“Thanks, Laronda.” Alyssa took a deep breath and headed toward the far end of the room. The sound of her footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, and they all looked up at her. Max. Sam. The mighty trinity of SEAL Team Sixteen was there, too—Lt. Cmdr. Tom Paoletti, his executive officer, Lieutenant Jazz Jacquette, and Senior Chief Stan Wolchonok. There were about eight other men around the table, as well. A few more SEALs but mostly other FBI agents, many of whom she recognized.
They all stood up.
“Great,” Max called. “You’re here. Is Mrs. von Hopf safely ensconced in the hotel?”
“George and Jules are taking care of that,” Alyssa raised her voice enough for it to carry to the end of the room. “Gentlemen, please sit back down.”
They all sat but Max, who stood as he waited for her.
She could feel Sam watching, but she didn’t so much as glance at him. She focused on Max, who really was very gleamingly handsome. Far more traditionally good-looking than rough-edged Sam Starrett. Max knew how to wear a suit, knew how to cut his hair, knew his manners.
And he sincerely liked Alyssa. Sam had hated her right up to the moment he claimed to have fallen in love with her, the bastard.
God, she still wanted him with an ache that made her stomach hurt.
“Rose was anxious for news, so I came straight over,” she said. And then she did it. She gave her boss a little something extra in her smile. A little more eye contact. A silent “hey, it’s very good to see you, babe.” She knew Sam would fill in the rest—the part that went, “Can’t wait until we get naked later.”
And Max, bless his soul and God help her, knew exactly what she was doing and sent a similar message right back at her.
Law enforcement genius that he was, he glanced slightly, just slightly furtively at Lieutenant Commander Paoletti as if Tom Paoletti—the highest ranking officer in the room—was the one person he didn’t necessarily want knowing that he was getting busy with one of his subordinates. So that Sam wouldn’t know this show was for his benefit, that he was being conned.
It was beautiful.
Sam shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.
Now he—and everyone in this room—suspected Max Bhagat was getting it on with Alyssa. In fact, it probably would have been considered a sure thing bet.
It was funny. Just a few years ago she would have died rather than let people think such a thing about her. Her reputation had been all that mattered. Now she found it very hard to care.
Max quickly introduced her to the people in the room she didn’t know, and she shook their hands.
The only empty seats were next to Sam and across from Sam. So she sat across from him, careful not to put her handbag on the floor. God knows she had enough problems.
“Have you got something for me?” she asked Max, heavy on the attitude and big with the eyes.
Max’s lips twitched and she saw him clench his teeth to keep from smiling as he sat down at the head of the table. “Uh, yeah. Actually . . .”
Yes, okay. Her comment was a tad unsubtle. But as long as she was doing this, she was going to leave no doubt whatsoever in Sam Starrett’s caveman brain that he’d been happily replaced.
“We’ve had a ransom note,” Max told her.
“With proof that Alex is still alive?” Oh, please, God . . .
“There’s a photo of him, yeah. Taken with yesterday’s paper—headline clearly visible.” Max gestured for Sam to pass the polaroid photo over to her.
He slid it across the table, and she took it with a nod of thanks, avoiding eye contact, trying to ignore the pack of peanut M&M’s that sat in front of him on the table. The man was addicted to chocolate. She knew that firsthand.
Once, when she had been very drunk, she and Sam had gone wild with a bottle of chocolate syrup. To this day, she couldn’t so much as smell chocolate without remembering.
And breaking into a sweat.
She focused on the picture.
Alex von Hopf was in his late fifties and slightly overweight. He had a thick head of gray hair, a goatee, and a slightly round, friendly-looking face. He was lying in bed, his eyes half-open, clearly ill or drugged.
“Who’s got him?” Alyssa asked. She looked down the table at Max. “Do we have any leads besides the note?”
“We’re working on that,” Max said. “We’ve got about five local groups who top our list of usual suspects.”
“Any thefts of insulin reported lately?” She tapped the picture of Alex. “He doesn’t look too good.”
“Local authorities are searching reports of pharmacy break-ins by hand.” Max was disgusted. “They’re not computerized, and they won’t let us near their files.”
“Any mention of Savannah or Ken Karmody?” she asked, trying to predict the questions Rose would be asking her upon her return to the hotel.
“Not in the ransom note, no.”
“We’ve made an attempt to pick up the signal from WildCard Karmody’s miniaturized tracking device—MTD,” Sam told her, and although she was forced to look at him, she met his gaze only briefly. “So far nothing. Either the MTD’s not working, or WildCard and the granddaughter are way outside of the area we’re searching.”
“We’ve got a local warrant out for Otto Zdanowicz,” Max added. “We’re pretty sure he knows where his brother’s chopper went down. As soon as we connect with him, we’ll send a team to investigate the crash site.”
Alyssa held up the picture of Alex. “Rose is going to want to see this. And the ransom note as well.”
“When we’re done here, I’ll head back to the hotel with you,” Max said with another of those smiles that by all rights should have made her insides flutter.
Instead, her stomach hurt as Sam Starrett cleared his throat again.
“So what are you really doing in Indonesia?” the American missionary named Molly asked as Savannah tried her best not to freak out.
Kenny was merely on the other side of the village, giving the man named Tunggul a crash course in using the dynamite they’d saved. As Billy the missionary translated, he was teaching the villagers the best way to clear as much of their road as possible with the limited amount of dynamite they had.
If there was any kind of trouble, he would be beside her in a flash. Savannah knew that. She knew him. And she knew herself now, too. Whatever happened, they would make it through.
But from here on in, she was going to make it through clean.
Molly had brought her to an outdoor showering area, where a bag of sun-warmed water hung over her head. It was heavenly to be able to wash her hair, but she would’ve enjoyed it far more if Ken had been in earshot.
“And what’s in that case that Ken won’t let go of?” Molly asked.
“Money,” Savannah told her, and Molly turned to look at her face above the makeshift privacy screen.
She looked closer. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
She shook her head. “My uncle called. At least I thought it was my uncle at the time. Asking for money. Asking me to meet him in Jakarta. But when we arrived at the airport, these Russian men grabbed us, threw us into a helicopter and . . . They were going to kill us. I think because they were angry at my uncle.” As she said the words, the reality of their situation hit her like a punch to the gut. “They’re still looking for us. If they find us . . .”
“They won’t.” When Molly said it, it sounded so definite. She was older than Savannah by at least ten years and was beautiful in an Earth Mother sort of way that Savannah herself would never be. “Your Ken seems to know what he’s doing. He’s got the whole village on your side.”
Ken had made a very generous offer not just to show the villagers how to use the dynamite they’d salvaged, but to return in a month or so, with enough explosives to clear or reroute the road into town. The man with the weather-worn face, Tunggul, seemed to like and trust him. Which was really no surprise. Kenny was extremely likable. And his straightforward manner—which he described as bein
g that of a jerk—was honest and refreshingly direct.
“Where exactly did you find him?” Molly asked.
“I met him while I was in college. I was afraid to come to Jakarta alone, and he . . . had some time off.” She rinsed the last of the soap from her hair. “He’s not my Ken, though.”
Molly nodded. “But he came here because of you. He’s not some Delta Force soldier on some top secret assignment, right? I mean, it’s kind of obvious he’s not your average tourist, but . . . He just wants to find a radio or a plane and get you both out of here, the end. Right?”
She was afraid of something, afraid of Ken. Savannah couldn’t figure out why, but all of these oh-so-casual questions were not so casual after all. The last of the water dripped onto her head.
“He didn’t even know he was coming to Jakarta with me until the day we left San Diego. Whoever or whatever you’re worried about is safe.” Savannah wrapped herself in a beach towel and stepped out from behind the screen. “I need you to help keep Ken safe by deleting the words special and operations from your vocabulary. Ken is just another tourist.” His very life depended on people believing that. He’d made that very clear to her, and now it was her turn to make it clear to Molly. She looked directly into the older woman’s golden brown eyes. “Do you understand?”
Molly smiled. “I do.” But then her smile faded, at the exact moment Savannah heard it, too. “Chopper.”
The throbbing sound was unmistakable. It was distant, but growing louder with each second.
Savannah grabbed her shorts and shirt, yanked them on while she ran toward the place she’d last seen Ken.
Get into the jungle. She knew Ken would want them in the cover of the jungle, but she was smack in the middle of the village, and she had no idea which way to run.
And then, thank God, she saw him, running full tilt toward her, case in one hand, gun in the other. “Savannah!”
“The church!” Molly shouted, and Savannah realized she was right behind her, running, too. The chopper was coming closer, just beyond the tree line. “Go under the church tent. Services!” she called to the other people—villagers and missionaries alike. “Quickly!”
She grabbed Savannah’s arm and yanked her underneath the cover of the tent, as she continued to shout to the villagers, this time in the local dialect.
“Savannah!” Ken was beside her, out of breath. She saw him gauge the distance to the jungle, saw him accept the fact that running and hiding was not an option now, with the helo directly overhead. “We’re going to have to fight.” He looked around the village for the the best place to have a standoff with the men in the helicopter. The church was undergoing renovations, but it was the only wooden structure to be found. He pointed to it. “I want you and the other women and children in there. Now!”
But then Father Bob was there, holding out a long religious robe. “How’s your hymn singing?” he asked Kenny. “Want to lead the congregation in a few tunes?”
Ken realized what Bob and the other missionaries were up to at the same time Savannah did. Villagers of all shapes and sizes had filled the benches beneath the tent. They were going to hide Ken and Savannah in plain sight.
Tunggul tugged the attaché case from Ken’s hands as Bob helped him put on the robe, the strap of the Uzi still over his shoulder, the gun hidden by the voluminous fabric.
Several of the other men lifted the cloth and cross and some candlesticks from the tent’s makeshift alter, and Tunggul put the case on top of it. The cloths covered it and the candlesticks and cross went back on top, and it was gone. Completely hidden.
“But there’s only one robe,” Ken shouted over the sound of the landing helo. It was coming down, right there in the center of town. “There’s no way Savannah can be passed off as a missionary. They know what she looks like!”
He didn’t want to do this, she realized. He’d prefer to stand and fight. He’d rather take action, even if there was a bigger chance of getting himself killed.
“The robe will hide you both,” Father Bob said calmly. “God knows, it’s worked before.”
“I only know Christmas carols.” Ken was the closest to panicked she’d ever seen him.
“Then we’ll sing Christmas carols.” Molly started the villagers in a rousing rendition of Joy to the World. “If they ask, tell them we’re planning to cut a holiday CD, sell it through the God-is-Love Project catalog.”
Father Bob led them both behind the pulpit, a carefully made wooden box with a slanting top. “Stand just so,” he said, positioning Ken’s feet and legs into a widespread stance. “Come quick.” He pulled Savannah down so that she was sitting on the ground between Ken’s feet. “I know it’s not the most comfortable thing for either of you, but the robe goes all the way to the ground and Savannah will be well hidden. Just don’t forget and start walking.”
“They’re going to take one look at me and know I’m not a missionary,” Ken said.
“Just smile,” Savannah suggested.
“Oh, great,” he said. “Yeah, just smile. Sure. Thanks for the tip.”
“And don’t swear.”
Father Bob zipped up the robe, but Ken stopped him halfway. She could see his face, looking down at her, tight with tension. “I promised I’d keep you safe.”
“I am safe,” she told him quietly. “As long as I’m with you, I’m the safest I’ve ever been.”
He stared down at her, as if she’d spoken to him in Chinese and was having trouble translating.
“Here we go,” Father Bob’s voice said.
“Just don’t fart,” she added.
And before Ken zipped the robe closed, she saw his face relax into a smile.
It was long past midnight before Heinrich fell fast enough asleep for me to creep from his bed without waking him.
A light still burned in the sitting room of his hotel suite, so I had no problem finding the jacket that he’d tossed aside so carelessly many hours earlier.
His holstered gun was no longer on the floor. I assumed he’d put it back into the safe at some point—probably while I was in the bathroom. His notebook, too, was gone from his jacket pocket.
His keys weren’t in the pockets of his pants. Of course not. He’d used them to unlock and lock the safe. But then what? Where had he hidden them?
I knew he wasn’t sleeping with them in his pocket—he was sleeping without pockets entirely.
Trust no one. It was a motto handed out liberally by both the Nazis and the Allies. I’d gone through both of their crash courses in espionage, and it was one of the things upon which they definitely agreed.
Don’t take chances. The people around you could well be working for the enemy. Never let your guard down, not even for a moment.
When hiding something that others might be searching for, put it in the one place they would never think to look. Put it on their very person.
In their pockets—I, too, had none. Or within their luggage.
I slipped into the sitting room, and quickly found my purse.
No keys.
The dinner we’d shared, sent up from room service, was still out on the table, the dessert barely touched as we’d eagerly returned to the bedroom.
I moved closer to the table, to take another bite of cheesecake. It was delicious and I was hungry.
And there they were.
Hank’s keys.
Next to the champagne bucket. He’d come out to get us more wine, I remembered. He must have set them down then.
Trust no one.
Obviously, he trusted me.
My appetite was gone.
I took the keys, slipped back into the bedroom, waited a moment to make sure he still slept, and then opened the safe.
I took it all—his notebook, his gun, and a very thick stack of American money—and locked the safe back up.
The gun went into my purse after I checked to make sure it was loaded.
The notebook, as I’d suspected, was filled with names—mostly prominent N
ew York businessmen and society women. Hank had written brief descriptions of these people, followed by comments. Maybe. Definitely. Yes.
Were these all people who’d agreed to spy for Nazi Germany? If so, the United States was in deeper trouble than I’d thought.
There was no doubt about it, I had to get this notebook into Anson Faulkner’s hands as soon as possible.
I put Hank’s keys back next to the champagne bucket, and went into the bedroom to wake him.
I confess that despite my need for haste, I took my sweet time. He smiled as I kissed him, as he rolled me back with him onto the bed.
Troubleshooters 04 Out of Control Page 38
