by Gayle Lynds
Jay’s lungs heaved. He glanced at Raina. Thick sweat glistened on her face. He was covered in sweat, too. Both of them gave every indication of tiring.
When he gestured to her, indicating al-Hadi was angling toward starboard, she nodded. She was near that side of the ship. Firing less frequently, she hurried to intercept the terrorist’s escape.
Of the three, Jay was the most experienced runner. He bounded over a ravine, caught his balance, and hurtled onward, herding al-Hadi.
At the same time, al-Hadi glanced back more often, seeming to recognize that they were wearing out. But then, they had been in action more than twenty-four hours; he had not—and he was younger. He squeezed off a battery of bursts.
Almost simultaneously, the three sprang over chasms. Like pincers, Jay and Raina closed in. They were almost near enough. . . .
Raina breathed heavily, her exhalations noisy. Her eyes were glazed. Jay gasped for oxygen. But al-Hadi’s steps were still light.
As Elaine rushed headlong across the containers, trying to catch up, she realized Jay’s and Raina’s bullets were becoming erratic, often wild. Frightened, she fired past them at the steward, hoping for a good-luck shot.
At the sound, Jay turned to look at her, breathing hard.
Raina’s head was drooping, but she raised it and turned, too.
With the speed of the healthy and impeccably trained, al-Hadi spun around, threw himself onto his belly, and raised his M-4.
“Jay!” Elaine bolted. “Raina!”
Jay and Raina were not only standing still, they were only a few arm lengths apart, perfect targets for semiautomatic fire. Al-Hadi swept bursts across them. Running with a speed she never knew she had, Elaine watched Jay give her a weary look that somehow announced he was going to die. His back arched, and his arms flung upward. Blood sprayed out behind him. Blood showered from Raina’s back, too, and she pivoted, crumpling.
Elaine shrieked, “No!” She pulled the trigger, shooting again and again at the prone al-Hadi while Jay and Raina fell out of sight between the stacks.
Laughing, al-Hadi slithered toward the edge of the containers and slipped over, vanishing.
At the same time, three Black Hawks swooped past overhead, their sleek fish bodies blocking the stars. In the doorways, feet dangling, sat CIA paramilitary team members in uniforms, black boots, helmets, and thick gloves. They bristled menacingly with gear and weapons.
As Elaine closed in on the void where Jay and Raina had disappeared, the Black Hawks sank gracefully toward the wharf. Their noses rose thirty degrees, and they stabilized at eighty feet. Thick ropes plummeted from their doors. Within four seconds, teams of seven fast-roped down and spread out. Shouts of fear sounded from the docks.
Hot tears streaming down her cheeks, Elaine fell to her knees and leaned over the container. Angrily she brushed her eyes so she could see Jay and Raina lying splayed faceup at the bottom in shadows, motionless.
She shook as if from palsy. At last she gathered herself and holstered her gun. Then she slid over the side and dropped softly to her feet. There was an engine noise near the rail. She duck-walked toward it, praying it was alHadi so she could empty her Walther into him.
Instead, a motorized hoist for one of the podlike life rafts was rising. The raft was gone. Al-Hadi had escaped. She bellowed a curse and hurried back into the steel-lined passage, yanking out her cell phone to tell the paramilitary where al-Hadi was.
She did not understand it. Jay had broken every rule he had ever taught her. So had Raina, who seemed to know the rules equally well. There was no intelligence in their behavior—no use of the supplies in their packs, no deception. They had even turned their backs on al-Hadi. It was almost as if they wanted to die.
Her throat tightened as she peered at their corpses lying ahead. Then she frowned, her thoughts repeating—no deception. With a jolt of anger, suddenly she understood.
She marched toward them. “Dammit all to hell, Jay. You’re not dead. Get up.” Furiously she wiped her sleeve across her face, drying her tears. She raised her gun. “Damn you, I said get up!”
With a chuckle, Jay sat up. “I’m a hunter, remember?” she snapped.
“I’m taking you in. I know you’re no traitor. We’ll get this straightened out. How dare you fool me!”
As Elaine reached Raina, she saw “blood” pooling out from beneath her. “Squib bags of red dye!” she accused, glaring at Raina. She pointed her Walther at her. “I didn’t know you had Kevlar protection. Your jacket’s as thin as mine!”
“You’re a smart one,” Raina said approvingly as she stood and slid off her backpack. “They’re made out of a new fabric combining Kevlar and some state-of-the-art protective material our troops will be using next year. After we left you, Jay and I made one more stop to pick up the jackets and squibs.”
Elaine shot Raina a scorching look. Then she picked up Raina’s SIG Sauer from where it had fallen, tucked it into her waistband, and closed in on Jay. “Al-Hadi has the software, doesn’t he? Now that he thinks he killed you, he’ll be sure it’s clean. Langley will be able to track the Majlis through the backdoor. That’s what this was all about!”
Still sitting, Jay grinned up at her. “A last-minute operation, you might say.” He rotated his Browning and offered it to her butt first. “Glad to know you made it through the firefight on deck, Elaine. You did a damn good job of protecting us. You’re turning into a first-rate covert operative. How did you get on board in the end?”
“I found a pilot’s ladder on the starboard side.” She grabbed his weapon. For a moment she felt uneasy.
“You left the inflatable boat there by the ladder?” Jay climbed to his feet.
There was something wrong. “Yes.”
Pain stabbed her back near her shoulder pad. She tried to whirl, but her body responded slowly. She finished the turn as Raina put an empty hypodermic syringe into her pack. Elaine looked into Raina’s smiling eyes and started to swear but could not seem to find the right word.
“You’ll be excellent in the field, dear,” Raina assured her. “You’ll never let this happen again.” She reclaimed her gun from Elaine’s waistband.
Jay walked around Elaine, smiled down at her, and hugged her warmly. Then he helped her to stretch out on the deck. “Raina injected you with a fast-acting sedative. You won’t be out long. Ten minutes—at the most, fif-teen. Confirm for Bobbye about al-Hadi and the ForeTell backdoor, but don’t tell anyone else.” For a moment, his gaze misted. “I’ll miss you, Elaine.” He took his Browning.
Her eyelids growing heavy, Elaine watched Jay pull Raina to him. She seemed to melt into him. As they clung together, he stroked her cheek and looked deep into her eyes. She lifted her lips, and they kissed for quite a while. Her fingers curled into his back. At last, they walked away. He slung an arm around her shoulders; she wrapped an arm around his waist. Their strides matched.
As they disappeared, she thought she heard Jay chuckle and his voice float back: “Remember—always have a good backup plan.”
Epilogue
Three Years Later
Aitutaki, Cook Islands
As Jay Tice walked home, carrying supplies and groceries, sunset arrived with the tropical languidness he loved, dusting the South Seas horizon in soft gray that deepened into tangerine and brilliant gold. The vibrant colors reflected off the darkening ocean as if it were a mirror and painted the powdery white beach a blushing rouge.
In his shorts and sleeveless shirt, Jay passed houses big and small, built of pink coral or weathered wood, surrounded by vegetable gardens, fenced pigs, and chickens running wild. Palm trees swayed in the frangipaniscented air.
One of their friends, British expat Denise Cumberland, was leaning her bicycle against the beech tree outside her bungalow. When she noticed him, she grinned. Her tall height and sun-carved face were impressive.
“Kia orana,” Jay greeted her in Maori. May you live long.
“Kia orana yourself, Phil. You’re wal
king fast today. Definitely not your usual amble.” Her eyes twinkled.
He held up a manilla envelope. “Mail!”
“Wonders never cease. How’s Kitty doing?”
“Busy as can be. Me, too. It’s more fun than we’d ever thought. Stop by for a drink soon, okay?”
“You really should wear shoes, Phil. You’ve gone native.”
Jay laughed and continued on, increasing his pace. As his gaze swept the ruffled ocean, his thoughts drifted back to his escape with Raina from Martin Ghranditti’s container ship. They had rowed to a spit of land where their hidden packet waited and begun a peripatetic journey that had taken them through Mexico then on to Australia and finally here—to this remote Shangri-la in the southern Cook Islands chain where neither had ever been, no one knew them, and they could start over.
Bobbye Johnson had covered by alerting the Coast Guard to look for his drowned corpse in the Baltimore river. When no corpse was found, she declared Jay Tice dead and good riddance. In Germany the BND issued a formal statement that Raina Manhardt had gone into seclusion and retired—which told him Bobbye had twisted BND president Erich Eisner’s arm hard.
As a reward for her outstanding work, Elaine received a commendation and an open ticket to whatever she wanted to do for Langley. Of course, she chose undercover work, with Bobbye’s blessing—and Jay’s misgivings, but no one asked him, which was the way it should be. In congratulations for her help and obstinance, he arranged a brand-new red Jaguar be delivered anonymously to her town house. He was sorry to have missed the expression on her face.
In the unfortunate way of the world, today’s news quickly became toilet paper. More often than not, the lessons of the past were worse than ignored; they were forgotten. And the events of those difficult days were no exception. Ghranditti’s death and his dangerous shipment held international attention for several weeks, then evaporated. The perilousness of undermanned inspection teams at ports and the thriving underworld of death merchants continued without change.
Still, Langley reaped a flood of intel from the backdoor Kristoph had created. Within six months, Elaine led a NOC team in cooperation with the South Korean government and arrested Faisal al-Hadi outside the National Bank of Pakistan in Seoul. Al-Hadi made no attempt to fight; instead, he angrily denied his identity. At the same time around the globe, teams attempted to capture thirty-two other Majlis al-Sha’b leaders. Some of the terrorists survived and were arrested; others opened fire and died. No one escaped.
With its leadership decimated, the Majlis was out of action. Al-Qaeda had swarmed down on the group’s secret headquarters on the pirateinfested Strait of Malacca to confiscate records and technology. It made him smile to think the bastards took Kristoph’s software and were using it.
Jay stared ahead. Raina was standing on their porch in a gauzy white dress, holding two chilled drinking coconuts. The light of the setting sun illuminated her tired but happy face and the mop of dark ringlets that had grown out, flowing down to her shoulders in a silky cloud. She seemed to shine, glow with femininity and allure.
“Hello, darling,” she called. “Denise phoned to let me know you were on your way home. We have mail?”
He dropped the sacks onto the porch and held her, inhaling the natural perfume of her body, feeling her firmness and warmth. Heat coursed through him.
“Later,” she murmured, twining one bare leg around his bare calf while balancing the two coconuts.
“Honey, believe me, you’re worth waiting for.”
Laughing, she sat on the porch swing and handed him his coconut. Their photo album was open on the table next to her.
She noticed he was gazing at it. “It does me good to see them,” she told him.
“Me, too. I’m glad to have had those children as long as we did.”
He picked up the album and turned the pages. They had put it together from pictures from her Berlin house and those he had saved in his storage space in Washington. It chronicled the short lives of Aaron, Mariette, and Kristoph, who might be dead but were still very loved. At last he closed it and laid it on the table. As he drank from his coconut, he grabbed the sack that contained the newspapers, magazines, and manila envelope he had picked up in the village.
She watched alertly as he opened it.
“It’s from Ben,” he told her unnecessarily.
Only Ben knew where they had settled. Thanks to Houri, Ben had survived, and Bobbye had cleaned up after “David Oxley” so that Ben and Zahra did not have to go into hiding. A few months later Ben and he devised a series of forwarding drops so they could stay in touch.
He took out a letter and another envelope.
“Read it, darling,” Raina said.
He nodded, put on his glasses, and read aloud:
Dear Kitty and Philip,
Things are good here. Hope they are good there, too. You’ll be glad to know al-Hadi is finally going to trial. His damn lawyers don’t have any more delays left in their legal quivers, thank you, Allah.
Last week, I got an e-mail from Marie Ghranditti—she calls herself Emmi Ghranditti now. She and the children are still in Miami Beach and doing well. In fact, she’s getting remarried, this time to a real financier. He sounds like a good man.
As for the envelope I’ve enclosed, it’s in response to the letter you asked me to forward a few months ago. Sorry this took so long. I finally had to go to Bobbye to find out where the family was living—in Tel Aviv, as it turns out. Bobbye said Pavel Abendroth’s widow is dead now. I didn’t read your letter or this one, of course.
Stay in touch!
Ben
Raina was sitting as wary as a cat at a snake hole. “You didn’t.”
“Of course I did.” Strangely, his hands trembled as he opened the blue vellum envelope. The stationery was also blue vellum, which somehow made it all the more personal, more affecting. The words were written in a feminine, strong hand:
I won’t use your name, because I understand you still need to maintain your security, but please know I address this to you with all respect. My brothers and I always believed our father was assassinated, and we were angry about that. We loved him and needed him. But more important, he was a hero, and the world needs its heroes to live as long as possible.
Last year when our mother was dying, she called us together and told us what really had happened and made us promise to say nothing unless we had your permission. Since you haven’t given it, we’ll keep the secret.
You might like to know that she said he admired the way you risked your life to slip into East Berlin to talk with him and that you knew what few others did—that he was dying of cancer.
Since he’d dedicated himself to stopping totalitarianism, he felt it was only right to sacrifice himself so the identity of your mole—your wife now, you say— wouldn’t be uncovered and she could go on feeding information to the West. You were both continuing the fight he couldn’t.
It was kind of you to write with your apologies and to let us know you regret the “assassination.” But Mother said he never had any regrets. You and your wife made a great contribution and no doubt sacrificed a lot as well.
Mother liked to quote the historian John Shedd, because it reflected my father’s philosophy, too—“A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”
Sincerely,
his daughter
Jay silently folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. He glanced at Raina and admitted, “I could never do enough to earn the right to be happy. Dr. Abendroth paid with his life so I could have you.”
She took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. “I know, darling.”
The swing creaked. They drank their coconuts. The sun set in a dramatic flash of hot light, and twilight settled in a violet mantle over the palms and bougainvillea.
Jay glanced at the house several times.
“Check on them, darling,” Raina said, smiling. “I know you want to.”
He nodde
d and padded indoors. Their one-story bungalow was glassy and usually full of light, but now soft shadows draped the simple furniture and wood floors, somehow adding a sense of enchantment.
He went into Michael’s room, crouched beside his bed, and gently brushed back his black hair, as glossy as his mother’s. Michael had just turned two, an energetic child who ran nonstop while awake and fell quickly into deep slumber at the end of the day. He was lying on his side, his chin tucked, his long black lashes shadows on his cheeks.
Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked up. “Daddy!”
Jay grinned. “Shh. Don’t tell your mother I woke you. I’ll be in trouble.”
Michael grinned back. “Our secret.” He puckered his lips.
Jay kissed him, and the boy’s eyelids drooped and shut. Jay lingered, studying the miracle of life—that he and Raina could have created this miracle together.
At last he went into Jennifer’s room. She was two months old. After sleepless nights of taking turns to be up with her through the usual crying jags and hunger, Raina and he had privacy again, because six days ago Jennifer seemed to decide that was enough of that and slept a solid six hours every night. Now she had graduated to her own room, too. She smelled wonderful, of baby powder and moist sleep.
He dropped to his heels beside her crib, soaking in her sweet expression and milky skin and fiery red locks. He smiled, thinking about what a challenge she was going to be to raise. He pressed a finger against her tiny palm, and she curled her hand around it. Joy flowed through him.
When he returned to the porch, Raina was swinging slowly, the album again on her lap, opened to a photo of Kristoph. She glanced up guiltily. “About Kristoph—I tried to tell you a long time ago in Dubrovnik when we met after my husband died, and you found out I was pregnant with Kristoph. Then I tried to tell you several times later—”
