Secret Agent Sam

by Kathleen Creighton

  The images shivered and faded from his mind, and his heart knocked hard against his ribs, as if he’d been caught doing something illicit.

  “I’m not fussy.” He snagged the garment Tony lobbed at him-the green one-with one hand and showed Tony how to put it on, wrapping it around his waist and rolling the top edge over, like a towel.

  “Hey,” he said with a shrug when Tony gave him a dubious look. “Whatever works, right?”

  “Easy for you to say,” Tony muttered, uneasily surveying the portion of one muscular leg that was protruding through the edges of the fabric that barely met around his broad girth. “You’ve got more overlap than I do.”

  Ignoring what sounded like muffled laughter from the other side of the curtain, Cory finished dressing in the loose-fitting shirt and flip-flop sandals that had been provided. The whole ensemble was surprisingly comfortable, though he couldn’t see himself trekking through snake-infested jungles in the wraparound skirt and open sandals.

  He and Tony had just finished folding their own clothing into more or less neat piles when the curtain twitched back and Sam’s face appeared at its edge.

  “You guys decent?” Her eyes had that squirrel-brightness again, and her lips seemed to quiver with a grin held in check.

  Cory felt a buzz deep in his chest, the urge to grin back at her the way he would have done in the old days. The old days…back when they’d so often found the same things amusing, not always at appropriate times, and would exchange that secret look of barely suppressed laughter.

  “What would you have done if we hadn’t been?” Tony was making no effort to suppress his grin.

  “Well, then, I’d’ve taken a good long look,” she shot back at him in an exaggerated Georgia accent, thick, sweet and sassy as molasses.

  “So, since you seem to be the expert on how these people operate, what are we supposed to do now?” Cory asked, frowning to disguise the pleasure he was getting just from looking at her. The rich, fiery colors she’d chosen-red, orange and yellow-had turned her hair to sunshine and her skin to honey, and she reminded him of some lush exotic flower…the kind that was probably concealing something deadly among its petals.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Wait?” She looked at Cory and Tony, then at the door, then back at Cory again. “Well, the hell with that. I’m starving. Not to mention I could sure use a bathroom. They didn’t lock us in here, did they?”

  With that, she marched up to the door, took hold of the knob and turned it. Throwing a droll look back, eyebrows raised, mouth forming a little O of mock surprise, she pushed the door open and stepped through it. Cory exchanged a look with Tony, shrugged, and they both followed her onto the porch, which was a ramshackle structure made of small logs lashed together with sisal rope.

  Almost immediately, as if she’d been waiting for their signal, the woman who’d brought them the clothing appeared, now bearing a large basket containing fruit, wooden bowls and eating utensils. Right behind her was another woman carrying a large pot from which steam and mouthwatering smells rose into the moist morning air. The two women placed the food on the floor of the porch like an offering to pagan gods, bowed hesitantly, and then, instead of leaving, edged past them and disappeared into the hut. A moment later they emerged with their arms full of shoes and clothing, throwing furtive glances toward Cory and the others like looters fleeing a store during a riot. Then, with eyes averted, they hurried away down a dusty path and disappeared between the clusters of rickety buildings.

  “Well,” said Cory after a moment of almost comical silence, rubbing his hands together briskly. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m starving. Anybody for breakfast?”

  They ate sitting on the porch, throwing fruit seeds and peelings to the foraging chickens. The pot proved to contain a mixture of rice, hard-scrambled eggs and vegetables, all highly spiced and surprisingly tasty. Together with the fruit, it made for a satisfying-not to mention filling-meal, although some of the fruits were too sour for Cory’s taste.

  “Filipinos like it that way,” Sam told Tony when he shuddered over the tartness. “They eat it with salt-sort of like pickles. See?” She demonstrated, then laughed out loud at the pained expression on Tony’s face.

  Cory didn’t say anything. He was enjoying the sound of Sam’s laughter, filling up as he listened with a sweet tumble of joy and sadness that was like hearing an old favorite song, one that brought back painful memories of loss and regret.

  At the same time he was wondering, not for the first time, how, as a pilot for a second-rate charter airline service, Sam had gotten to be such an expert on Philippine jungle culture.

  They’d barely finished eating when the women reappeared, again right on cue, as if they’d been watching from some secret vantage point. This time they were accompanied by two men with rifles, one of them the leader of the band that had brought them here. While the women silently gathered up the remains of breakfast, the spokesman-using his rifle for emphasis, as usual-instructed Cory, Tony and Sam that they were to go back inside the hut now.

  Sam cleared her throat loudly and rose to her feet. “Uh…excuse me, but I’d like to use the ladies’ room first?” When the guard continued to look stony and aloof, she added a word in a language Cory didn’t understand.

  To Cory’s relief and amusement, the gunman’s face brightened for an instant with understanding-the classic lightbulb over the head-then just as quickly darkened with what could only have been embarrassment. He jerked his head at the women and barked a guttural command, and they immediately jumped up and beckoned to Sam, then led her off toward the cluster of shacks.

  Cory watched her go with fear twisting in his gut. Fear that, if he let her out of his sight, he’d never see her alive again. Irrational, he told himself. Crazy.

  “Hey, man,” Tony said plaintively, “you want to ask him where the men’s room is, or shall I?”

  Without being asked, the spokesman gestured impatiently toward the jungle with his rifle. Tony and Cory looked at each other and shrugged.

  “After you,” said Tony, with a sweeping gesture and arched eyebrows.

  When all three had assembled once more in front of the hut, the English-speaking gunman again ordered them to go inside.

  Cory could feel both his annoyance and that irrational fear growing, rising up in him like fermenting yeast. All the delay was beginning to wear on his nerves. This had been a dangerous enough mission to begin with, and with Sam thrown into the mix… Until now the danger had been trumped by the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he’d been given to interview the world’s most notorious terrorist. He knew it was possibly the most important interview he’d ever done, not just for the knowledge of what made a deadly enemy tick, but for the possibility of securing the release of the Lundquists. The importance had seemed more than worth the danger. He’d been looking forward to this, working toward it for weeks.

  Now…dammit, all he could seem to think about was Sam, and the peril he’d put her in. He knew he wouldn’t draw an easy breath until she-until all of them were back safe and sound in Zamboanga.

  Punching down the fear, fighting to keep the irritation out of his voice, he stepped closer to the gunman and said in a low voice, “Look, I know you’re only doing your job, but I’ve come a very long way to talk to Fahad al-Rami. Can you give me some idea when I’m going to be allowed to do that?”

  Something flickered in the hard black eyes. Cory hoped…wanted to believe it might be respect. “Fahad al-Rami is not here. We go to him tonight,” the gunman said, and punched the air in front of his chest with his rifle. “Now, you sleep.”

  “Hey-sounds good to me,” Tony said. He was already picking his way across the creaking porch. When Cory and Sam followed him into the hut, they found him making himself comfortable in one corner of the room, his head propped on one of his camera bags. Barely moments later, there arose from that vicinity a soft but distinct snore.

  “Holy cow,” Sam said admiringly.

&
nbsp; Cory gave a huff of laughter.

  Sam stood gazing at him, chin up, one leg bent, one hip canted, arms folded, the way she had as a kid every time she’d had to start at a new school. Daring anyone to take her on. Feeling so alone, hating being in a place where she didn’t belong, a stranger.

  A stranger?

  I used to know every inch of this man’s body. I still do. I remember the smell, the shape, the taste, the feel of him. I remember it with my flesh and bone and blood and nerves, with every cell in my body.

  So, why, right now, when there’s barely a foot of space between us, does it seem like we’re a million miles apart?

  He used to be my best friend. I could have told him anything-and probably did.

  Yet, here we stand together in an empty room-well, almost empty-and we have nothing at all to say to each other. Like strangers.

  How did we get from there…to this?

  Cory cleared his throat and said, “Well.”

  She glanced over at him and saw that he was looking at her with eyebrows raised in a questioning way, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. She jerked away without meeting his eyes. “Yeah, well.”

  “So. Here we are.”

  She looked back at him then, and grinned. “Come on, Mr. Wordman, you can do better than that, I hope. It’s gonna be a long day, otherwise.”

  He laughed, a low chuckle. And she remembered that, too. “It’s gonna be a long day anyway. The man’s right. If we can manage to get some sleep, we probably should. At least try.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m not good at sleeping on bare floors,” Sam said with a little shudder as she watched two shiny blue lizards chase each other across the wall.

  “You can use me for a pillow, if you want.”

  She jerked her gaze back to him, but there was no teasing gleam in his eyes, no little sardonic half smile on his lips. Just the look of gentle sympathy that was natural to him.

  “Thanks,” she said dryly, “but I think I’ll just sit and veg for a while. Maybe I’ll bore myself to sleep.”

  “You want the curtained-off part? Give you a little more privacy?”

  But privacy, suddenly, was the last thing she wanted, though she hadn’t known it until that moment. “No, thanks,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “I think I’ll just…take this spot right here…” She squatted down, tucking the wraparound skirt under her thighs as she examined the floor. The wooden planks appeared rough, but reasonably clean. She looked up at Cory as she settled herself with her back against the wall. “Unless you’d rather not have my company.”

  “Come on, Sam.” He eased down beside her, a little awkwardly in the unaccustomed skirt, tucking the overlapping flaps between his legs as he stretched them out straight in front of him. His bare feet in the too-small flip-flops seemed oddly vulnerable. “You know me better than that.”

  Do I? She thought, but didn’t say, because he was looking at her with that deep, penetrating gaze of his, and…maybe it was because of those feet-so endearingly absurd-but already she could feel herself going soft inside…like ice cream in the sun.

  “Come on,” he coaxed, patting his green-patterned thigh, cajoling with the voice, the husky growl she’d never been good at resisting. “Put your head down here. Try and get some rest.”

  “You’re leg’s too bony to make a decent pillow,” she muttered. But she was already rearranging herself grudgingly, scooting around, leaning toward him, then sinking down…like something without bones or will…until her head, her ear…then her cheek settled onto the hard ridge of his thigh like a weary bird finding its roost.

  Weary… She hadn’t known how tired she was. Sleep, like a gate-crasher denied admittance only by the strength of her will, now came barreling through abandoned barricades to overwhelm her. Surrounded by warmth and a familiar feeling of security, she felt Cory’s hand come to rest on her hair, touching tentatively, at first, then moving slowly…lightly stroking, fingers weaving through the short, damp strands.

  She thought, Oh, how I’ve missed this.

  I could have had this. If I hadn’t insisted on becoming a pilot…if I hadn’t allowed myself to be recruited by the Company…if I hadn’t lost my temper that night…if I hadn’t walked away.

  In her unguarded state that night came back to her so vividly. She remembered the sick cold feeling in her chest and belly, the trembling weakness in her legs as she’d walked away from him down that rainy Georgetown street.

  She remembered how she’d held her head high as she walked and stared at the streetlamps through a blur of tears and rain. How she’d listened until it seemed as if her whole head was vibrating. Hoping.

  Silly me-I’m hoping he’ll call to me, tell me not to go. That he’ll tell me he loves me and needs me, that he can’t possibly live without me, that he wants me just as I am, that it’s okay if I want to be a pilot, or become a spy, or whatever it is I want to do, if only I’ll come back.

  But of course he doesn’t call, and I keep walking down that street in the rain, too proud to admit it isn’t what I meant to do. That this isn’t what I wanted.

  If I’d done it differently…

  Moisture pooled in the corners of her eyes, made tiny puddles beneath her lashes. Just moisture-not tears, she told herself. I’m not crying. Samantha June doesn’t cry, not over lost causes.

  But…his touch was so gentle…so soothing. With her eyes closed, lashes floating gently on the cushion of tears, she felt his long, sensitive fingers comb the hair back from her temple…tuck a strand behind her ear. It felt so good. She gave a small, shuddering sigh. Safety and contentment settled over her. Twilight drifted down…

  Then, from somewhere far above her she heard his voice, a familiar and comforting murmur, like a lullaby…

  “What happened here, Sam? This little scar behind your ear?”

  Chapter 6

  Awareness and adrenaline stabbed through her with the same brutal stroke, like a lance of double-edged steel. The bubble of safety and comfort and sleep that had briefly cocooned her shattered and vanished as if it had never been. Her body twitched and quivered; her hand jerked protectively to the tender place behind her ear, displacing his. Her mind snapped into focus, sharp and crystal clear. Too late!

  “I can feel a bump there. It’s still tender, isn’t it? You flinched when I touched it earlier.”

  She coughed and mumbled, “I had a few stitches-nothing serious.” Vibrating inside, she sat up and moved away from him, swiveling her body around so her back was against the wall and there was a buffer zone of space between her arm and his. She had to force herself to make the movements slowly, making it seem a casual thing rather than the panicked retreat it was.

  “Is that why you cut your hair?”

  She gave him a look and a short laugh, surprised because, under the influence of her own guilt, it was the last thing she’d expected him to ask. She looked away again and touched her hair with a self-conscious hand. “Yeah…it looked kind of weird with a chunk cut out of it, so I figured, you know, why not. That was a few months ago-it’s grown out quite a bit, actually.”

  “I like it. Looks good on you.”

  “Thanks.” Even as she accepted the compliment she could feel his eyes on her…hear his mind humming away, thinking up new questions to ask. To distract him, she nodded toward Tony’s corner, from which the snoring continued unabated. “How can he sleep like that under these conditions? I wish I had the knack.”

  “I think it’s something you develop in childhood. In his case, it’s what comes of being one of eleven kids.”

  “Wow. Really?” Sam leaned her head back against the wall. “Well, that’s something us only children aren’t ever gonna know about, isn’t it?” Then she checked herself and glanced over at him. “But I forgot-I guess it was different for you, wasn’t it? In foster homes.” She paused, but as usual he didn’t answer. Why had she imagined this might be any different from all the other times she’d tried to ask abou
t his past…his childhood?

  She studied his profile…like a menswear ad in a glossy magazine, she thought, with his eyes fixed intently on some far-off place, muscles visible in a jaw too square and uncompromising for the rest of his face. It was an interesting face rather than handsome-she’d always thought so, from the first moment she’d laid eyes on it that long-ago afternoon in the White House rose garden-long and angular, with hollows and creases that made it seem scholarly even without glasses. Without the shield of his glasses, which at the moment were tucked in the pocket of his shirt, his eyes seemed even gentler, somehow, the intensity of their gaze veiled by thick lashes, the fan of creases at their corners more suggestive of humor than that laserlike focus that could be so unnerving.

  Maybe it was because of that that she pushed bravely on now, when normally such stubborn and intimidating silence would have caused her to abandon the field like a craven coward.

  “What was it like for you? In those foster homes. Were they…good to you?”

  Still he didn’t reply, and she felt the familiar hollowness inside…the terrible deadness of futility. Then he shifted in a restless way, and when he spoke, in a gravelly voice that didn’t sound like him, it wasn’t what she’d expected.

  “What makes you think I’m an only child?”

  For a moment she could only stare at him, unable to make sense of the words, as if he’d spoken in a foreign language. “But you’re-I thought-” She stopped, as the meaning of what he’d said rolled over her like the delayed winds from an explosion. Breathless with shock, she said, “Wow. You mean you-I didn’t know you had siblings. Is it-are they-I mean, my God…”

  “Four,” he said, and his voice and eyes seemed almost regretful. But oddly, his body, close to hers but not touching, seemed to hum with tension. “Two of each.”

  “My God.” She said it again, dazed. Why didn’t I know? How could I not have known this? Why didn’t he tell me? After a moment she cleared her throat. “Are they-”