Troubleshooters 02 The Defiant Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Yes, indeed, she and John Nilsson had some catching up to do. It was entirely likely that he was married by now, and if not married, then certainly attached.

  But whether or not he was married had nothing to do with saving Amy. She and John Nilsson had once been friends. She was counting on him to remember that.

  He knocked on the door. “Meg? It’s me. I’m coming in.”

  The door opened. Just a little. And he slipped inside the room.

  Meg wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Possibly for him to be wearing his dress whites. Or at least some other kind of naval uniform. Instead he was completely dressed down in dirty BDUs, dusty boots, and a T-shirt that was stained with sweat. Black greasepaint smudged his face and he had a heavy stubble of beard covering his chin. His eyes were rimmed with red and lined with fatigue. Just like the first time they’d met, it had been a while since he’d last slept.

  He was bigger, broader, taller than she’d remembered, particularly with his arms up, fingers laced and resting on his head. With his arms in that position, his biceps were flexed and they strained against the sleeves of his T-shirt. His face had filled out some, too, making him look more like a man and less like a twenty-something kid.

  But his smile was pure twelve-year-old despite the concern in his eyes. “Hi.”

  Tears welled. Save me. Save Amy. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and beg him to help her. But this room was bugged. Everyone and their Kazbekistani brother and FBI sister were listening in. And Amy’s and Eve’s lives depended on her doing this right.

  “May I sit down?” he asked.

  “No,” she managed to say.

  Surprise flickered across his face, but he quickly hid it. “Okay. Your rules. I’ll stand.” He moved slightly, leaning against the wall, so that she could easily see both him and her hostages.

  “You won’t be in here for long,” she explained.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said. “Because I was kind of hoping we’d take a little time to talk. You know, so you could tell me what this is all about and—”

  “Remember that folk song?” she interrupted, “that we always used to sing? You, me, and Amy?”

  They’d never sung anything together, not even once. Not in Kazbekistan. And Amy hadn’t even been home—she’d been visiting Eve in England—those two weeks John had spent in Washington in the summer of 1998.

  John blinked. Just once. But other than that, he’d managed to keep his face impassive.

  “Which one?” he asked evenly. “We sang so many.”

  Thank you. He was as smart as he was handsome. And obviously willing to let her do this her way.

  “It was called ‘Achub Fi.’ ” Save Me. “Do you remember that one? The chorus goes, Save me, Save me, Save me,” she sang to him in Welsh to the tune of a Welsh folk song. “Amy and my grandmother have been kidnapped by Extremists from the Pit.” Her words didn’t quite line up with the notes, but she forced them to fit. “The Extremists have a spy so tell this to no one in this building, or they’ll be killed. Save me, Save me . . .”

  “Save me.” He joined in, singing along with her. He had a terrible voice. “I remember you always loved that song. But we need to talk about what you’re doing, what you want—”

  “I want a million dollars,” she told him in English, for the microphones. “In small, unmarked bills. I want a helicopter, up on the roof, large enough for me and all three of my . . . guests. I realize it may take some time to make arrangements for those things, so in the meantime I want six pairs of handcuffs and a dead-bolt lock I can easily attach to this side of the door. Go.”

  John hesitated. “Meg, who put you up to this? I know you wouldn’t do something like this on your own.”

  Meg knew he had to ask despite what she’d just revealed to him in Welsh. His job as negotiator was to come in here and find out as much about this situation—and her motives for being here—as possible. He was playing out the scene for the cameras and the mikes.

  “Get me those cuffs. Then maybe we’ll talk.”

  He still didn’t move. “How about if one of these men—only one—walks back out of here with me. As a show of good faith—”

  “No.” She knew he’d had to ask that, too, to make this look as real as possible for all the people listening in.

  John nodded. And as he looked at her, he sent her a silent message with his eyes. I can help you.

  She couldn’t keep tears from blurring her eyes and she held her breath, knowing she would be unable to do anything but sob if she tried to speak.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

  “No way can we give her those handcuffs,” said the FBI negotiator, a man named Max Bhagat who was calling the shots for this operation. “Obviously she wants to cuff each of the hostage’s hands to a different pipe underneath the sink. Look at the way the room is set up. Six sinks, three hostages. And what was that song she was singing? Does anyone know what language that was?”

  Lieutenant Paoletti looked at Nils.

  Shit. “She’s really into world music.” He tried to sound casual. “She knows the most obscure folk songs.”

  Now what? Pretend he didn’t know this song was in Welsh, and risk having Bhagat—who seemed to be an incredibly thorough son of a bitch—call in another languages specialist who just might be able to translate the Welsh words Meg had sung? Or tell a half-truth? He made up his mind.

  “This one’s in Welsh. It’s one of those story songs,” he improvised on the fly, “about a woman who found out her husband was cheating on her. It’s got a lot of verses, and at the end she drowns her competition in a well. Really cheery little number.”

  Bhagat leaned forward. “Is it one of those suicide folk songs, where the narrator kills herself at the end?”

  “No, no,” Nils said hastily. Christ, don’t let him start thinking that Meg was going to blow away all of her hostages and then put a bullet into her own brain. If Bhagat thought that, he’d kick down the door in thirty seconds. “It was just a song, sir. She always liked that melody. I’m not even sure if she understood the words. I mean, I translated them for her a few years ago, but . . .”

  Nils felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. Lieutenant Paoletti was watching him steadily. Nils had never asked, but he’d always thought his CO could tell when he was lying.

  And brother, was he lying now.

  To the FBI and the Kazbekistani officials.

  It wasn’t by choice. Nils was more than willing to tell Bhagat the truth—but not with the K-stanis listening in.

  “What exactly was your relationship with Margaret Moore?” Bhagat asked.

  Shit again. Okay, start with the truth.

  “I haven’t seen her since July 1998. We met in Kazbekistan, at the American embassy there, in December of ’97. We became friends. I was here in DC about six months later, heard she’d separated from her husband and moved back to town, so I, you know, looked her up. She’s a nice looking woman and . . . Well, we got together a few times . . .” Yeah, like a few times a day for two solid weeks. “ . . . but it was strictly platonic, sir.

  “To be honest—” He looked Bhagat in the eye, knowing that he did honest and sincere particularly well. “—if she’d said the word, I would’ve made the relationship more, um, intimate, but she was still married and intending to reconcile with her husband.” Her lying, cheating, sack of shit, completely unworthy of her husband.

  “I don’t know why she asked for me now.” And that was another bald-faced lie. He knew exactly why she’d asked for him. Because he spoke Welsh. Because she was desperate. Because her daughter’s life was at stake. “I mean, other than the fact that she feels she can trust me.”

  Bhagat was silent, gazing down at the notes he’d made on the legal pad in front of him.

  “I think we should give her the cuffs she’s asked for,” Nils said for what seemed like the four thousandth time. “She’s on edge, she’s got that handgun aimed toward the ambassador and the oth
er men at all times. Frankly, we should do everything we can to make her feel as comfortable as possible, and then just wait her out. She may have a small amount of food in her bag, but she doesn’t have a lot. If we wait long enough, she might get so hungry, she’ll let us bring food in. And then we can spike her chicken salad sandwich.”

  “She wants the cuffs and the dead bolt because she’s afraid of falling asleep,” Lieutenant Paoletti commented. “She’s exhausted.”

  “No dead bolt for the door. No way,” Bhagat said flatly. “That’s a no-brainer.”

  “I think our next step should be to wait, sir,” Nils recommended. “Let her wonder what’s going on. Let me go shower and get changed before I go in to talk to her again. If I go back in there still looking like I was yanked out of a training op, like I’ve dropped everything to be here, she’s running the show. But if it’s clear that I’ve taken the time to shower and shave and maybe eat a nice meal, then the emotional ball’s in our court.”

  Bhagat was nodding. But Nils had to drive the point home. “No SWAT teams storming down the door, right, sir? Because if you call out that order, you should also order two body bags in advance. Because she’ll shoot. She’ll only get off a single shot before the team can take her out, but she will take one of the hostages with her.”

  “As opposed to her reaching her limit and taking out all three before we can even get up there?” Bhagat pointed out.

  Shit. “She’s not going to do that, sir. I know her.” Nils looked beseechingly at Lieutenant Paoletti.

  “I recommend taking Lieutenant Nilsson’s advice,” Paoletti said in that easygoing, you-may-be-the-agent-in-charge-but-we-all-know-I’m-really-the-one-in-command attitude of his. He turned to Nils. “Grab a shower and some food and get back here.”

  Now Nils had to figure out a way to get the lieutenant to come out of the embassy with him.

  “There’s a Marriott right across the street,” Paoletti added. “We’re billeted there—I figured we’d want the proximity. Wolchonok’s already gotten you a room.”

  Senior Chief Wolchonok. The senior chief was how Nils was going to get Paoletti out of the embassy. All he’d have to do was make a phone call. Wolchonok would say, “L.T., hate to bother you, but we need you at the Marriott, ASAP.”

  “What’s this about, Senior?” the lieutenant would ask.

  “Can’t tell you over an unsecured line, sir,” and Paoletti would be on his way. Grumbling, no doubt. But if Wolchonok asked, he’d come.

  Getting the FBI over there was going to be a little bit harder.

  Nils stood up. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  At Paoletti’s nod, he left the conference room and went out into the lobby, trying his damnedest not to run.

  Save me. Christ, the look in Meg’s eyes as she’d sung to him had nearly killed him. Nils was no stranger to desperation, but this was unlike any he’d ever seen. Maybe because that desperation was in Meg’s eyes, on Meg’s face.

  K-stani Extremists had her kid. What were the chances that Amy was still alive? Minuscule. But until he knew otherwise, he had to play this as if the kid were still alive.

  Tell no one inside this building. He wouldn’t. But he had to figure out a way to get the FBI over to the Marriott. He supposed he could always call the Bureau, bring someone over who wasn’t already attached to this situation and—

  “Whoa,” he said, stopping short. “Lieutenant Locke. What are you doing here?”

  “Lieutenant Nilsson,” Alyssa Locke greeted him coolly. “I’m part of the team that set up the surveillance mikes and cameras giving us a look and listen into that men’s room upstairs. And it’s not Lieutenant anymore.”

  “You’re FBI,” he realized. Thank you, Jesus. He threw his arms around her, pulling her close in a hug. “Play along,” he breathed into her ear. “Pretend we’re best friends.” He released her. “Great to see you again. Hey, as long as we’re all in wait mode, why don’t you come on over across the street with me? I’m going to shower, then we can grab some lunch.”

  Locke looked at her watch. “I guess I could—”

  “Great.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her with him past the checkpoint—manned now by U.S. Marines—and out the side door.

  They skirted the mob of reporters and cameras and crossed the street at close to a dead run.

  “What’s going on, Nilsson?” Locke asked.

  “I need your help.”

  Save me. Wolchonok was in the hotel, in a conference room right off the lobby, thank God, waiting for him. He raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch as he glanced from Locke to Nils.

  Yeah, right, Senior. Yes, Locke was a babe, but not even Nils with his current scumbag rep was either stupid or horny enough to bring a woman back to his hotel room for a little midafternoon messing around right smack in the middle of a hostage situation. Assuming that Nils went for walking ice cubes like Locke in the first place.

  Wolchonok greeted Alyssa with a nod. “Lieutenant Locke. How are you?”

  “Confused. Nilsson, what—”

  “Senior Chief, do you have a room for me?” Nils asked.

  “Yes, sir. L.T. said you were on your way over.” The senior chief held out a key card. “You’re in room 1712. It’s a suite—lucky you, they’re short on rooms.” Another glance at Locke. “You’re doubled up with Sam Starrett.”

  “You poor thing,” Locke murmured. “That almost makes me feel sorry enough to forgive you for dragging my ass over here. What the hell is going on, Lieutenant?”

  Nils pulled them close, lowered his voice, and told them.

  Maram wanted to kill the prisoners now.

  Umar didn’t want to deal with disposing of the bodies. He was tired after making the drive all the way from Washington. Even if they took them into the swamp and shot them—eliminating the need to clean the blood off the walls and floors afterward—they’d still need to dig a pit to bury them. And even then it would be just their luck, he told Maram, if animals dug up the bodies, leaving various bits and pieces to be stumbled upon by the authorities. Where would that leave them?

  The old woman and the little girl didn’t speak the language, but they clearly understood that it was their imminent fate that was being argued about.

  The man known only as the Bear sat silently, watching them.

  The little one was still groggy from the sleeping drug, and she nestled closer to the ancient lady. Man, she was old. She looked as if she’d lived at least a century already. But she still had her wits about her, and her dignity. She’d even managed to smile at him a few times. She was afraid, but she kept her fear in check.

  It didn’t seem right to treat her with such disrespect, to make her rest those old bones on the floor. If they were going to kill them, they should do it now, forget the inconvenience. But even though Maram had been his sister-in-law, back a long time ago, before his brother Yusef had been taken to prison and tortured to death, she didn’t always listen to him.

  “Nana, tell me again about Dunkirk,” the little one whispered. Amy was her name. It was a good name for her—it fit her long, curly hair and her heart-shaped face. She was a pretty little thing.

  “Even though I was an American,” the old lady whispered back, “I was living in England in 1940, when Hitler’s army attacked France.”

  Hitler. The Bear knew all about Hitler and his Nazis. His Yugoslavian grandfather, gone from this world for ten years now, had spoken of Hitler often, always spitting after saying his name. Hitler had been the devil on earth.

  “Months earlier, England had sent her army, the British Expeditionary Force, to help defend France from a German invasion. But when Germany finally attacked, it was like nothing the French or English soldiers had ever seen before. It was called Blitzkrieg. Lightning war. The German panzers—their tanks—moved at impossible speeds, covering dozens of miles of battleground in a single day. At the time, this was quite remarkable. It was terrifying for those of us listening to the radio reports, hearing of town a
fter town that had fallen in what seemed like the blink of an eye.”

  This was clearly a story the old woman had told little Amy countless times.

  “The German air force,” she continued, “was called the Luftwaffe, and those planes rained bombs and bullets down on the British and French soldiers, most of whom were horribly unprepared to deal with any kind of battle, let alone this blitz of destruction. The French army was believed to be the best fighting force in all of the world, but they quickly crumbled. And they and the BEF were pushed back, all the way to the north of France, to the beaches of a little French town called—”

  “Dunkirk,” the little girl finished for her. But then she lowered her voice, leaning closer to the old lady. “Mommy’s probably really worried about us, isn’t she?”