The room was filled with chaotic activity, but at least the press—thank God—had been kept outside on the sidewalk.
“Is Tom here?” she asked. “And Jazz?”
Sam pointed across the room to where his CO and XO had found both the agent in charge and several top Kazbekistani officials. They were standing there, with Nils, deep in conversation. Nils was nodding. He kept glancing at the closed-off staircase that led to the second floor, as if he wished he could skip the briefing and take the stairs two at a time up to the men’s room where Meg Moore was holding the hostages.
“I never got a chance to thank you back in Massachusetts,” Sam told Alyssa, suddenly uncertain as to where to put his hand now that he wasn’t holding hers. He finally settled on folding his arms across his chest, keeping his armpits closed.
He stank to high heaven. They all did—coming straight in the way they had from last night’s training op. He could see Nils across the room, most of his greasepaint sweated off, leaving his face looking slightly muddy and battleworn. Sam knew he looked the same.
“You know,” he added, “for saving the lieutenant’s life when he was up on that roof.”
Alyssa Locke had been in a sniper position in a nearby church tower while Lt. Tom Paoletti had been up against two tangos—one of whom had a gun aimed at the lieutenant’s teenage niece—on the roof of the nearby Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel. From her perch, Alyssa had had an opportunity to take out the gunman with a single shot, and she’d done it unflinchingly, her aim straight and true. She’d saved the niece, an event that had ultimately saved Tom.
She’d saved the niece, but she’d also taken her first human life.
She nodded curtly now, as if she didn’t want to spend a lot of time thinking about it.
Sam changed the subject. “So how come you didn’t come visit me in the hospital?”
He’d been shot in that same run-in with a believed-to-be-dead terrorist. A bullet had lodged in his shoulder, another had grazed his head. He’d spent most of the ensuing action unconscious, wouldn’t it figure? Way to impress his commanding officer. But after it was over, he hadn’t remained in the hospital’s ICU for very long.
He’d enjoyed hero status at the hospital, with a steady stream of visitors coming to see him. But none of them had been Alyssa Locke.
She laughed at his question now. “You hate me,” she told him flatly.
“Whoa,” he said. “Wait a minute—”
“We can’t talk for more than two minutes without arguing, Roger.” Locke had the annoying habit of calling him by his given name. His own mother didn’t call him Roger anymore, for Christ’s sake. “I didn’t think pissing you off would help your recovery.”
“I don’t hate you,” he insisted. “You’re the one who . . . well, you hate me.”
“Ah,” she said, with a tight little smile that was really no kind of smile at all. “That’s right. Rednecks give me a rash. That’s what it was.”
God damn it— Sam took a deep breath. Forced himself to stay cool. “Regardless of our personal differences in the past,” he managed to say, albeit a little bit tightly, “I just wanted you to know I was damn glad you were in that church tower that day.”
Her smug little smile faltered.
Sam nodded curtly. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. . . .”
Ma’am.
That’s all it would have taken. Just one little word, just a punctuation of respect, and the beginnings of a truce may well have been declared.
But when he opened his mouth, something else entirely came drawling out. “. . . sweet thing.”
And instead of a truce, Sam saw World War Three declared in this woman’s eyes.
He beat a quick retreat, the devil in him laughing, which, naturally, only made it all the more worse.
Meg’s cell phone rang, interrupting her singing.
She was singing to pass the time, singing to keep herself awake. She’d gone through all of the American, Russian, and French folk songs she knew, and had just started in on the English, Irish, and Welsh. “Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier.” “Llwyn Onn.” “Buttermilk Hill” or “Shule Aroon.” “Here I sit on Buttermilk Hill. Who could blame me cry my fill . . . ?” Most of the songs were about pain and despair—an appropriate soundtrack for this terrible, awful day.
Osman Razeen still sat watching her, seemingly unblinkingly, as she answered the phone.
It hadn’t yet been six hours—it had barely been five. Maybe Max Bhagat was calling to tell her that there was going to be a further delay. Oh, God, she didn’t think she could handle that. She wanted John here now.
She didn’t say anything into the phone, she just waited.
“Meg?”
It wasn’t Max’s voice. It had been years, but it sounded like . . .
“It’s John Nilsson,” he continued.
Relief ripped into her so intensely she nearly dropped the phone. Breathe. Keep breathing. Keep holding the gun on Osman Razeen. He was watching her, waiting for her to make a mistake.
“What are you doing in there?” John asked.
Waiting for you.
“Well,” she said, when she could finally speak without sounding like Mary Richards imploring Mr. Grant to help her, “I’ve gotten myself into something of a situation here.”
He laughed. God, had it really been years since she’d heard his warm, rich laughter? It seemed like just yesterday.
“Yeah, I couldn’t help but notice,” he told her. “How about you put the gun down, let those guys go, and I come in and we talk?”
“That’s not how it would happen, and you know it.” If she put down the gun, a SWAT team or maybe John’s SEAL team would burst through the door. She’d be on her stomach, face pressed against the tile floor, with her hands roughly cuffed behind her back in a matter of seconds.
He was silent for a moment. Then she heard him sigh. “What can I do to help you, Meg? Can I come in? I’m right outside the door.”
“No weapons,” she told him. “Nothing under your jacket or shirt, Ensign.”
“It’s Lieutenant now. Junior grade.”
Lieutenant. Of course. He’d been promoted. It had been years since he’d been an ensign. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah, we’ve got some catching up to do.” He paused. “I just heard about Daniel. I—” Another pause as if he’d suddenly changed his mind about what he’d been going to say. “I’m sorry for your loss. Look, I’ll come in in my T-shirt, hands high. No weapons, nothing hidden, no threat.”
She could do this over the phone. She should do this over the phone. But she wanted to see him. She wanted to look into John Nilsson’s eyes and see reassurance that he was going to help her, that he could help her. “Just . . . promise you won’t try to shoot me or take my gun.”
“You got it.”
“Say it.”
“I promise.”
“Make sure you open the door only wide enough to slip in,” she ordered him. “No one comes with you. No sudden moves. I’m serious, John. I’ll shoot these people if I have to.”
“Give me a sec,” he said, “to get my jacket off.”
The connection was cut. Meg put down the phone, held her gun with both hands, humming a bit more of that folk song to steady her nerves.
Yes, indeed, she and John Nilsson had some catching up to do. It was entirely likely that he was married by now, and if not married, then certainly attached.
But whether or not he was married had nothing to do with saving Amy. She and John Nilsson had once been friends. She was counting on him to remember that.
He knocked on the door. “Meg? It’s me. I’m coming in.”
The door opened. Just a little. And he slipped inside the room.
Meg wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Possibly for him to be wearing his dress whites. Or at least some other kind of naval uniform. Instead he was completely dressed down in dirty BDUs, dusty boots, and a T-shirt that was stained with sweat. Black greasepaint smud
ged his face and he had a heavy stubble of beard covering his chin. His eyes were rimmed with red and lined with fatigue. Just like the first time they’d met, it had been a while since he’d last slept.
He was bigger, broader, taller than she’d remembered, particularly with his arms up, fingers laced and resting on his head. With his arms in that position, his biceps were flexed and they strained against the sleeves of his T-shirt. His face had filled out some, too, making him look more like a man and less like a twenty-something kid.
But his smile was pure twelve-year-old despite the concern in his eyes. “Hi.”
Tears welled. Save me. Save Amy. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to help her. But this room was bugged. Everyone and their Kazbekistani brother and FBI sister were listening in. And Amy’s and Eve’s lives depended on her doing this right.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
“No,” she managed to say.
Surprise flickered across his face, but he quickly hid it. “Okay. Your rules. I’ll stand.” He moved slightly, leaning against the wall, so that she could easily see both him and her hostages.
“You won’t be in here for long,” she explained.
“Oh, yeah?” he said. “Because I was kind of hoping we’d take a little time to talk. You know, so you could tell me what this is all about and—”
“Remember that folk song?” she interrupted, “that we always used to sing? You, me, and Amy?”
They’d never sung anything together, not even once. Not in Kazbekistan. And Amy hadn’t even been home—she’d been visiting Eve in England—those two weeks John had spent in Washington in the summer of 1998.
John blinked. Just once. But other than that, he’d managed to keep his face impassive.
“Which one?” he asked evenly. “We sang so many.”
Thank you. He was as smart as he was handsome. And obviously willing to let her do this her way.
“It was called ‘Achub Fi.’ ” Save Me. “Do you remember that one? The chorus goes, Save me, Save me, Save me,” she sang to him in Welsh to the tune of a Welsh folk song. “Amy and my grandmother have been kidnapped by Extremists from the Pit.” Her words didn’t quite line up with the notes, but she forced them to fit. “The Extremists have a spy so tell this to no one in this building, or they’ll be killed. Save me, Save me . . .”
“Save me.” He joined in, singing along with her. He had a terrible voice. “I remember you always loved that song. But we need to talk about what you’re doing, what you want—”
“I want a million dollars,” she told him in English, for the microphones. “In small, unmarked bills. I want a helicopter, up on the roof, large enough for me and all three of my . . . guests. I realize it may take some time to make arrangements for those things, so in the meantime I want six pairs of handcuffs and a dead-bolt lock I can easily attach to this side of the door. Go.”
John hesitated. “Meg, who put you up to this? I know you wouldn’t do something like this on your own.”
Meg knew he had to ask despite what she’d just revealed to him in Welsh. His job as negotiator was to come in here and find out as much about this situation—and her motives for being here—as possible. He was playing out the scene for the cameras and the mikes.
“Get me those cuffs. Then maybe we’ll talk.”
He still didn’t move. “How about if one of these men—only one—walks back out of here with me. As a show of good faith—”
“No.” She knew he’d had to ask that, too, to make this look as real as possible for all the people listening in.
John nodded. And as he looked at her, he sent her a silent message with his eyes. I can help you.
She couldn’t keep tears from blurring her eyes and she held her breath, knowing she would be unable to do anything but sob if she tried to speak.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promised.
“No way can we give her those handcuffs,” said the FBI negotiator, a man named Max Bhagat who was calling the shots for this operation. “Obviously she wants to cuff each of the hostage’s hands to a different pipe underneath the sink. Look at the way the room is set up. Six sinks, three hostages. And what was that song she was singing? Does anyone know what language that was?”
Lieutenant Paoletti looked at Nils.
Shit. “She’s really into world music.” He tried to sound casual. “She knows the most obscure folk songs.”
Now what? Pretend he didn’t know this song was in Welsh, and risk having Bhagat—who seemed to be an incredibly thorough son of a bitch—call in another languages specialist who just might be able to translate the Welsh words Meg had sung? Or tell a half-truth? He made up his mind.
“This one’s in Welsh. It’s one of those story songs,” he improvised on the fly, “about a woman who found out her husband was cheating on her. It’s got a lot of verses, and at the end she drowns her competition in a well. Really cheery little number.”
Bhagat leaned forward. “Is it one of those suicide folk songs, where the narrator kills herself at the end?”
“No, no,” Nils said hastily. Christ, don’t let him start thinking that Meg was going to blow away all of her hostages and then put a bullet into her own brain. If Bhagat thought that, he’d kick down the door in thirty seconds. “It was just a song, sir. She always liked that melody. I’m not even sure if she understood the words. I mean, I translated them for her a few years ago, but . . .”
Nils felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. Lieutenant Paoletti was watching him steadily. Nils had never asked, but he’d always thought his CO could tell when he was lying.
And brother, was he lying now.
To the FBI and the Kazbekistani officials.
It wasn’t by choice. Nils was more than willing to tell Bhagat the truth—but not with the K-stanis listening in.
“What exactly was your relationship with Margaret Moore?” Bhagat asked.
Shit again. Okay, start with the truth.
“I haven’t seen her since July 1998. We met in Kazbekistan, at the American embassy there, in December of ’97. We became friends. I was here in DC about six months later, heard she’d separated from her husband and moved back to town, so I, you know, looked her up. She’s a nice looking woman and . . . Well, we got together a few times . . .” Yeah, like a few times a day for two solid weeks. “ . . . but it was strictly platonic, sir.
“To be honest—” He looked Bhagat in the eye, knowing that he did honest and sincere particularly well. “—if she’d said the word, I would’ve made the relationship more, um, intimate, but she was still married and intending to reconcile with her husband.” Her lying, cheating, sack of shit, completely unworthy of her husband.
“I don’t know why she asked for me now.” And that was another bald-faced lie. He knew exactly why she’d asked for him. Because he spoke Welsh. Because she was desperate. Because her daughter’s life was at stake. “I mean, other than the fact that she feels she can trust me.”
Bhagat was silent, gazing down at the notes he’d made on the legal pad in front of him.
“I think we should give her the cuffs she’s asked for,” Nils said for what seemed like the four thousandth time. “She’s on edge, she’s got that handgun aimed toward the ambassador and the other men at all times. Frankly, we should do everything we can to make her feel as comfortable as possible, and then just wait her out. She may have a small amount of food in her bag, but she doesn’t have a lot. If we wait long enough, she might get so hungry, she’ll let us bring food in. And then we can spike her chicken salad sandwich.”
“She wants the cuffs and the dead bolt because she’s afraid of falling asleep,” Lieutenant Paoletti commented. “She’s exhausted.”
“No dead bolt for the door. No way,” Bhagat said flatly. “That’s a no-brainer.”
“I think our next step should be to wait, sir,” Nils recommended. “Let her wonder what’s going on. Let me go shower and get changed before I go in to talk to her again.
If I go back in there still looking like I was yanked out of a training op, like I’ve dropped everything to be here, she’s running the show. But if it’s clear that I’ve taken the time to shower and shave and maybe eat a nice meal, then the emotional ball’s in our court.”
Bhagat was nodding. But Nils had to drive the point home. “No SWAT teams storming down the door, right, sir? Because if you call out that order, you should also order two body bags in advance. Because she’ll shoot. She’ll only get off a single shot before the team can take her out, but she will take one of the hostages with her.”
“As opposed to her reaching her limit and taking out all three before we can even get up there?” Bhagat pointed out.
Shit. “She’s not going to do that, sir. I know her.” Nils looked beseechingly at Lieutenant Paoletti.
“I recommend taking Lieutenant Nilsson’s advice,” Paoletti said in that easygoing, you-may-be-the-agent-in-charge-but-we-all-know-I’m-really-the-one-in-command attitude of his. He turned to Nils. “Grab a shower and some food and get back here.”
Now Nils had to figure out a way to get the lieutenant to come out of the embassy with him.
“There’s a Marriott right across the street,” Paoletti added. “We’re billeted there—I figured we’d want the proximity. Wolchonok’s already gotten you a room.”
Senior Chief Wolchonok. The senior chief was how Nils was going to get Paoletti out of the embassy. All he’d have to do was make a phone call. Wolchonok would say, “L.T., hate to bother you, but we need you at the Marriott, ASAP.”
“What’s this about, Senior?” the lieutenant would ask.
“Can’t tell you over an unsecured line, sir,” and Paoletti would be on his way. Grumbling, no doubt. But if Wolchonok asked, he’d come.
Getting the FBI over there was going to be a little bit harder.
Nils stood up. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
At Paoletti’s nod, he left the conference room and went out into the lobby, trying his damnedest not to run.
Save me. Christ, the look in Meg’s eyes as she’d sung to him had nearly killed him. Nils was no stranger to desperation, but this was unlike any he’d ever seen. Maybe because that desperation was in Meg’s eyes, on Meg’s face.
The Defiant Hero Page 7
