat belt. It had been a long three nights the jungle without sleep. Long three nights of patching his wounds with shredded khaki slacks, calling on every ounce of battle strength he owned to make it the hell out of there. He was reluctantly dozing off, the murky memories starting to crystallize...
What a crazy party it was that early October night at his Uncle Tom’s beach house. That afternoon Ana had conned Joe into a $50,000 amendment to her contract, and now the whole project office was celebrating.
'What the hell,' Joe thought, taking another swig of beer. 'It's only money and, hey, the hospital's a good cause.'
Joe wondered what was up with Ana when she brushed by him – just a little too closely – on her way to the bar. She had consumed quite a bit of gin and her tropical print bikini, which left little to the imagination to begin with, was gaping in some pretty revealing places. Not that he was looking and not that he was enticed by that splash of pink nipple on her alabaster breast. Hell, no. This was just business and she’d just had a little too much. That was all.
The boisterous party guests left in small groups, escorted by sober Embassy drivers in bulletproof jeeps. Joe stood in the doorway watching the last of the revelers depart. He shook his head with lingering amazement. Only in Costa Negra. How the hell did he get picked for this plum assignment anyway?
Suddenly, he remembered Ana. Had she gone? Surely he would have noticed her cascade of long, dark hair boarding among the others.
He quickly made his way across the open living area and out through the patio doors where he stopped short.
From the arch of the doorway, he could see her pale silhouette framed by her own reflection in the pool. She sat facing the ocean, her legs dangling freely in the water. A sheet of black hair lay in a sleek line down her moistened back.
She spoke without turning to acknowledge him. 'I suppose you'll have to drive me back to town.'
'Ana,' he said, flustered by a compromising situation he’d not arranged. 'I thought you’d gone.'
Still facing the water, she lifted her arms and coiled her wet mass of hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Her bare shoulders were smooth and inviting.
'Were you hoping I'd gone?'
'Of course not,' he said, regaining composure. 'In fact, beautiful, I'm awfully glad you stayed.'
He strode across the patio and settled himself down at the water's edge, plopping his legs into the pool next to hers.
They both sat staring at the roll and crash of the magnificent Pacific against the black, sandy shore. Neither one spoke. As Joe swung his legs in the water he, quite by accident he was sure, brushed against the cool, bare silk of her calf. Their eyes met.
'I feel pretty foolish,' she said, seeming to lose her nerve. 'Maybe you should take me back to my hotel.'
He’d waited twenty-four months for this opportunity.
'I will –' Joe said, dropping into the water and pulling her soaking body to meet his own, 'in the morning.'
CHAPTER NINE
Isabel sat watching small bouquets of cherry blossoms parachute from wide, spindly trees. In contrast to the blustery winds outside, Albert's office hung with the weight of dead air. Stale memories, she thought, sipping from her afternoon sherry.
She turned his sagging mahogany chair toward his desk, catching her reflection in the ornate, gold-framed mirror in the hall. Even at seventy-two, her form cut a certain elegance against the backdrop of the window. The curls that spun freely from her piled mane framed a flawless complexion. Her eyes, dark and troubled, revealed the shadows of a full life.
She smiled slightly as her lips met the narrow rim of the glass.
Oh Albert, if only you had lived to see this. Your daughters now women. Emalita a mother. And Ana, so proud, just like you.
Isabel straightened. No, today she would not lament. Past was past and he was gone. But the memories, at least, were hers to cling to.
When she first met him, he was a lean, former army officer coming out of service in the Caribbean. They met on a double date arranged by her roommate Peggy.
Peggy had been seeing a fine ex-lieutenant who was prepping himself for the Foreign Service exam. Peggy's Tom was tall and refined. Well-bred, they called it in those days. He had such manners, and those deep-set emerald eyes that sparkled with a mischief in defiance of his outward reserve.
One day, Peggy had come back to the dorm all alive with excitement.
'Isabel,' she said, her freckled face aglow with inspiration, 'have I got the fellow for you!'
In an instant, redheaded Peggy had filled their small quarters with stomach-twirling animation.
'But you must come, Isa. You know my Tommy thinks the world of you. He'll be so disappointed if you at least don't give it a go.'
It was hard to resist her in these moods. So, despite her reservations, Isabel agreed to join Peggy, Tom and Tom's mysterious friend, Alb
ert Kane, for a drink at a side-street piano bar later that evening.
She never really liked venturing into the bustle and hullabaloo of Georgetown after dark. It was all so – hedonistic. Young men and girls, dancing, smoking, tying one on, when they really would have been better off back in the library accomplishing what their parents had sent them to school for.
Oh well, she thought, painting her lips fire engine red, maybe Peggy's right. Maybe I do spend too much time with my nose in a book.
With that, she and Peggy had stepped into their nylons and A- line skirts and set out to meet two frisky young men in want of company.
Albert Kane had taken Isabel by surprise. He wasn't a tall man, but at five foot nine, he stood a good five inches above his inquisitive Spanish date. Though she hated to admit it, she found herself intrigued by his ambiguous hazel eyes. Somehow his look seemed humble, as if he assumed nothing of anyone, least of all himself. Yet, deep within those gold-encrusted irises, there was a hint of something valiant, a silent sense of command.
They had been in the bar a while but the conversation was having trouble getting off the ground. She asked him endlessly about himself, in part because she was interested, in part because her mother had taught her it was the best way to flatter a man. He answered her politely, but the connection she felt between them couldn’t seem to work its way into words.
'So, Lieutenant,' she began anew.
He interrupted her with a smile. 'Please, Miss Delgado. I’m no longer in uniform. I’d be very happy if you’d call me Albert.'
She felt the warmth in her cheeks. There was something in the way he looked at her. 'Only if you’ll call me Isabel.'
'I’d be honored,' he said, taking her hand and giving it a light kiss.
Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) Page 6