Volcano

by Gabby Grant

  “Ana?” her father questioned, bringing a hand to her head. And the moment she felt his touch, Ana knew that, despite his wane appearance, her father hadn’t weakened.

  Ana pulled back and steadied her gaze on her father’s. With Ana in heels, they stood almost eye-to-eye. “It’s Mark.”

  Her father shifted his hands to her shoulders in surprise. “Mark?”

  But when Ana hung her head, Albert walked over and closed his office door. “Come, sit,” he said, taking his daughter by the elbow. “Tell me what he’s done.”

  Ana sat on the small beige sofa opposite her father’s desk and retrieved a balled-up tissue from her pocket. “It’s more what he hasn’t.”

  Albert sat beside her and set his wire-rimmed glasses back on his nose.

  Ana looked up bleary-eyed, unsure of how to articulate her tangled emotions. It wasn’t that she could hold Mark accountable for any particular fault. Still, there was something missing. Something that had slipped away just as surely as a melting snow beneath the heat of an April afternoon. But instead of sunshine inside, Ana felt a perpetual filtering burn - sometimes sifting so deeply she was altogether certain there was no way to extinguish its scorching flame.

  “The first couple of years in a marriage are never easy,” her father said, with a light touch to her arm.

  “Easy, no,” Ana, said with a shake of her head, “but are they supposed to be this damn quiet?”

  Albert wrinkled his brow. “Quiet?”

  “Sometimes, father,” Ana said, studying the dingy carpet. “The silence is more than I can bear.”

  Albert cleared his throat and looked out the window behind his desk that framed the DC skyline in picturesque morning hues. “Have you tried talking-”

  Ana scoffed. “Talking to Mark is like trying to interrogate the security staff of the DOS. It’s a one-way conversation.”

  “He has been under stress.”

  Ana sat back against the sofa. “That’s what he’s accused me of.”

  “Well, maybe-”

  “I’ve made a decision,” Ana said flatly.

  Albert pulled off his glasses and tucked them in his suit pocket. “I wouldn’t do anything rash, daughter.”

  “Not so rash,” Ana assured him. “Just something to put things on a more even keel for the two of us.”

  Albert looked at her expectantly.

  Ana took a deep breath, then let it out in one fast puff. “I want to go back to work.”

  Albert withdrew his spectacles and placed them back on his nose with measured caution. “I thought you were working, sweetheart, field reports. Very nice, I’ve read a few of them myself.”

  Ana scowled. “Unclassified, Father. It’s not the same and you know it.”

  Albert stretched his knuckles and studied the gold band on his left hand before speaking. “Yes, I do. But there’s only so much you can do from home. We talked this over before, Ana. Before you had Isabel and you said-”

  “I know what I said, dammit.” Ana’s voice was cracking up, and she loathed her own weakness.

  Albert cleared his throat and laid his hands on his knees. “So tell me,” he said, looking straight ahead at the panorama of Washington monuments separated from DOS headquarters by the gray morning waters of the Potomac. “What’s this got to do with Mark?”

  “He thinks I’m losing it, really losing it.”

  “He said this?” Albert looked disapproving but still studied the window.

  Ana winced inside, knowing the painful truth. The man she’d met three-and-a-half years ago, the man she had married would never have been capable of the accusations now hurled her way by the stranger in her house. And, believing Ana forgetful, “scatterbrained,” was only the half of it. The worst part came in what he didn’t say, in the haunting chill that so often settled between them. “Doesn’t have to. I love him, I know what he’s thinking.”

  “Ah yes,” Albert said, leaning back on the sofa and draping an arm around his daughter’s shoulder. “So you, dear child, are bound and determined to prove you’re not ‘losing it’, as you say. And where do I fit into this pretty equation?”

  “I’ve got an idea. A project.”

  Albert turned to look at her.

  “I want to go back to work for the DOS.”

  Albert raised two snowy eyebrows and narrowed his hazel gaze through his glasses. “Move back to DC?”

  “No, stay in Virginia. Just as I am- but with a project, like I said. Freelance.”

  “Hmm.” Her father removed his arm from her shoulder and sat thinking a moment. “You will, of course, discuss this ‘project’ thoroughly with your old man?”

  “Of course.”

  “And with Mark?”

  Ana turned from her father and looked toward the door.

  “And with Mark...?” Albert repeated, bringing a finger to his daughter’s shoulder-length hair.

  “I need to do this on my own.”

  “Now, Ana. I don’t know what it is you’re thinking, but-”

  “On my own,” she said flatly.

  “Sweetheart, not five minutes ago you told me that you love him.”

  “I do love him.”

  “And he, you suppose... You still believe he loves you?”

  Ana winced inside, wishing she could say no, he didn’t. That would make her predicament so much easier for her father to understand. But the fact was, Mark’s love was not what Ana doubted. Nor was it his commitment. What she questioned was the much more painful issue of what he now thought-or possibly feared-he’d been committed to. “Without question.”

  “Then why the duplicity, Ana. I can’t under-”

  Albert fell silent as she shot him a look meant for his core. Her father was the last person on earth to go casting stones about duplicity.

  “Something’s happened. Something weird that I think Mark doesn’t quite have a handle on.”

  “Mark Neal is the finest-”

  “I know you think he walks on water.”

  Albert lowered his glasses and stared at his daughter.

  “Okay, so I’ll admit,” she said feeling the unaccustomed warmth in her cheeks, “I once thought so, too.” It had been foolish, idealistic, but at one time she’d looked at Mark as some sort of uncanny hero.

  “Once?”

  Ana crushed the mangled tissue in her hand and shoved it back in her pocket, hoping that hiding it would preclude her having to use it. “Something’s happened. Something between us. Mark no longer sees me as an...” She fought with the word, hating to hear herself say it. “...equal.”

  “I’m sure you’re wrong.”

  “Give me a chance to prove it...to Mark, but mainly to myself.” She locked on her father’s eyes and gave him her best pleading look, the one that had never failed to elicit results since Ana was five years old. “One chance is all I’m asking.”

  Albert looked at her sternly, but somewhere behind the frost Ana thought she saw a hint of summer. “How big a chance and what are the risks?”

  “No risks, I swear. Just research. Behind the scenes. All I need is access to the DOS-DIPAC Operations Liaison.”

  “Colonel Roberts?”

  “Colonel Roberts. I’d like to see her, if you don’t mind. Ask a few questions, maybe go through the DIPAC-linked database.”

  “This is sounding more risky by the minute, Ana. You made a promise, a promise to your mother...”

  Ana looked away. She’d promised her mother Isabel, for whom her daughter was named, that the moment the baby was born, she’d get out of this line of work. One per family was bad enough, her mother had said, speaking from experience.

  Ana stood and gripped her father’s arm. “A simple thing. Ten minutes with the Colonel, an hour on the database.”

  “I’m not liking the sound of this.”

  “You owe me,” she said, watching him flinch.

  “Yes, daughter, and it seems that debt will never quite be repaid.”

  “Thanks, Pop,” Ana
said, throwing her arms around his neck and drawing him in like the fresh breath of spring. “I knew you’d understand.”

  Albert returned her hug, then let go. “As long as you keep your promise and stay out of danger, I’ll give you what you need. But one step... One step in the wrong direction...”

  “Behind the scenes work,” she assured him. “Consider it a little advanced computer study.”

  “Nothing undercover, Ana. You’re not trained for it.”

  Ana set her jaw. If the world were in stereo, her father and Mark would be dueling speakers. “I know what’s at stake. I’m not stupid. I’ve just got a little problem that needs figuring out, that’s all. Mark’s been busy, like you say-”

  “Mark’s always been a good problem solver.”

  Well, he hadn’t solved her, Ana thought walking toward the door. She stopped at the threshold and leveled her father a look. “I’m counting on you to keep this in confidence.”

  Albert held up both palms in surrender. “Anything you say, dear. As long...” He sliced the air sideways with a clean cut of his right hand. “...as you keep our deal.”

  ***

  Ana gripped the thin pine railing and hurried up the damp wooden stairs leading from where her car was parked at the end of the gravel drive to her warmly lit kitchen door. She’d made it in just under seven hours, including the two and half-hour drive each way. Colonel Roberts had agreed. There was more than coincidence involved in her cyber encounter. If only she’d been able to bring those database files home, Ana was sure she would have found something. But DOS protocol prevented such documents from leaving the building.

  Ana had a nagging feeling her instant messaging threat was somehow connected to all the mishaps she’d been having at home, but wasn’t precisely sure how they were linked. All she knew was that every eerie occurrence at home, every missing set of car keys, every piece of rearranged furniture, each door or window that had been left ajar had left her with the same gut-wrenching sense of dread she’d encountered when she’d come monitor-to-monitor with her cyber-creep.

  It was a dreary darkening afternoon, misting slightly, scattered leaves adhering to damp steps like slick shinny pennies. If Mark had any inkling where she’d been, there’d be hell to pay. But there was no reason for that. None whatsoever. Once she’d pieced it all together and technologically cornered her system’s invader...

  Ana was halfway around the high upper landing, a mere few feet from the door, when a plank gave way under her right foot slamming her sideways into the rail.

  On impact, the narrow handle dislodged and popped forward, hurtling Ana into the bushes six feet below.

  CHAPTER 2

  In a faraway corner of the Rub Al Khali Desert, chemical weapons expert Joe McFadden slipped past two uniformed guards chatting over cigarettes and quickly worked the encoded keypad. In an instant, the heavily barricaded door slipped open, revealing the bowels of the warehouse.

  Boxes upon boxes, pointedly labeled “Made in the USA,” heaped toward the ceiling. Beside them sat a neat array of carefully anchored gas tanks.

  Joe waited until the door clipped closed at his back, then cautiously approached the first box, examining its label.

  “Well, well,” the heavily accented voice boomed behind him, “for a supposedly anti-US mercenary, you are one curious fellow.”

  Joe turned slowly on his heels, arms outstretched, palms toward the sleek tile floor.

  “Planning a party, Al Fahd?” he asked through a tight smile, his eyes never leaving the Arab’s.

  “Ah yes,” Al Fahd grinned, clamping down on his cigar with his teeth. “Quite a party, Mr. Smith,” he said, addressing the American by the name Joe had provided when he’d infiltrated Al Fahd’s terrorist training camp as a paid US mercenary. “And what,” the Arab asked, walking over to a low box and savagely ripping its seal with a steady left hand, “is a party without- balloons?”

  Al Fahd grinned and dug a fistful of flat latex globes out of their carton. Still with his left hand. Joe suspected it was because his right was reserved for deadly action. Joe smiled slightly in return but didn’t move a muscle.

  “You like balloons, Mr. Smith?” Al Fahd asked, shaking out a bright blue globe and dropping the rest of the litter back into the box.

  Joe’s stomach knotted, as he internally judged the distance from his elevated hand to the small plastic explosive clipped to his belt. Three seconds was all he needed to disengage it and send it flying in Al Fahd’s direction.

  Al Fahd managed a whistle between his teeth and the unlit cigar, but kept a careful eye on the American as he strolled over to a dusky green tank and secured the balloon lip around its valve. He jerked the knob forward and the balloon quickly inflated.

  Joe’s senses alerted, and he knew with the dead calm certainty that came from years of undercover experience, that the balloon Al Fahd was suddenly wafting in his direction was not merely filled with helium.

  Al Fahd approached steadily as Joe stealthily attempted to lower his arm.

  “Uh, uh, Mr. Smith,” Al Fahd said, raising the balloon slightly above his head and drawing closer. But Joe knew that whatever was in there, most likely some sort of chemical poison, would be deadly to the two of them.

  Al Fahd loudly sucked in the saliva that was forming around his cigar, then slipped his right hand beneath his military jacket.

  Joe’s hand clipped to his belt as Al Fahd spat his cigar to the ground, withdrew a miniature mask and slapped its self-adhesive seal around his nose and mouth.

  “Now, Mr. Smith,” he said, a wicked glint in his eye, the dancing blue globe just inches from Joe’s chin. “Do we party or do we tell the truth?”

  “What kind of truth are you after?” Joe asked, his right thumb resting lightly on his belt rim.

  “The truth about your identity for a start.” Even through the intricate mesh of the mask, his words came out clear and menacing.

  “You know who I am, Al Fahd.”

  The Arab rose his jet black eyebrows.

  “And you know I can help you,” Joe went on, defending his bluster, “but not if you continue to shut me out of your plans.”

  “Nobody!” Al Fahd shouted. “Nobody knows Al Fahd’s plans but Al Fahd!”

  Joe studied the Arab and parted his lips in his best cool smile. “There’s a saying in America, something about safety in numbers. Two heads are-”

  Al Fahd harrumphed. “Your point?”

  “No matter what you’re planning, you could benefit from one more man.”

  “A man, precisely,” Al Fahd shot back, “not an imposter.”

  “I am exactly who you think I am,” Joe said, hoping to confuse Al Fahd with brutal honesty. “And more.”

  Al Fahd slowly wavered the blue globe back and forth before McFadden’s eyes, then eased it to right below his chin. “How much more?” he asked, pressing inflated latex to Joe’s jugular.

  Joe sucked in a swallow of air between gritted teeth and slightly raised his chin. “Every man has his price, Al Fahd. Even in the grand old US of A.”

  Al Fahd pulled back the balloon with a satisfied grin. “How much of a price?”

  “Two million.”

  Al Fahd pressed the balloon back into the tender depression beneath Joe’s jaw. “Negotiable.”

  After a lingering moment, Al Fahd pulled back the balloon.

  Joe met the Arab’s cold black stare. “Just let me know,” Joe said, gingerly pushing aside the balloon, “when you’re ready to really let me join the party.”

  Joe stepped past Al Fahd with an easy grace that denied his terror and walked straight for the door, praying there’d be no explosion at his back.

  “Oh, Mr. Smith...” Al Fahd stopped him when he was halfway to the exit.

  Joe halted in his tracks without turning.

  “Meet me in my quarters at twenty-one hundred. I am planning one hell of a party. And, if you’re half the player you pretend to be, maybe you can help with the preparations.
”

  ***

  “Hi, hon,” Mark said, walking over to the stove where Ana stood. “How’d it go today?”

  “Fine,” she said, focusing her attention on her work as she fanned in another handful of pasta. “Isabel was good as gold.” It was true, at least according to what Isabel’s regular sitter Maria had told her. By the time Ana had finally returned from Washington at five, the baby had awakened all cheery and rosy from a three-hour nap.

  “Really?” Mark smiled as only a proud father can. He turned toward the cooing sounds at the far end of the galley kitchen and went to scoop his daughter out of the port-a-crib. “How’s my best girl?” he asked, nuzzling his patrician nose into the fat folds of the baby’s neck. Isabel squealed with delight and clamped down onto her father’s salt and pepper head with fierce fists.

  “Ow! Hey, Ana!” he called toward the stove. “Rescue me!”

  “Rescue yourself,” she said turning from the range and reaching into the cabinet for dishes. That was just like him. Playing the helpless male, when all he really wanted to do was be in charge.

  Mark disengaged from the baby and set her back in the crib with a kiss on the head. “Hey,” he said, drawing up stealthily behind his wife and bringing both arms around her middle. “What’s going on?”

  If only she could tell him. But Ana knew precisely what Mark would say, that she was getting in way in over her head. That he was the expert, the one with the background and experience to tackle these things. She, after all, had only worked for the DOS just over a year and a half before baby Isa had come long- and even then she’d only done junior analytical work.

  Ana shivered involuntarily as the warmth of his lips met the nape of her neck. “If you’ve had a bad day,” he whispered into her ear, “maybe I could think of a way to make it better...”

  “The baby!” she said, swatting the side of his head with the hand that didn’t hold the dishes.

  “Maybe the baby,” he said, lightly nibbling her ear, “needs a brother.”