Alhamdulillah, Jake thought: there was almost no traffic. Two other motor bikes went past him, both from behind. Jake was pleased they were from that direction: his white features didn’t show in the headlamp glare. He almost wished he was wearing camo paint, but that would look truly suspicious were he stopped. Buildings began to show in earnest, and he guessed by distance that it was the town of St. David. On its outskirts, he hid the scooter in the brush, covering it with vines. Nobody would find it in the darkness, but come morning was something else. Jake checked his watch. He’d better move quickly.
Walking as fast as he dared, Jake cruised on foot up and down Sr. David’s streets, looking up for steeples. There was one! And light shone in the basement windows. He lay in shadow for long minutes, watching for movement inside the church and out. No one went in or out, and nothing showed in the windows. One foot patrol passed: four men in shorts and knee socks, sporting berets and long British bolt-action rifles, they were a picture out of the colonial past. Their noise discipline was non-extant, which gave Jake long warning of their arrival, Alhamdulillah. That was a useful expression, he thought for the thousandth or so time.
Moving with excruciating slowness, Jake Holman eventually found himself next to one of the basement windows. Risking exposure from the light filtering through the dirty glass, he peered inside, on a scene from Dante’s Inferno.
Leslie Guttormsen was inside, bound hand and foot and kneeling. Four militia, or soldiers or police or whatever they were, crowded around her. One was behind, a handful of her white-blonde hair in his fist, another standing close before her. It was on him Leslie was performing an oral act. Haram, Holman found himself thinking: extreme evil.
In Jake Holman’s mind, they had just signed their own warrants. None would leave that basement alive.
He hurried around the building, away from the street, calculating that the front doors would be locked. He found a casement door in the rear, tried it, and it opened. He said Mike Alpha—Mash’Allah, God’s Will—without squeaking. How was that possible? Slowly and with great care he walked down the steps. He could hear now, the laughter of the soldiers. Leslie’s whimpers. There were inner doors. Jake reached into his jacket, reached for the door latch. His thumb came down on the catch.
There was a click, and three heads turned as though on a camshaft, wheeling on the door. The fourth—the man holding Leslie’s hair—looked straight at Jake right off. Jake saw his first shot make a spot on his forehead, and he didn’t look back; pop-pop left, pop-pop right, one shot left. One man left. One man with his pants down, and he tripped, over backwards.
Holman sprinted through the door, was on the man before he could move at all. Holman pointed the Colt down into his face. Pop! In seconds, his Swiss Army knife was cutting Leslie free.
She scrambled to her feet, threw her arms around him. “Jake,” she just kept saying, “Jake-Jake-Jake.” His arm enwrapped her as she began to sob.
“They made me—”
“I know. We gotta go, baby. C’mon.”
Jake took her none-too-gently by the arm and led her to the basement door. They were free of the church, but far from in the clear. Jake’s senses were on the alert: had anyone heard the shots? It’s true gunshots are distinct, but people ignore them, or misinterpret, more often than not. There didn’t seem to be any reaction. There may have been some celebration gunfire earlier in the day, and if that was so Jake’s killings could go unnoticed for a little bit. He fervently hoped so. They needed every second.
Caution to the winds, they were fairly running now, Leslie doing the best she could. That patrol, or one like it, droned by one street over, oblivious. They surely hadn’t heard the shots.
Jake estimated about fifteen minutes until they were back at the bike. Once more, he was grateful for his Ranger School, where they taught land navigation: keeping on course in strange surroundings. Jake got the scooter up and running, slid forward, and popped the foot pegs out. Leslie slid on behind him, and they were off, half speed again. Didn’t do to hurry. Jake felt good as the road came up to meet them. He had no qualms whatsoever about killing those four men. He felt Leslie’s body press his as she clung. There was nothing sexual about it; she was just trying not to fall off. He hoped.
It was a hard ride, what with both their weights on that little motor bike. Fortunately, there was no other traffic. Jake was forced to take a short break, Leslie holding the bike up while he walked to the side of the road, surreptitiously (he thought) relieving himself before scattering the empty casings from the Colt in the underbrush and replacing them with new ones from his pocket.
“Feel better?” Leslie asked.
Jake was nonplussed. He felt his cheeks burn. What was wrong with him? “When you have to go, you have to go.”
“My turn,” Leslie said, and was about to hurry into the dark woods when Jake pressed a wad of napkins in her had. “Force of habit. They’re always in my jacket,” he said.
She smiled at him, holding his eyes. Her own eyes were still puffy and red.
Leslie was back in a moment or two, and Jake started the bike. They were off. Before two miles had gone by, the bike coughed, and Jake knew from the sound they were going to run out of gas. Well, couldn’t be helped. He throttled down, to get the best mileage, and they toughed it out. Little more than a mile down the road the engine quit altogether.
“That’s it,” Jake announced. “Out of gas.”
“So we walk?”
“We walk.”
“How far?”
“Less than three miles, I’d say,” he said, rolling the bike into the underbrush and carefully concealing it. Wouldn’t do for it to be spotted from a passing troop carrier.
They began walking, under countless stars. “How are you?” Jake asked.
“Okay.”
“No, really. Are you all right?”
“No, not really.”
“Well, how?”
“It’s hard to describe.”
“I think I know.”
“I think you don’t.”
“Okay, I don’t.”
“Jake, you’re nice.”
“Thank you.”
“No, I mean it.” she took his hand. He didn’t have the heart to take it back. She’d been through a lot. On impulse, he put his arm around her. She was shivering. “Here,” he said, and took off his jacket, draped it around her.
They walked in silence for some time, gradually picking up the pace and making good time. Dawn was starting over the sea when they were able to see the end of the bungalow driveway: it was swarming with uniforms, and they weren’t Navy SEALs. Whether the SEALs got away wasn’t Jake’s problem, though he was betting they did. But they couldn’t go down there now.
“This way,” Jake said, and led Leslie down a path that looked like it led to the sea, several hundred yards down a gentle slope. Mercifully, there was a tree, hanging with vines to make a kind of hut, and Jake pushed his way inside, pulling Leslie behind. She began to say something.
“Shhh!” Jake said roughly. “No talking. Not a sound. Stay here.” He went outside, to the uphill side of the tree, and unwound the little spool of wire leader. Tying the dead end carefully to thick vines, he cocked back his arm and three the spool over the tree, where it whirred downslope and into the underbrush. Then he untied the dead end, and handed it through the vines to Leslie inside. “Take this,” he ordered, “And don’t let go.”
Inside again, Jake took out the little CW radio and tied the wire’s bitter end to a lug on the outside of the case. Inside the device, a pi-network automatically matched the wire’s random length to the radio: the wire was now an antenna.
Jake put the ear buds in, plugged in the key, and sent a series of Morse vee’s, di-di-di-dahhh. Immediately, vee’s came back. The faithful AWAC was still circling, far above. Jake took a breath, and began sending code en clair. No cipher. If anyone was listening, there’d be trouble. But that was doubtful. For every sentence Jake sent, the other operato
r replied with a single di-dah-dit, morse Romeo, for “received.”
When Jake finished, the AWAC sent the letters “A” and “S” as one: di-dah-di-di-dit.” Code for “wait.”
It was a tense wait. Jake began to sweat as the sun climbed into the sky. He was thankful for the leafy cover. Still standing, he smiled down at Leslie to reassure her. She smiled back, weakly. She was stroking his calf and thigh. Who knew what that meant?
Eventually, the frequency burst with a strong signal from the aircraft: “Extraction 1800 beach ur locus.”
There was a beach below them. Jake sent a series of R’s and then K and N together: “Back to you.” The AWAC sent SK: end of conversation. Jake broke the radio down, though he left the wire in place. They might need it later.
“Jake, what’s going on?”
“They’re coming to get us. Early tonight, on the beach down there.”
Leslie let out a sigh. “Thank God.”
Pause.
“And you, Jake. How can I ever thank you?” By now he was sitting next to her, and she slid over very close. She was attractive. Jake had heard of rape victims, how their reactions varied. Some wanted to just take shower after shower, some baths that never ended. Some never felt clean. Leslie Guttormsen just seemed to want more of the same. Jake didn’t get it.
“What’s on your mind, Leslie?”
“How do you mean that?” She sounded hurt.
“Those men were rough on you. And yet you seem to want another man.”
“You’re different, Jake. They were animals. Animals you killed, like the real man you are. Jake, I need a friend.” She actually sidled up on him, forcing him backward on the moist dirt under the tree. She was atop him, her breath in his face. Slowly, she lowered her lips on his, and they kissed. She began, but he responded, felt his body responding: she was his for the asking. Jake’s hand moved toward her—
And stopped midway as though frozen in time.
Like an old Kodachrome slide, the vision of a face came to him unbidden, a stunning Muslim woman of smooth olive skin and enormous brown eyes, beestung lips and small, sculpted nose between high cheekbones. A vision. And the memory of that woman’s first baby—his baby—followed. She was alone, when she needed him most.
“Hoda,” Jake said softly.
“What?”
“Hoda. My wife.”
“Your wife? Jake, your wife’s not here, and I need a friend. I need to know I’m still attractive to a good man, a man like you! Who’s to know?”
“I will,” Jake said. “And Hoda. And Allah.”
“What the hell? How will your wife know? You’ll tell her? And you’re Muslim?”
“Yes. I’m Muslim.”
“I knew you were too good to be true. You don’t look Muslim.”
“What’s a Muslim look like?”
“You know—Arab!”
“My wife is. And while you’re very pretty, Leslie, my wife is the most beautiful woman in the entire world. And I love her more than you can imagine.”
“Well,” Leslie said, regaining some composure, “I’m beginning to get an idea. I wasn’t joking, though. I need to know I’m attractive still to a good-looking man. After… that. Am I?” Her eyes were moist.
“Yes, you are. And a real man wouldn’t hold it against you, in any case. He’d be more affectionate, not less.”
“Jake Holman, they broke the mold after you!” She paused. “We’ve got time.” She smiled, snuggling down next to him, where he captured her in the crook of his arm. She began to rub his stomach, and he looked at her, but Leslie had given up her quest. “Tell me about your wife,” she said. If she couldn’t have Jake one way, she’s have him another.
And they spent the afternoon talking about Hoda Abdelal, M.D. Jake enjoyed that very much. Leslie envied Hoda, but basked in the warmth of Jake’s serene happiness.
***
Late in the afternoon, Jake put one of the buds in an ear and left it. He was rewarded by a series of vees some time later, and answered with the same. The other station sent QTH? and he replied with QTH: we’re at the location.
Presently a black dot appeared near the horizon, and gradually grew. The closer it got, the more sure Jake was it was not black, but white, and that told him one thing: it was a US Coast Guard cutter.
“Posse comitatus,” he said to Leslie.
“Posse what?”
The expression is a principal of international law which states that any contact between a warship of one nation and the ships and land of another is an act of war. But Coast Guard cutters are exempt from posse comitatus, by virtue of not being in the Department of Defense; the Coast Guard is Homeland Security. The approaching vessel was a 110-foot Island-class cutter, and it was coming fast, its great bow wave creaming majestically. Presently it slowed, did a dramatic turn, and very close to shore dropped an orange rigid-hull inflatable boat into the water.
“Let’s go,” Jake said, and pulled Leslie to her feet. They scrambled down the shore to the beach, where they were easily seen by the Coast Guardsmen in the RHI. The boat beached expertly, and Jake hoisted Leslie into the brawny arms of a young seaman, then let himself be dragged over the bow and into the open boat, which backed away from the sand. As the coxswain wheeled the boat on its axis, there came from shore the popping of gunfire, but at that range it would be a lucky hit, indeed. And the range increased exponentially, very fast.
“Coming up!” the coxswain called, meaning he was bringing the throttle up. The boat shot forward and began to zigzag. In only a few hundred yards, it was behind the protection of the one-ten’s welcome hull. As the crew attached the hoist to the davits, Jake and Leslie climbed onto the deck, and the cutter’s main engines throbbed.
***
It was unreasonably warm in Baltimore. Jake and Hoda sat at a corner table in an intimate, trendy little restaurant on the waterfront. It was their tradition to dine in when Jake returned from a mission, but this trip hadn’t been technically a mission, despite its perils; and Jake had insisted they not enjoy some of the other rituals of his return. Though due to deliver their first baby at almost any time, Hoda had become adventurous since marrying Jake, and was throughly prepared to fulfill her duties as a Muslim wife, pregnant or not.
But Jake didn’t seem to want that. To the contrary, he was having trouble meeting her eye. She had seen Jake tell lies in the line of his work, and it never bothered him. But the woman—not to mention the psychoanalyst—in her let her know Jake never lied to her. She doubted he ever would. He was just having trouble saying his piece.
Hoda leaned forward, reaching across the table to take Jake’s fingers in hers. It was a public show of affection rare in Muslims, but it was obvious they were married, and circumstances required action.
“Jake? Jake, look at me.” When he did so, she saw the pain. “Talk to me. I’m your wife.”
“Oh, I know,” Jake said. It was a whisper.
“Tell me about it.”
Jake paused a long time. The analyst in Hoda overrode the woman, let the silence breathe.
“There was a woman.”
Hoda’s heart sank, jerked upward as though by the hangman’s rope. Her chest tightened. She tried to maintain a sympathy which she did not at all feel.
“And?”
“We touched.”
Another hangman’s drop. “And?”
“We kissed.”
“Oh? She kissed you?”
“Yes. But I kissed her back.”
Now it was Hoda’s pause. Softly, with deliberate calm, she said, “Tell me all about it.”
And Jake did. From start to finish, for the first time he could remember he divulged every single tiny detail about the adventure in Grenada, telling things between the lines not even the experienced CIA agent in him realized that he did; his wife was a gifted psychiatrist, trained in the fine art of interrogation. Her technique was not coup de main; far from it, she was softness personified. She did it the woman’s way, and everyt
hing poured from Jake, right down to his self-loathing at having betrayed her trust.
When he finished, Hoda said nothing for some time, but finished her meal. For Jake it was the most agonizing time of his life, far more painful than anything any enemy of his country had every inflicted on him.
“Say something,” Jake said. “Hoda, say anything.”
“Jake, did my face really appear to you? Did your hand really stop, freeze like that?”
“Yes. You know I wouldn’t lie.”
She did. Hoda also new Jake had those fleeting visions, what he called “Kodachromes.” It was, she suspected, a leftover from his father’s hard edges when Jake was a boy.
“What are you thinking?” Jake pleaded. There was a tear in his eye. A tear! Hoda Abdelal had never seen a tear in James A. Holman’s eye before. Not ever. She wiped her lips with her napkin, put the napkin down, and took his fingers again.
“I think,” she said with soft slowness, “that you are the most gallant man I have ever known.” She pronounced “gallant” the French way. “That woman—Leslie?—had just been through a terrible ordeal, and she was dealing with it the only way she knew. And you responded as a human being. But then you did the right thing. Many men—most—would not have done that. And I am lucky to have you…Baba.”
“Baba.” Arabic for “Dada.” Father. She had never called him that before; it was a name reserved for her own father. But Jake Holman was her husband, and the father of their child.
“Ohhh, Hoda,” Jake said. It was almost a groan.
“Jake?”
“Yes?”
“Let’s go home. I want you all to myself.”
Fortune smiled, and their waiter passed by. Jake looked up and caught his eye.
“Check, please.”
Deliverance
Jake Holman was a happy man. Ordinarily, the relative recent inactivity at his Central Intelligence job would have bored him, but the agency was easing his load due to his expectant wife’s condition. Hoda, the American-born, Egyptian-American beauty he had the privilege of wedding, was due any day—overdue, in fact, by a day or three. It wasn’t uncommon in first arrivals, he’d heard. Jake didn’t get into details much, preferring to let the plentiful Arab women in his life handle everything. There just didn’t happen to be more than one Arabic woman in the condo at the moment, and it was the lovely Hoda.
Hoda and Jake Page 15
