The Interpreter

by RaeAnne Thayne

  He laughed again and Jane could swear she now had a dozen spiders crawling up and down her vertebrae.

  “Oh, I think not. I’m afraid you’re rather more than an inconvenience now.”

  Chapter 16

  Jane didn’t know how to respond to that so she decided to keep her mouth shut.

  “You see,” Djami went on, “I have worked very hard to maintain secrecy around my efforts to see Vandelusia shed western influence and return to her glorious past. I am viewed as a friend to your country and to the United States. I have a position of trust and responsibility and therefore have a unique opportunity to foment change. Should my connection to certain rebel groups become widely known, those opportunities would be in jeopardy.”

  “Yes. I can see why some in your country and mine might take exception to your involvement with vicious terrorists.”

  His smile froze her insides another degree. “Just so. Which is why I must ask if you told anyone what you heard in that restaurant.”

  She thought of Mason and their last bitter scene and her heart ached.

  “No,” she said flatly. “I told no one.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She tried for a nonchalant shrug, though she was afraid it fell somewhat short. “Who would I possibly tell?”

  Djami gestured to the other blank-faced thug. She braced herself, her insides cramping with fear. He didn’t hit her, though, he only jerked her arms behind her back and bound them with what felt like one of those plastic handcuffs she had seen police use on the telly.

  Not a good sign, she thought, digging deep for the last shreds of composure.

  “Three days ago my men were to take you into the mountains and handle the situation.”

  “Kill me, you mean.”

  “As you will. Nevertheless, you escaped from them. You must have had help. My associates tell me you have been staying with an American cowboy. It is only a matter of time before we know all there is to know about this man. I must ask you, what have you told him about me?”

  She couldn’t breathe past her fear suddenly. What had she done? She had put Mason and the children in such terrible danger, and the worst part was she had no way to caution him to beware. If only he had believed her, just a little, he might have some forewarning and could protect those two dear children.

  She could only pray that he would find some tiny part of his heart that doubted she could be involved with a bloodthirsty group like the VLF.

  “What have you told him?” Djami asked again.

  “Nothing! I swear!”

  He gestured to Thug Number One, who hit her—harder this time. Again the force of the blow sent her to the ground but this time she had no way to break her fall, with her arms bound behind her back. She landed on her shoulder with a jarring crack and icy pain radiated through her body.

  Her vision grayed and she thought she might pass out as the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. It took all her concentration to stay conscious when all she wanted was to curl into a ball and just let them kill her.

  Sobs shook her chest but she forced them down and willed oxygen back into her lungs. She wasn’t cut out for this! Breathing ragged, she struggled to rise—the task a hundred times more difficult with her hands bound.

  Djami watched her struggle, his features impassive but his eyes ablaze. “You defile my presence with your lies,” he said when she reached her feet once more.

  She lifted her chin. “You could always leave,” she suggested through a mouthful of blood, then could have bitten through the rest of her tongue. Of all the times for her to start channeling Harry!

  Mr. Nasty Backhand stepped forward again, his arm upraised, but Djami stopped him.

  “What did you tell your American cowboy?”

  “Nothing,” she repeated. “I had nothing to tell him. While I was trying to escape your men I suffered a head injury that affected my memory. I didn’t remember anything about Vandelusia or you or your plans for a terrorist attack at the treaty signing until this morning. I swear I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

  “You might as well tell me. Your lies will not save this man.”

  No matter what she said or did here, Mason and the children would still be in danger. The realization filled her with dread, with a horrible, nauseating guilt.

  Hang on. Be strong, Harry’s voice whispered.

  You’re not helping, she thought furiously, but in some strange way just imagining what he might say if he were here helped calm her, helped her mind force through the panic.

  “You know, you can’t go around indiscriminately killing people in America without someone sitting up and taking notice,” she said.

  Djami shrugged. “I will be gone from this cursed land by the time anyone finds you or your cowboy.”

  The only possible chance she had of protecting Mason and the children was to put Djami on the defensive, she thought, to convince him he didn’t have time to worry about any more loose ends if he wanted to save his own neck.

  If what she was considering worked, any window of opportunity for escape would close with a bang. But that window was so tiny she doubted she would have been about to drag herself through it, anyway. If he believed her, he would turn his wrath on her all that much more quickly, but she had no choice.

  She pictured Mason’s face, handsome and hard with those shadows in his eyes, then the children—sweet Miriam, so wise and so sad, and Charlie, a little bundle of energy with such love to give.

  Her heart cracked apart knowing she would never see them again.

  Was this what Harry had lived through in those precious few seconds as he pushed her ahead of him toward the waiting helicopter and created a diversion, sacrificing himself so his daughter could survive?

  Impossibly, she thought she felt the lightest comforting touch on her throbbing shoulder. It strengthened her, bolstered her.

  “You can kill me,” she said quietly, “but you won’t have the chance to kill the man I stayed with. I can promise you that. You will be in U.S. custody by then. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that this country and my own do not treat terrorists kindly.”

  The rage in his eyes dimmed a little and she thought she saw unease creep in. “I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “Not when you plan to kill innocent people.”

  “Innocent!” The word dripped from his tongue, full of derision. “No one in this country is innocent. They are all godless whoremongers, every single one.”

  She lifted her chin. “Well, those godless whoremongers are going to fry your testicles, Minister Djami.”

  At her words, the rage in his eyes rekindled, stronger than ever. “What have you told him?” His voice shook with fury.

  “Everything. I told him everything I heard that night, I told him your name, I told him everything. It won’t do you any good to kill him. It so happens that American cowboy you speak of with such derision is a U.S. counterintelligence agent.”

  “You lie!”

  She was getting to him—she could see it in his accelerated breathing and clenched fists.

  “Not this time. Word is out, Djami. As your FBI lapdogs were driving me away, my cowboy was calling his contacts to share all the information he knew about you. I assure you they will take him quite seriously. If I were you, I would settle in for a long stay here in the States. I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere, as your passport and your diplomatic immunity status are both no doubt being revoked even as we speak.”

  Without warning, he struck out himself, the blow whipping her head back. By some miracle she managed to keep her feet this time, though her battered face felt as if it were swelling like a puffer fish.

  He came after her again but managed to stop just before making contact. With a shuddering breath, he visibly controlled himself.

  “You are resourceful. But then, so am I. After you escaped from my men, I anticipated you would be foolish enough to tell someone what you heard us planning. I made sure no one wi
ll believe you—who would trust the word of the woman who planned to carry an explosive device into a historic treaty signing? No one. You are a terrorist and a traitor.”

  Ah, so this was why Mason thought she was involved with the VLF. Djami had framed her and Mason had bought it.

  “Clever.”

  “Yes. I thought so.”

  “Only one minor flaw in your plan. No one who has met me would ever attribute to me the courage to carry out something like that. I’m a coward, Mr. Djami, and everyone knows it.”

  “Perhaps the little mouse hides a warrior’s heart. You are brave enough to taunt me now. Foolish. Very, very foolish, but the brave often are.”

  He shrugged. “The evidence I left against you is without question. When you disappear, those who are looking for you will assume you fled the country to avoid justice. You will be reviled and hated, Ms. Withington.”

  He offered a particularly abhorrent smile that chilled her more than anything else in this miserable little drama. “Of course, all that won’t matter to you since you will be dead.”

  She held her breath and Djami left her and walked to the chest she had seen when she had been thrown in the room. He pulled a key from his robes and handed it to Ugly Thug Number Two, who unlocked the chest and threw open the lid.

  From the depths of it, Djami pulled out a large machete-type weapon she recognized as having the curved shape and intricate carving of a Vandelusian ceremonial jagpang with its wickedly sharp blade.

  She imagined that blade cutting through skin, and the room started to spin.

  Breathe! she ordered herself. Think! She tried, but the sight of that jagpang shoved every other rational thought from her mind.

  The two thugs moved to her side and held her fast as Djami advanced, holding the weapon as if it were a favorite pet.

  “Yes, Ms. Withington. I am afraid you have been a great deal more than an inconvenience,” Djami said. “And now you will pay the price for the trouble you have caused.”

  The two men tried to force her down and she started to hyperventilate. No! She would not go quietly. She fought them, kicking out and trying to break free but they were stronger than she. One wrenched her injured shoulder with beefy hands and she was unable to hold back one raw, ragged cry of fear and pain as they shoved her to her knees.

  Mason studied the map on his navigation system. He was close—one more turn and he would be on the right street. His nerves were stretched tight and adrenaline pumped through him. He had to be in time. He refused to consider any other alternative.

  Just as he reached the intersection, a vehicle approached him on his left, from the direction of Djami’s house. It was a dark blue sedan, he realized. The men who had taken Jane from the Bittercreek! Instead of turning, he drove straight through the intersection, shifting his face as he passed the sedan so they wouldn’t recognize him, though he thought he was moderately safe as his pickup truck was high enough off the ground they wouldn’t have a clear field of sight.

  He drove slowly through the residential area until he saw the sedan turn and head down the hill to the city center.

  She was here. Seeing that sedan confirmed it. As he pulled into a driveway and turned the truck around to head in the right direction, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or even more nervous.

  Remembering that Cale said Djami had rented the entire street, he decided on a stealth approach. He parked his truck on the next block and made his way through two backyards until he came out onto Aspen Ridge Road.

  Djami’s rented quarters were in a huge log home with wide steps leading to a rock porch that covered half of the house. Thick shrubs grew against the logs on the other half and extended across the front of the porch. Not the best landscaping for the security-conscious but certainly convenient for surveillance.

  It was an easy matter to slip into the shrubs for a clear view through the front window.

  When he straightened, he saw he had just missed being discovered by a lone guard patrolling the massive great room of the house. The man looked Vandish and cradled an assault weapon that appeared to be Russian-made.

  Frozen in place, Mason watched for several long moments as the guard traveled the perimeter of the room, pausing at the windows to look out. The guard started to head off down a long hallway and Mason decided he needed to act before he moved too far out of earshot.

  He climbed up to the porch and scratched softly on the door, then slid back into the bushes, crouching down below the level of the porch. He had no view of the door but he heard it swing open, then a few moments later booted footsteps thudded on the wooden porch as the guard walked out to investigate the mystery sound.

  He could hear the man just above him but in full summer the shrubs did an excellent job of concealing him. Someone really ought to let the landlord know what a security risk they were.

  A moment later the guard muttered what Mason thought was the Vandish word for cats then he heard him turn around and take a step back toward the door.

  He waited just a few more seconds, gauging his moment, then vaulted onto the porch silently behind the man. Just before the guard would have made it inside, Mason grabbed him in a choke hold and tapped the butt of his Ruger against the man’s temple.

  The guard sagged in his arms, immediately unconscious, and Mason quickly relieved him of his assault rifle and rolled him off the porch and into those convenient bushes—out of view of any nosy neighbors.

  Or since Djami owned the street temporarily, out of view of any of his comrades who might wander by.

  Never had he been more grateful for his training as he sidled inside, the Russian rifle and his own Ruger at the ready.

  He encountered no one else in the great room and he paused for a moment, trying to figure out which direction to go.

  Where were they keeping Jane? She had to be here, the only trick was figuring whereabouts, as he judged the house to be at least eight thousand square feet.

  Only one thing for it. He was just going to have to start a room-by-room search.

  He decided to start upstairs and work his way down, and started to head toward the curving half-log stairs when a high, frightened cry ripped through the house.

  “Scream all you like. There is no one to hear you but us.”

  Part of her would have liked to comply past that first strangled cry and scream the rafters down, but that would have required a little lung capacity on her part and right now as she watched Djami approach with the deadly jagpang she couldn’t seem to work air through her windpipe.

  “No screams?” Djami said with a mocking smile. “Ah, well. You will scream before we are done. I will not make this easy for you. You are an enemy of Vandelusia and you must pay for what you have done. And when I am finished with you, I will find and kill your American cowboy.”

  She couldn’t stop a tiny whimper from escaping as he stepped forward. The guards forced her facedown into the carpet and she suddenly realized with a hideous spurt of bile what Djami meant to do.

  Come on, Janie-girl. Keep your head, the voice in her mind said.

  Oh, brilliant idea, Harry, she thought hysterically, but once more that voice seemed to steady her.

  Behind her, she heard a tiny whir of air as Djami lifted the jagpang over his head. The guards stepped back out of his way and she grabbed for that tiny window of opportunity with both hands.

  As the blade came down with a sickening whoosh, she had a microsecond to scream again, louder this time, and roll out of the way. They hadn’t bothered to bind her legs and she used them now, sweeping out at Djami with all her strength to knock him off his feet.

  Panic and survival mode gave her added power and somewhat to her surprise, he toppled backward, cursing at her violently in Vandish as the blade landed harmlessly by the carved trunk.

  Now what, Harry?

  One guard went to help Djami while the other came after her. He grabbed her and hauled her up and then all hell broke loose.

  She heard a rapid-fi
re pop from the doorway and the guard next to her fell to the ground, still holding her and dragging her down with him.

  More gunshots rang out and she found herself in the middle of a raging gunbattle as Djami and the other guard returned fire.

  She heard a cry and saw the second guard go down but Djami continued returning fire.

  What was happening? Who was there? The light fixture overhead exploded and shards of glass showered around her. With a small, frightened cry, she pulled her legs free of the first downed guard, desperate for cover.

  With her arms still bound, she had to slither like a slug but she finally made it behind the trunk, out of the way of both firing parties, or at least she hoped.

  She spied the jagpang, still deadly and ominous, and dragged herself to it, desperately raking her bound hands against the blade again and again until she felt the plastic tie fray then give way.

  Once free, she turned her attention to determining who might be shooting at them. From here she had a view of the doorway the gunman was firing from. He was concealed around the corner as Djami shot at him, but when he reached around to return fire, she recognized hard, handsome features and intense silver eyes.

  Her jaw dropped. “Mason!” she exclaimed, stunned and elated.

  He had come for her! She could scarcely believe it.

  “Jane, stay down,” he ordered and she realized her cry had drawn Djami’s attention to her.

  His features were contorted with rage now and he started toward her, leaving his cover behind one of the leather sofas.

  Mason chose that moment to roll into the room and ended in a low crouch, firing at the trade minister as the man advanced on her. Djami staggered back and Jane saw blood explode through the white of his robes at the right shoulder. She thought he would go down from the injury. Instead, he switched the gun to his left hand and fired at Mason, exposed now in the middle of the room.

  She watched, horrified, as the weapon flew from Mason’s hands and he fell to his knees then landed facedown on the carpet and went still.