Flashpoint

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Jim. It’s Jimmy,” Tess told her, even as Sophia continued to talk.

  “Can you believe that out of all of the great music produced each year in the U.S., that song, along with ‘YMCA’ and ‘Achy Breaky Heart,’ continued to be the top requested karaoke CDs right up until the bars were shut down? My husband owned an import business—music, books, movies, clothes. Pretty much anything American. Pop-Tarts. He brought in a shipment of Pop-Tarts once, made a killing. A real killing.”

  Sophia fell silent, just shaking her head. She’d zoned out, staring at nothing, temporarily caught in the past.

  And Tess knew. It was all an act. The breezy conversation, the big smiles—Sophia Ghaffari was as big a poser as James Nash.

  “Do you need help getting those sandals off?” Tess asked her briskly.

  “Oh. Thanks. No.” They were loose enough so that Sophia could slip them off without bending over to unfasten them. They hit the floor, one at a time. “I’m not going to get rid of you, am I?” she asked, looking up at Tess with her very blue eyes.

  Tess moved the sandals aside. “Nope. Sorry.”

  “This is really strange, you know. Being here. Talking to you. In English. I haven’t seen another American woman in years, and . . . here you are. So . . . friendly. So . . . normal. You look like you might’ve stepped out of Survivor.”

  Tess laughed. “Is that what normal looks like these days?”

  Sophia shook her head. “I don’t know. I lost normal years ago. But I do know that normal American women don’t look like the cast of Friends.” She smiled and it didn’t seem forced.

  You do. Tess kept herself from saying it.

  “Dimitri loved both of those shows.” Sophia could really keep up both ends of a conversation. “Right up until satellite TV was outlawed. So, when exactly did you get married? You and . . . Jim, is it? Jim . . . Decker?”

  Oh, dear. Sophia apparently thought that—

  “Jimmy Nash,” Tess quickly corrected her. “Decker’s first name is Lawrence—although I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone call him that. At least not to his face. He’s Decker. Or Deck. Or sir.”

  Sophia covered her face with her hands.

  She wasn’t crying—at least Tess didn’t think she was. She just sat there, bent over, absolutely still. Tess wasn’t even sure if she was breathing.

  It was such a total contrast to her Kelly Ripa impersonation. “Are you all right?” Tess started to say.

  And Sophia sat up, pulling her hands down so that she could look at Tess over her fingers, her mouth and nose still covered. “Thank goodness,” she said, her voice muffled. “I thought . . .” She closed her eyes, shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “I know what you thought,” Tess told her. “Decker told me what happened this morning—not to embarrass you,” she added quickly, when Sophia looked up, aghast. “It was so I could reassure you that . . . I think he wanted you to know that you were as safe as possible here—from more than just Padsha Bashir.”

  Sophia—the real Sophia—looked back at her, her eyes haunted. “Why didn’t he tell me who he was?” she whispered.

  “How could he?” Tess said. It wasn’t meant to be at all chiding, just an explanation. Complete trust was a rare and valuable commodity here in Kazbekistan. Surely Sophia knew that better than most. “You didn’t believe him when he said he’d help you.”

  “You have no idea where I’ve been these past months, what I’ve—” Sophia’s voice shook—no act. “The thought of going back there . . .”

  “Actually, I do know where you’ve been.” Tess thought of exactly what that property transfer meant, along with that withdrawal of funds from Dimitri Ghaffari’s account, both signed by Padsha Bashir. Decker had said that it was likely Bashir had killed Sophia’s husband in front of her. “I can imagine what it must’ve been like, living at Bashir’s palace.”

  Sophia began unfastening her robe. Without a word, she took it off, along with the flimsy gauze dress she wore underneath.

  And Tess knew that she was wrong. Before this moment, she absolutely could not have imagined what it had been like to be a prisoner—a possession—of Padsha Bashir.

  The expression on Tess’s face must have been more than Sophia could stand, because she tried to bring the poser back.

  “I think we should cut my hair before we dye it,” Sophia said, but her voice shook. “Don’t you?”

  Tess couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes as she brought the water closer. “You really are safe now,” she told the other woman.

  “Yeah,” Sophia said, but Tess knew that she didn’t believe it.

  Jimmy was just about to give up and go when Tess emerged from behind the pantry curtain.

  “She’s finally asleep.” She looked from Decker to Jimmy. “I promised her one of us would be out in the kitchen all night.”

  Decker nodded. “I’ll be here,” he told her, speaking just as quietly.

  Sophia wasn’t the only one sleeping. Rivka and his wife had turned in hours ago and were fast asleep in the office up on the second floor.

  “I’m heading out in just a few minutes,” Jimmy told Tess. “Alone.”

  She barely even glanced at him. “Sophia is certain that Sayid wasn’t staying at Bashir’s palace.”

  Decker, however, looked at Jimmy long enough to send him a clear message. You are the world’s biggest idiot.

  Jimmy felt compelled to defend himself. “I’m just saying that I slept all day so I’m going out.”

  “She took the news pretty hard,” Tess told Decker. “You know, that Bashir’s still alive.”

  Deck nodded. Sighed.

  “That palace is huge,” Jimmy pointed out. “How can she be certain—”

  “She is.” This time he got a look from Tess that was hot with anger.

  And okay, maybe Deck was right. Because only an idiot wouldn’t have known that now was not the time to argue with the woman, let alone allow his words to drip with disbelief. “You’re telling us that someone who was little more than a palace concubine knew what was going on in every corner of that—”

  Tess cut him off again. “A palace concubine who was used—repeatedly—to entertain Bashir’s important guests. Apparently the son of a bitch got off on debasing and humiliating some of his so-called wives—Sophia in particular. She said that out of all Bashir’s guests, Sayid was . . .” Her voice shook. “He was a very religious man. Unlike the others, he never cut her.”

  “What?” Decker swore softly.

  This time, even Jimmy managed to keep his big mouth shut.

  Tears brimmed in Tess’s eyes, and he realized that the look she’d shot him before wasn’t anger—at least not anger at him.

  Please, Jesus, don’t let her cry. If she broke down and cried, he’d have to put his arms around her—how could he not? And once he had her in his arms, he wouldn’t want to let her go. Self-indulgent prick that he was, he’d hang on to her way too long—long enough for her to realize that everything he’d said this morning was fiction.

  The truth is, Tess, I don’t want to sleep with you.

  Yeah. Right. He didn’t want to sleep with her, the world was flat, and Elvis was his father.

  Although, considering his cheekbones and the fact that the King had surely visited New York City in 1968, the Elvis thing actually might’ve been true.

  “Bashir essentially pimped her out,” Tess told them, “but it wasn’t just for sex. If they wanted to, any one of his esteemed guests could have killed her—and the only person who would’ve cared was the woman who came in to mop the blood off the floor. Imagine living like that. Never knowing, day to day, if you were going to be killed for sport—or just merely forced to . . . She told me Sayid didn’t touch her, that he was deeply religious. A fanatic, sure, but . . . He did order her death, though. But even then, she said it had shades of a mercy killing. It was only because he and Bashir had a falling out that she wasn’t executed. God. Can you imagine?”

  It w
as truly sick and twisted, but Jimmy could imagine. The world he lived in was harsh and dark. People like Tess didn’t belong in it.

  He turned away, because damn it, she was starting to cry.

  “Most of Bashir’s guests didn’t beat the shit out of her.” She spoke in fits and gasps. “Although some of them did. Most of them were satisfied with just . . . God, Deck, with just carving their initials into her skin.”

  Damn it. Jimmy closed his eyes. He didn’t dare look at her. Didn’t dare turn back to her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Decker whispered.

  Jimmy could tell from Tess’s breathing that she was trying to keep from crying too loudly.

  “Honey, it’s okay to cry,” Deck murmured.

  Honey?

  He turned around, and sure enough, the son of a bitch bastard had Tess securely in his arms.

  Which was exactly what Jimmy had wanted, wasn’t it?

  Yes.

  No.

  Shit.

  Tess lifted her head and looked up at Deck, her face wet with tears.

  Her expression was heartbreaking, but it was her eyes that got him. Her eyes actually held hope.

  “I promised her that we were going to keep her safe,” Tess told Decker. “But we need to get her out of Kazbekistan. We’ll need help from the Agency to do that.”

  Decker shook his head. “We’re on our own for this,” he admitted, stepping back from her, the team leader once again. “We’ve already contacted both the Agency and the CIA. They say they can’t have anything to do with an extraction—you know, pulling Sophia out. And it’s not going to be easy smuggling her over the border.”

  Goddamn idiot. Jimmy would’ve lied to her. Anything would’ve been better than that brutal honesty shit.

  She was, of course, aghast. “After all the information she gave them as Miles Farrell . . . ?” She wiped her face with her shirtsleeve.

  “Yeah, Dave’s pretty steamed, too,” Decker told her. “But they’re afraid that any falsified documents they send over here might be intercepted. Or traced. As for providing financial help . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck, sighed, and continued to shovel the bad news directly onto her head. “We’re not hopeful. The current administration at the Agency has a policy that other groups are trying out. It’s meant to discourage people from staying behind in dangerous countries postevacuation. It’s a bottom-line decision—rescue attempts cost big bucks. And failed rescue attempts . . .” He shook his head. “The policy says ‘Get out when we tell you to get out or good luck—you’re on your own.’ And they told Sophia to get out years ago.”

  Tess got even more mad. “What?”

  “Yeah, well, even though I’m loath to say I agree with Doug Brendon, on this one I do agree,” Decker said. “Sophia and her husband stayed in Kazbekistan too long. Probably out of greed—it was a chance to make a fast buck. No one’s perfect, Tess,” he added, when she started to interrupt. “It doesn’t mean the price they ended up paying was fair or just. Because it’s not. But the fact remains that Sophia took a gamble and lost.”

  “Well, I’m not going to leave her here.” Tess was pissed.

  “Yeah, I’m not either,” Decker said. “I never said that.”

  “She could use my passport,” Tess suggested. “We could put a cast on her arm, pretend she’s me and she’s hurt and has to go back home.”

  “No way,” Jimmy said. They both looked over at him as if they’d forgotten he was there. “Bad idea.”

  “Yeah. Bashir’s men are going to be watching for that,” Decker said.

  “But if she pretended to be zoned out on painkillers, or sick—yeah, sitting in a wheelchair, yuking her guts out—and Jimmy went, too, you know, as Mr. James Nash and his vomiting wife—”

  “And how do you get out of the country without a passport?” Jimmy couldn’t believe she’d think for a minute that he would be willing to leave her here. Even with Decker, who, with his special tear-absorbent T-shirts, would clearly take very good care of her.

  “I’ll wait a few days, then report mine stolen.” She had an answer for everything.

  Except, “I’m supposed to be doing a job here,” Jimmy pointed out. “Not babysitting an ex-pat who’s changed her mind and wants to go home.”

  But Tess even had a solution for that. “Then we’ll wait until we’re done here, and Sophia can go with you then.”

  Which would mean leaving Tess here, in Terrorist Central, all by her lonesome. “No way,” Jimmy said again.

  “But—”

  “No fucking way. I veto that idea.”

  Tess laughed in derision. “Like you have the power to veto—”

  Decker stepped between them. “Look, we’re all tired.”

  “I’m not,” Jimmy said. “I slept all day.”

  “Which is my fault, too, right?” It came out of Tess sounding defeated instead of challenging. Damn it, she was going to start to cry again.

  “Maybe you should go, Nash,” Decker suggested.

  Jimmy felt awful. “It’s not your fault,” he told Tess.

  Decker practically pushed him toward the door. “Go.”

  It was an order this time.

  And suddenly the last thing Jimmy felt like doing was leaving Tess here to cry out her frustration and grief in Decker’s capable arms.

  As he went out the door, he couldn’t keep himself from giving Deck a hard look.

  Like he had any right at all to be proprietary.

  As he stepped into the yard, he heard Decker’s laughter, soft and faintly mocking, then his voice, saying gently, “Come here, honey. It’s okay.”

  Honey.

  Motherfucker.

  Gritting his teeth, Jimmy didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Lawrence Decker was obviously determined never to spend even a single second alone with her.

  It was almost amusing, the way he choreographed it. When he was around, Sophia had a continuous tag team of chaperones.

  When she first woke up, it was Murphy. She had breakfast with him and Decker.

  Murphy fed an artfully believable story about why she was in their kitchen to Rivka and Guldana, their K-stani hosts.

  She was Julie Erdman, an old friend of Dave’s from his days at World Relief. She’d been staying north of the city in a tent that hadn’t been properly anchored. A strong wind pushed it over. Not only had it knocked her down, making her look as if she’d gone a round or two with the local heavyweight champ, but it landed right in the middle of the camp’s dinner. Which was cooking on an open fire. When it came to tent fabric, flame resistant and flame retardant were, apparently, two very different things. Particularly when water was in low supply.

  Not only did the tent burn, but so did Julie’s sleeping bag and all of her clothing and other belongings.

  Murphy managed to tell the tale with a hint of an amused wink aimed at their hosts. Like, “Can you believe how silly we Americans can be?”

  He was a masterful liar. He didn’t spend a whole lot of time on her story. He just explained why she was going to be sleeping in their pantry, and then moved on to a funny account of his fiancée’s attempt to find the perfect wedding dress.

  Sophia was tempted to pull him aside and ask him if his Angelina was pure fabrication, too.

  After breakfast, Tess appeared exactly when Murphy went outside to pump water from the well in the yard—one of the small chores they did to help their hosts. Tess looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept much last night.

  With Decker, she walked Sophia out to the barn. This morning Tess was going with Khalid to help with the relief effort. Someone had to—it was, after all, the alleged reason they were in Kazabek.

  James Nash was already in the barn, tall and handsome and charming and well-groomed—like Dimitri, he was one of those men who managed even to sweat with style. He was another alleged, as far as Sophia was concerned. It was hard to imagine him married to Tess. Men like him just weren’t that
smart.

  He was with the K-stani boy who worked with them.

  There was a lot of eye contact, but nobody said much of anything until the boy, Khalid, led the world’s ugliest gelding out into the yard.

  It was then Tess turned to Decker, who was flipping through a stack of papers—reading some kind of computer printed report—his mug of coffee in his other hand.

  “This is a total waste of manpower,” she said.

  “No, it’s not.” Nash stepped closer.

  Decker only glanced up very briefly as she turned to do battle with Nash.

  “Yes, it is,” Tess countered. “If Murphy’s coming, too—”

  “There’s no if,” Nash told her.

  “Excuse me, are you team leader?”

  “You’re not going to win this one,” Nash said. “You’re just not, so—”

  Tess pointedly turned away from her husband—Sophia was starting to believe they really were married—and toward Decker. “I can guarantee that before we go two blocks, Will Schroeder will be sitting in that wagon with me. Sir, I don’t need Murphy. He’s got other things to do.”

  Nash didn’t give up. “Oh, Will Schroeder’s going to keep you safe. That makes me feel so much better.”

  Who was Will Schroeder?

  Tess ignored him. “We might as well make use of Will,” she told Decker. “And yes, between him and Khalid, I’m sure I’ll be very safe.”

  “Yeah,” Nash said. “Because if you run into any trouble, Schroeder can give everyone paper cuts.”

  Decker looked up from the documents he’d been trying to read, and directly at Sophia. It was probably quite by accident, since along with avoiding being alone with her, he’d also made a point never to meet her gaze.

  “Does this sound as childish to you as it does to me?” he asked her, amused resignation pushing the edges of his mouth up into what almost could be called a smile.

  Sophia froze. It was stupid. She’d never been shy, but here she was, suddenly tongue-tied as she looked into this man’s eyes.

  For the second time in two days, Dave saved her. “Sorry I’m late, sir.” He breezed in, filling the sudden, uncomfortable silence.