“Not a bit. And speaking of attacks, the Taliban attacked the Pearl a couple of years ago. Since then it’s been renovated and fortified against terrorist attacks. It’s probably the safest place to be in the least safe place I know.”
“The least safe place?”
“Abby, you were attacked too. They took your bag, pushed you around, spat in your face! I mean, you get it, right? Finally? This place is dangerous.”
“Oh, my bag,” Abby said, suddenly remembering. “Oh, shit! Nick, I have so much to tell you. My room was ransacked, but I had what they were looking for. It was—”
“Sshh.” Nick put a finger to his lips, his eyes on the driver. “Tell me when we’re in the room.”
Inside the hotel, Nick motioned for Abby to wait by the elevators. “Pull your veil over your head and stay out of sight.” He strode to the hotel’s main desk and checked himself in, booking a luxurious suite. Without missing a beat, he asked that a bottle of scotch be delivered to his room.
“The Times,” he explained to Abby in the elevator, “will want me to be comfortable.” He winked, and Abby smiled.
They took the elevator to his suite, and once Nick’s scotch arrived, he settled in. “Back to you,” he said, twirling his glass. “Finish your story.”
“That’s just it, Nick. My story finally had an ending. When you let me off yesterday, the house was empty, and when I went into my room, it had been ransacked, and I mean everything had been torn apart.”
Nick sat up. “Jesus, why didn’t you call me?”
“I did. I left a message and waited for you.”
“I never got a message, Abby. Shit, are you all right?”
Abby nodded. “I decided that whatever someone was looking for must be with me, and I pulled my bag apart, and there it was.” Abby paused.
“Cut to the chase, Abby. What was it?”
“It was a newspaper picture, a grainy photo of a man, and I knew him immediately. He’s the man I saw in Geneva. He murdered that woman.”
“You’re sure it’s him?”
Abby nodded. “But there’s more. The newspaper belonged to Najeela. She’d handed it to me to have a look at a picture of her fiancé. We were rushing at the time so I stuffed the paper into my bag and I just forgot about it. It’s been sitting in the bottom of my bag for at least a month. When I did find the paper and had a good look at the photo, I recognized him right away.” She leaned in closer. “He’s your man too. His name is Lars Rousseau.”
Nick’s mouth fell open. “Shit, her fiancé is Lars Rousseau? She’s engaged? I have to ask—did you know?”
Abby nodded. “I knew she was engaged, but I never connected her rich European fiancé to your Rousseau or the man in Geneva.”
Nick’s brow creased. “Do you remember the name of the newspaper or the date?”
“I have no idea what the date was, but the newspaper was local.”
Nick seemed to stiffen. He set his glass down. “Jesus, Abby. We’re in trouble.”
“Wait.” Abby held up her hand. “Remember the bracelet I told you about? The one the dead woman was wearing? That ornate, unmistakable diamond cuff? Well, I found that too.”
“In your bag?”
“No, it was in Najeela’s jewelry drawer. She keeps the jewelry this Lars gives her in a desk in the house. Says her father would kill her if he knew about Lars. She has a stash of the stuff.”
Nick whistled. “And you’re sure about all of this? The bracelet and Lars and Geneva? All of it?”
“I’m one hundred percent certain.” She snapped her answer at him and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s why I was coming to see you. The photo and the bracelet were in my bag.”
“Incredible, there’s my connection. I knew Imtiaz and Rousseau were in this together, the moneyman and the field crook, but I just couldn’t find the link. They’ve never been seen together, and they cover their tracks so well, there’s just been no evidence to connect them. But, damn, he’s Najeela’s fiancé, huh? There it is. They are the team. Rousseau is the brains and the UN and diplomatic connection, and Imtiaz is the street guy, knows where the drugs are and the soft borders. Christ, this breaks my story wide open. And even without the bracelet, you’re an eyewitness to everything.” Nick whistled softly. “My story gets better by the day.”
“If Rousseau is so evil, why is he still operating? I mean, if we can dig this stuff up, why can’t the authorities?”
“Good question. I think they must know about his other life, but he’s a legitimate diplomat and businessman, and they’ve never had a serious look at him.”
“What about the woman he murdered? Why kill her?”
“Who knows—he’d probably been abusing her at the very least, maybe buying her silence with gifts like that bracelet. When she finally figured out he’d never let her go, she decided to run or get help. He couldn’t risk exposure, he couldn’t take the chance that the world would know who he really is. Killing her was the least risky road for him. Who will miss an unknown woman? He likely kept her isolated in Geneva, and by the time she realized that there was no way out, it was too late.”
“But we can’t connect her to him, can we?”
Nick drew a deep breath. “Actually, we can. Yesterday, I learned the dead woman was identified as Lars’s housekeeper. Turns out one of the women who works in the building heard about the body in the Dumpster, and when she hadn’t seen her friend, she went to the police and identified her body.”
Abby closed her eyes at the image of the poor woman lying alone in the street. “Do we know who she was?”
Nick shook his head. “Only her first name, Amel, and that she’d been seen cleaning Rousseau’s office on more than one occasion, but nothing else.”
“We can go to the authorities with this though, right?”
Nick reached out and drew Abby closer. “Not yet, Abby, not yet,” he said soothingly. “We have other business first. If she was his housekeeper or companion, and if he saw you—and there’s a good chance he did—you’re in real danger.”
“But how would he know me? I was just some unknown runner in the streets of Geneva. It wasn’t like I was wearing an ID. And how would he know I’d wind up with his fiancée? It’s not like she took a picture of me.”
“Somebody knows who you are already, since your room was tossed. Remember, he saw you in Geneva, and he probably got a damn good look at you. He knows there’s a good chance you’re with the UN. I’m willing to bet he’s already searched through the UN database and found you in the UN IDs—a smiling eyewitness.” Nick wrinkled his brow. “I hate to say this, but my trip to Geneva was probably the final straw.”
“Oh, Nick, there’s more. My e-mail account’s been hacked, I think. My e-mails just disappeared, all of them. Just gone.”
“That’s okay. You didn’t have anything in there about any of this, right?” Abby hesitated, and Nick pounced angrily. “You might as well tell me. Stalling won’t change anything.”
Abby told him about e-mailing Emily. “It seemed exciting, Nick, and I figured, who would she tell?”
Nick exhaled. “Anything else?”
Abby nodded. “One more thing. Najeela was in the house this morning, and she saw me leaving. She was at the desk, at the computer.”
Nick groaned. “I knew it.”
“I had the bracelet in my bag, and I knew she’d discover it missing sooner or later, so I told her about, well, I called it a break-in. I figured I needed time to decide what to do with the bracelet.”
“Did she seem surprised?”
“I’m not sure, but she did want me to report it to the police, said she’d have to make a report to the UN, and they might send me home because of the security situation.”
“Right about now,” Nick said, “I’m betting home sounds pretty good.”
Abby nodded. “So what do we do now?”
“We get the hell out of here. But, before I forget—I haven’t thanked you properly for saving my l
ife.”
“I didn’t save your life—don’t make a bigger deal out of it than it was. I’m a nurse. I’m supposed to do that.”
Nick chuckled. “You’re supposed to go running in and start beating on men twice your size?” He took a long sip of scotch. “Which hospital did you say you work for?”
“Very funny. Those guys meant business. I had to do something.”
Nick wrapped an arm around her and kissed her cheek. “I never thought a pretty young woman would rescue me. In my mind, it was always the other way around. Thank you, Abby, seriously.”
“Just one more question,” she whispered. “Do you think Najeela’s involved in all of this?”
Nick frowned. “I’m not even going to answer that, but I will say that Imtiaz and perhaps Rousseau are probably behind today’s little incident.”
“But—”
Nick held up his hand. “Let me finish. Think about it—US soldiers are intent on destroying all of Afghanistan’s poppy fields, and that includes Imtiaz’s. He needs another line of work, and though he’s always had his hand in trafficking, I think now he’s going to jump all the way in. He knows why I’m here, and he and Rousseau have to put a stop to my story. On top of that, now they have the photo and the bracelet, and they’ve put everything together—the murder, the trafficking, and us. All of it.” Nick paused and took a long look at Abby.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, feeling uncomfortable.
“That you and I have to get out of Peshawar. It’s just not safe, not that it ever was, but now it’s the worst place in the world for us to be. Understand?”
Abby nodded.
Her hands began to tremble and Nick took them in his own. “You’ll be okay, but you can’t go back to the house. You know that, right? Ransacking your room was sloppy, but it was also a sign that they don’t care anymore. This whole thing is about to blow up. We’re staying right here until I can make arrangements to get us out.”
“Are we safe here? Can’t they track us?”
“Maybe.” Nick winked. “But I registered as a single guest, Ali Hussain.”
Abby shook her head. “What about my stuff? My clothes, and—oh, shit, my passport. It was in my bag. I can’t go anywhere if I don’t have that. And I have work here. I can’t just disappear.”
“I’ll make a call, get a new passport for you, and don’t worry about the UN. There’ll be plenty of time for discussions with them.”
“You can get me a passport, and I don’t have to worry about the UN?”
Nick nodded and raised his glass, taking a slow drink. His skin, Abby noticed, was the color of wallpaper paste, and his hair, slick with sweat, was plastered to his forehead. The bruises and cuts on his face were blossoming into swirling knobs of red and purple and blue. She reached forward and gently touched his face. “Does it hurt?”
“Not just now.” Nick reached up and took her hand in his. He drew her in close and kissed her.
Abby cupped the back of his head and responded with a deep kiss of her own. She sat back and smiled. “I think you should lie down. You look like hell.”
He lifted his hand, running it along the sutures under his left eye, and a smudge of color on the inside of his wrist caught Abby’s attention. It was the tattoo she’d seen the day she’d met him, but now, surrounded by bruises, it seemed somehow shriveled. She peered closer but couldn’t make out what it was—a heart maybe? Funny, she wouldn’t have figured him for a heart tattoo. “Old girlfriend?”
He held his wrist out as if remembering the tattoo. “Yeah, long ago. I had her name removed—painful as hell. Decided to stick with the heart.” He looked at her intently. “But I could always have a name tattooed there again.”
Abby rested her head on Nick’s chest and stroked his arm. “You should rest. And you have a head injury. Go easy on the scotch.”
Nick sipped at his drink. “You know what they say about saving someone’s life? That you’re tied to that person forever. You might as well get used to me, huh?”
Abby stood and plucked the glass from Nick’s hand, placing it on the table. “Come on.” She led him into the bedroom. “Lie down.” She pushed him gently onto one of the two beds in the room and pulled off his shoes. “Get some sleep. I’m going to lie down right here.” She pointed to the other bed.
“Aww, Abby. I’m a sick man. I need you here.” He patted the spot beside him.
“In your dreams, Nick, in your dreams.” She leaned in and kissed him again. “Sleep tight,” she whispered, pulling a sheet over him.
Chapter 29
“Jesus, my head is killing me. Any pain medicine in that bag they gave me?” Nick cradled his head in his hands.
“Whoa, sorry, Nick. I didn’t know you were awake.” Abby walked back into the bedroom, bathed now in the shadows of late afternoon. She picked up the paper bag that held Nick’s discharge instructions and peered inside. “Paracetamol,” she said, holding a bottle of pills.
“What the hell is that?” he asked, suspicious.
Abby laughed. “Tylenol, Nick. They gave you Tylenol. Will that do?”
“It’ll have to do for now.” He reached for the tablets Abby held out. He swallowed the pills and chased them down with his unfinished glass of scotch.
“Nick, seriously, no more scotch. That stuff can make you bleed or affect your head more than it already has.”
“Fair enough, I can follow orders. Besides, I have to get busy making arrangements to get us out of here.” He pushed himself up from the bed and pulled on his shoes. “I have to go down to the lobby and make some calls, see if I can get a computer and Internet connection.”
“Can’t you call from here?”
“No,” he answered almost too quickly. “The lobby is more anonymous, harder to trace. So”—he checked for his wallet—“stay here. Don’t let anyone in and do not go out. Understand?”
“Can’t I come down with you?”
“A pretty young blonde will stand out like a sore thumb, and Imtiaz will be all over us in a flash.”
“But why are you going?”
“Dark hair, nondescript male, no one will ever notice me. Plus, I know how to slip in and out of these places.”
A laugh broke through Abby’s smile. “Sorry, Nick, but maybe you should have a look in the mirror. Nondescript is not exactly the word I’d use.” His wounds had flared into livid bruises while he slept, and he now sported a swollen fighter’s face complete with stitches.
Nick hurried to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, surveying the damage to his face. “Ah, shit!” she heard him mutter. He stormed back into the bedroom. “I’ll call the concierge and say I have a big business deal going through, ask him to get me a computer and cell phone.”
“Will they do that?”
“For Mr. Hussain in the fancy suite? They’ll be tripping over themselves. I’ll get us some food while I’m at it.” He picked up the phone, dialed the desk, and spoke in an uncharacteristically soft voice before turning back to Abby. “Coffee and Diet Coke. My new beverages of choice. You too?”
Abby nodded.
A few minutes later, a soft knock on the door made them both freeze. “Shh,” Nick said. “Who is it?” he called.
“Concierge, sir, with the items you requested. Shall I leave them by the door?”
“Yeah, thanks. If I need any help, I’ll call you.”
“Yes, sir.” Footsteps echoed back down the hall.
Nick peered through the peephole and opened the door, quickly pulling in the computer and phone. He set up a workstation at the desk and sat in front of the computer, typing furiously.
“Nick,” Abby asked, “do you mind if I turn on the television? I haven’t seen the news in ages.”
“Great idea. See what’s happening in the world.”
Abby curled up on the couch and clicked on the television. She ran through the channels until she found the BBC.
“Keep it there,” Nick said.
“Ro
om service,” a voice called from the hall.
“Just leave it,” Nick called. He rose and looked out before opening the door and pulling in the tray. “Didn’t know what you might want, so I got steak, cheeseburgers, hot dogs, and fries.”
Abby pulled herself up. “I’m starving.” She sank into a seat at the table. “How are things coming?” She nodded toward the computer.
“Great.” Nick moved to the table to eat. “I’m in touch with someone in Pakistani Intelligence. I can’t tell you more than that right now.”
“That’s okay. Is he going to help us?”
Nick hesitated, smiled, then laughed. “He is.”
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Nick said almost too quickly. “I have a head injury, remember?”
“Oh, God, are you going to use that excuse now?”
“Maybe, but for now, I just want to devour this steak. You all set? How’s the burger?” he asked through a mouthful of food.
“Good, really good.”
Nick finished his meal, and picking up the cell phone, he walked into the bedroom. “I’m gonna shut the door. Don’t be offended. This call is business.”
“I’m not a thin-skinned damsel, Nick. Do what you need to.”
Abby turned back to the television and clicked to the local evening news. There on the screen, a smiling Lars appeared. Abby stood and moved closer. “Nick, hurry. You’ve got to see this.”
“What?” he asked, opening the door.
Abby motioned toward the television, and Nick turned, his jaw dropping. A second picture of Lars Rousseau flashed across the screen.
Nick stood and watched.
“Look behind him. There, do you see him?” She pointed to a faint but unmistakable image of Imtiaz in the crowd of partyers.
The photos faded and the newsman returned to the screen. “The UN raised more than one million dollars last night here in Peshawar for its Pakistan programs, and European philanthropist Lars Rousseau hosted the lavish event. Now, on to other stories. . . .”
Nick snapped off the television. “Shit, they’re both in town and not afraid to be seen together. Where does Imtiaz live?”
The Bracelet Page 26
