“The marriage was not a lie. I know my sister. She does not do things halfway. If she was focused on marrying a man, she would do it with all her energy. All her passion. All of her.”
Kathryn shook her head to try to get the knots out, but the tangled web of lies and betrayal hung heavy like a blanket. “So you’re saying she did in fact fall in love with him? That she didn’t want him dead? That maybe she’s gone rogue, that even though she’s going to run for mayor in place of her dead husband, the CIA can no longer be sure of her loyalty? And why was she loyal to the CIA anyway? Because she’s half American? Goddammit, Hyder! This is so damned twisted! Give me a clean kill any day!”
“Here I am,” said the Sheikh, holding his arms out wide and grinning. For a moment Kathryn was certain he wasn’t hypnotized, but his eyes still had that slightly glazed look that told her he was very much in that subconscious state. “Your clean kill. Take your shot, my assassin. Straight to the heart. I am yours. Take me now.”
Kathryn wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, to scream and smash things or curl up into a ball and whimper like a confused child. A part of her wanted to go to him right then, to kiss his full, dark red lips, to feel his strong hands pull her robes apart and press her breasts so hard she screamed. But she held her ground and kept going, kept talking, kept asking questions even though a part of her wanted to shut it all out and perhaps really live with the Hashimi for the rest of her life.
“Why, Hyder? Why did your sister—who must have been in her early twenties at the time—agree to something like that? What could have convinced her?” Kathryn asked.
“You mean who, not what,” said the Sheikh.
Kathryn frowned as a sense of dread crept through her, clawing at her insides as her mind squirmed and roiled like a snake in the sun. Who did she know who was capable of that kind of manipulation? Who did she know who could convince an ambitious, idealistic young woman to devote her life to serving her country by turning that life into a lie?
“Mel?” Kathryn asked hoarsely.
Hyder nodded slowly. “Her mother,” came his reply. “Her American mother.”
19
Kathryn couldn’t ask any more questions. None of it seemed to matter, because it couldn’t possibly be true. It had to be a lie. They were all lying.
It took all her willpower to stay calm and bring the Sheikh out of his mild trance, and when she saw his eyelids flutter briefly as focus returned to those green eyes of his, she stood and gathered her white robes around her and walked away without saying a word.
“Kathryn,” he called after her. “You know it is true.”
She just swiped at the air without turning. Of course it was true. It was too damned ridiculous to be a lie. Mel was in her late fifties—certainly old enough to have a daughter who was about thirty years old now. Mel had never even hinted at having a child, but that meant nothing. Mel was the best secret-keeper in a world of professional secret-keepers.
Kathryn stormed into the roomy tent she’d been given by the Hashimi women. It was on the edge of a cluster of tents where all the unmarried Hashimi women lived. These tents weren’t as colorful as the others, and Hyder had explained that the Hashimi consider marriage to be a rebirth of sorts, which was why married couples and families wore colorful clothes and lived in tents made of the most vivid hues they could find.
She pulled the thick fabric of the tent shut, blocking out the moon and stars before throwing herself down on the soft camel-hide and wool blankets that covered the floor of the tent.
“God, I feel so alone right now,” she muttered, shaking her head as tears welled in her eyes. They weren’t tears of sadness, though. They were tears of rage. Anger at herself for daring to believe that she could trust people who were professional liars. Mel convinced her own daughter to marry a Russian target and live a life as a spy and asset for the CIA? What kind of a woman does that? What kind of a mother does that? And so what hope did Kathryn have? Mel would give her up or shut her out the moment it made strategic sense to do so.
“You signed up for this,” Kathryn told herself, breathing deep and forcing a smile to trick her body into calming down. “You’ve always known the kind of people who do this work. It’s ugly work, with no glory, no recognition, no awards. It’s never about you. The mission comes first. The cause comes first. The work comes first.”
By the time the Sheikh entered, Kathryn was calmly humming to herself while stroking the soft wool of the blanket beneath her. She didn’t stop the Sheikh from dropping to the floor beside her and drawing close, pulling her to him. Still, she couldn’t look at him, and she turned on her side and stared at the dark cloth of the tent walls.
“You said we,” Kathryn finally whispered.
“What?” said the Sheikh.
“When you told me about Operation Nightshade. You said, ‘What did we do!’, which means you were part of the plan to send your half-sister—Mel’s daughter—to Russia, to Yuri Gorka.”
The Sheikh nodded against her hair. “Yes. I was the one who suggested it.”
Kathryn blinked, but nothing was going to surprise or shock her anymore. “Why?”
Hyder paused before replying. A long pause. Too long. “Self-preservation. I told you that the CIA wanted my sister to become Sheikha of Sehaar, so I came up with a plan to send her away. Forever.”
“You’re lying,” Kathryn said without missing a beat. “I can tell without even looking at you. I felt it in the way your breath caught. I heard it in the hesitation followed by the quick statement. You’re lying.” She smiled as she felt the Sheikh’s heavy arms circle her waist and hold her close, and she touched his scarred and irreparably damaged fingers. “I don’t even understand why they needed to torture you. You’re such a terrible liar.”
The Sheikh grunted against her. “Why would I lie about doing something as horrible as that? If I were to lie, I’d have said it was Mel’s idea to begin with.”
“Actually, you did say it was Mel’s idea when I had you under hypnosis.”
“Incorrect,” snapped the Sheikh, his arm going tight around her waist. “I said that Mel convinced Nishaani to do it. But it was still my idea.”
Kathryn stayed silent, breathing slowly and carefully as she lay there, her body pressed against the Sheikh’s. “You’re still lying,” she said softly. “Why? What are you hiding?”
The Sheikh didn’t reply, and Kathryn thought for a while before she understood. “Oh, shit, of course! It was your sister’s idea! Or at least the two of you together! Because the CIA would never have gone for it otherwise. You said it yourself: They wanted Nishaani to take the throne of Sehaar so they’d have an American in the position of ultimate power. Which means the only way Mel would have agreed to give up on that plan and instead send her on this crazy mission is if Nisha insisted on it!” Kathryn swallowed hard and frowned in the darkness of the tent before turning halfway. “She did it for you, didn’t she? To protect her older brother. She knew that if she refused to ascend to the throne of Sehaar, it would keep you safe from being double-crossed by the CIA. In fact, that’s what’s kept you alive all these years, hasn’t it, Hyder? The fact that the CIA isn’t certain that Nishaani will ever agree to become Sheikha of Sehaar! God, Hyder! Her whole life has been lived to protect you! Do you realize that?”
The Sheikh shifted uncomfortably against her, his heartbeat quickening, his breaths coming quick. All those changes were minor, subtle, almost imperceptible if not for the fact that he was pressed up against her and she wasn’t distracted by looking into his eyes. Sometimes it was easier to see when your eyes were closed, Kathryn thought with a smile.
“Of course you do,” she whispered softly into the dry desert air. “You know it, and you hate it. You don’t want to believe it. You want to believe that it was everyone else: Mel, the CIA, the Russians, whoever. You don’t know how to handle an act of selfless love like th
at.”
The Sheikh snorted, pulling his arm so tight around her waist she gasped as all the air left her lungs. Then he released her and turned on his back. “Selfless and love are not the two words anyone should use to describe my sister.”
“Do you even listen to yourself?” Kathryn snapped, not sure why she was defending a woman whose husband she’d herself murdered and who most likely had sent a swarm of Russian hitmen after her. “When you were under hypnosis, you clearly expressed guilt related to your sister. But even in that state your words still showed me you’re denying the truth. You said ‘What did we do,” when you talked about your sister. Yes, that implies you take responsibility and that you feel guilt. But you still refuse to face the deeper responsibility: To recognize that what your sister did was done not so much because she was manipulated by you or Mel or her own idealism, but because of the simple love of a sister for her brother.”
“That is ridiculous,” the Sheikh said, his words coming out sharp and quick. “Good thing you decided not to become a psychiatrist. You would have caused more madness than you cured.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Kathryn shot back.
“It means you overthink and overanalyze things.”
“Oh, I’m the one overthinking and overanalyzing things?! Hyder, you’re wrapped in so many layers of self-deception that it’s like trying to unwrap an onion!”
“Of course you are overthinking it. If my sister wanted to protect me from harm by refusing to ascend to the throne if I were to mysteriously die in an accident, then all she’d need to do is refuse. Just say no to the CIA. She didn’t need to come up with some elaborate plan to marry that monster Gorka!” roared the Sheikh.
“Aha! So you admit it was her idea!”
“Goddamn you, woman!” the Sheikh growled, slapping his arms down on the wool blankets beneath them as he gritted his teeth and glared at the ceiling. “Why did I allow you to hypnotize me!”
“Because you didn’t think it would work,” Kathryn said with a smile. “Being hypnotized isn’t like getting drunk and blacking out. Most people don’t even realize they’ve been hypnotized. It’s subtle, and you remember everything you’ve been talking about.”
The Sheikh rubbed his eyes and shook his head, sighing and then clenching his jaw. “All right, Kathryn. I admit it. It was Nishaani’s idea to approach Mel with the Gorka plan.” He sighed again, and Kathryn could almost see his pain and confusion in the heavy air inside their dark tent. “At the time I was working closely with John Benson. And though I had suspected it for years, I was not certain at the time that Mel was CIA. In the end all of it was a surprise. I was blindsided by those two women, and that is why I know I can never trust Mel. Neither can you, Kathryn. The woman is not human. She is a machine. Cold and calculating, bereft of emotion, immune to sympathy, incapable of compassion or love.”
Kathryn blinked and broke eye contact with the Sheikh as her mind raced. Was Hyder trying to drive a rift between Mel and her? Was he trying to isolate Kathryn? Make her think she was being played by her own handler?
“How well do you know Mel?” she asked quietly, looking back into his eyes.
The Sheikh shrugged. “Not well. She visited a few times over the years when Nishaani was a child. Just a few days here and there.” He laughed and shook his head. “Ya Allah, you would think she was on a business trip if you’d seen her: black skirt-suit, hair pulled back without a strand out of place, that thin, business-like smile. I do not think I have seen her even hug Nishaani. Her own daughter, Kathryn! No love! No affection! No wonder Nishaani turned out to be a machine herself!”
Kathryn took a breath and looked upon the Sheikh’s strained features. No love. No affection. Was he talking about Nishaani or himself?
Then she smiled when it hit her that he could be talking about Kathryn too, for that matter.
“What about your mother?” Kathryn asked. “Tell me about her.”
The Sheikh grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Are we doing a full Freudian analysis of your target now, Miss Krane?”
Kathryn laughed. “I don’t need to do any more analysis. I’ve already got you figured out, Sheikh Hyder.”
“Ah, really?” the Sheikh said, his eyes lighting up with mischief, the change seeming all too sudden from the somber tone he’d been using so far. “And what exactly have you figured out?”
“That you’re not such a terrible liar after all. You’re a great liar. The greatest ever.”
“Why, thank you. The greatest ever? That is quite the statement.”
Kathryn’s voice went low. “Yes. Because it’s true. The greatest liar manipulates the conversation to make sure he doesn’t actually have to lie. He confuses and obscures, throws in distractions, plants decoys. All this back and forth, these twists and turns, the conspiracies with Mel and Nishaani, Gorka and Benson, the CIA and God-knows-what-else . . . all of it is just distraction.”
“And what am I trying to distract you from? Do tell,” the Sheikh said, keeping his tone playful but in a way that Kathryn could tell required some effort on his part.
She took his hand in hers again, running her fingers along the rough scars and twisted fingernails of the Sheikh’s right hand. “From this. Who did this to you? That’s the key, and you damned well know it. That’s the key that’s going to unlock this madness, show us the way out. Or at least show me the way out.”
The Sheikh’s dark face went as pale as it could get, and Kathryn knew she’d hit home. Now she wished that had been the first question she’d asked when he was hypnotized. Who knew if he’d agree to it again? Dammit!
“Who?” she whispered. “Hyder, who was it? Sheikhs and Imams that fund terrorism? The Saudi Secret Service? Iranian groups? Western agents?”
The Sheikh finally exhaled, and Kathryn realized he’d been holding his breath all this while, ever since she’d asked the question. He turned to her, his eyes narrowed but vulnerable. “Ya Allah,” he muttered. “Do you think they gave me their business cards when they took me? Do you think they told me their names? Showed me their faces? I never saw anyone except some hired guns who knew how to handle pliers. There was a camera filming everything, transmitting it somewhere via live feed.”
“But who was interrogating you? What did they ask? What did they want?”
The Sheikh laughed and shook his head. “Ya Allah, you know the answer. They wanted nothing. It was not an interrogation. It was a punishment. All they wanted was to see me suffer, to hear me scream, to watch me bleed.”
He held his hands up as she stared at him. She wanted to believe him, but she couldn’t.
“Punishment for ratting out those financiers and supporters of terrorism? But why did they let you go? And why stop at just the fingernails? Why leave you in one piece, still alive? Just like those half-hearted attempts at your life with the bomb under your seldom-driven sportscar and the poison that didn’t kill you.” She shook her head firmly, pulling her arms close to her body as she reminded herself how little she knew about this man, this man who’d somehow managed to balance himself between Saudi Arabia and the United States, perhaps even Russia, who’d lived for years under the threat of death but seemed to be doing just fine in his silk trousers and linen shirts. “You said those assassination attempts were your sister’s work, but it seems to fit the pattern of the fingernails. Brutal and life-threatening certainly, but more like a message than a serious attempt to destroy you. Either that, or a façade. An act. A mirage. It doesn’t add up, Hyder. None of it does. Not Nishaani and Mel, not your stories and explanations, not the attempts on our lives. You’ve contradicted yourself about fifty times in the two days I’ve known you, and it almost seems like you know you’re contradicting yourself! I can’t tell if you’re lying, insane, or really in the dark, just like I am.”
“Then you should have asked the right questions,” said the Sheikh, his eyes flashing in a w
ay that made Kathryn even more confused. “You should have asked the right questions.”
“I’m asking now,” she said desperately. “Tell me, Hyder. Please tell me.”
The Sheikh grinned, putting his hands behind his head and stretching on the soft wool blankets. “Please tell me? Ya Allah, they should send you to do all their interrogations.”
Kathryn looked him up and down. He was in a white tunic with a deep v-neck that was stretched wide open, revealing his chiseled chest, those brown ridges of muscle lining his flat stomach and hard abdomen. She took a breath and nodded. “All right. Suit yourself. Make fun of me if you like. But remember,” she whispered as she ran her index finger down the center line of his chest, tracing farther down until she saw the unmistakable movement beneath his white robe. “Yes, remember that I’m not an interrogator, and I’m not a negotiator. If you continue to put me in this position, I might have no choice but to . . .”
She went silent when she saw how the Sheikh drew in his breath and closed his eyes as he went to full hardness, his robe peaking at the crotch in the most erotic, obscene way. Instantly Kathryn felt her wetness flow. She wasn’t wearing any underwear beneath her white-black-and-gold robes, and she could feel her discharge between her thighs already.
“And you should remember . . .” the Sheikh said, groaning as he pushed his hips up involuntarily, the outline of his erection casting a long shadow on the tent floor.
“Remember what?” she whispered, bringing her dancing fingers closer to his peak, teasing him, taunting him, tempting him.
“Remember that the body does not lie,” the Sheikh finally said through gritted teeth, and as he said it he grabbed her hand and placed it on his cock, groaning out loud as she relented and gripped his shaft firmly. “Ya Allah, that feels so damned good! I am so bloody hard for you, Kathryn. Finish me, please. Finish me, and then I will take you the way you need. But I cannot wait. I need it now. Now, goddammit!”
Assassin for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 11) Page 10
