by Trisha Telep
Lately, however, he had some questions that he knew could get him into trouble. Little things about the last four or five operations had bothered him. Like this one. With the dead pilot and the obvious fact that an expensive wreckage lay abandoned in these mountains but wasn’t, somehow, considered important. That was too weird. Technology like the new Sphinx would make for some serious exchange negotiations. So, how come the Temple still wanted to extract a dying pilot? And when they couldn’t, why did they send a courier? And to retrieve what?
As if reading his mind, the other man turned to him and said, “She is something special. If she weren’t so old, I would have married her myself. She refused, though. She’s a tough negotiator. Wanted more than farm animals. She told me she intended to see the Taj Mahal. I hope you can afford such a wife.”
John gave a slow smile. A test was a test, after all. The man wanted to see exactly how much John knew about the dead pilot situation. Kel didn’t really leave him totally in the dark; they did talk some during dinner. “We Westerners have something called a honeymoon. She mentioned Agra last night.”
“So, we may meet again.”
Interesting. Kel had a date to meet up with this man? John shrugged. “If it’s important enough, I’ll be there,” he replied.
“Goodbye, then, John Dallas,” Ahmin said. “I do miss the United States, you know. New York pizza, nothing like it. And, of course, meeting with married women is unheard of here. I look forward to doing business with your wife. She promised me a good pizza dinner.”
They parted company, moving in opposite directions. It killed John not to be able to pull the man off his horse to ask him exactly when and how he was meeting Kel Grant. Kel Dallas, he corrected grimly. Oh, the journey downhill would provide ample time for him to think out a plan.
First, he would reassemble all the information Kel had given him last night. Then he would piece it together with what he had found out through Zaleiha and Ahmin. Lastly, he was going to give his wife a hell of a surprise.
Pizza dinner, right?
Would she really mutter “I divorce you” three times like she claimed in the letter? John gripped his horse’s reins tightly as he motioned for the men to start moving out.
Did she think she could just up and walk away like she did all those years ago? Did she think he would be satisfied with a quickie Muslim divorce, especially now he had her in his arms again? What was he, some sort of a one-night stand before heading off to a date with a pizza-loving, gun-toting, New York Pakistani?
The more he thought about that last question, the more incensed he became. He needed the information she had retrieved. There was something going down at the Temple and he intended to find out what. It was important enough to draw Kel out to see him again. His eyes narrowed. Unless, of course, that move was just meant to distract him.
So many missing pieces. He hated it. He wanted to know everything about Kel Grant . . . Kel Dallas, he muttered under his breath. She wasn’t divorcing him until he was damn well ready.
It wasn’t easy leaving her warm sleeping man in bed. Kel closed her eyes, picturing John asleep, one arm flung over his head, the other holding her hand as if taking her for a walk in his dreams. His mouth had been slightly open, and she had placed a soft kiss on his lips before leaving.
A night of loving had left her wanting more and her heart screamed at the unfairness of it all. She sighed. What heart? She had already left it with John Dallas a long time ago, little did the stubborn man know. In many ways he was still the same man – damned good at figuring people out; lousy when it came to dissecting his own emotions. Somehow, she confused him. She could see it in the way he constantly fought himself. As an opponent, she could take advantage of this so easily, but as a woman who loved him, she wanted him to be very sure about her. She certainly didn’t want him to think she forced him into anything. It wasn’t her way.
Of course, she imagined, at that moment he probably wasn’t confused at all. In fact, he was probably trying very hard not to roar like an injured bear. Poor baby. Kel grinned. He was always such a sore loser. The mild sedative she had given him was just enough to stop his determination to ask too many questions. His motor skills, she recalled in amusement, were functioning just fine. Eyes closed, she crossed her legs as the images flooded her mind.
Peeling the underwear from her half-conscious man was the most erotic thing she’d done in a long time. John Dallas totally in her power. Oh my. And totally responsive, calling her name in that demanding tone, even with his brain addled. “Take me, Kel,” he’d whispered. Her heart thrilled at those words.
Every inch of his magnificent body was committed to memory. She had touched him. Stroked him. Kissed him. Tasted him. And he’d done the same to her. She quivered as if his hands were caressing her again. The way they had moved up her inner thighs. The way he had massaged the sensitive area at the top of her thigh. Then his thumbs moved inwards and parted her like a curtain. The growl he gave had her near orgasm, and when he’d touched her, she almost screamed.
He’d explored her like a blind man, slowly and deliberately. Well, the drug gave the effect of drunkenness, so he probably hadn’t been able to focus. Which was what she’d wanted, she thought, opening her eyes at last. She had chosen the drug precisely for that reason. She didn’t want him to see too closely, otherwise he’d question things – like her tattoo. She had just wanted him to touch her.
Damn, she didn’t want to think about that right now. She was lonely and missed Dallas. She hadn’t allowed herself to indulge in Dallas fantasies too often. It made the loneliness even worse afterwards. But this memory was so good. The man was definitely talented in bed, even half-conscious.
She frowned at the twinge of guilt again. Oh, stop. He wouldn’t have let her leave on her own and Kel was glad to be away from the traditional confines of the mountain people. To pretend to be subservient 24/7 was no easy feat. She was used to working alone but that wasn’t possible in a culture that subjected the female population. In some ways, it worked to her advantage; she could move among men without being noticed. Who would have suspected a woman courier? So after the Sphinx’s crash she’d managed to slip past the guards and those who patrolled the villages.
John wouldn’t understand. And he would have definitely insisted on knowing why his presence was needed at all, when the pilot was already dead. His guess that the pilot’s message was more important than the aircraft was too close to the truth. Her instructions from HQ had been specific. The message was only for the King’s ears. Nobody else.
Once she had reached the meeting point, changed clothes, and flew across the border to New Delhi, India, she was back in the hustle and bustle of Asian culture, with its open markets and noisy, haphazard traffic, the intense mix of modern industry and ancient temples. Here, after passing off the message through a secured line, she became a tourist, constantly hounded by beggars when she ventured out on to the streets.
In this heat, at least, there was air conditioning in the hotels. And she was glad to have escaped the suffocating head-to-foot burka. And yes, there was food. Her burp was loud and unladylike as she leaned back from the room-service trolley. God, it was wonderful to eat good food again. She had been constantly hungry in Pakistan, restricted by custom and the constant company of other women. The power bars she had hidden in the folds of her garment tasted like sweaty cardboard after a while. She made a face at the memory.
Indian food had her vote for sure. She looked at the dishes before her: biryani rice with chicken, kebabs, beef baked in clay pots. A culture could be studied by the food its people ate – she popped a piece of the kebab into her mouth – and Indian culture was unapologetically spicy and overdone. She liked it.
The hum of the fax machine by her bed caught her attention and, wiping her hands on the tablecloth, she stood up to check the message. Her next mission.
She read it twice. Interesting. She had thought it was going to be a simple meeting with Ahmin in Agra, th
e historic city, four hours away. That was another thing John wouldn’t understand, she thought. The fact that she was meeting the man again after the exchange. Ahmin wanted an audience with the person in charge of this H-A-X. Apparently, he was more than he seemed.
Kel scratched her nose as she contemplated the upcoming meeting. She had a feeling many things were going to happen in Agra. She’d better figure out how to handle them all.
“You look different in T-shirt and jeans,” Zaleiha commented.
John looked up from the file he was studying. After several dusty days down the mountain trail, they had finally reached their destination, where they were given papers and changes of clothes. It was the usual drill – bribes, phone calls, more bribes at the checkpoint, and the liaison at the waiting place – but for Zaleiha, it had been an eye-opener. She’d pulled a dress out of the small suitcase that had been given to her and held it up to her body, exclaiming at how clever Kel was to know the correct size. Then she’d taken a look at slender pumps included in the case and had fallen in love.
John grinned at the memory. It was funny watching a woman drool over footwear. He’d seen Kel with the same look in her eyes when she shopped for shoes, so he recognized the reaction immediately. Women and shoes. He shook his head. Why there must be three pairs for each outfit was a mystery to him.
“You look different too,” he told Zaleiha, who stood at the door of the office. Without those confining clothes, he saw that she was thinner than he’d thought. Her dark hair was pulled back under a scarf, indicating her Muslim beliefs. Her almond-shaped eyes didn’t meet his. She was shy, he realized belatedly. He scratched the back of his neck. Hell, he had no knowledge of how to treat shy women. “Umm . . . come on in. Let me look at you properly.”
She obediently walked into the room, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, like a model. “Do you think where I am going, I can buy more shoes?” she asked.
John frowned. “Why, don’t you like the three pairs you have?”
“Oh, yes! But Kel said I have to buy another outfit, a nice one, for dinner dates. And I would need more shoes for that.” She bit her lip. “Taller shoes, she said, I think.”
“Ah . . . high heels,” John told her, then shook his head in disbelief. He couldn’t believe that he had been assigned the role of Professor Higgins to Eliza Doolittle here. High heels and evening gowns, indeed. His frown deepened. “You’re not thinking that I’ll be taking you out to dinner, are you? I won’t be around once the next liaison arrives. He or she will take care of you.”
“Of course not. You’re a married man!” Zaleiha exclaimed in shock. “When I go out to dinner with a man, it will be with an available one. Kel said to look for the right kind.”
“Kel said, Kel said.” John felt his temper rising again. “Kel seems to have spent a lot of time with you.”
Zaleiha nodded. “She asked me many questions, said she wanted to make sure this was the right step for me. She didn’t want me to feel out of place, alone and unwanted.”
Something glowed inside him, hearing about Kel’s concern for a stranger. She very seldom showed this soft side of herself, and he had forgotten how it made him feel whenever he caught her doing the unexpected things that had nothing to do with the Temple or her job. When he was asked to profile Kel as part of her trainee evaluation that was the first thing he had noticed about her. She was very protective of people she cared about.
“Tell me, Zaleiha, how did Kel explain the situation to you? Did you have any idea then who she was and what was happening?”
“Well, I kind of understood some kind of exchange was going to take place. The Resistance likes to do that – trade things with different people. That’s how we all survive. Kel told me that she works for a group which specializes in brokering deals between agencies.” Zaleiha frowned, trying to work it out in words. “It’s complicated, but she put it in the simplest way, and now I’ve forgotten how exactly. It has something to do with the war game, checkers.”
“Chess,” corrected John. “Go on, try to remember exactly how Kel explained it.”
“Ummm . . . something about her job as moving the pieces in the game to make sure the right pieces . . . the right moves? No, the right pieces . . . make the right move.” Zaleiha shrugged. “I understood it when she said it but not any more, I’m sorry. She told me about you too, that your job was more active because you were the negotiator, while she is more like a messenger.”
Kel’s explanation was important to John because it told him what she had in mind and how she played the game. As a negotiator for the Temple, he’d had to set up a dummy corporation as a cover. The parties involved never really knew who they were buying from or exchanging with; usually, they were more than happy with the money and the terms. And if they happened to be inquisitive enough to search deeper, they would just come up with Knights Inc., the dummy front, a company that specialized in treasure hunts. His own group of “knights” were hand-picked by him. He trusted them.
What Kel said to Zaleiha wasn’t too far from the truth. He was a negotiator and she was a courier, a messenger. Simple as that. Who they worked for was a little more complicated to clarify. The game wasn’t for everyone. Its participants were very selective.
He shuffled through the papers in the folder as he analysed what he had found out in the last few days. The thing was, what was he supposed to be negotiating for? And what message did Kel get from the pilot? Usually, all the details were given to him to ensure his success, but lately, it seemed as if someone up there wanted him to fail. This wasn’t the first time that he’d conducted business that seemed to have nothing worthwhile in return. He frowned. What was so important about a damned message?
“What are you reading?” Zaleiha interrupted his thoughts.
“Stuff.”
“Ahh.”
John lifted a brow enquiringly. “Ahh?”
“Kel said—” She stopped when he groaned, lowering his head in a gesture of total defeat. “I’m sorry, is something wrong?”
“No, no, please continue,” he said, wanting to hear what other wisdom his Kel had imparted. “What was the ‘ahhh’ for?”
Zaleiha sat down on the Victorian embroidered chair, and crossed and uncrossed her legs, studying how they looked. Finally, she put them together and tucked them femininely to the side.
“Kel said,” she continued, as she tried to keep her balance, “that ‘stuff means the man doesn’t want the woman to know about whatever he’s doing. It’s part of the secret code of male domination, she said.”
John coughed. The woman was incorrigible, and he didn’t mean Zaleiha. “I think you shouldn’t take Kel so seriously. She has this strange sense of humour that isn’t really proper.” He could manipulate information just as well as his darling wife.
“She told me to ignore any insults you say about her,” Kaleiha informed him, and her eyes widened when she finally looked up from her feet. “Oh, don’t be angry. I don’t know how to make her good coffee to calm you down . . . and the other way is impossible.”
OK, he’d bite. “Go on. What is the other way to calm me down? Drug me?” he suggested, with remarkable calm, he thought.
Kaleiha blushed and, again, wouldn’t look him in the eye. He narrowed his suspiciously. “Well,” she said, her voice shy. “It’s impossible because I don’t know what to do with a naked man, but Kel said, she can calm you down once you’re naked.”
John stared at the woman. Her face was bright red with embarrassment. “You know what,” he said, although the sound of his voice seemed a little choked to him, “I think I’m going to take you to Agra with me. I need to show you off to Kel.”
Delight fused with embarrassment. The woman, who, a few days ago, was probably the epitome of a demure and quiet female, jumped up, squealing. She quickly covered her mouth. “Oh, thank you, thank you! Kel said if I said the right things, you would take me along!”
John contemplated tearing the file in his han
ds in half. Fate giving him one manipulating female was cruel, but to then give him another who was obviously in training to be just as bad was simply evil. He had to go to the source, return this evil thing to the giver. He thought of Kel – he wasn’t going to let time pass again. She couldn’t hide from him, not ever again. Yes, he was going to find the evil woman in Agra and . . . and . . . get naked.
Knight’s Tour – A puzzle or task in which a knight has to move over an empty chessboard, visiting each square only once.
Three
“AARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!”
John opened one eye, his right ear ringing from the high-pitched scream. “Take a nap,” he advised. “If you don’t look, you won’t see a damned thing.”
The woman beside him sat stiffly, both hands gripping the backrest of the front seat, as she stared with saucer-eyes into the traffic in front of her. In the driver’s seat, the turbaned Sikh had one finger poked into his left ear while steering with his thumb pressed insistently on the car horn.
“How can you sleep?” Zaleiha shrieked back over the din. “He is constantly making that horrible sound with the horn! How can you sleep with four hours of car horn?” Her voice rose into a hysterical pitch.
“He needs to do that,” explained John in a mild voice, “to let the people ahead of him know he’s right on their asses and if they don’t move to the other lane, there’s going to be a crash.”
“That’s it! That’s it!” Zaleiha yelled. “Why do they drive like there is just one lane? Even I can see there are two lanes clearly marked! Why are the drivers in the middle of the road and why must this driver keep honking until they move? When we used to have television, the people in the shows didn’t drive like this!”
John sighed, and opened his eyes. It wasn’t easy explaining to somebody about driving in a country where no rules is the rule. First of all, there was probably only one traffic light from New Delhi to Agra. One traffic light, and that was near the palatial government building. After that, it was every citizen for himself, so to speak. Every driver, every school kid on a bicycle, every crammed-to-the-seams busload of Indians, every wagon of workers, every crisscrossing cow for himself. At varying speeds up to eighty miles an hour, he had to admit it could be harrowing to a first-timer. He’d learned to just let go of the mounting horror of being killed and take a nap. If that was possible, that is, with everyone beeping their horn as if their life depended on it. Which it did. Just close your eyes, and pretend you’re in New York. In the year 2050.
