by C. J. Miller
He refocused on the conversation. He could have spent an entire lifetime thinking about Laila and planning ways to touch her. “Now I want to see the worst. I cannot fully understand Qamsar without seeing both the good and the bad. Experiencing it for myself will give me a better appreciation of the work you’re doing.”
Saafir’s eyes were wary, and he folded his arms over his chest. He wanted to outright tell them no, but he was considering the political and financial consequences of a denial.
“Please, Saafir. We can help. Let us try,” Laila said.
At his sister’s plea, his gaze softened, and Saafir appeared to consider it. “I suppose there isn’t harm in coming along. Mostly women attend to the prisoners, but I join them to keep an eye on things and make sure no one gets the wrong idea about why we’re visiting. Getting into the prisons, even for a visit, is a tricky maneuver.”
They were taking a chance the Cinder Block was one of the prisons Saafir was planning to visit. What choice did Harris have? This was the CIA’s plan, and he’d do his best to carry it out.
Laila squeezed his fingertips. “Thank you, Saafir. I am pleased to be included.”
“I’m pleased someone takes an interest in the work we’re doing,” Saafir said.
Harris let the conversation drift to Saafir’s ideas about the country. Harris found most of them logical and clearheaded. Saafir recognized the problems his country faced, and he had common sense solutions to fix them. Harris watched him speak, trying to get a read on Saafir’s genuineness. Everything about his posture, facial expressions and tone spoke to honesty. But well-skilled liars knew their craft.
Laila remained silent on the issues Saafir mentioned, nodding when appropriate. In Qamsar, it wasn’t her place to comment on social and political matters, but Harris wondered what she was thinking. Though some circumstances in this country required that she hold her tongue, she was smart, and he liked hearing her ideas.
Laila was the whole package: brains, beauty and a heart of gold. Knowing it didn’t take the edge off his desire for her. It only made her more difficult to resist.
What if Saafir was working for the Holy Light Brotherhood, and reported the vulnerable position he and Laila would be in by visiting the prisons? An attempt had been made on her life once. If their objective was to pin her death on America, they might be safe while inside the borders of Qamsar. But if Harris and his team had misinterpreted the reason for the car bomb, visiting the jail gave the terrorist group an easy way to kill her.
* * *
Laila waited in her room for Harris. He’d texted her a time, another late-night meeting, to discuss the jail visit. He hadn’t given her much of an explanation earlier in the day. He hadn’t said why he had canceled breakfast, and her mind had flipped to the worst-case scenarios. Had something come up with the mission? Or worse, had he blown her off to put some distance between them after the intimacy they’d shared the night before?
Laila couldn’t tell her mother about Harris’s late-night visit, and she hadn’t mentioned his abrupt departure that morning. She wished she could confide in someone about her growing feelings for him. The only person who knew the details of her relationship with Harris was Harris, and she couldn’t talk to him about her riotous emotions.
When Harris slipped through her balcony door, relief rushed over her.
“Saafir agreed to allow us to help more easily that I expected,” Harris said, dropping his German accent, and kicking off his shoes and setting them on the balcony. They’d be waiting if he had to flee. So far, the ugly shoes hadn’t made another appearance. She was grateful.
“He’s an easygoing guy, and he takes his work seriously. If you’re becoming part of our family and your family is interested in helping by making donations, it’s in his best interest to allow you to tag along.”
“Unless he has an ulterior motive for allowing us to visit the jail,” Harris said.
Did Harris think everyone operated with personal agendas and hidden intent? The book they had found in the library didn’t make Saafir look good, but Laila wasn’t ready to accept that Saafir had joined the Holy Light Brotherhood. “We asked him if we could come along.”
“He could have grabbed the opportunity to get us to a place where making us disappear would be simple.”
In Harris’s world, the players were double agents and spies. In his personal life, women betrayed him and couldn’t be trusted. In her world, not everyone was out to hurt everyone else, and friends and family could be trusted. “It will take more than scrawl in a book to convince me Saafir has turned.”
Harris’s eyes clouded with worry. “Have you ever been inside a Qamsarian prison?”
She’d seen pictures and heard stories. That was the extent of her experience. “I haven’t. I know not to expect cleanliness.”
Harris’s chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “The conditions will be deplorable, the prisoners abused and malnourished, and the guards likely indifferent. It’s the only way for someone to work in a place like that and not go crazy.”
He was worried about her. He was taking his vow to keep her safe seriously. A tickle traced up her spine. Being under his protection made her feel special and safe. “I can handle it. I know it won’t be pleasant.”
Harris laid on the bed. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
The words drew her closer. She peeled away the covers and climbed onto the mattress. “I’ve been thinking about you, too. About last night.”
“Regrets?” he asked.
Qualms hadn’t entered her thoughts. “None.”
His body relaxed. “I’m glad. May I stay with you until you fall asleep?”
Her heart shouted an instant yes. She wanted to spend as much time with Harris as she could. Her brain screamed a warning. The more time they spent together, the closer they became, the harder it would be when he left. “After Mikhail’s wedding I won’t see you.” Few precious nights remained for them to be together, nights to avoid being discovered. Tossing away caution, she made the decision on pure impulse and desire. “Yes. I want you to stay with me.” She reached for his hand and took it in hers.
Laila drew him closer, wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest. “I like being with you.”
“Me, too.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’d stay all night, but my room was searched last night. We need to be careful.” Harris brushed his hand along her arm. “Your skin is so soft.”
“I can hear your heartbeat,” she said.
“Do you hear how fast it’s pounding?” he asked.
She lifted her head and met his gaze. “Why is it fast? Are you worried?”
“Not about this mission. Everything about this mission is going fine. But, yes, I’m worried. I’m worried about what’s happening with us. I’m worried if this continues, you’ll get hurt.”
She flattened her palm against his chest. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m fine. I’ve known from the moment we left the States what we had.”
“Come here,” Harris said, his voice soft and quiet.
Laila shifted and crawled up his body. With her arms resting on his chest, she skimmed her lips across his. Harris closed his eyes.
“Do that again.”
She repeated the action, and this time, Harris’s hand crept to her lower back.
“You have me in a compromising position,” Laila said.
“That goes both ways,” Harris said.
Laila kissed him again. Feeling bold, she ran her fingers through his hair. It was soft between her fingers. She reveled in the feel of his mouth on hers. Harris shifted beneath her, bringing her body over his. Her dress moved up her legs, baring her feet, her calves and her knees. In some of her American clothes, she’d shown more skin, but she’d never had a man between her legs. Hot pleasure sizzled and burned across her body.
Harris’s mouth moved to her chin, to her neck and to the spot where her clothes met bare skin. He moved asi
de the fabric, and his tongue flickered against her overheated skin. The urge to tear off her dress consumed her. She wanted nothing between them, and she wanted to feel Harris’s hands sliding over her body.
Laila took a deep breath and sat up. Her thoughts caught up to her in a rush. Too fast. This was moving too fast.
Harris stroked the side of her face. “What are you thinking? Is this too much?”
She wouldn’t tell him that she’d been thinking about stripping naked. Coarse words she wasn’t prepared to speak. “I think we need to slow down.” She needed to take her time and make careful decisions. Spending time in bed with Harris was a slippery slope, and she wanted to be in control of where it might lead. At the moment, she wasn’t ready for more.
“I understand. Slow is fine. You set the pace.”
His understanding touched her. She was safe with Harris. He wouldn’t push her. He wouldn’t lie to her. Her trust was well placed with him.
“Tell me more about your family,” Laila said. “You met mine.”
“My parents are amazing. Growing up, I would have called them too nosy. They kept me out of trouble. And my brothers? There are no better men. As much as they hassle me, when I need them, they are always there.”
“Sounds pretty ideal.”
“Don’t get me wrong. We’re not ideal. We fight. We argue. We don’t see eye to eye on everything. But what really matters is that we’d do anything for each other. When I told them I wanted to take this assignment and work jointly with the CIA, I could tell they were worried, but they supported my decision. My mom used to be a CIA operative, and she was nervous, but she knew I could handle it.”
How different from her family! While her parents had never actively prevented her from doing anything, the culture in which she’d been raised was restrictive. Growing up, Laila had had a sense of where the boundaries were, and she hadn’t pushed or questioned them.
She laid next to him on the bed, letting the conversation roll, sharing the occasional kiss until she drifted off to sleep.
When Laila woke, Harris was gone. She had another hour before she needed to prepare for her outreach trip with Saafir and his group. Her sheets smelled of Harris, and memories of both his gentleness and those scorching kisses kept more sleep out of reach.
At 6:00 a.m., Laila met the outreach group by the main gate of the compound where two black vans were waiting. For getting so little sleep, Laila felt refreshed and clearheaded.
In total the volunteers numbered fourteen. The females were dressed in dark dresses, simple footwear and head scarves, no jewelry dangling from their arms.
Laila sat behind Saafir and next to Harris in the passenger van. Her placement in that location was either Saafir’s or Harris’s design.
They visited two prisons, and Harris and Laila quickly learned the routine.
They returned to the vans to travel to the last jail of the day.
Saafir turned in his seat to face her. “This is one of the more difficult places we visit. Some call it the Cinder Block.”
Laila forced herself not to look at Harris. She’d almost forgotten the Cinder Block was the primary reason they’d come on this trip. Her stomach roiled with nerves, and her palms dampened.
How much worse could the Cinder Block be than the other prisons? Laila had heard rumors about it. She dreaded seeing the inside and hated that people lived within the run-down building.
As they climbed out of the vans, Saafir pulled Laila and Harris aside. He paused and waited for two women to pass. “This is the worst of the prisons we visit. The conditions will not be as good as the previous ones. As a whole, the prisoner population is angrier and more restless. They have not been tried or convicted of any crimes, and they are often foreigners without family in the area to take care of them. They rely on us, and the generosity of strangers for food and clothes. Language barriers and difficulties between religious groups and cultures cause riots, which leads to swift, violent responses by the guards. If anyone recognizes Laila, she will be in trouble.”
Harris’s shoulders tensed. “How do the prisoners treat you?”
“It took me months to earn a sliver of their respect. They know I’m the emir’s brother. They don’t talk much to me.”
Laila hoped for the same treatment. Ignoring her was better than attacking her.
“Please stay close and don’t let any of the prisoners’ comments upset you,” Saafir said.
If she and Harris had to stay close to Saafir, how would they talk to the American prisoner alone? For that matter, how would they find him? The building was huge, with few windows to the outside. The American spy could be anywhere inside.
Laila glanced at Harris to gauge his reaction, and he appeared unconcerned. She knew he felt otherwise. His mind was working overtime to find a way to meet their objective.
They walked toward the entrance to the prison. Harris stayed close to her side, never touching her, but near enough he could have slipped his arm over her shoulder if he’d wanted to. If they were in America, would he casually take her hand? Would he pull her close into the secure circle of his arms? Her imagination was running away with her.
They entered the prison, and the differences struck her immediately. The security at the Cinder Block was tighter. No cursory glance into their boxes. Their supplies were searched, containers opened and rifled through. No one in the group appeared fazed by the search.
A large, brutish-looking man entered the security area. He crossed his brawny arms over his barreled chest. “Contained here are the country’s most manipulative and unscrupulous criminals. Don’t attempt to fraternize with them. Don’t believe anything they tell you. They are born liars. The emir has granted access to this prison on a week-to-week basis. If we sense you are in danger or if your presence is a national security threat, that access will be denied permanently.”
Laila’s heart beat faster. If her and Harris’s intentions were discovered, Mikhail would revoke visiting privileges, and the entire prison population would suffer more than they were, because of their interference.
With shaking hands Laila helped load the remaining supplies onto dollies and carted them past the sliding metal gates to where the prisoners were housed. As it had been at the other sites, the group worked in pairs. Harris and Laila were teamed together. Saafir lingered nearby.
Without windows, the only light came from dangling bulbs in the center of the hallways. The thick, humid air smelled of earth and human waste. Laila tried to breathe through her mouth and not gag.
They stopped at each cell and spoke briefly to the inmates, keeping their conversation to determining what provisions were needed. They handed out blankets and toothpaste, books, magazines, packages of food and bottles of water.
Most of the men seemed broken and worn with an edge of rage that surrounded their being. Some offered only a glare in their direction. The security guards walked up and down the hallways, assault weapons strapped across their chests. At the leers and taunts from the prisoners, the guards swung their weapons toward the cells in warning.
“Do you see him?” Laila asked quietly as she opened another box of water bottles.
“Not yet.”
Other aid workers distributed goods to the prisoners, no one paying attention to Harris and Laila. The guards glanced in their direction, but their main focus seemed to be intimidating the prisoners.
“He could be housed away from the general population,” Harris said.
They couldn’t ask to see him. They didn’t know his name, and they wouldn’t have a reason to see him or to know he was in the Cinder Block.
Harris stiffened slightly, and Laila followed his gaze to the cell three away from where they were standing. Unlike the rest of the prisoners who sat against the walls in their filthy cells, laid on the floor on bed mats, or ignored her and Harris, this man was standing at the bars, gripping the metal in his hands, his face almost pressed between the slats.
His eyes held a wild and intense l
ook.
Harris and Laila approached. Harris set his hand in front of Laila in a silent signal to stay back.
“You’re not Qamsarian,” he said to Harris.
Though his Arabic was flawless, the prisoner looked American. His nose was too small, his face flat and his hair cropped short. He wasn’t as scrawny as the other prisoners, and his clothes were matted with grime but not worn threadbare.
Laila took her time gathering supplies from the boxes, buying Harris precious moments to speak to the man. Was this the American spy? Would Harris speak to him and get the information he needed?
* * *
Harris’s gut tightened, his instincts telling him this man was the one he needed to speak with. This was the man they had been searching for. “Visitors to a new land,” Harris said in Russian.
The man didn’t respond.
“But you understand being a visitor. You don’t belong, and few know you are here,” Harris said.
Though the man didn’t look at him, he was listening. He understood.
“The best way to find success is to share the load,” Harris said.
To a black ops agent with no personal life, no identity, success and completing his mission would mean everything. Harris was staking his bets that to share the load, to tell what he knew about Al-Adel, the Holy Light Brotherhood and Mikhail’s involvement, he would find some satisfaction. If he believed he wasn’t getting out of the Cinder Block, talking to Harris would do some good. Harris could use the information the American had found to locate and stop Al-Adel.
Harris couldn’t linger by his cell much longer. He would draw the attention of the patrolling guards.
“You won’t have other trusted visitors like me,” Harris said, keeping his words low and in Russian. “Trusted” being the key word.
The man reached through the bars and took the items Laila had brought him. “Thank you,” he said to her in Arabic.
Harris waited a few beats to see if he would say anything else. Harris could feel the eyes of the guards on him, watching, staring. Was his voice carrying to them? He turned away from the cell and to the cart, ready to push it farther along. The man in the cell knew he had slim hopes of rescue. If he didn’t care for sharing information, Harris had no pull over him.
