Covert Christmas

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Sam—”

  His eyes narrowed. “Make me that promise.”

  As he spoke, Cass caught sight of Jack marching down the driveway towards them with all the purpose of a Mack truck. Anxiety rippled through her body. “Look, Sam—” she spoke fast “—this is my job. It’s what I do. It’s why I am here.” It’s all that keeps me going.

  She flicked another glance at Jack in the distance. He was going to try and stop her leaving, she could see it in his posture, his stride.

  “I’d never do anything that would jeopardize Gillian’s safety, Sam. Or yours.”

  “You jeopardize your own safety all the time, boss.”

  “Trust me, Samuel.”

  Trust me.

  She’d used those words before to get a story, and not honored them. She’d done it to get one of the biggest scoops of her life while working in the Middle East. And now she felt a little ill, conflict twisting inside.

  He hesitated, sucking in breath, chest expanding. “You’ll help get her into the compound? You’ll help get her on that chopper?”

  Cass glanced at the small crowd gathering on the other side of the gate—Kigalis seeking asylum as violence spread. She did not have the sway to get Gillian into the enclosure, or onto that Black Hawk, any more than those folk had hope of getting into the United States. “I promise I’ll try my level best, Sam.”

  He held her eyes for several long beats. Out of the corner of her eyes Cass saw Jack approaching and her chest tightened with urgency.

  “King Savungi and the entire Kigali royal family have been slain,” Sam said, quietly. “It happened an hour ago.”

  “What? Are you sure? Can you verify this?”

  “It’s not for a story,” he warned. “You promised.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Christ, this was big.

  “The sole survivor of the massacre is King Savungi’s youngest son. He was at a relative’s home during the attack. The boy’s mother was the king’s youngest wife, Gillian’s cousin. She phoned Gillian to go save her son just as Zuma’s men broke into the palace, mere seconds before she was killed.”

  “General Charles Zuma did this? The king’s own cousin?”

  He nodded, speaking fast. “Zuma’s mother is of the Hinti tribe. Zuma apparently used this to rally the majority Hinti in his bid to seize control of the country, and he’s got the new Liberian government on his side. When it gets out that Hinti killed the Vendi king, this will escalate into ethnic slaughter like you’ve never seen,” he whispered urgently. “It will be just a matter of time before they learn the boy is still alive, and that Gillian is harboring the new king of Kigali. We have to get them out before that happens.”

  “Oh jeez,” she whispered, dragging her hand over her hair, damp, thick with the fine dust that had blown up with the chopper. “The Deputy Chief of Mission needs to be apprised of this, Sam.”

  “No!” Sam gabbed her arm, hard. “You promised, boss.”

  Jack was nearly on them. Cass heard another chopper coming in for landing.

  Conflict churned inside her. Sam was asking her to help smuggle the new king of Kigali into U.S. protection, to change a political outcome. He was asking her to break a journalistic tenet—that of observing and reporting news, not making it.

  But she couldn’t turn away from Sam, or Gillian. Or a little boy whose entire family had just been massacred. Maybe she could find a way to both keep her promise to Sam—save Gillian—and exploit the story later. Do an inside color narrative, a feature on their escape…on the run with a small king. Excitement braided into her conflict.

  “Cass!” Jack’s voice boomed over the increasing roar of the incoming chopper and the rustling, churning palm fronds.

  Cass closed her eyes. “All right, Sam,” she said. “Quickly, tell me how you want to handle this.”

  “We take the news Jeep, and you help me bring Gillian and the boy back here, into the compound—”

  “They won’t let them in, Sam! Not if I don’t tell Swift who the boy is. Even then, the United States will not interfere with—”

  “You can make up something, boss.”

  “Look, just quit with the boss thing and call me Cass!” Irritable, she swiped sweat from her brow. “Okay, we’ll go get them. Get in the Jeep quick, before that soldier tries to stop us. And believe me, Sam, he will try.”

  “Cass. Wait!” Jack barked over noise of the now slowing rotors.

  The sound of his voice jolted down her spine. Oh, crap. She couldn’t seem to think straight for a moment, a sudden, irrational panic mounting in her that had zero to do with the Zuma-king situation and everything to do with facing Jack, and their past. She couldn’t bear another fight. “Come on, Sam, get in!” She moved around the vehicle. Yanking open the passenger door, she climbed in. “Drive, Sam. Go.”

  Sam fired the ignition, but before he got the Jeep into gear, Jack’s hand slapped down on the hood. “Where in hell do you think are you going?”

  Her heart thudded. “Nice to see you too, Jack,” she said with a saccharine smile. “So what brings you to Kigali?”

  He moved around the front of the Jeep, hands fisting over her door. His face tight, eyes sparking daggers. “I don’t have time for games, Cass. My team is spearheading the U.S. evacuation, and I need you to stay in the compound.”

  His voice was low, gravelly. He bent close as he spoke and Cass’s heart beat faster. She began to shake inside, suddenly insanely desperate to feel his arms around her. Her eyes grew hot, prickling with hurt.

  “You show up on the day of our wedding anniversary, and this is the hello I get?” she whispered, the surge of her emotions catching her by the throat.

  Something ripped through his face, then was gone. But his tone softened slightly. “Cass, I’ve got a job to do, and you need to—”

  “It’s none of your business where I’m going, Jack. I’ve got a job to do, too—something you never quite managed to acknowledge. Now please step aside before Samuel runs you over. Drive, Sam,” she said through her teeth, glaring straight ahead, past him. “Go to the gate.”

  Jack reached for his sidearm, his eyes threatening Sam as Sam revved the engine.

  “Don’t do this, Cass,” Jack barked, losing his patience, urgency mounting him. “I am ordering you to remain on this compound, understand. You will be evacuated with the—”

  “You have absolutely zero authority to order me anywhere, Bannister,” she said very coolly between her teeth. “Nor do you have a right to threaten my cameraman. I know the drill—there is explicit protocol to be followed in embassy evacuations. I’m not a State Department employee, nor am I family of one. Swift is the one in charge here, not you. She calls the shots, not you. And if any one your men dares try to stop us leaving through that compound gate, you’re going to hear about it from much higher up, understand?”

  Jack glowered at her, literally vibrating. “You’re going to kill yourself chasing your the next big story, you know that, Cass.”

  “Then that’s my choice. Because I sure as hell don’t have anything else to live for.”

  Her body language, the emotion glittering in her eyes, belied her words. Cass was fighting herself—Jack could see it. Compassion sliced through his chest. “Cass, let me help you—”

  “Help me? What—you want to save me from myself? Get off your high horse, Jack. I don’t need a white knight—what I needed was a husband who could compromise, work as a team.”

  Desperation surged through Jack. He wanted to grab her, hold her, claw back the lost years, the terrible mistakes, and for a moment he seriously considered knocking her out cold and hauling her like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder and onto the next chopper, for her own damn safety.

  “You know what you’re doing, Cass, you’re running. You won’t face me, because you can’t face what happened to—”

  “Shut up and go to hell!” She spun round in her seat, turning her back on him. “Drive, Sam! Go. Now.”

  “Don’t
think of coming back, Cass. We’re going to clear out of here within hours.”

  Revving the jeep engine, Sam wheeled around, tires spinning as they headed down the driveway.

  “You need a goddamn intervention, you know that, Rousseau!” he yelled after her. “You’re your own worst enemy. You’re—”

  Jack swore, kicked at the gravel as the jeep spun toward the compound gate, kicking up stones in its wake.

  She was right—he had no legal tool to force her. It was insane even to begin to think he could control Cass. Let her chase her next damn story. Let her go down in a smoking ball of wretched glory if she wanted to.

  He had a job to do.

  He spun around and stalked back up the drive to Swift’s residence. But Jack could not tamp down a spark of fear, a cold sense of foreboding.

  She had no idea what she was in for out there.

  Chapter 4

  Monday, December 23, 0248 Zulu

  Sam hurtled the Jeep through scenes of carnage—no streetlights, no power anywhere, darkness aglow with burning houses. Vehicles lay wrecked, charred along the side of the road, people running, screaming. A tank trundled along the highway topped with drunk soldiers. Women screamed from places Cass couldn’t see.

  In all her years of foreign correspondence, she’d never experienced anything quite like this—the smell of burned bodies, the diesel. The sound of heavy rap music. Dancing silhouettes in front of flames, and laughter amongst the screams.

  Cass’s stomach backflipped at the sight of a small pile of bodies at the side of the road. Inside she warred with a human need to help versus a fierce journalistic instinct to cover this story, to let the world know the horror of what was happening here. She glanced at Sam, his profile grim.

  “Welcome to hell,” Sam said, reading her thoughts. Then he swore. “Up ahead, roadblock!”

  Oil drums with fires roaring inside lined the road. Drunk soldiers and rebels fired randomly into the air. Sam floored the gas, wheeling suddenly off-road and bashing through grass and brush before bounding onto a dirt track. “We go around back of her village.”

  Outside Gillian’s simple, square concrete house, a thin dog scuttled across the dirt road. Everything was dark, silent.

  Too silent.

  Cass and Sam glanced at each other.

  “Gillian?” Sam called hesitantly as he edged open the unlocked door.

  A groan came from the blackness inside, but the distinct coppery smell was enough to tell Cass something was very wrong. Sam flicked his lighter, found a kerosene lamp. A gold low flickered into the room, making shadows come to life. And Cass gasped.

  Gillian lay on the sofa, a bunched-up towel clutched tightly to her stomach. It was saturated with blood. Gillian’s hands glistened with it.

  “Gut shot,” Gillian whispered.

  Sam thrust the lantern into Cass’s hands and lunged forward, dropping to his knees in front of the sofa. “What happened? How badly are you injured?” He edged the towel off her wound, trying to see.

  “I…ran a blockade on the way here, and they shot at me. Hit several times…go, please get the boy. He’s in the cellar.”

  “Go, Cass,” Sam said firmly as he reached for a glass of water and put it to Gillian’s lips. It was the first time he hadn’t called her boss. Cass hesitated, worried about her friend.

  “Please,” moaned Gillian. “Please, just take the boy, leave me, or…this will be for nothing. His…his name is Christmas Savungi.” She struggled to breathe in and Cass heard the gurgle in her friend’s chest. Blood dribbled from the corner her mouth. “He’s…just five years old. He…has…no one…”

  Cass found a candle, lit it, hands shaking with adrenaline. Creaking open the cellar door, she smelled the scent of hot raw earth. She held the candle up in front of her. And in the darkness she saw a pair of dark, shining eyes. Something grabbed Cass by the throat.

  “Christmas?” she whispered, reaching gently for his hand. She felt it slip into hers, small, cool. Emotion ripped through her chest—he felt just like Jacob. And for a strange second she felt as if her son was here, now, in this dark cellar, reaching out to her. And suddenly nothing mattered more to Cass than saving this small, vulnerable child.

  She turned around to tell Sam to help Gillian into the Jeep. But as Sam’s eyes met hers, she knew.

  Gillian hadn’t made it.

  “Take the boy to the Jeep!” Sam barked, eyes bloodshot. He gently covered Gillian’s face with his large hand, closing her eyelids. Moisture sheened down his ebony face, glistening on his high, proud cheekbones as he bent down and breathed a kiss over her lips. He covered her with a sheet.

  “We will do this,” he snapped, rage crackling from him even in his gentleness. “For her, we do this! Now take the child. And swear on your life you will not tell anyone who he is.”

  Cass looked at her shrouded friend lying on the sofa—a haunting image in the flickering kerosene glow and lunging shadows. Then she felt Christmas’s little hand in hers. She glanced down into those huge, frightened eyes. “I promise,” she whispered. “I promise I’ll get you out of here, Christmas, okay?”

  Sam repeated her words to the child in Kigali. “Be proud, be brave. And tell no one your surname, Christmas. You will be safe that way.”

  He bit his lip, nodded, a tear tracking down from each eye. And Cass’s heart ached.

  With Christmas hidden under a coarse gray blanket in the back, Sam barreled the Jeep through burning streets while Cass prayed there would still be choppers at the compound, that Jack would still be there.

  If there was one thing Jack was, it was stubborn to a fault, and doggedly reliable when he set himself to a mission. He could save this boy. Cass knew he could, if only she’d be able to convince him.

  “How will you get Christmas into America?” Sam yelled as he swerved through smoke-filled darkness.

  “I don’t know. But I will.” I swear it.

  And Cass realized she’d just crossed a line. No longer was she reporting on this Kigali story, she was making it. And she didn’t care. Because she was making a difference, for a child.

  “Just hurry! I don’t know if they’ll still be there.”

  But as they rounded a bend they hit another blockade. Petrol smoke roiled from burning drums in front of a tank and group of soldiers. “Too late to turn back! Hold on!” Sam jammed on brakes and swerved, trying to run the barricade up the side. Machine-gun fire peppered the vehicle. Sam gasped as bullets thudded into his neck and shoulder, jerking his head sideways. Blood began to spurt from his neck as he slumped onto the steering wheel, horn blaring as they barreled straight toward the firing soldiers.

  Monday, December 23, 0359 Zulu

  Jack checked his watch, sweat dripping. It was getting even hotter as the hours inched towards dawn. The evacuation was also going faster than initially anticipated, since they’d managed to secure two additional heavy-duty birds from the Ivory Coast military. He watched the lights of another helo materializing from out of a black sky thick with smoke.

  Susan Swift stood beside Jack on the patio under the lapa as they waited for the chopper to land. Her children and husband had already been flown to the staging area.

  “Are you’re sure you’re ready to leave, Madame Swift?”

  She inhaled deeply, nodded. “Diplomacy has become untenable. I don’t even know who to communicate with. We have no means of knowing who is behind this yet.”

  Jack jerked his chin to the sky. “Here’s your ride.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stepped away as a message came in through his earpiece. It was the pilot, telling him the Liberian air force had started making low flyovers. It looked as though the civil war could conflagrate into all-out invasion. “Orders are to get everyone out on this last flight,” said the pilot.

  Jack’s chest tightened. He glanced down the drive where Cass had disappeared hours ago. “Negative,” he said into his radio. “I need to do one more sweep.”

  Ther
e was a moment of static, or hesitation on the pilot’s part. “Officer, that was an order.”

  “Repeat…you’re breaking up…” Jack killed the transmission, spun round to address Swift. “The CBN journalist who was interviewing you earlier—do you know if she has a sat phone? Do you have a contact number?”

  “Well, yes, we do. My aide has her number in my office.”

  “I need it. She’s still out there,” Jack said.

  Swift studied him for a long moment. “As is her right, Officer. She’s been in bad situations before. She’s a professional—this is her game.”

  Jack read a whole lot more behind Swift’s tone. Here was a strong woman defending another woman’s right to a dangerous career.

  He flattened his mouth.

  Yeah. So it was her right to go get herself killed. Cass had always accused him of trying to stomp on her career. If she wanted to die chasing her next big story, all the power to her. There was no way on earth he could control Cass. They were like oil and water. As much as he still loved his estranged wife, they could never live together.

  Second chances were a stupid pipe dream. He’d been kidding himself too long.

  He sucked it up, and keyed his radio. "We're good to go, clearing out…"

  Chapter 5

  Monday, December 23, 0405 Zulu

  Cass lurched across the seat, shouldering Sam sideways as she grabbed the wheel. Blood flowed hot over her bare arm. She elbowed his knee, dislodging his foot from the gas pedal, and the Jeep decelerated slightly. Cass used the moment to ram the stick shift into second gear, grinding against the clutch as the vehicle bounded down into a ditch. She swung the wheel to the right, slowing the Jeep’s progress, crashing through brush. Cass swore, but blindly kept going.

  Finally she managed to slow enough in dense undergrowth to reach down for the brake. The Jeep stopped, hidden by trees.

  Heart pounding, sweat dripping, Cass listened. She heard gunfire, but the soldiers must have been so inebriated or high that they hadn’t got it together to come after them.