Night Hush

by Leslie Jones

Why had it taken so long for someone at the embassy to react? “Were you the duty officer, Shelby?” Heather asked.

  Shelby gave Jed a disgusted look. “No. Jed was.”

  So Jed apparently had opted to order Marine embassy guards to the hospital last night rather than come himself. The Marines must have updated Jed at the same time they briefed their boss. Lacking further orders, the Marines had remained at their post, guarding both the classified data and their prisoner, waiting for someone from the State Department with a Top Secret clearance to come pick up the pouch. That Jed had not come was unprofessional in the extreme.

  “Did you know this last night?”

  Jed didn’t look up. “Nothing happened. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”

  “For the love of God, Jed,” Shelby nearly shrieked.

  That earned her a glare. “No, I did not know about the vials. We had a conversation on an unsecured landline. The Marine just told me the pouch was open, and there was an irregularity.”

  And had, no doubt, told Jed to get his butt down to the hospital as fast as possible. The irresponsibility of it sucked the air from Heather’s lungs.

  “You better believe I’m going to make a full report of this,” Jace snapped, snaring the odious man’s attention.

  Jed opened his mouth, shot a glance toward Corporal Landry, scowled, and resumed searching his phone directory.

  Shelby wrapped both arms around her middle. “What is DTRA, Jed?”

  He scrolled to a different area on his phone. “They’re the experts in weapons of mass destruction. We don’t have one here. I think the nearest might be in Kazakhstan.”

  She shivered again. “But that could take hours, for them to get here. What do we do in the meantime?”

  A soft moan from the bed got their attention. Heather and Shelby both hurried to his side. Na’il. He muttered something, tossing his head from side to side.

  “Get the doctor!” Shelby called to Jace.

  The nurse came in, taking Na’il’s pulse and feeling his forehead. The doctor wasn’t far behind, pressing his stethoscope to the boy’s chest. He apparently didn’t like what he heard, for his brow furrowed, and he moved the stethoscope to another spot.

  “We need to talk to him,” Heather said “Is he conscious enough for that?”

  The doctor shook his head. “He must rest.”

  Shelby’s phone rang. The doctor gave a disapproving frown. “You must turn it off, miss. Our equipment can’t be compromised. You may use it in the lobby.”

  Shelby silenced the phone and powered it off. “I’m sorry, Dr. Alam. About Na’il . . . we won’t make things worse, I promise. But if it’s at all feasible, it really is vital we talk to him.”

  The Marine from the hallway came inside. “My boss authorized me to conduct a preliminary investigation. Ambassador Stanton wants an update.”

  Dr. Alam nodded. “His condition is still critical, but speak with him if you must. Try to limit to your questions to five minutes. I would be happy to translate.”

  The Marine shook his head. “I’m sorry, Doctor. This is a classified investigation.” He looked at Corporal Landry. “Man the door. No one in or out.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Bisantz.” The corporal disappeared.

  Shelby planted herself at Na’il’s side. The doctor gave a warning glare all around and departed. Sergeant Bisantz leaned over the bed.

  “Mr. Fakhoury. Can you hear me?”

  Na’il focused on the Marine. Hostility flared in the younger man’s gaze, his mouth tightening and twisting as a spate of words flew out of his mouth. Heather’s cheeks reddened.

  “Not a compliment?” Sergeant Bisantz asked, deadpan.

  Heather nearly choked out a laugh, but the seriousness of the situation focused her. “Uh, no. Not unless your mother really did copulate with a camel.”

  Sergeant Bisantz lowered his gaze to the man in the bed, face expressionless. “Mr. Fakhoury, I need you to answer a few questions. What are those vials? Where did you get them? Did someone give them to you?” The sergeant asked the questions as though he had all the time in the world, with an air of patience that clashed with his impassive face and stiff posture. Heather translated in the same calm tone.

  The young man pressed his lips together, face shuttered and sullen.

  Sergeant Bisantz posed more questions over the next few minutes, but Na’il refused to speak. Finally, the Marine slapped his own leg with a hand and rose. “We’ll try this again in a bit. We’ll just have to keep at him until he talks.”

  “But that could take hours.” Jed said. “We may not have hours.” He glanced meaningfully at the case containing the vials. “We may not have minutes.” He ran his palm over his thinning hair several times. A drop of perspiration slid down his temple.

  “Now, Jed,” said Shelby. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Obviously, nothing has happened. The vials are intact. Let’s not panic.”

  Ignoring her, Jed turned to the Marine. “I want this room quarantined. I want decontamination units sent here. Do you understand?” His voice quavered as he gave the commands.

  Heather rolled her eyes. Jed was working himself into a state. Across the room, Jace snorted with derision.

  Ramrod straight, the Marine blanked his face. “Mr. Callum, please don’t overreact. Corporal Landry and I have been here all night. The doctor believes we’re safe. I think the first step is to contact DTRA, as you suggested. How ’bout if you do that now, sir.” He maneuvered Jed out of the room, pointing down the hallway. “The nurses’ station has a telephone you can use. The sooner we get some concrete information, the sooner you can update the ambassador.”

  Clever. The prospect of briefing the US Ambassador to Azakistan finally got the man moving in the right direction. Away. Heather exchanged an amused look with Jace and the Marine.

  Heather sat at Na’il’s bedside, trying to coax the young man into talking to her. He just shook his head and glared. The utter hatred and contempt he levered at her stunned Heather. Could he really have agreed to transport the case of vials inside the classified pouch? No one would stop or question a courier for the Embassy of the United States. It was the perfect cover; and, she had to admit, the perfect way to transport hazardous chemical weapons without being detected. If the vials were really dangerous, where had Na’il been taking them? And for what purpose?

  After a few moments, he slipped back into unconsciousness. That, or he pretended to sleep, to avoid her questions.

  Sergeant Bisantz ran a hand along the back of his virtually nonexistent buzz cut. “Damn it. We’re not getting anywhere.” He gave his attention to the woman from the State Department. “Are there any other irregularities in the morning pouch, ma’am?”

  She grinned. “Call me Shelby, for heaven’s sake. If we’re going to die of anthrax poisoning, we might as well be on a first-­name basis, right?”

  Amusement glittered in the other man’s eyes as his lips twitched. “Then you better call me Hugo.” He crossed the room and lowered his voice. “Is it inappropriate for me to tell you that I’m impressed with how you’re handling this? You’re keeping your cool. Not overreacting.”

  Shelby’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Heather smothered a smile and looked away, at least giving them the illusion of privacy. Unbidden, her gaze sought out Jace, who leaned against a wall with his arms and legs crossed. He watched her, concern in his eyes.

  “You okay?” he mouthed. She nodded, wishing he would stop asking her that.

  “I’ve seen you around the embassy,” Hugo said. ­“People like you. And, well, me, too. Would you have dinner with me some night?”

  Shelby clapped a hand over her mouth as a giggle escaped. “Aren’t you the king of poor timing? By tonight, we could both be drooling and puking.”

  As he opened his mouth to respond, a shadow at the door sharpened
his attention there, and he was abruptly once again the rigid Marine. Corporal Landry poked his head in.

  “Sergeant, we lucked out. DTRA says there’s a biochemical weapons expert in Ma’ar ye zhad right now. A Brit. He’s on his way in now.”

  Shelby’s face whitened, and her hands tightened into fists. Heather moved to her side and whispered. “You okay?”

  “Not really.”

  Chapter Twenty-­One

  CONFUSED, HEATHER PULLED Shelby aside. “You know him?”

  Shelby swallowed. “Yes. He’s part of the team supporting President Cooper’s 9/11 visit.” She ran both hands through her hair, gripping the ends hard. “I could just go back to work. Leave this to the experts. Where’s Jed?”

  Corporal Landry grimaced. “He went back to the embassy.”

  “What? Why?”

  The younger Marine shrugged. “He said he would check back later, when we knew something for sure.”

  “But he’s the one who suggested the quarantine!” Shelby cupped her own cheeks, lines forming between her brows. “And he was my ride back. I came in a taxi.”

  Hugo straightened even more, something Heather would have thought impossible. “We’ll make sure you get back in one piece, ma’am.”

  She sighed and groaned, pressing her hand to her forehead. “All right. Thank you, Hugo.”

  With a flick of his head, Hugo sent the other man back out into the hall. “Listen, I hope I didn’t cross any lines. By asking you out . . . ?”

  Heather went back to the hospital bed. Na’il still appeared to be unconscious.

  Shelby rammed the sheaves of paper back into the courier case, face bright red. “No, no lines,” she said. “But you have to understand how hard it is, being a woman in a country like Azakistan. Even inside the embassy, everything I do is scrutinized, cataloged, and judged.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “I appreciate the invitation. But I have to say no. I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too. But I understand.”

  With Na’il out of it, Heather found herself without anything to do, but unable to leave in case he regained consciousness and talked. Jace left, with the promise to return with food and coffee. Hugo helped to pass the time by relating stories of some of his adventures on this assignment, which had Shelby and Heather laughing helplessly.

  “ . . . and I swear to God, he weighed four hundred pounds. We tried to get him onto the helicopter . . .”

  The rest of Hugo’s words disappeared as a man in uniform appeared in the doorway, tan beret in hand. Shelby took one look, then deliberately kept her back to him as Hugo popped to attention.

  “Good morning, sir. Ma’am. I’m Gunnery Sergeant Hugo Bisantz, Embassy Security Group.”

  “Major Trevor Carswell, 22nd SAS, Counter-­Terrorism.”

  “Christina Madison. British Education Foundation.”

  The female voice snapped Shelby’s head around.

  Curious, Heather gave her a once-­over, then stared. The woman standing next to Trevor was maybe four or five inches shorter than her own five foot ten. Her hair crackled and moved around her head like a living thing, curling down past her shoulder blades. Her face, though—­minus the hair and narrow shoulders, the woman was a dead ringer for the crown princess of Concordia, Véronique de Savoie. Heather remembered a news spot from her time in the hospital about the princess’s goodwill visit to Mali, and her subsequent return to Europe to raise awareness for hunger in Africa.

  The woman in the hospital room, however, wore an oversized T-­shirt and sweatpants that swam on her slender frame. Christina Madison turned her hands over to show empty palms to Hugo. Paper rustled as the British major gave Hugo a copy of his orders, which would also carry his clearance level. He wore a desert-­camouflaged uniform, pressed and crisp, with trousers tucked into tan boots. The princess clone looked around, nodding to Heather and Shelby.

  “Ma’am, I need you to wait in the hallway with Corporal Landry,” Hugo said. Christina left without protest.

  Hugo nudged his chin toward the silver case and filled Trevor in. It didn’t take long. There was too much they didn’t know.

  Trevor’s eyes gleamed with intelligence and understanding. Rather than open the case, however, he took three steps to stand in front of Shelby. She tucked her chin and crossed her arms, grasping each elbow with her fingers.

  “Major,” she said coolly.

  “Good morning, Shelby.” His tone was soft and questioning. “All right?”

  “Just fine.” She dismissed him with a nod, turning toward the case with studied nonchalance. “What do you think it is? Anthrax?”

  Trevor hesitated for a long moment, simply looking at her. Finally, he moved to the silver case. He took each vial out, checked the seal on the stopper, held it up to the light, and sniffed it. “Doubtful. These are almost certainly liquids.” He paused, then elaborated. “These types of opaque vials are generally used for chemicals in liquid form. You would have to swallow anthrax in its liquid form to come to any harm from it, so if it does turn out to be anthrax, none of you are infected. Even if the courier was exposed, you can’t catch it, like a virus.”

  Heather exhaled a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Good to hear.

  “That’s . . . a relief. What is it, then?” asked Shelby.

  Trevor’s somber voice seemed to echo in the room. “Polio. Cyclosarin. VX, or another nerve agent. Without testing them in a lab, I have no way of knowing.” Trevor replaced the vials in the case. “These are solidly sealed, so we’re all safe for now. I’ll have to take them to a facility equipped to deal with potentially hazardous substances. Given the circumstances, we have to fear the worst, I’m afraid.”

  Hugo had taken up a post just inside the door, much as Corporal Landry had earlier. “I’m told that might be in Kazakhstan, sir. If that’s true, I’m fairly certain the Regional Security Officer, Special Agent Johns, would authorize a helicopter to get you there as fast as possible.”

  Snapping the case closed, Trevor took possession of it. “That would be helpful. The sooner the better, I should think.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hugo started for the door, but Shelby beat him there.

  “I’ll make the call. That way, you can guard your prisoner.” She smiled brightly at him. “And I can update my boss.” She turned to leave.

  Heather shook her head. Clearly, something had happened between the two. This was a solid example of why she didn’t date ­people with whom she worked. It never ended well, and the drama and heightened emotions disrupted professional interaction, as it did here. It was good that Shelby was leaving.

  But Trevor followed her out into the hallway.

  “Shelby, wait.”

  Chapter Twenty-­Two

  September 5. 10:14 A.M.

  Prince Nasser Hospital, Ma’ar ye zhad

  JACE STEPPED OUT of the elevator, juggling a tray piled with food and two cups of coffee. He needed to ensure that Heather had the chance to eat. Something about her made him want to care for her, to whisk her away to some private spot, just the two of them. And keep her there for a week. Make that two weeks. Preferably naked the whole time. He paused to savor the erotic images swimming through his imagination.

  “Shelby, wait!” The SAS officer from the Secret Ser­vice briefing, Trevor Carswell, hurried down the hallway, trying to overtake the woman with swishing dark hair and war in her eyes. “Miss Gibson.”

  The sheer command in his voice made her stop and turn.

  “Yes, Major Carswell?” Her voice was glacial.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t wake you this morning. There was an emergency . . .”

  The woman slashed the air with a hand. “Don’t give it a second thought, Major. It’s a matter of supreme unimportance.”

  Jace almost felt sorry for the guy. He clearly didn’t know what to do. Obviously the two had acted on their
mutual attraction in the time since the briefing and had spent the night together. It also plainly meant more to Shelby than she let on.

  “Shelby, let me explain . . .” the Brit started.

  She glared at him and stepped closer. Jace nearly missed her next words. “Is that woman wearing your clothes?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  “And was she in your apartment this morning?”

  Trevor sighed, clearly frustrated. “Yes, but . . .”

  “Then there is absolutely nothing more we have to say to one another.” She turned on her heel, brushing against Jace as she pushed past. “I have work to do, and so do you.”

  The man hesitated, torn. In the end, though, he squared his shoulders, swept an assessing gaze over Jace, and turned away. Jace didn’t take it personally. He obviously needed a few moments.

  He followed the sound of voices back to the critical care room. A woman, this one shorter and with very curly hair, lingered in the corridor. God, how many ­people did it take to question one Azakistani national?

  “Hi. Are you feeling as useless as I am?” the unknown woman asked. “Fetching lunch?”

  Jace did a double take, looking at her closely for the first time.

  “You look just like . . .”

  She rolled her eyes. “I know. Princess Véronique of Concordia. Been hearing it my whole life.” She stuck out a hand. “Christina.”

  “Jace. Good to meet you.” He tried to shake with the hand holding the coffee, and nearly spilled it on her.

  “Right. Sorry. Stupid of me.” Christina dropped her hand. “I don’t suppose that’s for me? I sure could use some caffeine.”

  “Sorry, no. Cafeteria’s on the second floor.” He twitched his head at a sandwich, then jerked his chin at Corporal Landry, who scooped it up.

  “Thanks!”

  “Not a problem.” He cast a look at Christina. “Not letting you into the fun house, huh?”

  “I’m not really a part of this,” Christina said. “I’m just waiting for a ride.”

  “I’m sure we’ll all be done soon.”