“It just arrived. Would you like a soda?” Mark offered.
“I have soda here. You didn’t have to order that.”
“The Bureau’s paying the bill. Enjoy it.” Coop pulled out a chair for her at the small dinette table.
As she slipped past him to take it, he caught a faint whiff of some subtle, pleasing fragrance he couldn’t quite identify. While he wasn’t usually given to poetic musings, it brought to mind idyllic, carefree summer days and happy endings.
“Coop?”
Mark’s voice pulled him back to the present, and he had a feeling this wasn’t his partner’s first attempt to get his attention.
“What?”
“Ms. Callahan asked if we want glasses for our sodas.”
“No. Thanks.”
As Coop took his seat, Monica reached for a piece of pizza. “Is there any rule against using first names in your line of work? This Ms. Callahan business is going to get old very fast.”
“The customer calls the shots. First names are fine with us if that’s what you prefer.” Coop snared a piece of pizza too.
“Definitely.” She took a bite and surveyed the stack of papers off to the side of the table. “Why do I think you gentlemen have been planning my life for me?”
“We’ve been arranging security coverage here, at church, and for your speech at the Jefferson,” Mark confirmed.
“What about the book signing?”
Mark shot Coop a look but remained silent.
“We’re taking this a couple of days at a time,” Coop replied.
“Why is it okay for me to do the convention speech, but the book signing freaks you out?” Monica directed the question to Coop as she took a hearty bite of pizza.
“The Jefferson is easier to secure. The speech is part of a private event in a place where we can control the access points. The signing is in a bookstore at a public mall. It’s far more risky.”
She finished off her first slice of pizza and took another. “I’ll think about it, okay?”
“We’d appreciate it.”
“In the meantime, why don’t we go over our plan while we eat.” Mark wiped his hands on a paper napkin and pulled out one of the papers from the stack. “The HRT is sending another two-man security detail down here tomorrow. We’ll work twelve-hour shifts. The Richmond field office will provide exterior surveillance at the house and will give us additional support for the outside commitments you can’t change.”
“What about church tomorrow?” Monica asked.
“Coop and I will go with you, and the Richmond office will provide backup.”
“Do you honestly think I’ll be in danger at church?” She gave them a skeptical look.
“No place is safe, except a safe house.” Coop leveled a direct look at her. “The kind of people we’re dealing with hold very little sacred, Monica. Including life—as 9/11 proved.”
At his grim tone, some of the color drained from her face. She set her half-eaten slice of pizza on her plate and clenched her hands in her lap.
“I still can’t believe I’m in the middle of some terrorist plot. I’m sure you guys are used to this kind of situation, but the whole thing is surreal to me. It seems more like a thriller movie than real life.”
“People in pretty high positions think it’s very real.” Mark took a swig of his soda, his expression somber.
As she lifted her own glass, the sudden, intrusive ring of the phone on the counter shattered the insular quiet of the room. Her arm jerked, sloshing dark liquid on the table. Mark tossed some napkins on the puddle.
“Sorry.” She gave him a shaky smile and started to rise.
“Just so you know, we’ve put a tap on your phone. We want a recording of any messages or conversations.”
At Coop’s quiet comment, she sank back into her chair, letting the call roll to her answering machine.
“Hi, Monica. Sorry I missed you. I was hoping you might be available for lunch on Monday. Give me a ring.”
The male voice on the line left no name or number.
Interesting, Coop reflected. According to her file, she had no close relatives. Based on a conversation earlier in the day as they’d gone over her schedule, she’d indicated there was no one close enough to her to merit an alert about her unavailability for the next few days. He tilted his head and regarded her.
“Matt Haley.” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “A colleague. I’ve been reviewing a paper he hopes to get published. I expect he wants to get together to discuss it. I can put him off for a few days. Or have him come here.”
“If he comes here, our presence will raise questions. Put him off.” Coop’s decisive tone left little room for argument.
“Okay. No problem.” Monica tipped her head toward the counter. “By the way, how do you know they—whoever ‘they’ are—haven’t also tapped the phone?”
“We already checked.”
Monica drew a shaky breath and reached up to massage her temples.
“Headache?” Coop gentled his voice.
She summoned up the semblance of a smile. “Yes. I’m afraid I’m not used to all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I think I’m going to take a couple of aspirin and call it a night.” She rose, waving them down as they started to stand. “Finish your pizza.”
They remained silent until the soft click of a door told them she was out of hearing range.
“I think she’s beginning to realize the situation is as dangerous as it is inconvenient.” Mark sopped up the remainder of the spilled soda and deposited the soggy napkins in the empty pizza box.
“Yeah.”
“We have her to ourselves all day tomorrow until the other HRT security team arrives. My advice is work on the book signing.” He yawned and stretched. “And now I’m going to get a little shut-eye on the couch. Unless you want me to take the first shift.”
“No. Go ahead. I can hold out for a while.”
As Mark disappeared into the living room, Coop gathered up the remnants of their dinner. Half of the second pizza was untouched, and he slid the box into the refrigerator. He and Mark had cleaned their plates, but Monica’s contained the half-eaten piece she’d abandoned when the phone rang. He slid it into the garbage.
In the back of the house, he could hear the water running, perhaps indicating a glass being filled. He was sorry she had a headache, sorry she was frightened.
But if that was the worst thing that happened to her during this assignment, he could live with it.
“Yes?” Tariq nodded to Anis as he answered his cell phone, and the man rose from his cross-legged position on the floor and left the room.
“It is as you suspected. They are watching the house.”
The connection was excellent. If he didn’t know Nouri was halfway across the world, a couple of hundred yards away from Monica Callahan’s house, Tariq would think he was in the next room. Technology had its uses.
“How many?”
“Two men inside. It appears there are two more outside.”
“Who are they?”
“We’re checking with our contacts. Not local police. They may be State Department security personnel or FBI.”
“Is there any activity that indicates they’re planning to leave?”
“No. The lights have been dimmed for the night. All appears quiet.”
“Does the security in place present a problem for the next step?”
“It shouldn’t, assuming they leave the house at some point.
We only need a few minutes.”
Tariq took Nouri at his word. His older brother’s son headed up his most experienced U.S. cell and had personally checked out Monica Callahan’s house weeks ago. His loyalty was solid, and he would carry out Tariq’s bidding without question. With the funds Tariq was funneling his way, he could buy any information he needed.
“Good. Alert me of any changes in status.”
“I will.”
The line went de
ad. Unlike Anis, Nouri hadn’t questioned Tariq’s strategy or his timing. He would find a place for Nouri in his organization when he regained power, Tariq resolved.
For now, however, he would wait. The enhanced security around Monica Callahan indicated her father wasn’t dismissing the threat to her as cavalierly as he dismissed those directed toward him. But in truth, Tariq had been prepared for a more dramatic response. He’d expected the woman to be whisked away to some secret location. Not that it mattered. Nouri was prepared for all contingencies.
The next forty-eight hours were critical. If David Callahan didn’t reconsider his stance by then, he would take the next step. And the one after that. And the final one. After all, he didn’t need the diplomat to achieve his goal. He could regain power without his help. In fact, some of his supporters advocated the man’s elimination.
Yet Callahan’s influence was powerful, and Tariq planned to use it if he could. If anyone could convince the American president to meet the terrorist demands, it was the respected diplomat. That was the easier route to success, and Tariq always took the easy way, if possible.
Besides, the benefits to Callahan’s cooperation were substantial. The list of prisoners whose release Tariq had demanded included key supporters, interspersed among red herrings. And the ransom money would help him buy the arms and influence he needed to achieve his coup.
Humiliating David Callahan by forcing him to renege on his principles and negotiate with terrorists in order to save his daughter was a bonus.
But in the end, with or without Callahan’s help, Tariq would reach his goal.
No matter what it took.
No matter who had to die.
5
By seven Sunday morning, the sun hadn’t yet crested the distant, jagged peaks of the Hindu Kush Mountains visible outside the window of David Callahan’s office. Wiping a weary hand down his face, he stared at the distant, shadowed landscape. In between, hidden from his sight but vivid in his mind, lay the cacophony that was Kabul, where destroyed and decaying buildings offered mute testimony to decades of division and violence.
Violence that now threatened his family.
He’d done everything he could to protect Monica. Gone to the highest levels to ensure the best security available. Called in favors. Pulled strings. Taken measures he would never have considered employing on his own behalf. She was as well guarded as was humanly possible.
But that didn’t ease his worry.
Nor muffle the voice of his conscience.
She wouldn’t be in danger if you’d done what Elaine asked years ago and taken a different job. One that would have allowed you to be a real husband and father.
Like a looped recording, that refrain had replayed over and over in his mind during the long, dark night. In general, David didn’t believe in dwelling on regrets. Besides, he had few—on a professional level, anyway. His career had been everything he’d hoped it would be. There was very little about it he would change.
On the other hand, his decision to forfeit his family gave him pause. Had he known twenty-four years ago what he knew now, his choice might have been different. At the time, however, he’d accepted the sacrifice because he believed what he did was important, that it made a difference and contributed to the greater good.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
The sun found a crevice in the remote, isolated peaks and aimed an illuminating shaft of light through it, exposing the cracks and fissures in the distant mountains—and the blemishes on his soul. Though he’d danced around it for years, in truth his other reasons for choosing career over family had been selfish. He’d liked the adrenaline rush of working with the movers and shakers of the world. Liked feeling important. Liked the power and prestige and perks that came with the job. And he’d grown arrogant too, believing no one could do his job as well as he could.
In the end, the position came to matter to him more than the work itself. Not that he didn’t do a good job. That was well documented. As was his fearlessness in the face of personal threats, a trait praised and respected by foes and allies alike.
But the accolades were unearned, he acknowledged. His willingness to stand up to terrorists reflected indifference, not courage. He just didn’t care about his own safety. He’d done everything he wanted to do professionally. He had no personal life. He was sixty-six years old. Bottom line, it didn’t much matter to him if the Lord took him next week or in ten years.
Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the back of his chair and let fatigue numb his mind.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
The sound of his aide’s voice roused David from his light doze. An hour had passed, he noted with a discreet glance at his watch. Neutralizing his expression, he swiveled his chair toward the door.
“Yes, Salam. Good morning.” He wasn’t surprised the man had come in on a Sunday. They’d all been working long hours since the abductions.
“Good morning, sir. Have you been here all night?”
The man’s quick perusal of his attire reminded David he had on the same clothes he’d worn yesterday. About two in the morning he’d returned to his utilitarian room in the low-rise barracks that honeycombed the embassy compound, but he’d simply stretched out on the narrow bed fully clothed. When sleep had eluded him, he’d given up and returned to his office.
“I went back to my quarters for a couple of hours. I’ll run over later to shower and change. Would you check on my daughter’s status as soon as you can?”
“Yes, sir. Can I get you some coffee?”
“That would be good. Thanks.”
Five minutes later, Salam returned, a steaming disposable cup in hand.
“I spoke with our contact at the FBI. Two men are with her now, and a second team will be dispatched later today. HRT security is being supplemented with field agents.”
“She’s still at home?” The news jolted him.
“Yes, sir. She refused to go to a safe house.”
Not good. He needed to convince her to disappear until this was over. But how?
In his professional life, dealing with hostage situations and terrorists and high-level government officials, he was confident in his abilities. In his personal life, with his own family, he was far less secure. Communicating what was in his head had always been easy; when it came to expressing what was in his heart, he’d been a dismal failure.
He could call Monica again, but she’d hung up on him yesterday before he could pick up the phone. Considering he’d thrown her life into chaos in the interim, he suspected she’d be even less inclined to talk with him today.
“Would you like me to try and ring your daughter again?” It was as if Salam had read his mind.
“No. She’s had a long day. It’s possible she’s already gone to bed.”
“Perhaps later?”
“Perhaps.”
With a slight bow, the man left the room.
For his own peace of mind, if nothing else, David knew he had to try again to reach Monica. And maybe she would be more receptive to his call now that she’d had a chance to think the situation through.
But somehow he doubted it.
The minutes were crawling by, and it took every ounce of Coop’s willpower to keep from nodding off. His late night and early morning were finally catching up with him.
He checked his watch. Almost midnight. Soon he could pass the baton to Mark and get some much-needed rest. In the meantime, however, he had to find something to do to keep himself awake. Listening to late-night talk radio wasn’t cutting it.
Flipping off the small radio tucked beside a sugar canister on the kitchen counter, Coop refilled his mug, almost wishing for a cup of Les’s high-octane brew.
Almost.
As he swallowed a scalding sip of caffeine, he ran a finger lightly down the worn cover on the Bible beside the coffeemaker. He’d noticed it earlier. In light of its presence, and Monica’s insistence that church tomorrow was a nonnegotiable commitmen
t, it didn’t take FBI training to deduce that her faith was important to her. The “what” was clear.
He was more intrigued by the “why.”
Religion had never been more than a blip on Coop’s radar screen. Aside from obligatory church attendance on Christmas and Easter, it had played very little role in his growing-up years. And as an adult, he’d given it no more than an occasional passing thought. Few of his colleagues put much stock in it, either. Their jobs demanded that they base decisions on facts and empirical evidence. Lives often depended on it—including their own. As a result, Coop had a healthy respect for logic and deductive reasoning.
That’s why religion had never appealed to him. It seemed to be based more on feelings and blind faith than facts. Not the kind of thing he would expect to appeal to intelligent, well-educated people.
Yet Monica Callahan was both.
It didn’t make sense.
And he was too tired to try and figure it out tonight.
Turning away from the Bible, Coop wandered into the dim living room. Mark was sprawled on the couch, his breathing shallow and regular. The ability to sleep anywhere, under any conditions, was one of the skills HRT operators cultivated. But Coop knew that at the slightest sound, Mark would wake instantly and reach for his Glock. It was an instinctive reaction for all operators—on duty and off.
The floor-to-ceiling bookcases drew Coop, and he moved across the room, his shoes silent on the plush carpet. A quick skim of the titles suggested Monica’s reading taste was eclectic, ranging from biography to philosophy to literary fiction to cooking. There were even some romance novels in the mix.
On a shelf of communication-related books, one title stopped him.
Talk the Walk.
Her own book.
Tucked unobtrusively among the other volumes.
Interesting. And impressive. Most authors of bestselling books would display a copy in a prominent place in their homes. Monica had chosen to slip hers in among the rest of her collection. Modesty, it seemed, was among her virtues.
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