Breaking Point

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Need water,” he said, and with the nurse’s permission, Gina helped him take a cool drink.

  KENYA, AFRICA

  FEBRUARY 18, 2005

  FOUR MONTHS AGO

  There was one incredible hottie among the crew that descended from the bus.

  He had blond hair, a cute German accent, and really terrific knees, but as Gina got closer, she realized that he was the leader of the Temporaries—the volunteers who would only be staying for a few short days.

  Which meant that his name was Father Dieter.

  And that meant her chances of him falling in love with her at first sight were slim to none, with heavy on the none.

  Other breaking news was that the bus was a real bus—not one of the nine-passenger rinky-dink VW vans that kicked up dust as they bounced along the so-called roads from village to village.

  There were twenty-four volunteers in Father Dieter’s party—ten more than were on the list of names Gina had seen. Father Dieter’s tentless, luggageless party of twenty-four celibate priests, thank you very much.

  Most of whom had the region’s version of Montezuma’s revenge, and were sicker than dogs.

  Father Ben and Sister Maria-Margarit were running around, organizing workers to—shit!—dig more latrines, as well as forming a sort of triage to get those of their guests who were the most desperately ill into the shade.

  They didn’t want to bring them into the hospital building until they knew for sure what had caused the sickness, in case it was contagious.

  God help them all if this was contagious.

  Count on AAI to turn the arrival of a busload of volunteers into more work for the home team.

  Gina spotted Paul Jimmo in the chaos. He must’ve been riding shotgun on the bus, a deadly looking weapon still slung across his broad back as he helped Sister Helen set up the mess tent as temporary living quarters.

  He waved to her and smiled—a flash of white teeth in that too-handsome face—trying to flag her down. But Gina’s job one was to find Her Majesty Leslie Pollard, and make sure that she didn’t run screaming back to Nairobi to catch the next flight home to Heathrow.

  Except, aside from the new nun in town, Sister Gracie, there didn’t seem to be another woman in the crowd.

  Gina approached Father Dieter, who looked to be the kind of guy who would know all. “Excuse me,” she said.

  And the holy man—not quite as handsome up close thanks to a severe sunburn—booted his lunch on her feet.

  “Oh dear, that’s quite the little problem,” a crisply English-accented voice spoke from directly behind her.

  But Gina couldn’t turn to see who was talking to her because the priest just slowly keeled over, crumpling, as if to kiss the dusty ground. He was too sick to be mortified—which was a good thing. It was far better that he just became instantly unconscious, rather than attempting to apologize or even clean up the mess.

  Sister Maria-Margarit rushed up to take the priest from her, thank you God, leaving Gina to deal with hosing off her feet.

  Aw, gross.

  “I’m afraid Father Dieter didn’t partake of the goat stew that’s being blamed as the source of food poisoning,” the BBC Masterpiece Theater–wannabe voice continued. It was, of course, a very non-female voice.

  Gina turned to find her expression of dismay reflected in a pair of dark sunglasses.

  “Please tell me you’re not Leslie Pollard,” she said. But of course he was. She had vomit between her toes. Why shouldn’t this day get even worse?

  He sighed. “The powers that be listed me as a Miss again, did they?”

  “No,” she told him. “They had you as a Miz.”

  “Ah. And somehow that’s . . . better?” He flipped up his sunglasses—they were the kind that attached to regular glasses—and blinked at her from behind the lenses. His eyes were a nondescript shade of brown in a face that was coated, literally white in places, with sun block. Obviously he was a Type B volunteer.

  “I’m an American,” Gina said, holding out her hand to shake, “so yes, it’s better. But in this case, only marginally. Gina Vitagliano. I’m from New York.” It was usually all she had to say.

  Leslie Pollard gave her a dead-fish handshake—yeesh. He was definitely a Type B.

  As if she couldn’t tell from the virulently ugly plaid shirt that hung on his skinny British frame. Yes, this was a man who had rarely left his London flat dressed in anything other then a tweed jacket and slacks, stains from last week’s tea on his tie.

  He was taller than she was. Not that anyone would know it, because he, of course—in the grand tradition of Type Bs—slouched. Beneath his floppy hat, his graying hair was lank and unwashed. It was hard to tell if that was the result of the long bus ride or merely a poor decision in terms of personal hygiene, brought on by that common Type B malady—severe depression.

  Gina was guessing number two.

  Type Bs usually came to them after enduring some terrible personal tragedy. Like volunteers Type A, C, and D, they were looking to jumpstart their lives, to find meaning, to “make a difference.” But unlike the others, they had never done a day of camping in their entire lives. They meant well, yes, but oh my God, they were ill-equipped and unprepared for this nonluxurious lifestyle.

  They usually asked, within their first week, for the location of the nearest laundromat. Sometimes the nuns—the human nuns—even got a betting pool started. The sister who picked the date closest to when the Type B resigned would win the pot.

  Yeah, this one wasn’t going to be here for very long.

  The good news was that despite the gray in his hair, the dude was still somewhat young. During the two to three weeks he would spend here, he’d actually accomplish something. For example, he could help Father Ben dig that new well.

  But then, as she watched, Leslie Pollard shouldered his duffle bag and picked up a cane that had been lying on the ground, next to it. Great. It was similar to the cane that Max had used while in the physical rehab facility.

  Perfect. A Type B volunteer who not only couldn’t walk without assistance, but would remind her, every time she saw him, of the one man she was trying most to forget.

  Gina forced a smile. “Well, welcome. Will you excuse me for a sec while I go find some water, to, you know, de-puke?”

  He smiled somewhat vaguely, distracted by the camp’s activity. Still, Gina was grateful for small miracles. Type Bs sometimes didn’t come with an ability to access their senses of humor, and a vague smile was way better than nothing.

  “Actually,” he said, “if you’ll just point me to my tent . . . ?”

  “Um, yeah,” Gina said. “About that. See, we’re waiting on a shipment of supplies, and until then, well, I’m afraid you’ll have to share living quarters.”

  He nodded, barely listening as he looked around. “Of course. Believe me, after that bus trip, I can sleep anywhere.”

  Gina would believe it only when she saw it. Still, she managed another smile. “Good. Because I cleared some space for your things in the tent that I share with my friend Molly Anderson—”

  “Excuse me?”

  And just like that, she had Leslie Pollard’s fully focused attention. His gaze was suddenly so sharp, it was a little alarming. She took a step back, for a second wondering if maybe she’d read him completely wrong and that he was a Type A instead of a B.

  But then he blinked rapidly, almost as if he were doing a bad Hugh Grant imitation as he said, “I’m sorry? You cleared a spot in your tent? That won’t do. No, I’m afraid that won’t do at all. Doesn’t AAI have rules about that—comingling, cohabitation? Do you open your tent to strangers—strange men—all the time?”

  He was serious. Apparently, Leslie Pollard was even more of a prude than Sister Double-M.

  “If you’d have let me finish,” Gina said, “then you would’ve heard me say that my tentmate and I will be spending most of our time in the hospital for the next few days. Even without the invasion of the puke monster
s, we have a few patients—little girls—who need round-the-clock care. You’ll have the tent completely to yourself at night. And if you need to get something from your bag during the day, just make sure you knock before you come in. I cleared out a storage trunk for you—there’s a key in the lock. It’s not very big—but make sure you put anything of value in there and secure it. Sister Leah is a total klepto.”

  Leslie blinked at her.

  “That was a joke,” Gina told him. Apparently she was wrong about the sense of humor thing. “We don’t even have a Sister Leah and . . . Never mind. Third tent on the left. It’s the one with a tin of tea out on the table, along with the sign that says, ‘Welcome, Ms. Pollard.’ Please make yourself at home.”

  And with that, she squished off to find some water.

  Leslie Pollard stood with all his gear just inside the door of the tent.

  There, on the table was the tin of tea—Earl Grey—that what’s-her-name—Gina—had mentioned. It was next to a kettle, a can of sterno, and an obviously coveted Tupperware container of Fig Newtons. His stomach rumbled just at the sight of them. Of course, his stomach rumbled pretty damn constantly these days as he tried to keep his weight down.

  The sign she’d described was there, too. “Welcome to our home, Ms. Pollard.”

  As far as homes went, from the outside this was one of the shabbiest tents he’d ever seen in his life. The canvas had been repaired so many times it was more patch than original fabric. And the frame reminded him of a swayback mule. Old and ugly, and probably unreliable in a storm, but able to get the job done on an average day.

  As if there were any average days here in this camp—this holier-than-thou den of do-gooders on a mission to save this extra-crappy section of an all-but-irredeemable world.

  No doubt about it, though, this part of Africa had more priests and nuns per square mile than just about anywhere he’d ever traveled. If someone needed saving, this was the place to come.

  And yet Gina, of the dark brown hair and killer bod, actually thought no one would . . . what? Care? Or maybe not notice that the volunteers were suddenly having co-ed sleepovers?

  According to the rules and regulations of AAI—he’d been given an entire booklet from the office in Nairobi—unmarried men and women were not allowed to “fraternize individually.” This included any travel outside of the camp. Relief workers were encouraged to travel and socialize in groups, three being the magic number.

  The booklet claimed these rules were created both to provide protection for the relief workers, and to be an obvious example of AAI’s utmost respect of all of the varying customs and cultures in Kenya.

  So . . . share a tent in an AAI camp with two very attractive women?

  Not bloody likely.

  He had gone, brimming with disbelief, to talk to the stern-faced Nazi nun. He figured he’d go straight to the source to find out where he really would bunk down tonight.

  But apparently the camp had some kind of pamper-the-new-guy policy, and Sister Brunhilda also agreed that having him stay temporarily in this tent while the two women slept in the hospital—where, on the floor?—was the best solution to their overcrowding problem. She did let him know that it would all be under her watchful eyes. And he could tell just from looking that she was the type who slept with one eye open.

  When she bothered to sleep at all.

  So here he was.

  He set his cane and his bag down on the bed nearest the door—the one with the empty trunk chained to its metal frame.

  The two women had sewn brightly patterned fabric to the inside top panels of the tent, and it drooped down in places—somehow managing to make the space look exotic instead of pathetic. There were richly dyed spreads on their cots, a cozy homemade table and chairs, bookshelves crafted from old crates that were stuffed to overflowing.

  Every available surface was covered with candles and carvings and all of the little knickknacks and photographs and drawings and collectibles, each with its own story, that made this faded tent in a godforsaken corner of the world into more of a home than any place he had stayed for more years than he could remember.

  But there was another sign on the table, too: “Only drink bottled water,” with about six exclamation points, underlined three times.

  It reminded him of the puking priests. Going out there and offering to help would win him salvation points.

  It would also remove him from the temptation of rifling through private papers, letters, diaries. He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t do that.

  Or at least that he wouldn’t get caught.

  And there’d be less of a chance of someone walking in on his unauthorized browsing after the camp was asleep.

  Besides, it looked as if anything of interest was securely locked up in one of the larger trunks.

  Trunks had locks any beginner criminal could pop in a heartbeat.

  He quickly unzipped his bag and put his clothing into the one empty trunk and locked it.

  His real valuables would go elsewhere. Not that he had much. His cans of “Silver Fox” theatrical hairspray—irreplaceable out here in Nowhereland—went up between the top of the tent and the fabric faux-ceiling. He hung them from the tent pole, so that they wouldn’t be seen, either from inside or out. His passport he kept with him, along with the remainder of his cash.

  He went out the door and was already several steps toward the mess tent before he remembered and scrambled back inside. Jesus! It was a careless mistake, a stupid mistake. What the hell was wrong with him, after coming so far?

  But no one had seen him. Thank God for that.

  Heart still pounding, he picked up his cane and, leaning on it heavily, he limped out the door.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  JUNE 20, 2005

  PRESENT DAY

  Jules drove Max to the airport.

  A surprisingly lively discussion on alternatives to fossil fuel was being broadcast on NPR and that plus the wipers, slapping in rhythm as they cleared the early evening rain from the windshield, had kept them from having to speak more than necessary.

  But now Max cleared his throat. “Did you call the hotel in Hamburg?”

  Jules turned down the radio’s volume. “The one where Gina was—”

  “Yes.”

  Staying. “Yes. They haven’t touched her room,” Jules reported. “As long as you’re willing to pay for the extra nights—”

  “I said I was.”

  “Yes, sir, I told them that. The hotel manager said he’d put a do-not-disturb sign on the door,” Jules told him. “The room’ll be exactly as she left it.”

  Max nodded grimly. “Good.” He turned the radio back up.

  Jules felt compelled to turn it back down. “Her room’s not a crime scene,” he gently reminded his boss. “She wasn’t—”

  Max cut him off. “I know,” he said, but Jules had to wonder.

  “It was random,” he reminded Max. “Gina’s death. It had nothing to do with you. You can’t blame yourself because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Max reached over and turned up the volume on the radio again. “Just drive,” he ordered.

  So Jules drove as Teri Gross interviewed Willie Nelson—of all people—about fuel made from vegetable oil.

  He glanced again at Max.

  His carry-on bag wasn’t much larger than an oversized briefcase. Jules took that as a good sign, that his boss truly was going to arrive in Hamburg, identify Gina, pack up her things from her hotel, and then return with her body—oh, God—on the next available flight home.

  Gina’s brother Victor was planning to meet them at the airport in New York. Jules was to call him with information about their return flight. Jules had spoken to Vic on the phone several times already today—to let the Vitagliano family know that Max was going to bring Gina home.

  The usually abrasive and tough talking New Yawker’s expression of gratitude had been
heartbreakingly eloquent in its simplicity. Vic had told Jules that Max’s generosity would allow him and his brothers to comfort their parents during this time of sorrow.

  They deserved to have Gina’s body returned to them as quickly as possible.

  Jules glanced at Max again. Surely, if he were intending to do some serious terrorist hunting, he wouldn’t’ve packed quite so lightly.

  Still, Jules would never dare to hazard a guess about exactly what might be in Max’s bag. It was too small for a bazooka or a sawed off shotgun. Although, a dismantled semiautomatic would fit, no problem. Along with a small arsenal of handguns.

  It would be interesting to see if the mighty and powerful Max Bhagat would be required to run his bag through the X-ray machines at the entrance to the airport gate, or if he’d simply get waved through.

  The rain got lighter but the traffic much heavier as they entered the airport loop. Jules followed the signs to the garage, and Max finally spoke.

  “Just drop me at departures.”

  It was the moment of truth.

  For most of the trip, Jules had purposely focused on learning about fuel made from soybeans to keep himself from obsessing over exactly how he was going to tell Max when the time came.

  “Don’t be mad,” he started, then inwardly rolled his eyes. Don’t be mad? Of course Max was going to be mad. The man was running on rage. Sure, he was keeping it locked inside, but Jules knew it was there. Because he was feeling it, too.

  There was a reason for all those clichéd movies where the FBI agent went on a vengeful rampage after a loved one was murdered. The same qualities that made both Max and Jules good candidates for a long-term career in law enforcement naturally made it hard for them to sit back and let someone else’s team find the terrorists responsible for Gina’s death.

  Jules cleared his throat and started over. “Sir, I know you’re not going to like this—”

  As they rolled past, Max gazed with undisguised longing at the ramp that led to the drop-off for people taking departing flights. “I don’t need a babysitter.”