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Published by Steel Magnolia Press
BODY OF EVIDENCE
RACHEL GRANT
HER SANCTUARY
TONI ANDERSON
TWENTY-EIGHT AND A HALF WISHES
DENISE GROVER SWANK
LOOSE ENDS
TERRI REID
LOVE AND SMOKE
JENNIFER BLAKE
PAST TEMPTATION
M A COMLEY
BODY OF EVIDENCE
RACHEL GRANT
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Copyright © Rachel Grant
ONE
Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK)
October
“RISE, MARA GARRETT.”
Mara understood only a handful of Korean words, but she’d learned that phrase early in this farce of a trial and was on her feet before the interpreter finished speaking. Tremors radiated from her belly. This is just a formality. I’m one step closer to getting home. Her token lawyer had warned her she would probably be sentenced to ten years’ hard labor; then the real negotiation for her release would begin. With her conviction and harsh sentence, North Korea would be in a stronger bargaining position.
Of course, North Korea, the most secretive and unpredictable regime on earth, wasn’t known for negotiating. They would make demands, and the US would either meet them or not.
She’d traveled the world for her job with the Joint POW-MIA Accounting Command, conducting excavations to retrieve the remains of American servicemen who’d died in wars fought by the United States in the last century. Her work for JPAC was hazardous. She’d faced down poisonous insects, dug up unexploded ordnance, and suffered third-world diseases. But never, not even in her wildest imagination, did she think her work could lead to being arrested in North Korea.
But that was what happened when she ended up alone on the edge of the Demilitarized Zone.
She looked to her lawyer for some sort of reassurance and caught the glint of a camera lens. Cameras hadn’t been permitted in the courtroom during the trial; the presence of one now filled Mara with a foreboding chill. It seemed the North Koreans expected a dramatic, newsworthy reaction.
She stood straight with her head high so the camera wouldn’t see her clenched hands behind the table. She refused to give them the spectacle they wanted.
The judge spoke. She forgot to breathe while waiting for the translator. Finally, the man said, “Mara Garrett, you have been convicted of spying. The penalty is death by firing squad. The sentence will be carried out in twenty-four hours.”
The room tilted. A shriek built in her throat, while her bones turned to jelly. Sheer will kept her face blank while she battled dizziness. She’d been alone when she was arrested but had spent the last two months worrying her coworkers had been detained as well. For their sake, she needed to take the blame. If they were being tried in another courtroom, her admission of guilt could prevent them from receiving the same sentence. She pressed her nails into her skin and fixed her gaze on the lens. “This is my fault. My JPAC team is blameless.”
The judge spoke again, yelling now, and the translator matched his tone. “You are guilty and have been sentenced!”
“It was a mistake,” she said, desperation building in her voice. “I was separated from my team by accident.” But that wasn’t true, and she feared they saw through the lie.
Panic threatened as a guard grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the door. He wasn’t taking her to the firing squad. He couldn’t be. Hadn’t they given her twenty-four hours?
They’d almost reached the exit when the door swung open and slammed against the wall. The guard jerked to a stop. Framed in the opening was a portly, highly decorated military man.
A rapid-fire exchange between the judge and the newcomer ensued. Mara twisted in the guard’s grip and watched in horror as the judge angrily ejected the cameraman from the room.
Panic morphed into bone-melting fear. What the hell was happening?
The military official waved a magazine in the air. In a haze, she recognized the Asian edition of TIME magazine from the bold font and familiar red border.
At last the man looked away from the judge and addressed her, causing the translator to jump to his feet and race to her side to voice his words. “Our leader, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to grant you amnesty on one condition.”
Hope flared but was soon tempered with the fear that this interruption was a stress-induced fantasy, like the ones Mara had suffered years ago after her father’s death. Each time the fantasy faded, hope went with it, and she was slapped with grief as fresh and intense as the day he’d died.
Hope would break her, making it her captors’ ally. She knew that better than anyone.
“Our beloved Dear Leader once got your President Clinton to come groveling.”
No. Not again. This wasn’t a pathetic fantasy. It was an all too real nightmare. Cold sweat dripped from her brow. The idea of a rescue mission headed by a former president terrified her. She wasn’t a reporter dipping her toes in the Tumen River. She was the niece of a former vice president of the United States, and as such could be seen as a valuable bargaining chip.
The North Koreans knew exactly who she was. Because of her family connections, it was especially important she downplay her significance. A presidential envoy would open the door to other outrageous demands, and she was horrified by the thought that the unpredictable dictator could gain the upper hand with the US because of her.
Her situation wasn’t helped by the fact that her uncle was facing trial on ridiculous corruption charges. She could only assume her arrest had added to the ongoing media frenzy in the United States, further convincing her captors of her importance. She’d repeatedly begged her interrogators to tap a low-level politician as envoy, but each time her pleas were met with disdain.
“Our leader wants to meet the man on the cover.” The translator pointed to the magazine. “If he comes to P’yŏngyang before your execution, we will allow him to take you home.”
The man stood too far away; she couldn’t see the face on the cover. She had no idea who had been selected. But even more important, was twenty-four hours enough time for an envoy to fly to North Korea?
The official waved the magazine as if it offered hope, but there was no such thing as hope. She was going to die.
***
METAL CLANGED AGAINST METAL as Mara’s cell door crashed open. She pushed to her feet with shaking arms. Her twenty-four hours must be up. She looked from one guard’s face to another. “Did the envoy arrive? Am I being released?”
The two men looked at her blankly and said nothing. None of her guards ever spoke English. Too bad she hadn’t learned the Korean words for execution or firing squad. On my next trip to North Korea, I’ll be more prepared.
Or at least bring a better linguist.
The guard held up a blindfold and handcuffs and gestured for her to step forward, answering her in the universal language of executions. Her vision dimmed in the already dark cell, and she rocked back on her heels. With a hand on the cold concrete wall to steady herself, she closed her eyes. She took a slow, shallow breath. In a matter of minutes, this nightmare would be over.
&nbs
p; She should welcome the restraints. She didn’t want to see the guns or look into the eyes of the men who had been ordered to kill her. She didn’t want to instinctively raise her hands, as if she could ward off bullets. Handcuffed and blindfolded, at least she could die with dignity.
Ironic that after years of devoting her life to bringing lost US servicemen and women home, it was unlikely her body would return to American soil. As a convicted spy, she would receive no such gesture of respect.
The guard wrapped the cloth around her head. His vacant eyes and hollow cheekbones would be the last thing she’d ever see. She recalled the unseen face on the cover of TIME. But he represented hope, and hope was a treacherous bitch.
A guard pushed her toward the door, and she left her cell for the last time.
If footage of yesterday’s sentencing had been aired in the US, her mother had to be out of her mind right now. Her mother had been through so much already, and the last year had been especially hard after a US attorney seeking to make a name for himself had filed charges against Uncle Andrew. Now her mother would lose her only child.
A thousand regrets hit her as she was guided down corridor after corridor. She’d allowed her work to consume her life. She had been too busy to visit her family on the mainland. Several times her uncle had flown out to JPAC deployments, just so he could see her. The last time she’d seen him, they’d been in Egypt, nearly a year and a half ago.
And she never should have agreed to the North Korean deployment, not with the trial drawing near. If she were a better niece, she’d have taken a leave of absence and gone to DC to stand by him.
Had her actions hurt the others as well? Were the members of her JPAC team also facing execution? She’d been alone when she was arrested, but the Korean People’s Army was just as likely to have arrested everyone at the site, holding her team accountable because she’d fled. Panic caused her steps to falter. A guard pressed her shoulder and barked at her in Korean. This is really happening.
She crossed a threshold, and for the first time in weeks felt the cold bite of outside air on her skin. Taking a deep breath, she caught the acrid scent of burning leaves, a smell she hadn’t experienced since childhood.
She realized fall had started while she was in captivity. Living in Hawaii, she often longed for seasons—yet another sacrifice she’d made for a job that meant everything to her. But the work she’d loved had gone to hell when she’d trusted the team linguist, Roddy Brogan, at a critical moment.
Roddy had led her off the site and into the North Korean wilderness. Scared to death, she’d fled him, and because of that, she would die. But why had he done it, and what had happened to him?
Her boots met pavement with a soft thud. She knew she passed in front of a line of people. The firing squad. She heard their breathing and with eerie perception sensed soldiers aligned with the renowned North Korean military precision.
The wind carried a man’s voice. His tone held the feeling, the inflections of English, but she was unable to make out his words. Could it be the envoy? No. She couldn’t allow hope. The sounds were nothing but the feverish imaginings of a desperate mind.
Don’t think. Don’t hope. Just walk.
The guard jerked her to a halt. Hands on her shoulders positioned her. A cold brick wall pressed against her spine.
Don’t think. Just breathe.
This was it. The hands fell away, and footsteps retreated. Tears burned her eyes.
Don’t cry. Just breathe.
A shout echoed in the air. The clicks of rifles being raised met her ears. Her legs shook.
Breathe.
“Stop!” The distant voice rose over the sound of pounding, rapid footfalls. The accent was unmistakably American. “Tell them—you’ve been ordered to stop!”
More Korean shouts followed.
Her throat seized.
Voices exploded in Korean.
“Lower the guns, dammit!” The American now stood so close, she felt the vibration of his words as much as heard them. In a rush, she realized he must be standing between her and the firing squad, shielding her.
Another Korean shouted. A tap followed. Had the guns been lowered?
Her whole body shook as hands worked the blindfold knot behind her head. The cloth fell away, but she was afraid to open her eyes.
“Mara, it’s okay,” the American said, his voice gentle this time. “I’m taking you home.”
Slowly, afraid to believe his words, she opened her eyes. She squinted in the light until the man before her came into focus. The handsome face was vaguely familiar.
Seconds ticked by in silence as she searched her memory. Then recognition hit her.
Of all the people he could have asked for, the North Korean dictator had demanded Curt Dominick, the ambitious US attorney who was prosecuting her uncle.
Her knees gave out.
TWO
CURT DOMINICK LUNGED AND CAUGHT the woman. She’d crossed the courtyard with such dignity and grace, she’d reminded him of the goddess Athena, but holding her, he noted she hardly weighed a thing. She was really more pixie than Olympian.
Why did her size surprise him? Between the dossier he read on the flight, the intense media coverage since her arrest, and his own research into her family, he knew everything there was to know about Mara Garrett. He shouldn’t be thrown off by something as inconsequential as height, yet he was.
She was pale, with an understandably haunted look in her eyes, and she appeared to have lost weight in her two months of captivity. Her gaze locked with his, and he could see the fear she’d masked with sharp posture and firm footsteps, a display of inner strength he hadn’t expected her to possess.
She was a reporter’s wet dream: all-American girl, thirty years old, petite, blond hair, wide, luminous blue eyes, pert nose. Gorgeous even on her worst day—which this most certainly was. He couldn’t help but see her easy beauty even now, when she couldn’t muster the warm, dimpled smile featured in so many photographs. The fact that her work was physical, cerebral, and humanitarian had caught the media’s attention, but it was her family ties that ensured her face had graced the cover of every major magazine and newspaper in the US since her arrest.
Every inch of her life had been dissected by the media, and according to the US State Department, P’yŏngyang hadn’t appreciated their depiction in the drama—understandable, since it appeared the North Koreans were justified in arresting her—but that tidbit had been withheld from Mara Garrett’s adoring press.
As a result, P’yŏngyang was out for blood. American blood. And, as the niece of a former vice president—even a disgraced one—Mara Garrett had blood that ran red, white, and blue.
Once she was steady on her feet, he let her go and turned to his North Korean handler. His heart still hammered from the execution he’d almost been too late to prevent. He’d traveled seven thousand miles and had to run the last five hundred yards. The jolt he’d felt at seeing her before the firing squad couldn’t begin to compare to how she must have felt, but instead of comforting her, he had diplomatic duties to fulfill, playing nice with the same bastards who’d demanded his presence with an insanely short amount of time to fly from DC to P’yŏngyang. “I’ll sit for the photos with your leadership, but she will not be photographed.”
From the corner of his eye, he caught her rubbing her cheek against her shoulder and realized she was wiping away tears. He whirled to face her guard. “Handcuffs off. Now.” His words came out as a harsh bark. He wanted to throttle all of them for putting her through this torture.
Cuffs removed, she rubbed her wrists. “Thank you. For”—her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat—”for coming for me.”
He wiped away another tear with the pad of his thumb, and his heart began to slow. “North Korea in the fall?” He smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
He caught a glimpse of her dimple and felt a tug in his gut. Damn, he was as base as the tabloid-reading public, all because she was pretty. Irritated
with himself, he turned to his escort. “Let’s get the photos over with.”
“Follow me,” the man said.
The firing-squad soldiers shouldered their weapons and marched in the opposite direction, while they were led into the ornate building. Inside, the woman was whisked away by another handler before Curt came face-to-face with the leader of North Korea. He sat for the photos with his face carefully blank. Like President Clinton, he tried to look like an empty suit.
Four long hours after landing in P’yŏngyang, he and Mara were reunited on the jet. He took a deep breath of relief and studied her across a small table in the main cabin. She appeared even smaller huddled under a plush blanket. She looked out the window; her whole body trembled as they raced down the runway.
The nose of the plane lifted. A second later, they were fully airborne. P’yŏngyang faded into the distance as they climbed to cruising altitude. Curt pulled out his cell phone and a minute later said, “Mr. President, we’re in the air.”
***
MARA COULDN'T STOP trembling. She burrowed under the blanket and tucked it around her knees, but the quaking wouldn’t stop. She leaned her forehead against the window and forced herself to breathe slowly. Below, North Korea faded from view.
She took another deep breath and exhaled, fogging the glass and erasing the outside world. The knot of tension in her belly began to uncoil.
“Here, ginger ale should help.”
She turned to see the man who’d saved her life standing in the aisle, frowning at her and holding out a drink. With ice.
The clink of the ice against the glass conjured the memory of the lukewarm water her captors had provided with her daily serving of kimchi. She’d eaten while sitting on the cold hard floor of her tiny cell, surrounded by thick concrete walls that blocked all sound and light. She’d endured many things while imprisoned, and lukewarm water didn’t even rate a mention on the most detailed list of grievances, yet the sight of the clear cubes triggered a rush of emotions. Sadness, joy, guilt, and fear all tumbled over one another. Pathetic to face a firing squad only to be brought low by a handful of ice.
Crimes of Passion Page 1
