by Leslie Jones
She’d proven herself strong and capable time after time; yet, in her first real test, she’d been dependent on someone else to save her. It galled her.
“Not a team player, eh? Odd profession you chose, then.”
Heather’s chin lifted of its own accord. “I work with others. Intelligence people share information, at least in the Army. Dealing with the alphabet agencies is a nightmare. The CIA is the worst. They won’t tell you the sun is shining half the time.”
Jace laughed. “We have the same problem with them.”
“We? We being . . . ?”
Jace waited, silent.
Heather shrugged, obscurely disappointed. “Fine. Just tell me you stopped those insurgents from attacking US personnel.”
His brows rose. “Nobody told you? The Azakistani Air Force sent two fighters out to the compound. Bombed the shit out of the place. It doesn’t exist anymore.”
Heather’s breath left her in a whoosh. “The people? There were women . . .”
“Virtually deserted. Once al-Hassid beat feet, the rest of the troops pretty much deserted.” He paused. “We bumped into a . . . surprise while we were there. Do your intelligence resources have anything on SCUDs in insurgent hands?”
Heather’s vision cleared and her eyes widened. The headache grew worse. “What? They had a SCUD?” Then, in a breathy whisper, “Please God tell me you destroyed it.”
“We destroyed the inertial guidance system. The Azakistanis took care of the missile itself. There was no warhead on-site that we saw.”
Her breath whooshed out. “Who knows about this?”
“It went to the Tactical Operations Center at Forward Camp Gryphon. I’d bet my last dollar Central Command has it now.” He assessed her. “There’s nothing you need to be worrying about right now except healing.”
The tension left her body. “Who were they? It seems odd that I still don’t know who they were.”
Jace grimaced. “You were the special guest of Sheik Omaid al-Hassid, of the Kongra-Gel. That name mean anything to you?”
Heather fluttered a hand, startled. “Yes, actually. That makes . . . a lot of sense. I think that’s why I was taken prisoner.” Since she couldn’t seem to lift her head, she pressed the button and raised herself a little more erect. “I overheard a conversation in one of the open-air markets in Eshma. Three men, one of whom—the leader—was the man who . . . questioned . . . me at the camp.” A quiver ran through her. Jace reached for her, but stopped and let his arm drop.
Disappointed, Heather forced herself to continue. “It’s my job to listen, to eavesdrop, to figure out how things fit together. You never know when small grains of sand will clump together to form a real, live piece of intelligence information.” She traced her fingers along the blanket covering her lap. “I heard part of a name. Omaid something, and you’ve just given me the rest of it. They were concerned because one of their group members had died, but not worried enough to stop their plans. Based on the questions I was being asked, I’m betting it’s someone named Demas Pagonis. Also, they were using a boy—I didn’t catch his name—to do part of their job. He was having second thoughts, and the leader threatened to kill him if he didn’t cooperate. It wasn’t a whole lot, but enough to get me thinking.”
Heather stilled her fingers. “I got a couple of decent photos with my iPhone. We went to the chief of police, guy by the name of Sa’id al-Jabr, with the pictures. He said he didn’t recognize them, but I’m pretty sure he lied. The next day, our convoy was ambushed.” She shivered, suddenly chilled.
Jace shifted closer. Heather stopped herself a fraction before she reached for his hand.
“I’d say we stopped them, at least for now,” he said. “The rest can wait until you’re stronger. You’ve been through enough.”
“I guess.” She twisted her fingers together. “I just feel . . . helpless. There’s something going on out there, and I need to figure it out before people get hurt.” The sheik’s henchman wouldn’t give up so easily. His crazed eyes . . . she shuddered. Real evil lived in that body. She knew in her gut that he had escaped with the sheik. She finally turned her head to meet Jace’s gaze.
“Look,” he began. What had they been talking about? She couldn’t seem to focus. His voice trailed off, his gaze tracing over her face. His brows snapped together. Pushing himself to his feet, he took two steps and bent over her. His fingers were cool as they cupped her face. She leaned into them, welcoming the relief from the heat that coursed through her body. “Shit.” Jace grabbed the nurse call button and pushed it several times. He pressed the inside of his wrist against her forehead, which had beaded with perspiration. She shivered harder.
“She’s running a fever,” Jace said, his voice far away. A lighter voice answered. Pain pulsed in her joints, unconnected to her bruises or the site of the surgery. She sensed the bustle around her, but couldn’t seem to muster the strength to lift her head.
“Out, now.” Heather didn’t like that voice. “We need the room cleared, stat.”
For a brief moment, Jace leaned over her, smoothing her hair away from her face. He pressed a brief kiss to her forehead. “Stay strong, Heather. Fight it.”
She thought she might have answered him, then gave in to the swirl of confusion in her mind, closing her eyes with a tired sigh.
Chapter Thirteen
August 24. 8:00 P.M.
Ma’ar ye zhad, Azakistan
AA’IDAH SHIFTED HER abaya’s sleeve so she could grasp the frozen yogurt her father handed her. The abaya was light and comfortable, though fitted loosely enough to hide the shape beneath it. Blue satin edged the sleeves and front hems, with a second edging of pale sequins. Her scarf covered her hair, but left her face visible. Her mother and two younger sisters dressed similarly, while her little brother wore trousers and a button-down shirt. He had already smeared the frozen treat over his face.
The sun had set long ago, and cool breezes wafted through the causeways. She strolled with her family down a wide bricked path between shops and under an old walled arch. Stopping with her sisters to look at dresses, she exchanged pleasantries with the proprietress, a young woman wearing a long skirt and blouse. Her head scarf swirled purple and pink flowers. An old man dozed in a chair at the back of the shop.
“Your hijab is lovely,” Aa’idah murmured.
“I have another.” The young woman slid her hands under a stack of head scarves and pulled one free, draping it across her arm to show it off. Aa’idah fingered the soft chiffon. Her own hijab was a conservative gray silk.
“How much?” she asked.
“For the daughter of Mahmoud Karim, seven thousand tenge.”
“Five thousand.” Roughly twenty-seven US dollars. US dollars had been much on her mind lately as she transferred sums back and forth per her father’s instructions. Sometimes dollars, sometimes tenge or Iranian rials.
“Six.”
Normally Aa’idah enjoyed bartering, but this evening her thoughts were elsewhere. She paid the proprietress and waited while the purchase was wrapped. Her family had moved to the next boutique, her sisters fingering necklaces and brightly patterned belts.
“We will sit and enjoy a coffee,” her father said, gesturing to a café with an outdoor patio.
Wooden tables with red chairs littered the area. Most were full. A slew of young Azakistanis chatted together. Others scrolled through their phones, sipping glasses of Persian tea as their thumbs tapped across phones or iPad screens to text or reply to email. A young couple bounced two babies on their knees. Four college students played Pasur, a card game that had them laughing raucously as they won or lost a round. Aa’idah heard at least three languages swirling through the throng.
Shukri pulled three tables together. Her mother and the girls sat at one end, leaving the males together. Her father pulled her to a middle
seat next to him. Unease shivered through her.
That was seven. Who were the other seats for?
A server hurried to them. Her father ordered for them all: Syrian coffee for five, and fragrant rose tea and bitter almond biscuits for the rest.
The guests arrived before the coffee. Three men approached the table. One loomed over the others, shoulders seemingly wide enough to block out the sun. White tape covered his hooked nose, which had clearly been broken recently. His five o’clock shadow gave him a sinister mien. He wore a brown, ankle-length tunic and red-and-gold sandals. His white cotton ghutrah headdress was banded by a black cord doubled around to keep the ghutrah in place.
The second, shorter and older, wore the traditional white cotton tunic. His ghutra had red and white checks, and his beard was long and bushy. He must be a sheik, Aa’idah decided, an elder and a leader. The third, much younger, dressed like Shukri in jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.
Her father rose and shook hands all around. “Peace be upon you.”
“And unto you, peace,” replied the sheik. He sat at the head of the table as though it were his due. The hulking man sat to his right. The third one sat next to Shukri, and her father resumed his place next to her.
Her father made no introductions. The server arrived with a tray and served the three visitors, Shukri, and her father the strong Syrian coffee, then distributed the tea and biscuits for the rest of the family.
“I should get to drink coffee with the men,” her little brother complained. Her mother quickly shushed him.
“Things went well in Eshma?” her father asked.
The big man with the broken nose inclined his head. “A great success. Shukri was very helpful.”
Shukri straightened, beaming with pride. “It was my honor, sir.”
Shukri had been gone for days on a trip that even their mother knew nothing about. A bad feeling began to churn in her stomach. The bombings in Eshma had been headline news for weeks. Please, please let it be coincidence. Please let her brother not be involved in anything illegal.
“One minor inconvenience,” the sheik said, frowning. “Zaahir was careless. But our friend the chief of police in Eshma warned us in time, and we removed the problem.”
The big man with the broken nose glowered. “It will not happen again, I assure you.”
“What problem?” her father asked.
“Apparently an American woman overheard Shukri, Rami, and me. It was my fault; I do not deny this.” It seemed to gall him to say the words. “We were in a public place. After the Ubadah bombing, we had nowhere private to talk.”
Aa’idah bent her head over her tea, blowing across its surface to hide her expression. Was it Christina? Was she the woman they discussed? What had happened to her after the imam, Salman Ibrahim, dragged her away?
“Removed the problem how? Is she confined?” Her father lowered his voice. “Dead?”
Aa’idah couldn’t control her start of dismay, causing the big man to glance her way. Their eyes met and held, hers wide and fearful, his fierce and his sharp as daggers. Then, amazingly, he smiled. It didn’t make his any less frightening, but Aa’idah dropped her eyes, relieved anyway.
“Escaped. But no matter. She knew nothing.” Zaahir’s fingers clenched around the coffee cup. “To the problem at hand, which is serious. The filthy infidel dogs bombed our home in the hills. We will need to start reconstruction.”
Her father nodded, a bit reluctantly, it seemed to Aa’idah. “Of course. Do you have a cost estimate?”
“Four million tenge,” the sheik said, shrugging carelessly. “That is the easy one.”
Aa’idah pretended to nibble a biscuit as she calculated the amount in her head. Twenty-six thousand American dollars, give or take, would buy many guns in this part of the world. And would also buy the hands to hold them. Did her father not understand that he was condemning hundreds of young men and boys to death? Terrible to consider, but was he actually in charge of sending millions of Azakistani tenge into the countryside, to terror-training camps?
“The difficult problem is that our special item must be replaced.”
Her father set his coffee cup down and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I see. It was not easy to locate.”
“And expensive to acquire,” Zaahir said. “We understand. My contact in Tehran is trying to find me another as we speak. He says it will be at least four million.”
Her father grew very still. “Euros?”
“Dollars.” Zaahir narrowed his eyes. “Is this a problem?”
“No, only . . .”
“It will come through the usual sources,” the sheik said over him. “Some from Zaahir’s international business company, some from our friend in the government through one of his holding companies.”
Aa’idah bit her lip. Shell companies to funnel hidden capital into the sheik’s pockets. Who was their ‘friend’ in the government? What would happen if she asked?
She wasn’t brave enough to find out.
But she couldn’t pretend or plead ignorance. Though she did not understand what they planned to do, it was clear they meant harm. Where? Against whom?
What should she do?
Her thoughts settled on the British aid worker, Christina Madison, who she suspected was an agent for the CIA, given how her accent came and went. Should she report what little she knew? Betray her father, her brother.
No. Aa’idah felt unclean just thinking the thoughts. But . . . what if she did arrange to be alone with Christina?
If the woman was not dead already.
Chapter Fourteen
August 26. 1:00 P.M.
US Embassy, Ma’ar ye zhad, Azakistan
JACE FOLLOWED HIS boss and Ken Acolatse, the Troop Command Sergeant Major, into an opulent conference room with sophisticated everything. An array of sandwiches and fresh fruit, drinks, and even alcohol filled the sideboard. A dozen people milled about, filling plates or nabbing bottles of expensive artesian water.
A slender woman with high cheekbones and dark hair curling over her ears and forehead set up at the front podium. A Poindexter type near her messing with cords and a projector sent her a worshipful look, which she either didn’t see or ignored. Her large brown eyes snapped with intelligence. She hooked up her laptop and flashed a slide announcing a political threat briefing. Poindexter disappeared.
Lieutenant Colonel Louis Jowat, commander of the 214th Security Forces Squadron, lounged against the podium. Several times, he leaned forward into the woman’s personal space, a smirk in place and nothing good on his mind. The oily colonel had a reputation that included sexual harassment, intimidation, and coercion. As he was the senior cop on the Air Force Base, grievances mysteriously vanished and complainants found themselves on the receiving end of traffic tickets and other blowback. The woman shifted away from him and even turned her back, irritation showing in the set of her shoulders. She finally whispered something to him sharply enough that he scowled and straightened.
Gradually, the men and women settled into the thick, padded-leather executive chairs. Jace found his name at the table and planted himself. Jowat sat opposite him, arms crossed and face sullen. Jace doubted he’d be much use during the meeting.
The unpleasant colonel would provide the initial perimeter security to the parade grounds where the president would address the troops. Jace was here because the Secret Service wanted to use one or more of Colonel Granville’s teams as support and extra eyes, a second perimeter around the president’s podium. The president’s protection detail would surround the president himself.
Because Delta Force operated outside of the conventional military hierarchy, they often supported other branches of service and alphabet agencies like the CIA or FBI. Every day something new and different, just the way Jace liked it. Bo Granville plunked himself down beside Jace, juggling a pl
ate and three cups of coffee. He shoved one of the cups in front of Jace, flicking away the hot liquid that splashed onto his fingers, and gave the other to Ken. He waved his hand over the food, tacitly telling his men to share in the bounty. Jace grabbed a turkey club, setting it on a napkin near the folder at his elbow.
Across from Jace and two chairs down, a British Army officer scrutinized the woman with laserlike intensity. Jace assessed him automatically. He could tell just from watching that he was a special operator. The way he sat; slouched, but prepared to launch full tilt in a nanosecond. The way he held his hands open and ready. His eyes. It always showed in the eyes. A nonoperator wouldn’t see it. Maybe an intensity, maybe deep pools of experience. But to Jace, it was as obvious as if the man had waved a semaphore.
Jace glanced at the beige beret thrown carelessly onto the table. The insignia showed the flaming Sword of Damocles, which made him Special Air Service. The SAS was almost as elite, and almost as secretive, as Delta Force, and the two organizations worked together regularly. The officer turned that laser focus to the three Delta Force operators and inclined his head solemnly. Despite their civilian clothes, he had summed up the three just as easily as they had him.
Delta operators rarely wore uniforms or adhered to required protocols or military grooming standards. As often as not, they ignored rank entirely and addressed one another by first name. They enjoyed a level of autonomy found nowhere else in the Armed Services. It helped keep their identities secret. But operators recognized other operators. He raised a single finger in greeting.
Ready, the attractive woman up front cleared her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen. If we could begin.”
They immediately quieted and turned their attention to her. The Brit cocked his head, glancing around the table at the clear respect offered to her, then studied the woman even more closely. Evidently, she was more senior than her age would suggest.