by Carla Cassidy, Evelyn Vaughn, Harper Allen, Ruth Wind, Cindy Dees
And she was.
“Does it matter?” she asked, thinking of Atif hiding in the cooler. Leading Ashurbeyli to the body would lead him straight to the injured cook. “He doesn’t need the shirt anymore.”
“And the others who have gone missing? Are they all dead?”
After a moment, Selena shook her head—a minute gesture. And then to forestall the next question, she raised an eyebrow at him. “You imply otherwise, but my country has been perfectly honest with you. We never supplied you with arms. We never supported the Kemenis with one hand and Razidae with the other. So when your funding dried up, that wasn’t us, either.” She nodded at the spot where she’d earlier seen Jonas White, a little huddle of chairs next to which still sat the remains of a substantial meal. “Where’s Jonas White? Why don’t you ask him about the way your supplies and funding dried up? Ask him about Frank Black, who also used the names Richard Dunst and Roscoe Dupree, especially when he was doing White’s dirty work. Ask him, why don’t you, about those ridiculous Abakan rifles. Why do you think you have them? Because he got his hands on them and needed to unload them, and he did it in a way that let him jerk the Kemenis around.”
He sat straight up, his expression shifting from indulgent to furious before she finished forming the last word.
Oops. Went too far.
He slapped her. Backhanded, heavy…powerful. And then he sat back as though he hadn’t lost his temper at all, the only signs of it lurking in his flared nostrils and the fire banked in his eyes. “Be respectful, or pay the immediate consequences.”
“You want respect?” Selena found her hand on her cheek, the existing bruise reawakened, blood trickling anew. “Then earn it. Let those kids go. They don’t have anything to do with your problems.”
“They represent countries who have interfered with us. They’ll stay.” He flicked a hand in dismissal. “Now. You work for the United States. You work with Razidae and his government. You understand them both. You can make them understand how serious we are. Make this real to them. At the moment they simply play games with us. They watched bin Kuwaji die, and yet they don’t take us seriously.”
“Oh, they take you seriously all right,” Selena said readily. “Let me guess—Berzhaan won’t even respond to your communication. The U.S. is stalling and pretending not to.”
Ashurbeyli pressed his lips together. Hard. Sensuousness thinned to nothing. “Essentially.”
“It’s like this,” she said, and then hesitated, her thoughts tugged by awareness of the chaos on the other side of those halogen lamps—the discord between the countries involved, the struggle for control. Berzhaan capitol, U.S. personnel, hostages scattered across a handful of national lines.
She thought, too, of Cole, still waiting to hear from her…no doubt imagining the worst. And probably close to being right. As long as she’d been able to reach him, he served as her secret weapon. Her off-site backup. The man she trusted to cut through red tape and national barriers to get her the information she needed and to pass along the inside intel she provided, tidbits that would help keep them all safe.
The deep voice she’d counted on to fill her ears and bolster her confidence. She didn’t need it; she could depend on herself.
But she wanted it.
Ashurbeyli hadn’t so much as cleared his throat…just the slightest rise of a single eyebrow. But it was enough to rivet her attention back where it belonged.
She said, “Berzhaan won’t deal with you. They’ll sacrifice all of us before they let this country fall into Kemeni control. I can’t believe you don’t know that. And Berzhaan won’t ask for help from the States. The U.S. is planning something anyway…several somethings, probably. Things they can put into play and apologize for later. They’ll claim it’s for Razidae, but they can’t afford the bad juju of losing those kids.”
“Juju,” he repeated.
She ignored that and added thoughtfully, “In fact, I really wouldn’t touch the kids. There’s not much you can do to rile up the U.S. more than picking on kids.”
He tipped his head to send a sardonic look her way. “So you’d have me believe Berzhaan is prepared to let you all die, and your United States is playing quiet but ready to spring. That we’re doomed either way. That if I take you to that front door and add your blood to bin Kuwaji’s, no one will be moved by the death of a woman.”
Selena wanted to swallow hard. She wanted to bite her lip. She wanted to make a run for it right then and there.
But she cleared her throat and said, “Essentially, yes. The success of your action here rests on the belief that someone with influence will bend to your demands. That’s not the case. Berzhaan will either wait or have the Elite Guard storm the place, and the States will pick their moment and mow you down with SEALs.”
He simply stared at her. Not startled, not angry. Just watching. Waiting to see if she’d hold on to those words.
But she’d meant it, every bit of it. She gave him the slightest of smiles, as though none of it was any concern of hers. In truth, she knew herself in the presence of a man so strong that little she could say would affect her fate one way or the other. He already knew his ultimate plans for her. With words, she might change the exact events that got her there…but only with action would she save her own life.
And the hostages. Those frightened children. Hadn’t she gotten into the counterterrorism racket just precisely to prevent this sort of situation?
She just had to pick her time. She had to hope she lived long enough to find that time.
Ashurbeyli nodded, a precise gesture. “I see. This is your final assessment of the situation? Are you certain you wouldn’t like to try some fancy Western lies to talk your way out of trouble?”
She snorted. “I don’t lie very well. And frankly, I’m surprised you expected anything different.” She hesitated, considering him—wondering just what he had expected, and what he truly hoped to accomplish here. “And U.S. policy is spread all over the news, every day. We’ve dedicated ourselves to taking down groups like yours.” She didn’t hide her regard, looking at him much as he’d looked at her. Thoughtfully. With much assessment. It seemed to amuse him. The byplay in general seemed to entertain him, a fact for which she was mighty grateful. As long as he stayed amused, he wasn’t likely to throw her to his men. Just a matter of time. A matter of time, too, before another hostage died. But for now, she’d try to ride that thin balance of being useful and annoying and, yes, of being amusing…and just possibly, making a point. “Who talked you into this, anyway? White? What did he dangle in front of you? Something better than those rifles he provided? Better than the nonhalal MREs?”
His eyes narrowed. Ah, struck a nerve. He leaned forward; she had to steel herself to avoid reaction. Knee to knee, sheer charisma carrying between them like a direct connection…if only this man had thought to dedicate himself to good… With the first heat of the conversation, he said, “Those rifles came from your people. From the United States.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right? Abakans? It’s a Russian rifle.”
He waved away the words. “Exactly. No ties to the States.”
“Not only that, it’s a terrible rifle for basic troop use.” Selena crossed her arms, unable to suppress a wince but not hesitating over it. “No, those rifles came from Frank Black. The recently deceased Frank Black. At least, that’s the name you knew him by, and far from being a U.S. rep, he actually spent his dearly departed days running errands and playing evil henchman for Jonas White. We’ve learned quite a lot about Frank Black lately, as it happens. It was Jonas White who gave you those nasty rifles, Jonas White who diverted those MREs your way. And then he lost his empire because sometimes life is good and just, and he came looking for a new power base.” She nodded at him. “That would be you. If you’re successful. But you won’t be.”
He stood so abruptly that the chair scooted away behind his legs. “That’s enough.” But he scowled, a definite and outright
scowl over her words about White.
“Bring him in for a little conversation, just the three of us,” Selena suggested. “See how hard he sweats.”
“The time for talking is over.” Ashurbeyli looked at the door separating the ballroom from the function room, and Selena instantly knew what he was thinking. Another hostage…
“No,” she said, her cool calm dissolved into desperation. “Not yet. Not until you understand how you’ve been used—”
“Does it matter how we got here? We’re here, and we want what we want. Worthy goals. Martyrs for our cause will find their own reward.” He looked over his shoulder, a single glance, as he headed for his men. “I think you’ll appreciate my choice.”
Selena didn’t find it likely.
She found it even less likely a moment later, when—after some minor fuss from the hostages—he returned flanked by two of his men, Atif the cook in tow. His hand clamped around Atif’s bloody white sleeve in a cruel grip, his pistol pushed solidly between the cook’s shoulders. Atif wouldn’t meet her eyes; at first she thought he was embarrassed on top of his fear. He kept his gaze on the floor even when he spoke to her. “I heard the distraction you made.” His gaze flickered, didn’t make it all the way up and returned to his toes. “I thought it my chance to escape.”
Selena had looked at Ashurbeyli with respect and even a certain understanding of his motives if not his methods. Now she looked at him with disgust. “Pick on someone your own size, why don’t you?”
She wasn’t expecting his wry grin. “You underestimate him, just as you underestimate the Kemenis. How do you think we had arms and supplies waiting inside this building? Surely you already considered that we entered through the kitchen—it was one reason the casualties there were so regrettably high. They hadn’t yet had time to run, but we couldn’t let them spread panic.”
Selena blinked, surprisingly pained. “Atif?”
He closed his eyes, a desperate gesture. “I thought I could keep down the bloodshed. I let the guns in, packed in fruit boxes. I opened the door, yes! I thought it would make the inevitable easier.”
“But you weren’t so sure that you didn’t have your hideout planned,” Ashurbeyli observed. “And you were quick enough to offer up our Athena here, weren’t you?”
This time Atif looked up at her, nakedly honest in his self-acceptance. “I know what I am. A weak man. I was trying to save my own life. Again.”
She met his gaze. She understood his fear…she understood why he would waver before the Kemenis. He was, as he had told her, a cook. Not a Jackie Chan fighting cook, just a man who hadn’t wanted to be involved in any of this in the first place. She said, “It doesn’t seem to have worked out as you hoped.”
“No.” His face was tight with fear. “If I had stood my ground, I would at least have died in honor.”
Ashurbeyli shook his head, short and tight. “And now you will simply die. You may hope it still counts for something.”
Selena thought…in some small way, perhaps it would. For Ashurbeyli had still asked her about his men…and that meant that Atif had not given up the kitchen cooler stash. As a hideout, it still had some value. And while one man was dead and the youth disabled, the third could have reinforced the terrorist efforts and was best kept out of the game.
Not so weak as all that. Just not quite strong enough.
She found her eyes hot with fury and frustration and sorrow. “You helped me, too,” she told him. “That still matters.” He stood ever so slightly taller, and Ashurbeyli, as if realizing this encounter wasn’t quite turning out as expected, shoved him onward, glancing back at Selena as if despite himself. She gave him a hard, unforgiving gaze, and then she crossed one leg over the other and looked away as if he were no matter at all.
His voice came harshly over his shoulder, directed at his men. “Watch her. She’s probably prone to pointless gestures.” But then he hesitated, and he looked again at her, this time more thoughtfully. “But bring her close to the door. I want to make sure she can hear.”
Incredulous, she dropped her foot to the floor. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, and his voice was as harsh as she’d heard it, “it’s time you realized the hopelessness of your own situation.”
She didn’t have time for any kind of response, hopeful or not. Three of the Kemenis left their rest and descended upon her, and would have lifted her by the arms had she not snarled and smacked their reaching hands away with such purpose as to make it clear she’d have it out here and now if that’s the way they wanted it—when she knew Ashurbeyli wasn’t quite ready for that. Hadn’t quite seen in her eyes the defeat he wanted to see. And indeed, he looked back again to give a short shake of his head, even as he escorted Atif out of the ballroom.
The three men stepped back slightly. Of varying olive-dark complexions, one in a yashmagh and the other two bareheaded, two with short beards and one clean shaven…she doubted they had much in common other than their defiance and their loyalty to Ashurbeyli. Years of rotating occupation had left Berzhaan a country of scattered influences and little cohesion…and had led to this moment, this incident. Atif’s death.
Soon, her own. And that of the hostages, if she didn’t manage to deal with things. For as she’d told Ashurbeyli, she had little confidence that Berzhaan would prioritize anything but stopping the terrorists…and that any attempt at rescue made by the U.S. would be hampered by their need to work around Berzhaan. She hadn’t even mentioned the difficulty of coordinating the different agencies involved.
Up to me.
And that meant she had to hold it together through whatever came next.
Chapter 11
Ashurbeyli’s men must have blocked the capitol’s doors open, for his voice carried clearly to where Selena stood in the ballroom—not close enough to the door to make a break for it, not with one man’s hand resting on her shoulder where he’d feel every shift of her weight and the other resting his pistol muzzle in her ribs. “Good morning!” Ashurbeyli said, his voice ringing clearly over the sprawling steps that led down to the courtyard, the halogen lights and the military vehicles ringed by press from around the world. Midwinter and still full dark as they approached 6 a.m., but Selena had no doubt that the right people were watching. Or that they would be, for the cameras were running, and this footage would find a worldwide audience.
Tory Patton might even be out there. Selena hoped so. It would take someone with Tory’s heart to make this story as real to the world as it was to Selena.
As it was to Atif. First traitor, then Selena’s silent partner in counterterrorism, then traitor again—but beneath it all, a man who had simply been caught up in something bigger than he was. Bigger than he was ever meant to be.
Ashurbeyli said, “Yesterday I made a very clear point here on these very steps—I can still see the bloodstains. No rain will ever be enough to wash them away, just as it cannot wash away the damage done to my country by those who have occupied and interfered with us over the years. Our current government is weak, and too open to the influence of those people who have previously enslaved us—or to those who would exploit us for the resources we have chosen to leave in the earth.”
The oil.
And of course he was right. Everyone wanted that oil, and no one had qualms about taking every advantage of a people in turmoil to get it.
That was the hell of it. Ashurbeyli was wrong, so wrong, in what he did. But he was no fool. He had a clear vision of what his country faced, and that behind every proffered friendship lurked self-interest of some kind—including her own work here. She’d come to make his people safer, to start a partnership in counterterrorism. Her genuine drive to keep innocents safe from the random cruelty of terrorism didn’t mean the United States didn’t have its own agenda behind the FBI Legate programs—for once they became entwined, once Berzhaan depended on the States to help train their own, disentangling wouldn’t be so easy. And in the end, Selena’s mandate to stop the trouble here w
as a mandate to keep it from spreading to U.S. soil.
She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care. I wouldn’t have saved those women yesterday morning…I wouldn’t have stayed in the capitol when I could have tried to run. I would have stayed hidden in that room instead of coming down where I could be caught.
She cared, all right. But that didn’t mean those like Ashurbeyli wanted her here. Or that they were wrong to resent the interference of outsiders, no matter the motive.
The cold ridge of the gun muzzle prodded her ribs, demanding her attention. “Listen to him.”
She didn’t think she’d missed much. He’d either paused for effect, or he was repeating himself…the words flowed well enough. “Since then, we have heard nothing from our own government, and nothing from those of the people we hold.” Did he have Atif in front of him, shielding him? Or did the snipers—for there were surely snipers—simply have orders to hold fire, fearing for the remaining hostages’ lives should Ashurbeyli go down those steps himself? “We imagine that you think us weak—that we won’t carry out our plans. Or that you think us unprepared, that we don’t have the resources to wait.”
God, he was good. No hesitation in his voice, no stumbling over words. Conviction ringing out to the world.
“You will find we have the strength to carry out these plans, and the resources. We have warm clothing if you should find a way to cut off the heat. We have drinking water enough to raise the level of the Caspian Sea. And we have hostages enough to continue killing one each day for quite some time. We have the prime minister.” And they wouldn’t kill Razidae unless they couldn’t avoid it, for keeping him alive would keep everyone hopeful—and would keep every involved nation from storming the capitol at once. “What we want is for this absurd charade of friendly interest and false intentions to end. We want the government which has allowed things to come this far to admit defeat and to leave this country to those who will keep it safe. We want them to step down—every last lowly advisor. And until that happens, people will continue to die.” There was a pause; some dramatic gesture, Selena imagined. Ashurbeyli’s voice held a smile when he continued, albeit a cold one. “I don’t refer to those inside this building. I refer to those out in the turmoil you have created for us. You who think you can find some way to control us for your own gains. Right this moment, you’re killing my people. Berzhaan’s people. So we invite those responsible to resign, and we invite the rest of you to go away.”
