Covert Evidence

by Rachel Grant

  He grinned and donned his own helmet. “Honey, have you ever seen a James Bond movie? Don’t you know spies are good at everything?”

  The cocky statement made her laugh, and a small amount of her tension dissipated.

  He climbed in front of her and kick-started the scary bike, and in moments they were tearing across an open oil field, heading south into the Eastern Anatolian hills.

  The overland ride was bone crunching and miserable. Cressida clung to Ian’s back, her hands tightening in time with each jolt. He’d have bruises from her grip to match the ones on his ass from slamming into the seat so often.

  A mental image of kissing bruises in the same location on Cressida’s body distracted him as he chose a bad line over a rocky outcrop and paid for it with a hard landing. Behind him, Cressida let out a stifled grunt.

  She hated this. And likely hated him. But what could he do? His job wasn’t good for making positive long-term impressions.

  Except, he no longer had a job.

  He pulled up behind a high rocky outcrop, this one tucked next to a steep hill, and shut off the engine. They were a hundred kilometers from nowhere and hidden on three sides by the rocky cliffs. After hours of riding, they could rest. Eat. Talk.

  “Why are we stopping?”

  “Water,” he said simply, climbing from the bike and plucking a bottle from the saddlebag.

  She followed suit but struggled with the helmet buckle. With the flick of his thumb, he released the sticky clasp. “Thanks.” After taking a long drink, she asked, “Have you decided where we’re headed yet, besides west?”

  He’d given it a lot of thought while riding. It wouldn’t be easy to get passage on a container ship, and Cressida hadn’t been burned. She could seek help from US authorities. “You’re going to the consulate in Adana.”

  “Isn’t that like a gazillion kilometers from here?”

  He smiled. “It’s about ten hours by road.”

  She shuddered slightly, gazing across the rugged terrain. “But we aren’t riding on roads.”

  “Yeah. It’ll take two days. Three at most. For now, we’re heading to a friend’s, near Gercüş.”

  She stiffened. “Do spies really have friends?”

  “I’m a person, so yes, I have friends. And I’m a covert operative—a case officer. My job is to recruit spies—like Hejan. Technically, I’m not a spy.”

  “A case officer? What does that mean?”

  “I look for people—people with access to other people or organizations, like, for example, al-Qaeda, who may be interested in providing information to the US. I recruit them. They’re the spies, and I manage them.”

  “That doesn’t sound nearly as sexy as being a spy.”

  He shrugged. “True spies aren’t usually sexy. They’re greedy, disloyal bastards, or they’re out for revenge. Or they’re trying to play me—they want me to think I have an inside man, when they’re feeding me shitty intel.”

  “Then why do you work with them—the ones who are trying to play you?”

  “Because I can feed them equally shitty intel.”

  “What kind was Hejan?”

  “He was hard to pin down. He was a volunteer—usually they’re the squirrelly ones. The volunteers put out feelers, say they’ve had a change of heart, they want to work for the good guys. We can’t ignore them. If they’re for real, they can be vital. Like the guy who helped us nail Anwar al-Awlaki.”

  “Was Hejan for real?”

  “I’d been working him for about ten months. I thought he was legitimate. He had good motive for his change of heart. He told me his job was to pass a microchip to someone who would then pass it to a courier, who would then deliver it to his organization’s leader. He promised me a direct line to the big guy, who we’ve been trying to identify for three years. But he also told me the info on the microchip wasn’t the usual deal. This package was big. And because of that, a special pigeon would make the delivery—you.”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Yeah. I believe that now.” Ian kicked a rock and watched it skitter across the uneven ground. “Hejan said not to lose you. He said even if I thought the delivery was made, to stick with you.” He frowned. “I had no intention of following that advice. My primary objective was the data.” Ian had spent hours considering Hejan’s wording. His guess was Hejan had played both sides very carefully. His compatriots had sent Hejan to Ian—wanting him to pretend to double—but Hejan had fooled the members of his cell and really had turned. He’d given Cressida more than she knew. Which was why Ian wanted her to remember exactly what Hejan had translated for her. What was on that map?

  Hejan’s associates had likely killed him when they realized he’d betrayed them for real. And they probably knew Cressida was their only hope for recovering whatever information he’d passed along.

  Ian reached for his helmet. “We need to hit the road again.”

  She grimaced. “If only there were a road.”

  “Another hour, and we’ll stop for the day. I promise.”

  In the early afternoon, they reached Ian’s friend’s house on the edge of a small village near the larger town of Gercüş. The house was a ramshackle structure built of flat stones stacked high with intermittent concrete bricks and the occasional wooden plank. It was the only house in the area that was wired for electricity, and even had a satellite dish. A cow and her young calf grazed in the front yard, making Cressida smile.

  How could you not trust a man with a calf in the yard?

  She climbed from the bike, sore all the way to her marrow. It had been hot as hell under the thick leather, and she suspected the temperature neared a hundred Fahrenheit as they crossed the hilly, dry terrain. In spite of her discomfort, she couldn’t help but notice this part of Turkey, with snowcapped peaks in the distance, was even more beautiful than she’d imagined.

  Beauty or not, she’d give anything for a five-star hotel with Jacuzzi tub, but eyeing the house, she’d settle for hot and cold running water. Ian unlatched a low gate, and she followed him through the side yard to the back door, where he knocked softly. The door was opened a moment later by a portly elderly man. “John Baker, I’ve been expecting you.” The man offered a polite bow, then stepped aside to permit their entry.

  “Rajab, thank you,” Ian said in English.

  “I suppose I should call you Ian now,” Rajab said, then turned to Cressida. “This must be the young lady they mentioned on the news. Welcome to my home.” He bowed his head politely but made no move to shake hands, so Cressida murmured a greeting with her own slight bow. “You are more lovely than your pictures on the TV.”

  “They have her picture? Has a name been released?”

  “They said your companion is Cressida Porter.” He led them up a narrow staircase. “You have big troubles, my friend.” They entered a tiny living area adjacent to the kitchen. There he turned on a flat-screen TV with the flick of a button.

  Cressida smiled, realizing this man’s TV was bigger and better than her own, crushing several assumptions she’d made based on the dilapidated exterior of the house. The man turned to her with a questioning look. “English only?”

  She nodded.

  He changed to CNN International. “They first mentioned you about an hour ago. They say you are an archaeology student and may have been abducted by Ian. Either that or you are his accomplice.”

  “That would never hold up,” Ian said. “A full accounting of my time in Turkey will prove I didn’t lay eyes on Cressida until three nights ago.”

  “The news doesn’t care about what is either true or provable. They only care to be the first to say whatever it is.” Rajab’s voice was almost jovial.

  “Can we stay here for the night, Rajab? We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow. We just need food, fuel, and rest.”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course. But tell me, where will you go?”

  Ian just shook his head.

  Rajab shrugged. “Come. I will show you to your room.”
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br />   With heartfelt thanks, Ian and Cressida made their way up another narrow flight of stairs. The room was tiny, but it had a bed, which to Cressida was all that mattered. After showing them the bathroom—no hot tub, but a tiny shower with hot running water—Rajab left them alone.

  Ian touched her cheek, a gesture she’d grown accustomed to and recognized as an impulse he couldn’t seem to control. Not that she wanted him to. “Rest. I need to talk to Rajab. Alone.”

  “I thought we were done with secrets?”

  “No, I’m CIA. I’ll always have secrets. I only promised no more lies.”

  She frowned. “I want to know more about Hejan.” It had been impossible to talk as they rode across the steppe.

  He covered her mouth and shook his head. “Not here,” he whispered.

  “But Rajab is your friend.”

  “Yes. And he’s a zealot separatist who’s offering his room in hopes of gleaning information for his cause. I’d give him a three on a scale of one to ten for how much to trust him. But that’s good, because I wouldn’t give anyone else more than a one or a two right now.”

  “What would you rate me?”

  He smiled and ran a hand down her side. “Sweetheart, you’re a ten, all the way.”

  She rolled her eyes even while feeling a flash of heat at the compliment. “I meant in trust.”

  “I trust you.”

  She wondered if that meant she was a five or higher, but he didn’t seem interested in quantifying. “Does Zack know Rajab?”

  “No. I’ve been working this region for a long time. Zack was assigned to assist me just for this case. He’s a rookie; Ankara is his first posting. He doesn’t speak Kurdish. He has no idea who my contacts are out here, nor the depth of my knowledge of this region.”

  “What about your boss? Does he know?”

  “I never report contacts unless they become assets. Rajab isn’t an asset. A good field agent always has a backup plan.”

  “And Rajab is your backup plan?”

  “One of many. Now, take a shower if you want. Then come down for dinner.”

  She nodded, and he kissed her, the gentle peck of a couple’s temporary good-bye. Strange that it should feel so natural.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dinner with Rajab consisted of Kurdish meats rolled in flat bread. Even though the hour was still early, Cressida was exhausted from the slow, bouncing, hot, uncomfortable ride. After the meal, she went up to the bedroom to rest, alone. She managed to doze, but only fitfully. She felt nervous without Ian by her side.

  Strange, since yesterday she’d alternated between wanting him and wanting to flee from him.

  She had a wicked bad case of Stockholm syndrome and feared her taste in men was more like her mother’s than she’d ever imagined.

  Except Ian was nothing like any man she had ever known.

  Unbidden and unwelcome, Three came to mind. The worst of the predators, Three had taught her an important lesson when she was seventeen years old: scumbags like him were ruled by their egos and dicks. Three sought to prove he was the super-alpha by seducing the daughter and the mother, knowing full well it would destroy them both.

  And he’d almost succeeded.

  She wondered if Zack was like Three. What caused a man to turn against his country? No doubt money was involved, but there had to be more. Ian was the seasoned operative, while Zack was the rookie, but currently, the rookie had the upper hand.

  If Zack were anything like Three, he’d be jacking off while watching CNN right now.

  She rolled over, hating that she’d let Three back into her thoughts. If there was one memory she wished to erase, it was her final confrontation with him.

  Better to think about Ian instead. He was on the opposite end of the spectrum, a man who didn’t need to prove he was alpha. He just was. It was in his essence, an integral part of him. His strength was her compass, compelling her to follow his direction. She didn’t wonder why she’d Stockholmed so quickly; she only marveled that she’d been able to challenge him at all.

  The old mattress dipped under his weight, and she couldn’t stop herself from sliding backward, toward him. His arm wrapped around her belly and pulled her snug against his chest. He’d stripped to his underwear, and his warm bare thighs tucked up under hers. Spooning with him was comforting after the craziness of the last two days. Too comforting, when she should be keeping her guard up.

  She scooted forward. “Too hot,” she said, which was a lie. The evening had cooled considerably.

  He chuckled. “You were bolder yesterday.”

  She rolled over to face him. “You were John yesterday.”

  “I prefer being Ian—especially when I’m in bed with a beautiful woman.”

  “See now, there’s John—ever ready with the complimentary line.”

  “No. I find you sexy and beautiful, whereas John saw you as a job. John will say anything, because he has to be likable. Frankly, I think he’s a smug prick.”

  “Whereas Ian is darker and dangerous.” And so very alpha.

  “I’m former Delta Force and a covert operative. John was a glorified security guard.”

  She laughed. John didn’t get any respect from Ian. His face was cast in shadows, but there was enough light to see the desire in his eyes. “What happens tomorrow, Ian?”

  He shook his head and pressed a finger to her lips. “Not here.”

  He’d been speaking so freely about his alter ego, she’d forgotten his concerns about Rajab. “If the walls have ears, then there is no way in hell you’re getting laid.”

  He laughed. “I know. It would be stupid—too distracting. But, damn, I want to fuck you.”

  Every time he said those words, heat unfurled in her center. The phrase was coarse and hard—pure Ian—and for that reason, she found it sexy as hell. She suspected he knew it.

  He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Sleep, Cress. This may be the last bed we have for a while. Enjoy the luxury while you can.”

  Ian woke abruptly two hours before dawn. A tingling in the back of his neck told him it was time to go. Now.

  He’d been in the business too long to ignore the feeling and nudged Cressida awake. “We’re leaving,” he said in a whisper. “Now. Through the window.”

  She shook her head, sleepy and confused. And frigging gorgeous and tousled, but this wasn’t the time to notice that. “But we’re three stories up,” she whispered.

  “Rock wall. The flat stones have plenty of hand- and footholds.”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. He hoped to hell her work meant she had done some climbing and was up to the challenge, because this climb had to be completed quickly. And without a safety line.

  He pulled on his clothes, shoes, and backpack as Cressida did the same. They’d slept with the window open, so there was no need to pray for silent hinges. Ian had scouted the window when Rajab first presented the room, just in case, and knew there was an exterior lip that jutted out beneath the window, marking the base of the third floor. They could position themselves on the plank before descending.

  He climbed onto the ledge first, then scooted to the side, so Cressida could climb out. She straddled the opening, then froze. Gripping the open frame, he placed his other hand on her thigh. “You can do this, Cress.” She had to. He couldn’t leave her here, and they sure as hell couldn’t stay.

  A soft thump sounded inside the house, and Cressida’s chin jerked in alarm. Shit.

  It was the nudge she needed, and she slipped out the window and onto the ledge with the speed and stealth of a cat. Thank God. And Allah. And Yahweh. And Vishnu. And hell, throw in Zeus and Odin for good measure.

  The wall was wide enough for a side-by-side descent. Ian planted both hands and one foot, then prodded lower for another perch. Repeating the process for each hand- and foothold, he descended several feet, while Cressida climbed down on a parallel track. The burn on his shoulder ached from the abrading backpack, but the pain couldn’t compete with the adren
aline that pumped through his system.

  He neared the second-floor lip, and a glance to the right showed Cressida was stuck a few feet above him. Her hands were shaking, badly, as her right foot searched for a toehold.

  The irregular surface of the wall made it impossible to see where to plant feet—she had to feel for it—but she prodded the wall dangerously close to a second-floor window.

  Ian traversed to her side. Her shaking was even worse up close. “You’ve got this.”

  A thump sounded through the window near Cressida’s shoe. Whoever had entered Rajab’s house was on the stairs—headed for their bedroom with the open window.

  They had maybe fifteen seconds to get off the wall and onto the dirt bike. “Bigger steps, Cress. We’ve got to go.”

  She nodded as sweat rolled down her neck. She shifted her weight to just her fingertips so she could prod even lower with her foot. Finally she found a cleft that could hold her, and she moved her other foot, then her hands, now in rapid, smooth choreography.

  Ian followed suit, and five feet from the ground, he jumped, then planted his feet and opened his arms wide and whispered, “Jump.”

  She leapt out from the wall without looking, even though she was a full eight feet up. Ian caught her, marveling that she’d trusted him without hesitation.

  If they didn’t need to get the hell away, he’d have kissed her—in thanks for the trust, in gratitude for her quick and safe extraction—but that would have to wait for a time when a kiss wouldn’t get them caught or killed. With her hand in his, he ran toward the barn where he’d parked the bike, just as he heard a shout from the third-floor window.

  He rounded the side into the barn and came face-to-face with Rajab. His friend lifted a gun and pointed it at Cressida.

  “Thank you, my friend, for escaping the house. It is difficult to wash blood from the wood floor.”

  Cressida still hadn’t stopped shaking from clambering down the rock wall. She felt dizzy at the sight of the gun and more than a little nauseated.

  “Give me the microchip,” Rajab said.