Dark of Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Well, it was—and it still is—to little ol’ naive me,” Tess said. “And yes, Khosa's handler was Matt Hallfield—the former head of Agency support. Although Russell Stafford's name also came up because he'd had plenty of in-person dealings with Khosa, too. You said he was Hallfield's assistant?”

  “That's right. Although why he would have gone to Kazbekistan is beyond me. Hallfield, yeah, he was a field agent himself in his day, but Stafford? That's flat-out weird.”

  Tess agreed. “Stafford's wasn't a name I recognized, so I flagged it. And I gave the entire report to—wait for it—Doug Brendon, who was my immediate supervisor, and he goes Good eye, Bailey, but it's being handled. ”

  Yeah, that sounded like Dougie Brendon, the current head of the Agency and prick extraordinaire.

  “A week later,” Tess continued, “the missing fifteen million shows up on the reports about Talpur's assets, with an asterisk. Someone's added a note, saying that the money is missing and the subject of an ongoing investigation. As far as Khosa's files? They were gone. They didn't just lock me out—”

  “Which wouldn't have worked.” There was no such thing as hack-proof as far as Tess was concerned.

  “They were completely erased,” she told him. “ Good-bye. I tried to figure out where they'd moved them, but I never did find them.” She paused. “Except for the copy I had made, to include with my report.”

  “Please tell me you still have that.”

  “I do,” she said. “It's on a flashdrive, with all of the other reports I wrote when I worked for the Agency. It's… somewhere safe. Deck actually recommended I do that—keep a record of everything—back when I first left the Agency.” She paused. “And, in fact, I'm pretty sure now that that's what they were looking for when our apartment was ransacked in July.”

  Their apartment had been completely trashed, their sofa slashed, every dish they'd owned broken. The place had been searched, but it was a search with an attitude—and a threatening message.

  “But okay,” Tess continued, “back in 2003, I see that asterisk on the report, and I go back to talk to Brendon, who tells me, off the record, that the ghost group operative who took out Abida Talpur was being questioned, but that these things happened—that operatives of this sort often took their own bonuses. It was a part of doing business with the men and women who had those kinds of special skills. Wink. Wink.”

  “No one ever asked me anything about any missing money,” Jimmy said.

  “Well, all right then,” Tess said. “There's where we start. With Russell Stafford and Doug Brendon.”

  “So this is about money,” Jimmy said. “Jesus Christ, fifteen million isn't even that much by today's standards.”

  “It's not just about money,” Tess said. “It's about accountability and, well, treason. On the chopper flight out here, I dug to see if there was any additional information—recent info—on either Talpur or Khosa in the Agency files, and turns out Hersek Khosa not only had al Qaeda ties, but his name came up in connection to perpetrators of the 9/11 attacks. He was an al Qaeda leader, and he went on to help fund the Bali bombing as well as set up terrorist training camps in Indonesia, Afghanistan, Algeria, and Kazbekistan. The real kicker is that there were reports—that had been conveniently buried or best case negligently overlooked—that confirmed this information as far back as 1997.”

  Fuck. “So you think Russell Stafford brokered the murder of Abida Talpur in exchange for fifteen million dollars from Hersek Khosa,” Jimmy said, “knowing he was putting money and power into the hands of an al Qaeda leader?”

  “I think,” Tess said, “that in 1999 al Qaeda didn't mean the same thing it does now. It was just another random terrorist group that posed a threat to people living in already dangerous places. So, yeah. For fifteen million dollars, Stafford brokered that deal, got the Agency—and you—to do the dirty work, buried the reports on Hersek Khosa, and went on his merry way. According to his personnel file, he was in line to take over Matt Hall-field's job. Instead, he vanished. I think 9/11 happened, and everyone started looking hard at anyone with money in the region. And Hallfield— out of the blue—commits suicide on October 4, 2001. Yeah, he's got cancer, but everyone's shocked—”

  “Oh, tell me you think that Russ Stafford killed him.”

  “I do think Russ Stafford killed him,” Tess said. “I think Hallfield correctly made the connection between Khosa and al Qaeda, and was going to create trouble for both Stafford and the entire Agency. And although I think Doug Brendon may not have been involved, I think he knows enough to go to jail.” He could hear her smile. “We got em, Jimmy.”

  “You do know that I think it's beyond hot,” Jimmy told her, “that you're so freaking smart… ?”

  Tess laughed. “We got 'em.”

  Yeah, right. “So how do we use this information to make 'em give us back Dave?” Jimmy asked.

  “That,” Tess said, “is where it gets even more tricky. …”

  Sophia was sitting in the Troubleshooters women's locker room, wet hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing Tracy's jeans and a T-shirt, with her own sneakers—left in her locker last week—on her feet.

  At her request, Lindsey and Tracy had left her alone.

  She'd needed to throw up again, and she didn't want her friends to see or hear her. She didn't want them to know that she was pregnant. She couldn't risk one of the team leaders—Alyssa or Jules or Decker—deciding that she was too fragile to help rescue Dave. And she was going to help rescue Dave.

  She'd already started working out a plan. Apparently, the men who'd taken Dave had access to all of the information on Tracy's computer. So Sophia would send an e-mail from Tracy's computer—it didn't matter to whom. She could send it to herself, and they'd receive it.

  She would tell them that she was willing to trade whatever information they wanted in return for Dave. Except they wouldn't want information, they'd want Nash, and seeing as how that would piss off Tess…

  Okay. So, Sophia would tell them that she was willing to trade herself for Dave. She would be their hostage in return for them dropping Dave at the nearest emergency room. His knife wound needed immediate treatment—it would buy the TS Inc. team at least a little time.

  And really, as far as being their hostage went, what could they do to her that hadn't already been done before?

  Except, dear God, this time she was pregnant. It wasn't just her own life she'd be risking.

  A soft knock on the door made her look over to see Lindsey peeking in at her. “You dressed?”

  “Yeah,” Sophia said. “I'm just bracing myself to come out there.”

  “Deck wants to know if it's okay if he comes in,” Lindsey asked, and Sophia stood up, her heart instantly lodged in her throat.

  “There's been no news about Dave,” Deck said, pushing the door open so that she could see him. And she could, indeed, see his words confirmed by the calm certainty on his face, in his eyes.

  “Sorry,” Lindsey said. “Crap. Of course you'd think … God, I'm sorry.”

  “May I come in?” Deck asked. “I thought this would be a good place to talk privately.”

  “I was so glad to hear about Jimmy,” Sophia told him. “So glad.”

  He nodded, and even smiled—and she looked at him harder. What was different? Something was. It wasn't his clothes. He had on faded blue jeans with those giant boots that she'd sometimes seen him wear during PT. Dave had told her it was an old SEAL trick. Anyone could run five miles in sneakers, but doing it in boots, in soft sand? That was a workout.

  His T-shirt was standard, too. A faded shade of grayish green, with a faded blue trim around the crewneck collar and sleeves. He must've bought a dozen of them, on sale, in different colors. He usually wore a shirt over it, to hide his shoulder holster, but his holster was currently nowhere in sight.

  Okay, so that was unusual, but… The difference was more in the way he was standing, in the energy that radiated from him. He was somehow less tense, less tig
htly wound.

  Which didn't mean he wasn't still exuding buckets of grim. He was. His concern for Dave was clear. And yet there was a peacefulness to him that she'd never seen before.

  “It was hard,” he told her, “keeping the truth about Jim from everyone like that. I'm sorry, because I know it must've been—”

  “You don't need to apologize,” Sophia reassured him. “We were part of your cover. Dave and I both understood that. And I am incredibly glad that you didn't lose him, Deck. That we didn't lose him. I'm glad for Tess, too.”

  Decker nodded. “May I … ?” He was still standing in the door.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. “Of course, come in.” She forced a smile. “As long as no one out there needs to, you know, pee.”

  “They've been cleared to use the men's.” Decker nodded his thanks to Lindsey as he let the door close behind him. He came over to the cluster of easy chairs in the corner, where she was standing. “This is nice. We don't have anything remotely like this in the other locker room.”

  “My guess is that you're probably not doing a lot of breast-feeding in there,” Sophia said. After Ashton was born, Alyssa had started bringing the baby with her into the office. But she found it difficult to switch instantly from company XO to mommy, which was frustrating for both mother and child. And everyone else in the office, too, considering Ash's healthy lungs.

  Tracy had been the one to come up with the solution—to create a quiet place here in the women's locker room that would allow Alyssa to leave the chaos of her office and relax during Ash's feedings. Tracy had also repainted the walls a soothing shade of blue—coming in on a Saturday and Sunday to do the work herself. She'd bought lamps and new dressings for the window, and a plush throw rug for the tile floor.

  The entire transformation had taken place over the course of one single weekend, and Alyssa had hugged Tracy when she'd seen it. Which was saying something, because the XO wasn't exactly the president of the Tracy Shapiro Fan Club.

  Deck now hovered near the second easy chair, unwilling or more likely unable to sit before Sophia did. The man was nothing if not terminally polite.

  “Please.” Sophia sat. “You've really never been in here?” she asked. “Even after hours, when no one's around?”

  “Never.” It was such a Decker thing to say, a Decker thing to do. And, in another Decker move, he cut to the chase. “Dave needs to get to a hospital. The samples from the knife that Liam Smith used to stab him started growing all kinds of bacteria in the lab. Do you have a sense of when his infection started?”

  She shook her head and forced herself to breathe past the fear that filled her throat. “He seemed fine, right up until he face-planted. But he changed the bandages himself after we got to the hotel.”

  “Okay,” he said. He looked out of place sitting there, on the very edge of that chair, elbows on his knees as he leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowed as he. … Ah, yes. He'd caught sight of the bruise that was forming on her cheekbone and around her left eye.

  She angled her head so that he had better light with which to see it.

  “You all right?” he asked, searching her eyes as if to make sure she wasn't going to lie about it.

  “It hurts.”

  “It must've been a surprise—having him hit you like that.”

  “It was,” she said. “But he thought they were going to kill me and he wanted—”

  “He ever hit you before?” Decker interrupted.

  Sophia laughed. “Please,” she said. “Dave?”

  Decker nodded, but then said, “You know how when you go to the emergency room, and the triage nurse is required to ask—”

  “He's never hit me before,” she said. “These are not the questions you need to be asking. I'm fine.” She stressed her words. “Dave, however, is not.” She leaned forward, too. “Who's got him, where have they got him, and how are we going to get him back so we can get him to the hospital?”

  Her proximity made Decker sit back in his seat—he never did like to let anyone get too close. No, make that her. He didn't like to let her get too close.

  “We're working on it,” he said.

  “Great,” she said. “What have you got, because I want to work on it, too.”

  He was silent, then, just looking at her.

  Dave would have been talking a mile a minute, using diagrams and other visual aids to make sure she understood every single thing that he knew about the situation.

  “Why did Dave rewrite his will before leaving your hotel room?” Deck finally asked—and she sat back in her seat, too.

  Dave rewrote his will? This was the first she'd heard about it.

  “See, I can't figure out why he would've done that, unless he somehow knew this attack was coming. Is it possible that he was in contact with the kidnappers?” Decker asked her. “Was he being, I don't know, blackmailed—because they tried that with Nash, and I know this Anise Turiano thing was a big problem for Dave a few years back. If they somehow threatened to resurrect it—”

  “They did,” Sophia said. “They resurrected it. You know that they killed a CIA agent to make it look as if Dave …” Oh, God. She exhaled hard. “Deck, I've been with Dave pretty much constantly over the past few days—”

  “Pretty much isn't constantly,” he pointed out.

  “It's close enough, considering that the times I wasn't with him he was under guard, or with an FBI agent, or with Tom and Chief Kar-mody.”

  “You slept though, right?” he said. “So it's possible—”

  “It's possible,” Sophia said sharply, “that Lindsey's going to come running in here to announce that she's won a Nobel Peace Prize. But it's not at all likely.”

  “And you have no idea why Dave would, essentially, get his life in order? Cross all his t's, dot all his i's,” Decker asked quietly as he dug in his pocket for something—a folded-up envelope. “Because he didn't only write a will. He also wrote this. Karmody had it, but it was addressed to me.”

  He took what looked like a letter from the envelope and held it out for her. So she took it and yes. This was Dave's familiar handwriting. She unfolded it and …

  Lawrence, Dave had written.

  I don't know what's going to happen over the next few days. I'm determined to come through this, but I fear determination alone won't win the day. I'm uncertain as to the identity of my enemies. I know only one thing for sure—I will not put Sophia into any additional danger.

  She wanted me to ask for your help—you are, after all, the one and only Decker—so I am doing that now.

  Please don't let her come after me. If I don't come back within a few days, it's because I'm dead. But the threat will be gone— provided the instructions in my will are followed and the trail of my assets doesn't lead back to Sophia. Make sure that doesn't happen.

  I believe firmly in fate, and if I don't return, it's because it was meant to be. I can only hope that my death brings you and Sophia together.

  “Oh, my God,” Sophia said, looking up at Decker. “It gets worse,” he said.

  I think you've long been holding the assumption that loving Sophia would be painful or difficult. I assure you, it is anything but. She's worked hard to put the past behind her, although there is one topic she and I have never discussed.

  The death of her husband.

  I went to Kazabek recently to get the answers to questions that Sophia seemed unwilling or unable to reveal. And I discovered the awful truth by talking to a number of women who worked in Padsha Bashir's palace while Sophia was held prisoner there.

  Bashir used his sword to behead Dimitri as Sophia stood by, powerless. The blade was sharp enough, and he was strong enough to do the deed in a single blow. But the horror didn't end there. As we well know, Bashir “married” Sophia, and took possession of her assets—but this apparently happened while her husband's body twitched, while she was covered with the still-warm spray of his blood. Bashir claimed possession of Sophia as his bride shortly after—in any other cu
lture this would have been called rape — with Dimitri's head on a table beside the bed.

  Yes, you read that right.

  I was told that it remained there, locked with her in her room, until it started drawing too many flies.

  I'm telling you this because I feel confident that Sophia herself will never speak of it. But I wanted you to know.

  It was meant to break her, to change her, to weaken her, to control her. To make her passive and hopeless, unwilling to resist or run.

  And yet, when the opportunity arose, Sophia used Bashir's very same sword to run him through. She tried to kill him, and then she escaped.

  Sophia is not a victim, she's a survivor. She's not fragile or weak, she's unbelievably strong. She's not filled with despair or depression over all that she lost—and she lost a man whom she loved with all of her heart. She grieved that loss, and has since acknowledged—with gladness—that she's still alive.

  And hers is not a life that she's willing to live grudgingly, filled with regret and weighed down by remorse. With Sophia, each day is a glorious celebration, a joyous tribute to life. With Sophia, each day is a blessing and a gift from God.

  Which brings me back to where you found her in Kazabek, all those years ago.

  She's told me very little about what went on between the two of you after she fled Bashir's palace. I can only imagine how frightened—practically feral—she must have been when you first met. What I know about the event in question, I learned from you, a day or so after it transpired. She's long forgiven you—you need to look her in the eye and let her accept your apology. It's long past time for that.

  And then—if I'm truly gone—you'll be able to take her hand and see the Sophia that I see, the Sophia that I love. And I know that you will be unable to do anything but love her as completely as I do.

  Of course, if I'm still here and you do that, I'll challenge you to a duel, but I suspect if you're reading this, you don't need to worry about that.

  Please, please make her happy. It would take such little effort. Just close your eyes, dear friend, and let go of the past.