by Gail Barrett
A sudden surge of sadness washed through her, regret that her mother had suffered through a marriage to this man. She understood why her mother stayed; she’d sacrificed her own chance at happiness to protect her daughter from harm. And now, for her brave mother’s sake, she had to bring this evil man down.
“You operated on Leila,” he finally said.
Thrown off balance by his choice of topics, she sharpened her gaze. “That’s right.”
“I’m holding a reception in the ballroom tomorrow night. I want her made presentable. You and Leila will both attend.”
Startled, she cocked her head. This had to be a trick. He rarely included women in his events. And she didn’t trust his suspiciously civil tone. He was holding her prisoner after threatening to kill her, and now he wanted her to play hostess at a formal event?
“Who’s attending the reception?”
“Important people. The vice president. He’s receiving an award. Sultan needs his wife there. You’ll make sure she acts the right way.”
Her frown deepened. Maybe Sultan had political ambitions. Maybe he was trotting Leila out in public so he’d look like a reform-minded Jaziirastani, determined to present the world with a modern face.
Or maybe this had to do with the upcoming attack.
“And if I don’t?”
“You will if you want to live. There are gowns in the closet. Find something suitable to wear.” Dismissing her, he walked to the door.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “What about Leila? I need to check on her.”
“She’ll come see you in the morning. I’ve given her a list of guests to study. You’ll help her memorize the names.” He opened the door and left. The latch clicked in the sudden silence, locking her in.
Shaken, she sank into the armchair beside the fireplace and struggled to absorb what had occurred. Her father had ordered her to attend a reception. Not only was that bizarre, but it made no sense. He had to know that she’d try to escape, that she’d approach the first American she saw and plead for help. So why would he take that risk?
She didn’t believe for a minute that he’d changed his mind and intended to let her live. That was even more far-fetched. He wouldn’t have kidnapped her in the first place if that had been his plan.
No, he had something up his sleeve, some ulterior motive for wanting her at that reception the following night. But what?
Unable to come up with an answer, she rose. Then she leaned against the fireplace mantel and stared into the dancing flames. And before she could stop it, her mind wandered back to another fire, another night, another time she’d been held in captivity—that storm-ravaged night she’d met Rasheed.
And suddenly, a terrible ache filled her chest, a longing so acute it stole her breath. She missed him. She missed everything about him—his intelligence, his courage, his strength. How safe and cherished he’d made her feel. She’d never dreamed that she would come to care so deeply about him in such a brief expanse of time.
The flames wavered and curled, bathing her face with heat. She closed her eyes, images rising in rapid succession—the flash of his sexy smile, the hunger in his onyx eyes, the fierce pain racking his face when he’d told her how he’d failed his wife, how he no longer had it in him to love.
He was wrong.
He was a hero. A protector. A brave and selfless man who’d do anything, no matter how suicidal, to keep her safe.
A man who intended to infiltrate this compound, sacrificing his life to get her out.
She couldn’t let him.
It was time she protected him.
* * *
“What do you mean, I can’t go in there?” Rasheed stared at his boss sitting across from him in the crowded fast-food restaurant just off M Street, unable to believe his ears. “We can’t just abandon her. She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for us.”
His CIA chief, a middle-aged bald man named Dennis Caldwell, shrugged. “We’re not abandoning her. We just have to wait until tomorrow night. We’ll use the reception as cover to search the house.”
Rasheed clamped down hard on a curse, knowing a blowup wouldn’t help his cause. But damn it! They couldn’t leave her in that house. “That’s a day from now. Nearly twenty-four hours. She could be dead by then.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. We tried to get a search warrant, but the D.A. wouldn’t buy it. He’s getting pressured from the top.”
“From who? Senator Riggs?”
Caldwell made a face. “Worse. The vice president. He’s probably afraid it could cause a backlash, making him look xenophobic, and he’s counting on the Muslim vote.”
Which left them screwed. Rasheed slumped back in his seat and hissed. He knew the drill. Every time they’d gotten a lead in this damned investigation, some ambitious politician kept tying their hands.
And the political climate was getting worse. The president had maxed out his term limit. The vice president was a shoo-in to win the next election, assuming he didn’t tick off too many voters before then. And rumor had it that Senator Riggs was aiming to be his running mate.
“The veep built his career on Middle East outreach,” Caldwell added. “Now he’s getting this award. He needs it to go off without a hitch. He can’t do anything to look bad.”
“I don’t care how he looks. I care about Nadine. I told you, her life’s at stake.”
“You don’t know that.”
“The hell I don’t. She told me her father’s going to kill her.”
“You can’t prove that. You can’t,” he insisted, when Rasheed opened his mouth to argue. “At this point, it’s hearsay. You can’t prove that he’s made any threats.”
“He kidnapped her.”
“Actually, you kidnapped her. He’ll deny any involvement in that.”
“What about the terrorist angle, his connection to the Rising Light? We should at least be able to do a sneak and peek based on that.” The Patriot Act authorized secret warrants in cases involving national security. “Al Kahtani would never have to know we were there.”
“It’s too risky. He contributes to too many campaigns. No one’s going to take a chance on doing something that potentially explosive without more proof.
“And besides, she’s an adult. She got on the plane of her own free will. She had an opportunity to escape at the airport, and she didn’t try to get away. No one held a gun to her head.”
Rasheed shoved his hand through his hair. “She thought she could do this.”
“Maybe she can.” When Rasheed growled, Caldwell raised his hand, his gold watchband gleaming in the fluorescent light. “I told you. There’s nothing we can do right now. We can’t just storm in there without a warrant. We have to follow the rules.”
“Because of politics.” His voice came out flat.
Caldwell shrugged again. “We’ll have people at the reception. They can conduct a secret search then.”
“Assuming she’s still alive.”
Frustrated, he blew out his breath. He had to get her out. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was leaving her in there alone, no matter what his boss said.
But this case was unraveling fast. Everything had gone totally haywire in the past twelve hours. Nadine had boarded the plane instead of the decoy. Sultan had taken her to the family compound where no one could get at her. And if that weren’t bad enough, the terrorists had changed their plans, checking into a hotel in Washington, D.C.—ten lousy miles from McLean.
He didn’t know why they’d altered their plans. He worried that Amir had alerted Manzoor, who’d somehow caught on to him. And to add to the mess, it appeared the CIA now believed that the president was the target of the upcoming attack. His boss was insisting that Rasheed forget al Kahtani and stay embedded with the terrorists to track their moves.
“This thing stinks,” Rasheed muttered. “Al Kahtani’s in this up to his eyeballs.”
“We intercepted those messages, Rasheed. All signs point to an attack on the commander in chief at one of his holiday events.”
“I still don’t believe it. The timing of this is wrong.”
Caldwell sighed. “Look. We’ve told the vice president our concerns. We tried to convince him to bow out of the reception, to be on the safe side, but he wouldn’t agree. He insists the security is tight enough.”
It was tight, all right. They were sweeping the reception area for bombs. Dogs would be on-site. There’d be metal detectors, snipers on the roof, military firepower patrolling the air—not to mention the on-ground secret service detail watching his back.
“They get security threats all the time,” Caldwell added. “That’s part of their life. They deal with it.”
“But what if the messages are a ruse? What if they’re trying to lead us away from the real threat at the reception?”
Caldwell rose. “Go get some sleep, Rasheed. Keep your eye on the terrorists and leave the al Kahtani woman to us. Like I said, the security team will do a sweep. They’ll try to make contact with her tomorrow night. If she wants out, we’ll get her out. That’s the best we can do.”
It wasn’t enough.
Scowling, Rasheed watched his boss work his way past a cluster of patrons and exit the restaurant. He had his orders. He needed to go back to the hotel and continue watching Amir and Manzoor.
Rising, he tossed his soda cup in the trash bin, then followed his boss into the night. He had his orders, all right. But he’d already failed one woman with deadly results. And he refused to do it twice.
* * *
Nadine’s mother hadn’t only been a courageous woman, she’d been a smart one. And now her intelligence might help save Rasheed’s life.
Nadine stuffed another pillow under her bed covers and bunched up the bedspread, then took a final glance around her room. The fire in the fireplace had died. The mantel clock struck three, its lilting chime loud in the silent night.
She knew she was taking a gamble. Her mother’s secret door led straight through her father’s bedroom where he was asleep. But she couldn’t afford to wait. She might not have another chance to get out. And the odds that Rasheed would try something dangerous mounted with every hour that passed.
Hurrying now, she crossed the room to the walk-in closet built into the common wall between the suites. She flicked on the light, grateful her father’s renovations hadn’t extended to the closet—or the small shelving unit that doubled as a hidden door. Her mother had named it Bab irr after a gate in ancient Aden, a gate the townspeople had opened only in emergencies. She’d used it to visit Nadine, bringing her food when she’d been punished, textbooks when her father had insisted that she stop studying and prepare for marriage instead.
Fighting back the memories, she found the key taped beneath the bottom shelf and unlocked the door, revealing the matching shelving unit on the opposite side. Even more cautious now, she cracked it open and listened hard.
The closet on her father’s side was the former nursery. When she’d gotten older, her mother had converted it into an elaborate dressing room. Unbeknownst to her father, she’d also installed the secret door. After her death, the maids had disposed of her shoes and clothes, using the huge space to store extra bedding instead. The door had remained concealed.
Sending her mother her silent thanks, Nadine crawled through the opening, then hurried through the dressing room to her father’s suite. The sound of snoring reached her ears, proof that he was still asleep. So far, so good.
Praying that he wouldn’t hear her, she raced across the bedroom to the hallway door. The floorboards creaked. The snoring abruptly stopped, and she froze, terrified that he’d wake up. But after a second, the snores resumed. Her pulse going berserk now, she unlocked the door with a quiet snick and slipped outside into the hall.
She was free, thank God.
But she couldn’t breathe easy yet. She had to find the files Rasheed needed first. And she didn’t have much time. Careful to muffle her footsteps, she bolted down the hall to the back staircase and descended to the bottom floor. From there she cut through several rooms to the main block between the wings.
Several minutes later, she entered the study and closed the door. Still breathing hard, she made a beeline to the window and closed the blinds. Convinced that no one could see her, she snapped on a table lamp.
The low light pooled across the room. The study was a man’s domain with dark paneling, dark furniture and a dark-toned Persian rug. Dozens of photos of her father shaking hands with various dignitaries hung on the walls.
She set the timer on her watch and got to work, starting at his executive-size desk. A search of the drawers came up empty, which was no surprise. Her father was smart. He wasn’t going to make this easy by leaving an incriminating file lying around.
She turned on the computer next, but a password prompt came up. After trying various possibilities, she gave up and turned it off. Someone with computer expertise would have to tackle that. But she pocketed a dozen thumb drives on the off chance that they held a clue.
Rising, she studied the room, the quantity of built-in cabinets and cupboards daunting, given her lack of time. But Rasheed was depending on her to find evidence. Resolute, she worked her way clockwise around the room, searching the various drawers and shelves. An hour later, only the antique file cabinet remained.
Her heart sank when she opened the top drawer. There were hundreds of files, crammed together so tightly she could hardly pry one loose. It would take hours to check them all, far more time than she could spare.
Still, she thumbed through a couple of drawers before admitting defeat. She didn’t even know what to look for. And the chance of finding a folder conveniently labeled hawala network was nil.
But there was a file marked Leila in the bottom drawer. Curious, she yanked it free, then took it over to her father’s desk and spread it out.
The file contained various documents—Leila’s birth certificate, marriage certificate and social security card—fairly typical stuff. There was also what appeared to be a travelogue or itinerary of sorts. Surprised, she studied the list—places Leila had visited, bus and train rides she’d taken, hotels that she’d stayed in. But the more Nadine read, the odder the whole thing seemed. They were all in Iran.
Was Sultan or her father having Leila followed? But that was ridiculous. Leila never went anywhere alone—let alone to Iran.
She opened a manila envelope next and leafed through the photographs inside. Some were photos of places—villages at the foot of mountains, a dry, high-altitude plateau. Others showed Leila shopping at a local bazaar and standing with people near village huts. The last item in the file was her passport—with entry and exit stamps from Iran.
Totally perplexed now, Nadine lowered herself into the nearest chair. What did this mean? It was true she hadn’t been around Leila in fifteen years, but her sister-in-law hadn’t changed that much. And she couldn’t imagine her traveling without Sultan—especially to Iran. And yet, Sultan didn’t appear in any of the photos. He wasn’t mentioned in the file. There weren’t any ticket stubs belonging to him.
Incredulous, she leaned back, trying to make sense of what she’d found. Leila had been born in Iran. She was an orphan, raised by a legal guardian, the same man who’d owed her father money and arranged the marriage to Sultan. Maybe these were her relatives. Maybe she’d made a trip to find her birth family. She could have been curious about her heritage or wanted to see her old guardian again.
Nadine took another look at the photos, but there was no family resemblance that she could see. And something else struck her as wrong. Leila wasn’t wearing a burka—and she was traveling in public, standing beside
various men.
Stunned, she shuffled through the pictures again, the wrongness leaping out at her this time. These pictures couldn’t be real. There wasn’t a chance on earth Leila would have gone traipsing through a village in the Middle East, exposing her face to public view. Anyone who’d ever met her knew that.
Were these photos fakes? If so, they were high-quality work, for sure. She doubted even an expert could find a flaw. But she knew better than anyone what money could buy. She’d shelled out thousands of dollars for documentation to support her own fabricated past. And both her father and brother had money. They could definitely afford the best.
But why would they bother? Why fake these photographs? If Nadine was reading the reports right, they’d gone to considerable trouble, creating an elaborate itinerary to make it appear that Leila had visited Iran.
But what was the point? Could it be related to the attack? She couldn’t see how; her sister-in-law might be married to a fanatic, but she wasn’t an activist herself.
Her watch beeped. Glancing at it, she rose. She’d have to mull it over later. Her time had just run out. She needed to get over to the ballroom and hide before anyone in the house woke up. As soon as the workers arrived to prepare for the reception, she’d use the commotion surrounding the preparations for the reception to make her escape, then somehow track down Rasheed.
She straightened the blotter on the desk, erasing any evidence that she’d searched the room. Then, taking Leila’s mysterious file with her, she turned off the lamp, returned to the window and opened the blinds again. She doubted her father would notice the position of the slats, but she couldn’t afford to take the chance.
Without warning, a shout came from outside. She ducked, her heart suddenly sprinting, afraid that she’d been seen. She crept to the corner of the window, pushed aside the edge of the bottom slat and braved a quick peek out.
Several guards stood near the building. They weren’t looking her way, thank God. They seemed to be grappling with someone on the ground, wrestling him into submission. Then they handcuffed him and stepped away.