Heat unfurled from her core. She licked her lips, her throat dry once again. “Promise?” she repeated.
“It’s more than a promise, beautiful. It’s my solemn vow.”
“Fair warning, I love room service more than almost anything else in the world. It’s going to cost you.”
“I’ve got a dozen years’ worth of paychecks burning a hole in my pocket. I think I can handle it.”
“Can’t wait.” She wondered if he offered sex or something more, but trapped in a two-thousand-year-old tunnel, she needed hope to cling to and wasn’t about to ruin the fantasy by questioning the details.
“Then we should hustle on into Syria and dig our way out.”
She laughed. As if it could be that simple.
They donned their packs, and Ian picked up the toolbox and led the way down the dark tunnel. She gave him her flashlight, and he swept the walls and floor with it, ducking and shifting sideways as necessary when the tunnel narrowed too much for his size.
Two-thousand-year-old pick marks evidenced the manual labor that had gone into excavating the passage through solid bedrock. In areas where the tunnel burrowed through dirt instead of rock, the builders had reinforced the walls and ceiling with concrete arches that prevented the loose earth from collapsing the structure.
Ian reached back and took her hand. At first, Cressida thought his goal was to comfort her, but then, the way his fingers shifted and laced through hers, she realized he did it as much for himself, triggering a tightness in her chest. He needed her as much as she needed him.
Reluctantly, she slipped her hand from his to press the button on her dive watch to illuminate the compass. They were heading almost exactly due south and had been for the last six hundred steps. She marveled at the accuracy of the tunnel makers two thousand years ago.
She entwined her fingers with his again and said, “I’m counting steps. I know my pace—twelve steps is ten meters.” She stumbled on the uneven ground, and his fingers tightened on hers. He shined the flashlight downward to illuminate the floor. “No. Keep it up. You need to see the ceiling. Better I trip than you hit your head on a low rock.”
He raised the light again.
“My guess is the shack was two miles—three at most—from the Syrian border,” she said. “We’ll be lucky if the tunnel is passable for four miles to get us beyond the border.”
He ducked, and she saw the ceiling lowered to the point she had to stoop too. “We’re due for some luck about now,” he said.
“I don’t think luck works that way.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think luck works at all.” His tone was as dry as the cool tunnel air.
She snorted. “True.”
Ahead of him, the beam of light caressed the sloping walls, floor, and ceiling in a slow rotation. He stopped when the light disappeared into a dark hole to the right. “Another entrance shaft.”
Her heart pounded with relief at this, the first sign there were, indeed, other exits. They would find a way out. They had to.
She stopped to study the steps cut into rock. Six steps ended abruptly at a wooden barrier. Did T. E. Lawrence place the barrier here a hundred years ago? “This might be the one Lawrence dug out and marked on the map. If we can’t find an exit farther south, we may want to come back here.” She studied the smooth planks. “If we pull down the boards, we’ll probably find a shaft filled with rocks, dirt, and debris, but, from the height of the stairs, my guess is we’d only have a few feet to dig through. Plus, gravity would help—without the planks, the dirt will spill down the stairs.”
They were going to survive this tunnel. The question was, would they survive what awaited them above?
Ian halted the beam of light on an object resting on the bottom step. At first glance, she’d assumed it was a broken board, but upon closer inspection, it was a small wooden box. Like an old cigar box. Definitely not two thousand years old, but not five or ten years old either. She dropped to her knees and touched the box. Slowly. Reverently.
She’d known when she located the stone with etched initials that T.E. had been here. Even the planks were a telltale sign. But this…this was incontrovertible proof someone had been in this tunnel at least once in the years since the aqueduct had gone out of use and faded from memory.
Ian dropped to his knees beside her. His hand found the small of her back. “Open it, honey. You’ve earned this moment.”
She lifted the lid. A small leather-bound book rested inside. She carefully took it from the box that had housed it for the last hundred years and studied the cover. The letters T-E-L were stamped into the soft hide. She opened the book and scanned the contents. Her heart pounded—this time not due to worry or fear, but excitement. “It’s his field journal.”
She could work on a thousand sites—digging every day for the rest of her life—but she doubted she’d ever again find anything as interesting as this historical document. Which was funny when she considered that it was just another archaeologist’s notes. But it was who the man was, even more than this amazing tunnel he’d found, that made this moment extra special.
In her mind, T. E. Lawrence would always be Peter O’Toole. Tall, handsome. Charismatic. But of course, the real Lawrence was shorter than her by an inch. And historians were divided on his charisma.
She glanced up the tunnel. “We need to leave this here. I can’t take it and risk it being lost.”
Ian nodded, a sad smile on his face. She guessed he understood what this meant to her. “Read it. Quickly. In case he describes the tunnel ahead—and an exit we should look for.”
She settled on the step with Ian by her side and started reading. He opened an energy bar and broke it in half. “Dinner?” he offered.
She smiled and took the paltry meal. “When we’re at The Hay-Adams, I’m going to order halibut from room service. With cream sauce. Served over risotto.”
He chuckled. “I’ll order the salad. I need to watch my figure.”
She let out a sharp laugh. His body was perfect—all hard muscle without an ounce of fat. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you enough of a workout that you’ll be able to eat whatever you want and keep your trim shape.”
He leaned down and nipped her neck. “Fine. Then I’ll order strawberry ice cream with chocolate sauce, paint your body with it, and lick every sweet inch.”
Oh. My. She closed her eyes to savor the image he’d planted. Bad timing. She needed to read the book so they could get the hell out of this tunnel and back to the US and into that luxury hotel room.
Ian read over her shoulder. His demeanor toward her had changed, but she wasn’t certain when it happened. When she’d cried in his arms? When she took down Zack?
All she knew was something had changed. In a good way. His barriers were…lower. He was a hybrid of Ian and John. The sexy, hardened, undercover operative, combined with the charming, gregarious security specialist.
Was this, finally, the real Ian?
“Cress?”
She shook her head and realized she’d been staring at the same page too long as her brain went off on a tangent they didn’t have time for. “Sorry.” She flipped the page. “Oh, bless you T.E.,” she said upon seeing the map the wonderful, brilliant, magnificent man had drawn of the tunnel.
His drawing estimated the tunnel was passable for at least six miles, before crumbling ancient concrete gave way and sealed off the passage. There was a shallow exit near the terminus. If conditions in the tunnel were the same now as they’d been a hundred years ago, they would be well into Syria. And, most importantly, there was a way out.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ian used the cell phone to snap a picture of the map, then took a few more pictures of Lawrence’s notes for Cressida. He hoped that somehow she’d be able to use this for a paper of some sort. Someday.
He tucked the phone away as she returned the book to its box and slipped it in a crevasse in the rock wall—a slightly more protected hiding place in case Zack and Todros fol
lowed them down the tunnel.
They each took a small sip of water, then resumed their slow progress down the dark, constricted space. Again, Ian took her hand in his, the need to touch her a strange development for a man who’d prided himself on not needing anyone. Ever.
Cressida kept track of their distance, continuing to count her steps. The six-mile trek took longer in the narrow tunnel than it would have on the surface. In several areas, they had to shimmy through tight gaps where concrete reinforcement had given way and the tunnel was partially collapsed. At each constriction, they brushed against loose dirt and rocks that trickled down, threatening to avalanche and close the passage behind them. Finally, several hours after they’d paused to read T. E. Lawrence’s field journal, they reached an impassable rockfall.
“By my calculations, we’re at the same collapse point that stopped Lawrence,” Cressida said. “That last entrance shaft we passed on the east side is the one Lawrence was able to dig through.”
“Let’s hope he didn’t cap this one with a five-hundred-pound stone.”
“If he did, we’re screwed. So I choose to believe he didn’t.”
They returned to the exit shaft Lawrence had noted, and sure enough, this one also had wooden planks supporting the dirt and debris that clogged the opening.
Cressida pulled the collapsible shovel from her backpack. She handed him the shovel, then grabbed the tire iron. “I’m going to use this to pry out the keystone holding the barrier in place.”
He took the tire iron from her. “That’s dangerous, making it my job.”
“Which one of us is the professional digger?” she asked, reaching for the iron.
“Which one of us is the professional risk taker who agreed to sacrifice his life for his country if need be?”
“Which one of us is more likely to make it to freedom on the other side? I don’t speak the language, Ian. I don’t know the rules of the game or even what the game is. If only one of us survives this, it has to be you.”
“No. Fucking. Way.” He yanked the evil eye pendant from his neck and dropped it over her head. “If only one of us is going to survive, it will be you. Period. No argument. And if we get separated in Syria, if I’m taken and questioned, even tortured, you will keep going. No matter what, you will head for the rendezvous point with the Raptor team. You will tell no one—no one—about the chip in this pendant until Zack is in custody. Do you understand?”
“Not even the CIA director?”
“Not even him. Zack Barrow is still an agent. We know he’s playing for the wrong team, but it’s doubtful the CIA will believe us. If corruption in the agency goes higher than Zack, and the wrong person gets their hands on the chip, it’s game over.”
She rose on her toes and kissed him. A soft brush of lips that he wanted to turn into something more. For all they knew, this would be their last chance to be together. But the mission always came first, and his mission was to get Cressida safely into Sean Logan’s hands.
Never mind the sharp stab of jealousy he’d felt at hearing the fondness in her voice when she spoke to Logan. Clearly, he had issues when it came to Cressida. They were his to deal with in silence for now and forever. Right now he needed to get her out of this death trap.
He used the tire iron to pry out the boards. The first one popped easily, the old wood splintering under the slightest pressure.
Dirt spilled down onto the stairs where he stood.
“Careful!” Cressida said from her perch on the bottom step.
“Move away from the opening.”
“Not until you do the same.”
“Dammit, Cress, one of us needs to pry out the wood, and one of us must survive. Stop arguing and move aside.”
She let out a low sound he was fairly certain was a growl, but she moved.
Ian popped out the second plank. More rocks and soil tumbled onto the steps, pelting him as gravity was given free rein for the first time in a hundred years. He leaned to the side and placed the tire iron behind the final plank. This one cracked in the middle under the pressure, creating a lip over which dirt and rocks fell like a waterfall.
Cascading soil created a cloud of dust, causing him to cough. Steps above, a pinprick of light grew. And grew. His heart pounded as the truth sank in.
They were close to the surface, without a boulder to block their exit. Syria waited just a few feet above them.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Unsure of what they would find at the surface, they agreed to wait until nightfall to dig out an opening wide enough to crawl through. With more than an hour to kill, it was the first break they’d had since Zack interrupted their kiss this morning, and as they settled down in the narrow corridor, facing each other and leaning against opposite walls, Ian fantasized for a moment of picking up where they’d left off, when he’d kissed her without holding back.
But things had changed since this morning. Twelve hours ago, he thought he’d ship her off with Raptor, then head to Cizre and start hunting Zack. Twelve hours ago, he’d figured his odds of surviving this mission and returning to the US were close to nil. Thirty minutes ago, he thought they might die trapped in this tunnel.
But now he’d glimpsed daylight, and he was on an irrevocable course for home, or at least his country—he wasn’t quite certain home and the US were one and the same—and faced the very real possibility he would survive. Which changed things as far as Cressida was concerned.
He watched her eat her trail mix. She ate each item in order: first a raisin, then a peanut, cashew, almond, and finally an M&M. Then she started over with a raisin. She was probably the type who ate her vegetables first and dessert last. Ian was a handful-of-trail-mix-all-at-once kind of guy, and he had no problem with dessert first.
He plucked the M&Ms from his ration and dropped them in her hands.
She smiled at him. “I can’t take your M&Ms. They’re the best part.”
“That’s why you should have them.” He’d give her his entire ration if he thought she could navigate Syria without him. But she needed him, so he would duly eat and drink his share.
“Ian—”
“Just enjoy it, Cress. Please?”
Her brow furrowed, and she set the treat aside. He wasn’t sure if she was saving it for last or if she planned to slip the colorful candies back into the mix sack, but at least she didn’t protest.
“What are you going to do with your life when you get back to the US?” he asked. It was a question he hadn’t dared ask when escaping Turkey seemed improbable.
“I don’t know. I can’t imagine returning to grad school. Tallahassee isn’t home, and Todd is so intertwined with everything that happened there and here. I’ll miss Suzanne, though.” She leaned her head against the chisel-cut wall, her features soft. “I suppose I could move to DC. Erica talked about a job opening up at NHHC, but with grad school, it wasn’t really an option.” She let out a bitter laugh. “Silver lining.” She cleared her throat. “What about you?”
He reached for the flashlight and flicked the switch, enclosing them in pitch darkness. “We should save the batteries for digging out,” he said. Plus he could say what he needed to say without seeing her face. And more importantly, she couldn’t see his. “If this op is sorted out, and I’m cleared, I might be able to stay on with the CIA as an analyst.”
“So…you’ll be in DC, then.”
His heart pounded. He knew exactly what she was aiming for. “Probably not. With my language skills, I could work on US bases in the Middle East. With the rise of ISIS, they’ll need me here.”
“So you won’t stay in the US.”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
“I see.” He heard the disappointment in her voice.
It was better this way. Letting her know now. There was no room for her in his life. No matter how he felt about her.
“I won’t—” She stopped short. She made a noise, which could have been a sob. Or just a hitch in her breath. “I won’t return to the Mi
ddle East. Ever.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched between them. Her clothes rustled as she shifted position. Then he heard a slight crunch as she chewed. A moment later, she said, “Thanks for the M&Ms.”
He felt pathetic that five M&Ms was the best he had to offer her.
* * *
It took hours to dig in the narrow, confined space. Ian tunneled forward while Cressida rebuilt the backstop behind them, ensuring that filling the opening and hiding the tunnel after they escaped wouldn’t be a Herculean task.
Ian crawled through the narrow gap first, emerging onto shrub plain on a cloudless summer night. A quick scan of the area confirmed nothing much had changed since Lawrence penned a description of this exit point—remote and distant from aboveground water sources, this area might see nomads or others passing through, but no one had ever settled on this part of the inhospitable steppe.
He gave silent thanks to any and all higher powers that ISIS hadn’t set up camp in this area. ISIS would execute Cressida and him without hesitation, and they’d post the video on the Internet for all the world to see.
He tucked his gun into the holster at the small of his back and reached into the hole to take Cressida’s hand as she emerged from the darkness. Feet once again on the surface of the earth, she took a slow deep breath, her chest rising as she threw back her shoulders after hours of constraint in the dark, tight shaft.
Like him, she was coated in a fine layer of dirt. Much of her hair had come loose from the braid and was plastered to her temples as sweat dotted her forehead and formed tracks in the film of dirt.
She’d never looked more beautiful.
Well, maybe twice she had, when he’d held her in his arms and made love to her. Her eyes had met his with revealing emotion and sweat glistened on her brow as he brought her to climax.
They needed to be on guard. They were near ISIS-controlled territory in Northern Syria, of all places, but still, he would have this moment. He cradled her dirt-streaked cheeks in his hands and kissed her fast and hard, then said, “Let’s fill the hole, then make tracks so we can call Sean.”
Dangerous To Love Page 277
