He said nothing.
“See over there?” She pointed up. “You can tell by the positions of what look like the remains of turrets.”
“How do you know about this stuff?”
“I…” She reminded herself to be careful about revealing too much knowledge or giving away the fact she spoke various Arabic dialects or that she lectured in ancient Arabic literature and knew the architecture of this region with the passion and love of a scholar. “I’m an historian. I’ve always had an interest in the history of this part of the world.” She fell silent a long while, then spoke very quietly. “I just never thought I’d actually come here. At least not this way.”
Sayeed felt bad. “Where are you from?” he said. He knew already, but it firmed his cover to ask these questions.
“Seattle.”
“Pacific Northwest. Lots of rain.”
She nodded, quickly averting her face, but he caught the gleam of tears in her eyes.
His heart twisted. And he felt his own pangs of home-sickness. He missed cool rain. He missed the crisp fall days of D.C., the winter snowstorms, fireflies in summer. He’d been away too long. Living with his father and uncle had filled him with hatred for far too long. And this beautiful, young captive was grounding him, reminding him to hold true to his values.
The irony of the timing wasn’t lost on Sayeed.
His values—the fact he couldn’t allow her to become collateral damage—could cost the Pentagon and its allies this mission.
It could release a new, genetically altered, hemorrhagic fever upon the world.
In saving one woman, Sayeed could cost the lives of thousands.
What in God’s name was he supposed to do with her now?
They rounded a bend in the valley, and the cliff walls suddenly squeezed in. Sayeed looked up, caught the glint of metal high along the rock face. He raised his hand in salute as he passed underneath.
A sentry high up in the rocks stepped out of hiding and returned the salute, his robes and turban ends snapping in wind that blew sharp and high along the cliff face. The sentry carried an assault weapon, and within arm’s reach was a handheld rocket launcher. A similar sentry was positioned on the opposite cliff, strategically guarding the geographic gateway into to the Maghreb Moors’ terrorist compound.
Sayeed could see Kathleen was noting their positions.
They now rode single file through the very narrow canyon, Qasim taking the lead.
Nerves skittered through Kathleen’s stomach. She looked up again at the sentries and realized that if someone was to sneak right along the base of this narrow part of the cliff, the rocky overhangs might provide occasional cover from the direct sight line of the sentries. Already she was planning escape.
The gully suddenly ballooned into a wide, sun-drenched valley dotted with canvas military tents. Heavy weaponry, including what looked like missile launchers, were housed under camouflage netting, rendering them invisible from the air. In the distance, men were negotiating a rope obstacle course, someone barking commands.
“What is this place?” she whispered.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Sayeed growled low under his breath. And she sensed real anxiety in him. This suddenly terrified Kathleen more than anything. It told her he was not in control here, and her life hung on how much authority he actually had in this camp.
The men dismounted. A handful of teenage boys swathed in dusty-colored robes came running toward them, averting their faces in submission. They took the horses, leading them into a corralled area that backed under a rock overhang which provided shelter for the animals. The men, however, lingered, waiting to see how Sayeed was going to handle their captive’s arrival in the compound. Their eyes were hostile, some lascivious. Fear curled tight in her belly. Kathleen also averted her gaze, staring at the ground, praying they might release her even though she’d witnessed them murdering her Berber guards.
Suddenly, a quiet exchange seemed to ripple through the men. She heard the name Bakkar being whispered, and men began to step back. Sayeed got off his horse and reached up for Kathleen’s hand. His gaze collided with hers, and the message in his face was sharp—shut the hell up. He yanked her down from the horse. She winced as her cut and swollen feet slammed to the ground.
Through the parting crowd came a tall, dark-skinned man dressed in a pristine white jalabiya cinched tightly at the waist with a colored and tasseled cord. Both a dagger and scimitar were also sheathed at his waist. A jagged and puckered scar twisted across his aggressive features from the left side of his brow down to the right side of his chin. It made his left eye droop sideways. In spite of herself, Kathleen stared, wondering if he might be blind in that eye.
The man came to a stop in front of her, but he didn’t look at her. Instead he glared at Sayeed, waiting.
Her stomach turned to water.
“Sheik Bakkar Al Barrah,” Sayeed said in Arabic, bowing his head deferentially. “I have something for you.” He shoved Kathleen forward as he spoke. She stumbled into the circle, coming to a stop just a few feet from Bakkar. She shot Sayeed a terrified, backward glance.
His eyes were flat, his features implacable.
“Sayeed?” she whispered in terror.
“Get on your knees!” he demanded in English.
“Please, Sayeed—”
“Now!” Sayeed stepped forward, grabbed her shoulders, spun her to face Bakkar, and kneed her in the backs of her legs, forcing her to slump down into to the sand.
“Look at the ground!” he yelled.
Shaking, eyes burning, hurting, she did, her hair falling across her cheeks.
“This is the woman you wanted, Bakkar.” Sayeed pointed at her, switching back to Old Arabic. Kathleen was certain now they had no idea she could understand.
Bakkar stepped forward, his hand going to the hilt of his scimitar, as if he might chop off her head right there. Slowly, he circled her. Kathleen watched his boots. She began to shake very badly. Her head wound began to bleed again. She focused on the dark spots of blood that dropped onto the sand.
“Why,” said Bakkar, his voice very quiet, almost hoarse, “is she still alive?”
“We must interrogate her.”
Bakkar stopped circling. “I gave you orders, Sayeed! Those orders were to kill that woman on sight!”
Sayeed’s voice remained level. “She might know something that will be useful. She might have been relaying her position to a third party which could bring searches, international attention. We need to know exactly who she told what and be prepared. This captive must be interrogated. Otherwise it could cost—”
“I make the decisions!” Bakker snapped. “Not you.” His feet turned as he faced the crowd of men. “Not anyone else here, but me!”
But one other man stepped out of the crowd, as if defying Bakkar.
Kathleen angled her head slightly so she could see the newcomer in her peripheral vision. He was tall—similar in build and stature to Bakkar—and he also carried authority in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin.
“Or Marwan, of course,” said Bakkar, noting him. “In my absence, my brother’s word is as good as mine.”
Marwan now walked slowly around Kathleen. She cast her eyes down, looking at his boots. They were polished to a gloss in spite of the dusty environment. He stopped directly in front of her, said in Arabic, “Tell her to look up at me.”
Sayeed remained silent.
She kept her head down, praying Sayeed would intervene.
“Tell. Her. To. Look. At me.” The low and menacing tone sent a chill crawling down her spine.
“Look up at the man,” Sayeed said, quietly translating into English what Kathleen already understood.
She did. Slowly.
What she saw made her stomach slide. His eyes were like his voice—menacing. Black. With the unblinking stare of a snake. His features were a genetic echo of Bakkar’s but uglier, even without the scar. His gaze was lascivious, his lips thick and wet,
his hair pulled back sharply into a ponytail forming an angry widow’s peak over a high brow. He smiled slyly at her, teeth devilish-white against dark skin. And Kathleen saw evil. She saw a dark heart. She felt it.
“Maybe—” Marwan said slowly. “Sayeed Ali has a point, Bakkar. This woman could be…rather useful. Once she’s questioned, of course, and before she dies, naturally.”
Silence simmered in the heat. Men shuffled.
Her chest heaved.
She heard a bird of prey calling up high above the cliff. And she knew she was doomed. She prayed that she’d simply have the strength, the courage, to deal with whatever was coming next.
“Fine,” Bakkar said eventually. “Sayeed, you’re the only one here who speaks English fluently. You do it. Get whatever answers you need, using any means possible. I don’t care. Just bring me the information when you are done. Then you kill her.” Bakkar shot a pointed glance at Marwan as he uttered the last words.
Marwan stared back, the smirk still curling his lips.
The challenge between these two leaders was clear. Bakkar was asserting his dominance by giving Sayeed control over their captive. And from the look on Marwan’s face, from the way Qasim stepped slightly forward, Kathleen knew it wasn’t going to be that simple.
“I want the information before midnight,” Bakkar called over his shoulder as he strode toward his tent.
“It might take longer,” yelled Sayeed.
Bakkar froze. Then he turned slowly, eyes burning, voice deadly low. “You have until midnight, Sayeed. Not one second later. Then kill her.” He paused. “Or I will kill you.”
Chapter 4
Panic clawed at Kathleen’s insides—either she died, or they both died. She shot a terrified glance at Sayeed. But his face was hard, eyes like flint. And Kathleen was suddenly convinced that Sayeed Ali—a total stranger who’d already, strangely, stuck himself out on a limb for her—would not sacrifice his life, especially if she was going to lose hers either way. Why would he?
He grabbed her arm, yanked her up, began to drag her through the sand. Almost blind with terror, Kathleen stumbled and tripped behind him as she struggled in vain to get her feet under her. He reached a military-style tent, opened the flap and shoved her inside with such force that she slammed to the ground on hands and knees. He yelled terrible things at her in Arabic. Tears began to stream down her face.
Sayeed closed the flap that served as a door.
And was instantly silent. He stood stock-still. Fury crackled in his eyes, sweat glistened over his brow. He began to shake.
Kathleen didn’t dare move. Humiliated, hurting, she stared at him, waiting for him to do or say something, but for several beats he seemed incapable of uttering a single word.
“Get up,” he said finally. “Go sit on the bed.”
Eyeing him warily Kathleen got to her feet and inched backward toward the camp cot. Gingerly she sat on the edge of the rough blanket covering the cot, her heart pounding so hard she feared she was going into cardiac arrest.
He stared at her for a few long minutes as if trying to decide what to do with her. “Wait there,” he said. “I’m going to fetch my first aid kit, and if you step outside my quarters alone they will kill you. Understand?”
She swallowed, nodded, eyes filling with emotion.
He left the tent and Kathleen tried to inhale, pressing her trembling hands to her chest in an effort to calm her madly beating heart. She carefully surveyed her surroundings. She must be in Sayeed’s private quarters, and they were sparse. A small fold-up table with a bowl and jug was positioned near the bed. A round shaving mirror hung over the bowl. There was a thin metal frame with a rod from which a few robes hung on steel hangers. At the opposite end of the tent was a narrow desk with a chair. A faded woven mat covered the floor, and a curtain had been tied back near the bed.
Hearing footfalls returning in sand outside the tent, Kathleen’s heart began to pound all over again. The tent flap opened and Sayeed came in carrying a canteen of water, disinfectant, more bandages and a dun-colored bundle of clothes.
He set the pile of clothes on a chair, poured water into a tin mug, and offered it to her. But her hands shook so badly, she couldn’t bring the mug to her mouth without sloshing water all over herself. Sayeed reached out and cupped both her hands around the mug with his own, steadying her enough to take several deep gulps. Up close, Kathleen could see a muscle throbbing at his temple. His neck was wire tense. So was his jaw. The scent of him was masculine, wonderful. And at this very moment he made her feel safe. She knew it was desperation making her feel this way—he was the only thing that stood between her and those killers outside.
Something softened momentarily in his liquid, black eyes as he watched her drink. But he quickly averted his gaze, set the mug on the table. And for a moment he stood still, his back to her.
“Sayeed?”
He turned, and Kathleen saw conflict in his eyes.
“What did that man say about me? Is he your leader?”
He inhaled deeply, dragged his hand over his hair. “Bakkar, yes, he’s our leader. The other man is Marwan, Bakkar’s brother and second in command.”
“In command—as in a military camp?”
He ignored the question, instead pulling the small table up to the bed. On the table he set a bottle of disinfectant, bandages, cotton swabs and a towel.
“You’re not going to tell me what Bakkar said?”
She needed to hear it from him, see if he would tell her.
“He just wants information, Kathleen. He wants to know why you are out in the desert alone—”
“I wasn’t alone. I had two guides. Good men, and you killed them!”
“I didn’t kill them.”
“Your people did.”
Anger tightened his features, but he said nothing as he poured water into a bowl. Kathleen reminded herself she was walking a fine line with Sayeed—she didn’t know how far he could be pushed, and her life was in his hands.
“What else does Bakkar want to know from me?” she said quietly.
“Why you went to Adrar in the first place, and if you told anyone you were there.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head. “Not now. Let me do this first.”
Kathleen fell silent, suspecting he was buying time for himself to figure out what to do with her. She’d heard Bakkar say he had until midnight.
Sayeed dipped a cloth into the water and began to wipe the blood and dirt from her face. His movements were so startlingly tender in contrast to his earlier actions that emotion balled painfully in Kathleen’s chest. She struggled to hold it all in, but the sudden care in his touch was too much, and tears escaped down her cheeks.
Sayeed’s hand stilled as he saw the tears. He swallowed, torment twisting his stomach into a knot. This was his fault. He should never have brought her here. He might have bought her a few more hours of life but then what?
He knew he couldn’t kill her.
He also knew that if he didn’t, he was toast. And so was the mission.
Sayeed needed to stay alive to press the button on the satellite GPS messenger he had hidden in his robes. Activating that button would send a one-way signal to the special ops troops amassing over the border. His signal would mobilize a military raid on the level-four lab hidden in the bowels of the castle ruins up on the ridge. And timing was critical. He could not press the button until all the suicide volunteers had arrived at the lab. And he had to press right after they’d been injected with the virus. The bombing of the castle would happen within exactly sixty minutes of his signal. The compound in the valley would be raided simultaneously, with a view to taking live prisoners.
Large, aquamarine eyes, glimmering with pools of emotion, lifted up and gazed at him. It was too much for Sayeed. He repressed an urge to wipe away her tears and distracted himself by properly cleaning the gash on her temple. She was going to have a scar, he thought. Then he almost laughed at himself—she wasn
’t going to live long enough for a scar. Damn, he had to do something to change that. He had to find a way to help this woman.
He poured disinfectant on a cotton pad and pressed it to the wound. Kathleen sharply sucked in air sharply, but said nothing.
He had to hand it to her. She might be a naïve fool to have come alone to this region of the Sahara, but she was brave. He could only admire that.
He applied more butterfly sutures, doing his best to bring the edges of the gash neatly together. Sayeed allowed his hand to linger briefly along the side of her face; he couldn’t help it. Her skin was so smooth. “You got burned,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t have gotten so much sun.”
She jerked away, her mouth tightening in anger. “And you shouldn’t have attacked my camp.”
“Glad to see you’re feeling a bit better.”
“Screw you.”
He nodded. “How is the cut on your back?”
“Perfect, thank you.”
Well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to try touching her again—the woman had been through enough. “Fine,” he said coolly, irritated with himself for showing he cared, for revealing he found her attractive. What in Hades was wrong with him?
Furious at the entire goddamn world right now, Sayeed pushed the pile of clothes into her hands. “Here’s a robe and loose, cotton pants from one of the young stable hands. They should fit. There’s water in the bowl over there to rinse your feet. And here are some shoes.” He held out a pair of canvas slip-ons with rope soles. “Pull the curtain for privacy while you change.” His voice was curt, and he knew it.
She glowered at him, then yanked shut the curtain dividing the rest of his quarters from the sleeping area.
Sayeed busied himself cleaning up the first aid stuff, desperate for a way to buy more time. They’d survived introducing her to Bakkar but only just.
And for now they were probably safe from Marwan.
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