Relic_An Iniquus Romantic Suspense Mystery Thriller

by Fiona Quinn

  “65A27C990,” Sophia read off in Hebrew.

  “Is someone’s there with you?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Yes, an operative with the security firm AACP hired. He’s sitting in my office.” She paced over to the fridge and opened the door to let the air cool her face. Milk, butter, and organic juice boxes sat in the otherwise empty fridge.

  “Are you sure he can’t understand you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be careful.”

  “We followed through on this morning’s call. The location didn’t pan out the way you expected, though it wasn’t futile. We’re sending you a courier this evening. It’s scheduled for around eight. Will you be home to sign for the package?”

  “I will.”

  “This project is time sensitive. We need a quick turnaround. Tonight, if possible.”

  Sophia needed to decompress. To sleep. To catch up on some chores. To take care of Chance. “I’ll do my best.”

  “When I say time sensitive,” the woman’s voice lost its friendly tone, becoming cold and threatening in an instant, “I’m not fanning a flame because I like the sound of a whistling tea kettle. You know personally what the stakes can be if information isn’t obtained in a timely manner.”

  Sophia reached up and wrapped a hand around her throat. “I’ll make sure you have what you need in time.”

  Sophia stood in the middle of her kitchen forming a plan. This day was ricocheting out of control.

  One step at a time. She’d have to shoo Brian away and get the baby up. Her priority right now was fetching Turner.

  She was startled to find Brian in the doorway. “Mommy issues,” she said. “I need to get Turner from daycare.”

  “I can stay here.” Brian offered. “Go get Turner and let Chance sleep.”

  It was a practical solution. But it felt too chummy. Sophia had to keep Brian at arms’ length, and that meant they could only interact on a professional level. She looked up the stairs. It would be better if Chance could sleep. Her brain refused to help her out of the situation. What could she possibly say that wouldn’t sound rude?

  “Go get Turner,” he repeated. “I’ll sit in the office and take a look at your bookcase, so I can feel thoroughly intimidated by your wealth of knowledge.” There it was again, that slow smile that wanted to thaw the ice in her veins. With her keys squeezed in her fist, Sophia left before she could defrost.

  Chapter Seven

  Brian

  Tuesday a.m.

  “Morning.” Brian sauntered across the war room, threw himself into a chair, and banged his heels up on the tabletop.

  Nutsbe was clicking away at the computer, and without shifting his gaze called, “You okay, man? You look like your beauty sleep got messed with.”

  “Trying to settle into this case. It was a hell of a jump from personal protection for two archaeologists to taking down ISIS.” He glanced at the door as Thorn made his way in, a travel cup of coffee in his hand.

  “Did you start without me?”

  “Just got in. What are you printing off, Nutsbe?”

  “The translation of Sophia’s phone call. She was speaking Hebrew, by the way.”

  Brian sniffed and cleared his throat. “Yeah, my Arabic and Farsi are tactical—I only know how to say enough to get my job done, but I would hope I could at least pick out the languages in a conversation.”

  “It didn’t sound conversational; she was receiving orders,” Nutsbe said. “Let me play it again, so you can listen to the tone from both ends. Thorn, this conversation took place in Sophia’s kitchen while Brainiack was in the office. He palmed her phone and loaded the listening software while she was having car problems. He replaced it when she took his car.” He glanced at Brian. “Good work.” He tapped his computer and the men leaned forward to listen.

  “Short and to the point. So what were they saying?” Thorn asked.

  Nutsbe passed them each a sheet of paper, and they looked it over. “Let’s play good cop, bad cop.”

  “All right, I’ll start,” Thorn said. “She spoke in Hebrew; she was trying to hide the conversation from Brainiack.”

  “Maybe the other caller doesn’t speak English. Or maybe she was talking about sensitive information that even her security team doesn’t need to know,” Brian countered. “This phone call was preceded by another phone call, in which she didn’t say anything, that came to the house phone. To me, it seemed to identify that she was at home and signaled her that another call was going to come through—she moved to receive the call in the kitchen. And oddly, she took her keys with her.”

  Thorn rubbed his thumb against his chin. “What are these numbers and letters she’s rattling off?”

  “Might be part of the security protocol that she follows with her colleagues.” Brian stood and moved to the coffee station at the side of the room. Another cup of coffee might rev his brain cells. “We know that she and Nadia are interfacing with different preservationist groups in the Middle East, especially Syria, that are working to document the antiquities and keep them off the black market.”

  “Get me a cup too, would ya?” Nutsbe asked. “Sugar, no cream. This call didn’t come from Syria—it came from Jordan.”

  “Still, the scenario could apply.” Brian’s back was to the guys while he doctored the coffee.

  “Except that Nadia usually handles the identification and cataloguing, and they called Sophia,” Nutsbe said as he reached out to take his cup. “Thanks.” He took a sip. “Jesus H. Christ.” He grimaced. “This tastes like swill from a cow pasture.”

  “Probably ‘cause it is.” Brian took his seat. “We don’t know that they were specifically calling Sophia—Nadia works out of that office. The call might have gone to either of them.”

  “Not true,” Thorn said. “The follow up call went to Sophia’s cell.”

  Brian read the words over again. “How about this? It could have something to do with locations instead of items. And we don’t know how cleanly Nadia and Sophia draw the line on their work. There could be overlap like there is here with us.”

  “I wonder what the courier had—maybe we can trace it,” Thorn said.

  “When Brian sent the audio, Titus thought it was odd enough that he pushed it to the top of the queue over at the translation desk,” Nutsbe said. “He thought that package was an opportunity we didn’t want to miss. Since Brian didn’t have a chance to get our monitoring equipment installed, Titus sent Gage over to get a license plate.”

  Brian laced his hands behind his head, slouching into a more comfortable position. “Interesting. I wonder why Titus didn’t get back to me with that.”

  “Dunno, man, but he put his head in earlier and said when you finish up in here, he’d like you to meet with him.”

  “Wilco. What did Gage find out?”

  “The license plates are registered to a company called ReadyMan. The address is a boarded-up house,” Nutsbe said.

  “Huh,” Brian said.

  “Yup.”

  “What happened after the courier left?” Thorn asked.

  Nutsbe read from his computer. “Gage had watch. Lights were on until zero-three-twenty-seven. An interesting log note—just after midnight, he saw someone walking around the side yard. He moved in to take a look but they were gone by the time he worked his way over. Gage checked the windows and doors. It all looked tight. Sophia has alarm system stickers on her windows. There was no siren, so he kept watch until he was sure she was done for the night and he headed back to the barracks.”

  “I’ll figure out a way to get in her house today and install surveillance.” Brian turned to Thorn. “What went on with Nadia?”

  “Looks like I got light duty so far,” Thorn said. “I synced our phones to install the software while she was packing up from the presentation. She made no calls. She texted her sister Lana and someone named Cathy to plan a girls’ night out for Wednesday. There was some back and forth about that. It didn’t read like code, and Sophia wasn’t part
of the exchange. Once Nadia left Iniquus, she had a massage, stopped at a flower shop for a bouquet, then the Godiva store and home. She settled in until dinner, when she headed to a restaurant. At that point, I had time to do a search and plant the electronics at her home. Nice place. An end-row townhouse in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. Tastefully decorated—nothing elaborate. No pets. Vegetarian diet. Nothing that points to her living above her means. Yesterday’s pampering seems like a one-off.”

  “Sophia said that they were both introverts and found talking in front of strangers difficult,” Brian threw out. “Could be that was her celebration that it was over.”

  “They coulda fooled me,” Thorn said. “The thing I picked up on them most was their passion for what they do, not any underlying anxiety. It seemed a way of life for them rather than a career.”

  “Yeah…that’s what you were picking up on.” Nutsbe snickered into his coffee cup.

  “They’re beautiful women. No denying it,” Thorn said. “I saw you sit up and take notice when Sophia started talking about satellite imagery in that bedroom voice of hers. ‘That Global Information System data is extremely sensitive,’” Thorn mimicked Nutsbe with a chuckle.

  “I could do worse. Brains. Beauty. Intrigue.”

  “Prison-striped pajamas,” Thorn countered. “Remember, Finley warned us about that when Andersson was out of hearing. He fell hard for his asset once. Then she chopped off his balls and shoved them down his throat.”

  “Well-deserved, if you ask me,” Nutsbe said. “Finley let his emotions get in the way of his brain cells. He made bad calls. That asset nearly died. She was right to kick him to the curb. And he’s right to put us on notice. It’s science, but not rocket science. People who are considered beautiful get preferential treatment. They can seduce people to bend to their will. Turn a blind eye. They’re held to different ethical and moral standards because humans prefer attractive people. I think it was Freud who said, ‘Anatomy is destiny.’ Yup. I like danger as much as the next guy, but in this case, I’ve already decided on a look-don’t-touch policy.”

  “Conveniently, that’s also written into our contracts, so no room for confusion,” Brian deadpanned.

  Thorn shook his head. “Damned shame, though. Nadia sparked my curiosity.”

  “She’s so out of your league, man.” Brian tapped the printout. “Getting back to this conversation, what do you think this is—this stuff about turning up the heat and tea kettle whistling? Mean anything to you?”

  “It’s a threat,” Thorn said.

  “Someone’s keeping her in line? Running her?” Brian asked.

  “She could be doing something under duress,” Thorn said. “I’m thinking about the fathers when the kidnappers were asking for provenance. Knowledge for someone’s safety? I’m brainstorming here. Who might be threatened in Sophia and Nadia’s lives?”

  “Sophia has two children, Turner and Chance. Where’s their father?” Brian asked. “Could he be a key?” Brian had wanted that question answered since he saw the car seats and thought there was a man in the picture. Maybe that explained her behavior last fall, she was already taken. Who was Brian’s competition? As that thought came out of nowhere, Brian squashed it back down. Finley was right to warn them. Brian could easily see how Sophia could throw him off his game. Had thrown him off his game. She was a moment in time—and that moment had clearly passed. Like he told Sophia, bygones were bygones. He needed to move on.

  “I’ve been putting together some background on Sophia and Nadia. Give me a sec.” Nutsbe got up to dim the lights. He punched a button on his computer. “I’m going to skip back to 2011, the summer the families were kidnapped. I put the knowns on a timeline, or as I’ve poetically labelled this file,” he changed the image to a picture of a hurricane, “Sophia Midah Abadi’s Raging Shitstorm.”

  Crap. Brian kicked his feet up on the table, scooted down in his chair, folded his arms over his chest and did his best to look professionally detached.

  “In the summer of 2011, according to the FBI files, the Abadi and Dajani families were kidnapped, separated, then reunited in Tel Aviv. Then they headed off to what probably felt like the safer part of their research trip.” The image changed to a map, and Nutsbe used a laser to draw a little circle out in the middle of nowhere. “They were working here along the Turkish-Syrian border, near Aleppo. There, Dad Abadi becomes seriously ill with who knows what. He has a fever of one-hundred and five. Eventually, he’s stabilized and shipped home. That information is in the US Embassy notes from Turkey. The Smithsonian was involved with trying to get the families back stateside when the airlines weren’t so keen on doing transport without a diagnosis. After that, Mom Abadi applies for SSDI for her husband. Per the Social Security files, Sophia’s father was completely incapacitated with dementia as a result of the high fever. Mom and Dad Abadi moved to Charleston, South Carolina, where Sophia’s mom’s family lives. He’s out of the picture.”

  Nutsbe brought up a newspaper photograph of a football field and a man in a jersey with Campbell written across the back. Number twenty-seven. “The next thing on the list is that Sophia got married to Hunter Campbell in February 2012.”

  “That seems like odd timing,” Thorn said. “Wasn’t she still in school?”

  “Right, well there’s a good reason. Sophia gets back from Turkey and heads in for her senior year. She was dating Hunter Campbell, star quarterback.” Nutsbe traced a line under the guy’s name with his laser pointer. “November of that year, Campbell took a major hit on the field. Brain trauma. He had to drop out of school. Sophia was in her last semester of undergrad when she got married. She graduated summa cum laude. And on June 8, 2012, baby Turner makes his debut. He’s a full-term baby with no medical issues.”

  “Why did you stipulate that?” Thorn asked.

  “Don’t jump ahead in the book. It spoils the plot.” Nutsbe put up a picture of the graduation ceremony.

  Brian did a quick count on his fingers. “She was pregnant before her boyfriend got hurt. Did he recover?” Brian wanted to get all the cards on the table. Just what was he dealing with here? Wrong damned question. He should be asking what Sophia had been dealing with.

  “Wait for it. One step through the turd field at a time. Sophia continues her education with a master’s program. She’s listed with the university as a teaching assistant, which pays for her tuition and housing. Hunter was awarded SSDI in April 2012. The brain injury permanently disabled him. Searching the database from her university address, I found phone calls to 9-1-1 for violent outbursts where Sophia is screaming into the phone for help. Campbell was frequently hospitalized for long stretches of time—this is all related to the head injury. And before you ask, Brian—because I can see it sitting there on the tip of your tongue—no, there is no money coming in from a lawsuit. The university cannot be held responsible for their athletes’ injuries. The students are just shit out of luck if they get hurt playing for their school.” Another photo of a graduation ceremony went up. “Against what I can only imagine are daunting odds, Sophia is awarded her master’s degree in May 2013.”

  “Where’s the husband’s family?” Thorn asked.

  “At that point they’re in the area, and I’m assuming she’s getting some help from them, because up until that fall, her finances are fairly clean.” Nutsbe shot a look to Brian. “Actually, Sophia is living in their house right now.”

  “With them?” Brian asked.

  “Stay with me, we’re getting to them in a second. In October 2013, Sophia was working toward her PhD. She takes out a personal loan for ten-thousand dollars. That took some digging, but it turns out it was to pay an attorney in Colorado. Her brother’s serving a life sentence for killing a guy in a drug-deal-gone-bad gun battle.”

  “Is there any sign that Sophia could be involved with drugs?” Thorn asked.

  “Zero. But that doesn’t mean anything. If I were her, I’d be on drugs, that’s for damned sure.” Nutsbe looked over at Bria
n. “Seriously, dude, when you sweep her house, I’d look for drug paraphernalia. Given what she’s been through, she may be self-medicating. I checked the brother’s court documents. He testified that in October 2011—please note that date—he was in a motorcycle accident and sustained a back injury. The doctors put him on opioids, but after a while Abadi was having trouble getting the docs to refill the prescriptions. Abadi was addicted, and turned to street drugs to keep himself going. He recognized the problem and was on the waiting list for a bed at a detox. But then a deal he was doing went bad. The dealer accused him of being a cop and pulled a gun on him, yada yada yada. If you’re following along, that’s kidnapped in July, Dad’s brain fries in August, brother’s back breaks in October, and boyfriend’s head gets busted in November.”

  “Sophia is ten-thousand dollars in debt, has a baby, a violent husband, no income, no family support, and she does what?” Thorn asked.

  “Sticks with her PhD.” Nutsbe switched to a picture of the AACP logo. “She was hired by AACP. She’s been on their research team for years. They paid for her tuition and room provided she do her dissertation on space archaeology, focusing on their work in the Middle East. AACP said that once she had her PhD, she’d have a guaranteed job.”

  “Finally, a flicker of hope,” Thorn said.

  “Amen to that,” Nutsbe agreed.

  Brian picked up his now-cold coffee and took a sip. “You still haven’t told me if Hunter Campbell could possibly be a key.”

  Nutsbe scratched his brow. “Well, he’s dead. So I’d say no.”

  Brian stilled, processing that last answer. His respect for Sophia was climbing by the minute. How was she holding herself together through all this crap? “Dead how?”

  “Yeah, that’s going to take a little more digging. I’m not really understanding the circumstances.”

  “But there’s a death certificate,” Brian pressed.