Sharif stood and moved behind the bar to find a bowl of popcorn. He tossed a few pieces in his mouth, returned to his seat beside Eva, and offered her the bowl.
“So all Hassam said was to show her the movie?” he asked Tariq.
“He also said she doesn’t know who her husband is,” Tariq said.
“What exactly does that mean?” Eva turned to look at Sharif before glaring at Tariq.
“I think you’ll see in a moment, Mrs. Martin,” Sharif said, as the lights in the room dimmed and the screen lit up. Eva stared as Owen appeared onscreen, a gun in one hand and a very attractive brunette attached to the other.
• • •
The next half hour was one of the longest Eva had ever endured. She sat motionless and emotionless as photo after photo of Owen with other women flashed before her: Owen in nightclubs kissing blondes, in parks snuggling with redheads, at beaches with tropical beauties. There was even a shot of Owen and Alicia in a swimming pool, her arms locked around his neck, his mouth against her ear. My God, was there any woman in the modern world he hadn’t kissed? Eva was utterly dumbfounded. She’d known her husband was no virgin but the pictures Hassam so graciously provided portrayed her ever-loving spouse as an utter degenerate.
Then there were photos that didn’t include women: Owen setting explosive devices, Owen in military camouflage holding automatic weapons, Owen with a high-powered rifle on top of a high-rise building. It went on, and on, and on. Finally, there was a photo of Owen and Derrick both dressed in traditional Bedouin garb, sitting in a desert, complete with camels and armed natives.
After that were a series of photos of Owen with Eva: walking in London together, sitting at an outdoor restaurant laughing, kissing on the balcony of their hotel in Paris. Finally, came a shot of Eva sitting with Derrick and Owen at the cafe they’d visited just the previous morning for coffee and croissants. Eva was wearing her large sunhat and Owen was holding her hand in his, pressing his lips against her fingertips while Derrick looked on, expression inscrutable beneath his aviator sunglasses.
The screen went black and the lights came up, causing Eva to blink rapidly a few times. She quickly tried to control the expression on her face and sat up straighter. Tariq, still standing near the bar, cleared his throat and shuffled his feet for a moment, clearly uncomfortable. “Do you understand what you’ve just seen, Mrs. Martin?” he asked.
“It would be pretty hard not to understand that,” she bit out.
“You don’t appear to be the only lovely woman he pays attention to, I’d say,” came a deep voice at the back of the room.
Eva started and turned in her seat to see Hassam walking down the aisle of the room.
“For many years now your husband has traveled the world taking what he wants from the women he seduces. He has no respect for them and no honor where females are concerned.”
“You know,” Eva said as she stroked the fabric of her seat, “if you were to take these seats and recover them in something a little lighter, it would really brighten it up in here. I mean normally you want to have a home theatre dark, but with your, uh … walls … you can afford some brighter contrasts.” She stood up out of her chair and began walking along the perimeter of the room.
The three men looked at her blankly.
“The other thing you might consider,” she continued, bestowing a brilliant smile on Hassam, “is to use some folding screens in front of those two larger walls. I’m thinking something more modern, not too Eastern, but possibly with a raw wood finish to match the doors … ”
“Mrs. Martin!” Hassam bellowed.
Eva stuttered to a stop. “Yes?” she squeaked out.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you? Your husband is a man without honor who will never be faithful to you. He is a vile scourge upon the women of this earth. Do you not care about this?”
Eva sat quietly for a moment, her eyes closed, then she took a deep breath. “What I really care about is why you’d have these poor men working down here without access to natural light. Studies have shown that a lack of natural light can cause all sorts of secondary health issues.”
Hassam scratched his large head and looked questioningly at Tariq and Sharif who both just shrugged.
“And just what were all those ridiculous pictures of my husband with guns?” Eva suddenly demanded turning sharply towards Hassam.
“I expected you to be blind to his affairs, but I never thought you could possibly be unaware of his profession. Mrs. Martin, he is MI6,” Hassam replied. “British Secret Intelligence? He is one of their top agents. He has killed dozens of men and a few women in the last decade. He regularly associates with terrorists, criminals, and traitors.”
Eva arched an eyebrow at him in disbelief.
“He was the British agent behind several uprisings against Middle Eastern governments in the last three years, and the assassinations of two religious leaders. He is banned from four different countries for crimes against their governments. You did not know this about your husband? Truly?”
“Well, excuse me if I never thought to ask, ‘Gee, are you an international spy?’ because you know, that’s right at the top of my list of first date questions!” she shot back.
“Well,” Hassam continued, “It is true, every photo, every word of what I’ve told you. Thankfully, we have … how do you say … ‘enlightened’ you and now you know exactly what kind of man you have married, yes?”
“Yes, one who seems to have chosen to lie to me … repeatedly.”
Eva felt an iciness descend into her veins. It spread rapidly throughout her body, freezing her heart, and smothering her lungs. She breathed shallowly and continued to stroll about the room, eyes dry, face impassive.
She didn’t want to believe them, knew that these things could easily be fabricated in the digital age. But, it started to make sense out of a lot of things: his obsession with remaining private, his overprotective stance around her, his unexplained knowledge of foreign affairs, his performances in out of the way places like Pakistan and Libya. Good God she was stupid. Really, really stupid.
Finally, she turned to Hassam. “What do you want with me?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he answered. “You are simply the bait. I want him.”
“Why?” she said very directly.
“Because one of the women he toyed with was my sister. In my country she could be sentenced to death for what he did and what she allowed him to do. Luckily my family spends six months of each year in Egypt where the religious laws are not as strict as in our homeland. So, Pilar must spend six months each year here with me, and six months in Egypt with our mother. She can never go home again. Someone must be punished for what happened, and I intend to punish Owen Martin like the dog he is.”
Eva winced, but then steeled herself against the rage that shown in Hassam’s eyes.
“And you think he’ll come for me?”
“Yes, he appears to have a certain attachment to you.”
“Really?” she queried. “If he is what you say — a liar, an assassin, one of the world’s most dangerous men — you truly think that he’ll give a damn what happens to me?” She shivered briefly, as if a draft had suddenly come into the room. “You do know that I’m no one, right? I’m the daughter of a schoolteacher and a dentist from Kansas. I know virtually nothing about international affairs, or military actions. I decorate people’s houses for God’s sake,” she laughed, but with no humor. “Why would he come for me? What the hell did he even want with me in the first place?”
“That,” said Hassam, “is the million dollar question.”
Chapter Ten
Paris — 3:10 9 September
Owen sat on a stage at the Zar’s nightclub in front of an enormous dance floor filled with teens and twenty-somethings, most of whom he knew were from Paris’ wealthiest Middle Eastern families. The DJ was spinning thumping bass lines and electronic dance music, and the half-naked masses were writhing and grinding with abando
n. He could only imagine how well his acoustic guitar and slow ballads would go over with this crowd. It wasn’t the most uncomfortable performance he’d ever had to give — there was that time in Pakistan when he’d done an entire set with a Taliban-hired assassin holding a knife at his throat — but, it was definitely making its way up the list.
The DJ glanced at him, and he gave the man a nod. The music faded and the thumping slowed until the crowd stumbled to a halt.
The DJ spoke into his microphone as he said, “Hey, Paris, are we shakin’ down the house tonight?” The crowd cheered and bellowed. “Well, I don’t want you all to wear out your dancin’ shoes, so it’s time for a little romance, bros. Grab a hot lady and take a few minutes to listen to our special guest, Mr. Owen Martin!” The applause and howls that went up were more for the DJ’s banter than for Owen, but he took what he could get and strummed his guitar a few times.
“Thanks very much for having me tonight. I uh, don’t want to interrupt your party for too long, but some friends of mine wanted to hear me play this song, and I’m nothing if not accommodating.”
“You’re also wicked hot for an old guy!” screamed one young woman.
“Ahh, you’ll give me a big head now,” Owen replied laughing. “So, here it goes.”
The Zar had asked for a song about people meeting in Paris that night, so Owen sang a tale of two lovers who met at a discotheque called Le Toile d’Araignee on the left bank. They met at midnight, by the antiquated payphones that the club still used. The young man said to his lover, “Did you perform tonight?” and she replied, “Yes,” because she worked as a singing waitress at a cafe. Then, the young man gave her a present, which she thanked him for. He told her it was a gift from the heart of his country and he wanted her to know about his people. They shared one sweet kiss and then they both had to leave, but she had his gift to remember him by until they could meet again.
When the song was finished, the crowd cheered more enthusiastically than Owen would have predicted, and a few more girls shouted things like, “I’ve got a present for you!” and “I’ll meet you anytime you’d like!” Owen smiled, stood, and waved as he walked off the stage. The DJ started up the dance grooves again before Owen disappeared behind the curtain and within moments it was as if he’d never even been there.
Behind the stage, Owen felt the bite of his own treachery gnaw at his gut. He had just given a purported leader of Al Qaeda the drop point for blueprints of Iranian nuclear facilities; blueprints that could have given Britain and its allies the means to prevent nuclear warfare. Blueprints that might give Al Qaeda the means to get their own hands on nuclear weapons. He was disgusted with himself, but he focused on Eva and what she might be going through at this very moment. He silently vowed he would get her back in one undamaged piece, and then he would personally take down Hassam and the Zar and every other bloody bastard who had fucked with him tonight.
A small, bald man who introduced himself as Joachim led Owen further into the club’s back hallway. He held Owen’s jacket out to him and waited while Owen packed up his guitar. He looked sadly at the instrument, knowing he couldn’t take it with him. Noticing his hesitancy, Joachim said curtly, “We’ll have it delivered to your hotel. Now let’s go.”
Nodding, Owen followed Joachim outside into the dark, and down the busy sidewalk. When they reached the nearest intersection, a large black SUV pulled up and Joachim motioned for Owen to get in. Once they were settled in the backseat behind windows so darkly tinted it was impossible to see the surrounding streets, Joachim said, “This is how we will work together. I will take you to the entrance used for deliveries to Hassam’s headquarters. I will unlock the door for you and then you will be on your own. I will not give you any information about the layout, or the security measures or anything about Hassam’s business. You understand?”
“Absolutely, mate. Just get me to the door. Trust me, I’ll take care of the rest,” Owen replied darkly.
They drove a circuitous pattern for thirty or forty minutes, turning, stopping, and starting again. Owen realized quickly the Zar had given instructions to confuse his orientation as much as possible. He was surprised they hadn’t tried to blindfold him, but maybe they realized he would never have agreed to it. They finally came to a darkened side street where the car pulled up alongside the curb and Joachim and the driver removed Owen from the vehicle. They each held one of his arms, and quickly led him down a small dank stairway. His brief glimpse of the street showed him what looked like eighteenth century apartments and extremely narrow sidewalks.
At the bottom of the staircase was a plain metal door with a well-hidden electronic keypad. Joachim rapidly punched in a code, opened the door, and motioned for Owen to enter the dark beyond.
As he scanned the doorway and adjacent surfaces looking for signs that the door had a camera attached, Owen thought it would be helpful to know if Hassam’s men were already on to him or if he retained an element of surprise. For a moment it seemed he might have gotten lucky but then he saw the quick flash of red high up in the top corner of the doorway. A light had blinked on for a split second. He could easily have missed it, but somehow the fates had conspired and he’d looked in exactly the right direction at the right moment. Hassam would know he was coming. It didn’t alter his intentions any, but it made things more difficult.
Owen stepped on through and Joachim grunted at him as he slammed the door shut. The sound of the electronic lock clicking into place was rather ominous, but it was hardly the tightest spot Agent Owen Martin had ever been in. He cleared his mind of anything but the task immediately at hand — negotiating the dark passageway he’d been left in. Reaching behind his neck, he opened a tab on the underside of his jacket collar and slid out his small pistol. He pressed a button on the side of his watch that produced a small light he shined around the space he stood in. It was bright enough to see that about ten paces in front of him were a set of steep stone stairs descending into blackness.
“Must have been hoping those would finish me off straight away,” he muttered.
Carefully, he made his way down into the Paris catacombs. His hand ran along the edges of bones mortared into the walls of the staircase. He grimaced. He’d been below ground in Paris several times before, but had never really gotten used to the idea of all those human remains holding the place up. He wondered if Eva had seen the macabre mortar, and hoped that it hadn’t frightened her too much. His heart contracted at the thought of her being hurt or scared by Hassam’s men, but before he could continue those thoughts his foot landed on something softer than the stone steps and a high-pitched squeal echoed through the stairwell. He held his breath and remained motionless as the rat scurried away into a hole in the wall.
Then he heard it: the approach of boots on stone, two or three sets of footsteps, and the unique squeeching sound of metal against leather — guns in holsters. He tiptoed down the remainder of the staircase, hands on either wall to steady his decent. His eyes had adjusted enough that he could see the walls flare out below him indicating the end of the flight. Two steps from the bottom he braced his arms and feet against the walls of the stairwell and inched his way up, using the pressure he exerted against the walls to hold himself aloft.
As the new arrivals rounded the corner of the hallway they were in, they entered the stairwell just beneath him. The leader carried a torch that he pointed at the floor in the corridor that preceded the stairs. “You need to be careful, Tariq,” Sharif whispered, adjusting the angle of the torch to shine on the stairs ahead. “He’s an infidel dog but also crafty like a fox.” At that moment, Sharif reached the stairwell and moved to take the first step up. Owen, waiting breathlessly from his aerial perch, released his legs, keeping his arms braced against the walls, and swung his lower body, booted feet first, against Sharif’s chest as hard as he could. Sharif went flying backwards into Tariq who yelped as both he and Sharif landed against the wall opposite the stairwell in a tangled heap.
Owen leaped
down the bottom few stairs, grabbed the abandoned torch and pointed his gun at the two men as they struggled to regain their feet.
Owen snarled at them, “Get the hell up and keep those ugly hands where I can see them.”
Both men complied, holding their arms over their eyes to block the burning light Owen shoved at them.
“Now,” Owen said as he set the torch into a nearby wall sconce and then reached over to remove their guns from their belt holsters. “Undo your belts.”
Tariq looked inquiringly at Sharif who shrugged his shoulders before blinking in Owen’s direction like a big dumb owl.
“Today, mates,” Owen growled.
Both men clumsily unbuckled their belts.
“And, drop the trousers,” he continued.
Sharif spat on the floor next to him and gritted out through his teeth, “You will pay for this you filthy son of a whore.”
“Really, lad, there’s no need to bring me mum into it,” Owen replied, flashing his teeth menacingly.
After both of Hassam’s men stood barefoot in their boxers, he took a pair of Plastic Handcuffs from his pocket and had each man fasten them on the other’s wrists.
“All right you two, you know what I’m here for, lead on.”
Tariq and Sharif shuffled forward into the dark, heads hung low.
• • •
After watching Hassam’s version of a home movie, Eva was taken to one of the many labyrinthine halls of the underground compound. Hassam himself took her, sending Tariq and Sharif off on some other sort of errand. They wound through several passages, finally arriving at a hallway that looked substantially different than the others. Here, the walls were covered with lush tapestries, bright lights had been installed along tracks in the ceilings and the floors had been covered in natural fiber matting that made them soft to the touch. Eva was about to scrape up the courage to ask Hassam who had decorated it for him when she heard giggling and women’s voices. The door they were approaching flew open and a petite brunette bounded out, head turned to laugh with whoever was still inside the room.
Love, Lies, and British Spies Page 7
