Then he started down the street, needing to burn off the anger and frustration running through him.
Parisa had to jog to keep up with him, but he didn't give a damn.
"Jared, I had to do it," she said.
He stopped walking and glared at her. "You didn't have to do it right then. I wanted to talk to Ben about the explosion. You knew that."
"We agreed that Jasmine is the priority. And every minute counts. You can talk to Ben later."
"Oh, yeah, sure. The FBI won't have a problem letting me in to do that."
"I'll make it happen."
"You think I'm going to believe you now? I thought we were a team."
Anger flared in her eyes. "I didn't betray you, Jared. I didn't turn you in to the FBI."
"What basis would you have to do that?"
"Oh, I don't know—the fact that you snuck into the consulate party and followed me to an FBI safe house."
"Hardly crimes worthy of the FBI."
"The point is—I didn’t sell you out."
"You did sell me out—on Ben. You don't think I couldn't have had my own conversation in the shelter? But I'd promised you that I would bring him out first. And I kept my promise. You did not."
"I wasn't looking at it that way. Jasmine is in danger. Everything else can wait."
He ran his hand through his hair and gave her a hard look. "Do you work for the FBI, Parisa?"
She stared back at him. "Yes. But I don't work here in New York. My job as a translator in the state department is my cover. I am fluent in many languages. I didn't lie about that."
"Well, that's great. I'm so glad you didn't lie about what languages you speak," he said sarcastically. "You have no idea what letting Ben slip out of our control could mean."
"Then maybe you should tell me. What agency do you work for?"
As he thought about whether or not he wanted to come clean about everything, he saw a white work van driving down the street in their direction. It seemed to be moving too slowly for the flow of traffic, and it would be directly across from them in seconds.
The driver's window came down. Something glinted in the sunshine.
"Gun," Parisa shouted, shoving him toward the door of a nearby boutique as a spray of bullets shattered the glass windows next to them.
Fifteen
As screams followed the gunshots, he and Parisa ran through the shop, asking the startled clerk if there was a back door. She pointed toward the dressing rooms.
"Come with us." Parisa waved her arm frantically at the woman. "You need to get out of here."
The woman ran through the hallway, past the dressing rooms and pushed open the back door. They entered the alley, and the clerk looked around in panic.
"Go to the massage parlor," Jared said, spying a nearby door off the alley. "Tell them to lock the doors and call the police."
Parisa had her gun out, watching the door of the shop they'd just come through as well as the innocent woman running down the alley and into the massage parlor.
Once she was out of sight, they headed in the opposite direction.
They were a hundred yards away when a shot rang out. Parisa dashed behind a dumpster, and he followed. Then she peered around the container and fired off three shots, before ducking back down. He really wished he had his gun now.
A hail of gunfire followed, bouncing off the metal dumpster.
"There's at least two of them," she said, breathlessly.
He picked up a rock and broke the glass on the locked door next to them. Then he reached inside and opened it. "Let's go."
Parisa rose, taking two more shots to keep the gunmen away, and then ducked into the room after him. They appeared to be in a printing facility, which was dark and empty, for which Jared was extremely grateful. They ran past large printing machines, reams of paper, and boxes of supplies, before ending up in the front lobby.
They charged out the front door, setting off an alarm and ran down another crowded New York City sidewalk. They didn't talk, but they were in complete and utter sync, Parisa following his lead as he ducked in and out of stores and around corners. They ran for another fifteen minutes, taking a fire escape to the top of a building, before taking a brief rest on the roof.
He looked over the ledge at the street they'd just run through. From this vantage point, he could see everything, and after five minutes, he started to breathe a little easier. "I think we lost them."
Parisa was also studying the street below, and she slowly nodded. "We're about six blocks away from the garage where we parked the car. Do you think they followed us from there or from the Langdons' apartment?"
He shook his head. "No. I think they followed the feds to the restaurant after you called your pals."
A startled light ran through her eye.
"That clearly didn't occur to you," he said.
"No," she muttered, sinking down on the ground beneath the ledge.
It was then he realized there was blood on her neck. "Were you hit?" He squatted next to her. "You're bleeding."
She put a hand to the side of her neck and winced. "I think it's glass from the window."
"Let me see." He gently lifted her hair out of the way and saw a sliver of glass sticking out of a bloody patch of skin on her neck. "I think I can get it," he said, pulling the glass out as gently as he could. "We need to get you to a doctor."
"Too risky."
"There could be more glass in there. It could get infected."
"We'll pick up some antibiotic ointment when we get the car."
She was tough—that was for sure. And why wouldn't she be? She was an FBI agent. That fact was still sinking into his brain.
"All right." He knew as well as she did that a hospital or urgent care visit would become public record, and Parisa needed to stay off the grid.
He stood up and took another look at the street below. There was no sign of the van, and no men moving through the crowded block of tourists and shoppers. "I don't see anyone."
"Is your car registered to you? Can they trace it? Because I gave your name to the FBI. They know we're together, and if the attacks are coming from the bureau, they could trace me through you."
"The car was rented by George Carmichael. He has a Brooklyn address."
She stared back at him, and he could see the questions in her eyes, but all she said was, "Okay."
"Let's go back to the garage," he said. "We need wheels, and I really don’t believe we were followed to the parking structure. If we had been, they would have taken us out there. The drive-by came after you called the bureau in."
"I can't believe that my own agency is trying to kill me."
"It's certainly not an ideal situation," he said dryly. "Come on." He got to his feet and extended his hand.
She reluctantly took it, even as she said, "I can stand up on my own."
"I know you're a badass, Parisa. I just had a front-row seat to your skills. But, just so you know, we're still not even. I saved your life twice. You only saved mine once. And I saw the gun the same time you did; you just yelled first."
"It still counts as my save. I just hope neither one of us has to do it again," she murmured, as they headed back down the fire escape.
It was a nice thought, but he didn't believe it for a second.
They took a circuitous route to the car, finding it exactly where they'd left it. There was absolutely no one around, with only two other cars on the parking level, and both appeared to be empty. After another minute of assessment, they approached the vehicle. By force of habit, he checked around the car, including the undercarriage, before opening the door and getting behind the wheel.
Parisa put on her seat belt, wincing as it hit her neck.
"We'll take care of that soon," he said, hitting the gas. "Right now, we need to get somewhere else." He drove out of the garage and away from the convention center, making his way onto Riverside Drive, then heading over the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey.
He mad
e a quick stop at a drugstore for first-aid supplies, then drove past Fort Lee, and into the Palisades Interstate Park, where he found a parking spot near the Hudson River. From here, they had a great view of Manhattan, but he wasn't as interested in the cityscape as he was in taking care of Parisa.
He pulled antiseptic ointment and bandages out of the bag as well as a pair of tweezers and a small flashlight.
"You're prepared," she said. "Quite the boy scout."
"I want to make sure all the glass is gone." He turned the light on her wound, happy to see that the bleeding had mostly stopped and that the cuts didn't appear to be big enough to need stitches. "Does it feel like anything is still in there?"
"Not really. It's much better since you got the glass out."
He leaned in close to her, trying not to be distracted by her sweet breath on his cheek, the curve of her neck, the silky texture of her hair as some of it brushed against his forehead. He saw one tiny little sliver of glass and he gently pulled it free with the tweezers. Everything else looked good. "This next part is going to sting."
"I can take it."
He dabbed her wound with an antiseptic pad, hearing her swift intake of breath as he did so. But she remained perfectly still as he finished cleaning the cut and then put a large Band-Aid over the area. "You're good," he said, sitting back in his seat. "You might have a little scar."
"I can live with that. Thanks." Her gaze grew troubled as it met his. "I need to apologize to you, Jared."
"I'm not stopping you."
"I shouldn't have called the bureau without telling you first, without giving you a chance to interrogate Ben. To be perfectly candid, I wasn't thinking about you when I called Damon; I was only concerned about Jasmine. I didn't believe there was any way you and I were going to chase down the kidnappers without more help. It seemed irresponsible and dangerous to keep the information about Ben to ourselves."
"All I needed was ten more minutes."
"Maybe Jasmine needed those ten minutes more."
He hated that she had a point. "So, who's the guy you called?"
"Special Agent Damon Wolfe. He's not just a fellow agent; he's a friend. I went to Quantico with him. I trust him completely."
"Even though he took you to the safe house where you were attacked?"
"Yes. He felt sick about that."
He shook his head at her stubborn belief in her friend. "He's the most likely person to have betrayed you, Parisa. Look what just happened."
"I know Damon. He wouldn't do that. There's another leak at the bureau. But that doesn't matter now. We need to figure out what's next."
"What's next?" he asked in surprise. "You gave away our best lead. There's no next."
"I don't believe that's true. We can check out the Stone Cellar—where Isaac Naru's friend works."
"I'm sure he'll run as soon as the feds show up, and they're probably already there. You gave Damon your phone with the information Ben gave us about the Cellar."
"Then they'll get him, and hopefully he'll be able to tell them where Isaac is."
"Let's hope so. Because there's no guarantee Ben will talk to the agents. It was different with you. He thought you would protect him. Now, he knows you won't."
"That's true, but I still think I made the right move, Jared. I'm sorry I didn't tell you first. But the bureau will be in a better position to track the calls to Ben's cell phone and determine who contacted him. Ben is the best connection to the kidnappers we have, and maybe the only person who can help find Jasmine before it's too late."
"Let's just hope the mole at your agency doesn't get to Ben before that can happen."
She stared back at him. "Damn."
"Yeah," he said, seeing the realization spread through her eyes.
"I need your phone. I have to tell Damon what just happened to us."
He reached into the bag and pulled out a prepaid phone. "I got you a new one in the drugstore." As she reached for it, he pulled it away. "On one condition—you make this call on speaker."
"Fine." She took the phone and punched in a number.
A male voice answered a moment later with a simple, brisk hello.
"Damon, it's me, Parisa. We have a problem. I was shot at after we left the restaurant."
"What? Are you serious? Are you all right?"
"Yes. There were two gunmen. They were in a white work van. I didn't get the license plate number." Parisa paused, glancing over at him.
He shook his head, wishing he had gotten a number or even a good view of the gunmen. All he'd noticed were two men in jeans and hoodies, probably thirties, but who knew?
"They chased us, but we were able to lose them," Parisa said.
"By we, I assume you're still with your mystery man."
"Yes. Look, Damon, someone at the bureau sent the gunmen to the restaurant to take me out. There's no other way they would have found me. There's a mole."
Damon blew out an angry breath. "I can't believe this."
"You need to protect Ben. If they're working this hard to shut me up, they'll be even more determined to make sure Ben doesn't talk."
"I understand," Damon said in clipped tones.
"Did you get any more information from Ben?"
"No. He asked for a lawyer as soon as we put him in the car. His parents showed up at the office a few minutes ago. They're advising him not to speak to us. We're going to bring the Kumars down and see if they can talk their good friends into taking another position. We also sent a team to the Stone Cellar, but we couldn't locate anyone who admitted a friendship with Isaac Naru. The owner told us one of the bartenders has been sick this week—Colin Jansen. That name familiar?"
"No."
"We'll track him down. The cops are going to sit on the Cellar and see if anyone of interest shows up there."
"Good."
"I need to get back to Ben. Are you going to have this number for a while?"
"I don't know. I'll check in with you in a few hours. You need to get Ben to talk about the Paris bombing, too. The events are probably connected." She paused, mouthing the word Sara in Jared's direction, a question in her eyes.
He gave her the go-ahead nod.
"There's something else," she said. "Sara Pillai is in New York. She came into the country under a fake ID, name of Melissa Holmes. She arrived on Friday morning at JFK. No trace of her since then. I'm guessing her stepbrother Isaac is here, too.
"You have better resources than I do," Damon said grimly.
She didn't comment on that. "Is Vincent still hanging around?"
"He has been here all day."
"Did he know you were meeting me?"
"Yes. I'd like to keep him out of this, but he and Director Hunt are good friends, and I can't go to the deputy director without proof of something."
"I know. Just make sure Ben stays alive long enough to talk."
"You stay alive, too. Take care of yourself, Parisa."
"Thanks."
"Who's Vincent?" Jared asked, as she set down the phone.
"That's a long story."
"At the moment, we've got nothing but time, so start talking."
Sixteen
Parisa drew in a breath, knowing that she needed to tell Jared everything, not just because he was in danger, too, but because he might be able to help her figure things out. He could be more objective, bring a new perspective.
"Vincent Rowland is Westley's godfather," she said. "He was at the party. I actually spoke to him right after I first caught you staring at me. You probably saw him."
"Sure. I remember him—older man, gray hair, looked like he was someone familiar with money and power." Jared's gaze narrowed. "Why did you ask Damon if he was hanging around the FBI offices?"
"Because he's former FBI. He was an agent for over twenty years, one of the best. His son, Jamie, was in my training group at Quantico. The first week, they put us in teams of six. We did all of our training assignments together. We interviewed each other, analyzed each ot
her, put ourselves through lie detector tests, stripped ourselves bare of our secrets, and became really, really close. But a few weeks before graduation, we were on a training mission, a hostage situation in a high-rise building. During the extraction of the hostages, Jamie fell and died. No one really knew what happened. Jamie was out of sight from all of us when he fell. In the end, the investigators determined that it was human error. Vincent was not happy with that conclusion, but there was a very thorough review of every detail. And Jamie was known for taking risks. He was fearless and probably a little overconfident. But he shouldn't have died. I know we've all felt guilty and wondered if we could have done something differently."
"I'm sorry, Parisa," Jared said quietly.
"It was tragic."
"So, why are you suspicious of his father now?"
"Vincent has kept in touch with all of us since Jamie's death, having us over for a memorial celebration every single year for the last four years. We thought it was because we were the last links to his son. But at the most recent celebration, I thought Vincent was acting strangely. He seemed more obsessed with the details of the accident than ever before. He kept asking me questions about it. And I started to feel really uncomfortable. I didn't think much about it after I left, but in the past year things have been happening to our remaining group of five that we can't quite explain. Three of my friends have had to run for their lives, and during each situation, there has been some problem at the bureau, some leak, some information disseminated that should have been kept secret. It's nothing particularly noticeable. There's usually a way to rationalize it. But some of my former classmates are starting to think that Vincent might be responsible, that he might be trying to get back at us by messing up our assignments."
"That sounds a little out there," he commented.
"I thought so, too, but when you look at the pattern of what's going on, it starts to make more sense. Anyway, when I saw him at the party, I was surprised. But then he explained he's Westley's godfather, and it made perfect sense that he would be there."
"But now you're wondering if he's the one leaking your whereabouts at every turn."
Elusive Promise GO PL 2 Page 15
