by Unknown
And it was only then, after Pauline’s funeral, that Francie finally reached out to the writer of that anonymous email. Thank you, she wrote, keeping it simple.
But her email had bounced back. The recipient had closed that account.
You know I’d wait for you forever, right?
Francine didn’t have to dig deep to stir up the clear-as-day memory of Berto’s youthful promise.
But on its heels came a vivid image from that terrible, horrible day she’d pretended that she was in that sex tape with Aaron—Berto’s hatred for her darkening his eyes, and then changing to an even more awful indifference, as he said, “Whatever.” As then he turned and walked away, leaving her with Davio, who didn’t wait for the door to close before he slapped her again, brain-jarringly hard, across the face.
Now, as always, Francine blinked and boxed it up, and pushed it all aside. She had a job to do. Find Sheldon and bring him home. And then convince Ian that this Mission: Impossible bullshit in Miami was not a job worth risking. Yeah, he’d given his word and said that he’d do it, but fuck that. It wouldn’t take much for the five of them to vanish, to go fully off the grid, and never be heard from, ever again.
* * *
“This is ridiculously inefficient.”
Ian looked up from the computer to find Phoebe gazing at him from across the table. Because there was only one computer at Zebra, he’d dug a printer and a ream of paper out of the main lockup, and had printed out hard copies of several of the many FBI files that had downloaded onto the laptop’s hard drive. That way, she could read while he sifted through another of the documents onscreen.
“I’m reading this report,” she said, “and I’m finding out all about the father of those kidnapped kids. Guy’s name is Sulislaw Taman Hamad, and I see that he attended Yale and spent a great deal of time in the West, going by the name Steve Hamad. He met and married Lusa Vaszko while he was in school. Then, about five years ago, he fully embraced his standing as some kind of prince from something called the Kazak tribe and denounced his ties to America. But without Internet access, I can’t Google Kazak, so I don’t really know what that means.”
“It means I’m screwed,” Ian said. “It means he’s a fundamentalist with access to money, and a knowledge of the West, so I can pretty much guarantee he’s going to target me after this is over. It also means we take the concept of U.S. law—or international law, for that matter—and throw it right out the window. The only law this douchebag follows is his own. So that divorce that his ex-wife filed for and received? In his mind, it doesn’t exist. Same thing for her custody of the kids. That’s an impossibility in his world. She’s his property, and the kids are, too. He’s taking back what he believes he owns.”
“Hamad may not follow U.S. or international law,” Phoebe pointed out, “but the government of Kazbekistan—”
“Has little to no control over the Kazak region of the country,” Ian finished for her. “And every interest in the repatriation of a nuclear physicist like the ex-wife.”
“Is a draconian husband really going to let his wife work for anyone, let alone a government he probably doesn’t recognize?” Phoebe asked.
“Ex-husband,” Ian corrected her. “Here, he’s her ex-husband.”
“But there, he thinks he’s not,” she countered. “And I was going there. With both feet. Worst-case scenario.”
“Worst case, Dr. Vaszko returns to K-stan in pursuit of her children, and he immediately executes her. Just boom. Gun to the head, she’s dead as soon as she steps off the plane.”
Behind her glasses, Phoebe blinked, but otherwise didn’t react. “Worst case on a world-wide level,” she pointed out, “is she returns to K-stan, builds them a nuclear weapon, and then he kills her.” She leaned across the table. “But really, how likely is that to happen over your far-more-personal-to-her worst case? Again, since I can’t Google Kazak or delve more deeply into our guy’s time spent at Yale to find out how open he’d be to letting his wife work …”
“Maybe he’d do it in exchange for the K-stani government’s help in getting his kids back.”
Phoebe shook her head. “We’ve been told that the ambassador’s not involved.”
“That doesn’t mean the government’s not,” Ian told her. “And the way that we’re tiptoeing into this mission makes me believe that our government knows that their government is—absolutely—involved on some level.”
Ian knew that Phoebe was well aware that that meant rescuing these kids and keeping their mother out of K-stan was a mission that could not fail.
“I could really use a computer,” she said again.
“In Miami,” Ian said, “we’ll have access to more than one.”
“Good, because I also have some questions specific to the K-stani consulate staff’s immunity to U.S. law. As far as I can tell, it’s only the ambassador and his or her family who have such protections. The idea that an embassy or consulate is sacrosanct is a Cold War myth. Yes, there are exceptions—and I’m simplifying, of course.”
“Of course,” Ian murmured.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “This is well outside of my area of expertise, so forgive me if I’m missing something obvious, but from what I’ve read, it seems that if, say, a kidnapped child had access to a cell phone and was able to call for help, saying I’m here, held against my will in the Kazbekistani consulate, the police would be able to go in to investigate.”
“From what I know,” Ian told her, “that’s true.”
She leaned toward him. “So why not simply hack into their security system and set off their fire alarm. Go in with the first responders—”
“If the kidnappers suspected that was happening, they might harm the children. Hamad’s instructions may well have been If I can’t have them, you can’t either.”
“God,” she said, sitting back in her seat.
“You’re not going to be happy when you do get to Google Kazak,” Ian told her.
She leaned in toward him again. “Okay,” she said. “So execute a simple middle-of-the-night break-in. You locate the kidnapped children, barricade yourself in with them, and then hit the fire alarm. While simultaneously giving them your cell phone so they can call nine-one-one for help.”
In theory, it wasn’t all that bad an idea. Still … “It’s not that simple,” Ian told her. “That approach would jeopardize our diplomatic relationship with—”
“Kidnappers,” she interrupted and finished for him. “Our diplomatic relationship with a country whose consulate staff includes lawless murderers and kidnappers. Whom the K-stani government’s leaders would immediately disavow the moment the plot was revealed.”
Again, she had a point. But … “It’s really not that simple,” he said.
“Why not? I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I keep coming back to the fact that this approach—breaking in versus getting back in touch with the Dutchman, whom you haven’t seen in years … A break-in could be done immediately.”
“That’s not true,” he said. “It’s just not. The prep time would be extensive.”
“But with your expertise,” Phoebe argued, “and talents, and experience at this exact type of thing … international jewel thief that you are. Allegedly. And yes, you protest—rather weakly—that you’re nothing of the sort. While at the same time effectively propagating your notoriety. Very effectively, I might add. Which is finally starting to make sense, the longer I know you.”
With his peripheral vision, Ian could see Deb on the far side of the room. The FBI agent was sitting on the sofa and sifting through another printed file. “Get to the point,” he told Phoebe. “This dancing around is not like you.”
She glanced at Deb, too, then leaned in even further, and lowered her voice. “The point is that you’re a liar, Ian Dunn. A professional one. You’re not really a jewel thief, at least certainly not the cat burglar kind. I’m betting it’s been years since you’ve broken past any kind of security system whatsoev
er. And I think that’s because you don’t have to, not as long as you can talk your way past the guards. Which is something you’re very, very good at, because you’re a con artist.”
He kept his expression bland. “Well, you’re certainly entitled to your uneducated, action-movie-inspired opinion.”
“Or my sophisticated, observant, and erudite opinion,” Phoebe countered. “It really is making sense now. Your unwillingness to break past the piddling little security system at that house near the harbor, despite being naked and knowing that the place was empty, and that there had to be clothes or at least a blanket inside …?”
“There weren’t any blankets on the boat,” he pointed out.
“You’re not stupid,” she countered. “What are the odds of that happening to us twice in a row—that a waterfront vacation home would be completely empty?”
“Actually quite high,” he said. “In this economy? Lotta property for sale here in Sarasota, much of it unoccupied, I imagine.”
“Why would someone take everything out of the house but leave deck furniture? No. You didn’t break in because you couldn’t break in. Some jewel thief.”
Deb’s head was still down—Ian could see her in his peripheral vision as he made himself smile broadly at Phoebe. “You have a very vivid imagination.”
“I do,” she agreed, “combined with excellent deductive reasoning. Is that really the best you can come up with? A condescending nonargument?”
“I don’t need to prove anything to you, or to anyone,” Ian said. “If you want to think I can’t break past a basic home security system, well, honey, you go ahead and think that.”
“Condescending nonargument complete with belittling term of endearment it is,” Phoebe said. “How about your immediate decision to use both your past relationship with the Dutchman and the threat from the Dellarosas to get you inside the consulate—without waiting to see what kind of info the FBI has on the building’s security system?”
Ian laughed. “So now my desire to use the easiest, simplest, quickest approach is somehow sinister? Seriously, Pheebs—”
“Seriously, Eee,” she mimicked him. “I’m your lawyer. I won’t tell.”
“Yeah,” he said, “because anyone you try to tell will be convinced that you’re crazy. Which you are.”
“Don’t forget my vivid imagination,” she shot back at him. “Honey.”
Ian sighed heavily.
“Before you make some excuse—you need another sandwich, have to take a leak, want to check on your brother—and walk away from me, take a second to listen to this. It’s occurred to me, as you’re figuring out your big con-game plan, that if you do manage to rescue—” She stopped, corrected herself. “—when you rescue those kids, it might be worth thinking ahead. Maybe set something up that makes the Dutchman and his buddy Steve believe that the kids and their mother are dead. Because what little I do know about the father? If he’s got money—and you seem to think he does—he’s going to try again. That means this threat to national security exists as long as he’s …” She cleared her throat. “Alive. Or as long as she and the kids are. And I’m betting it’s easier to fake-kill them than it is to fake- or even real-kill him.”
Ian gazed across the table at her. Again, she had a very good point.
She didn’t wait for him to make any more noise along the vivid imagination line. “So that’s it,” she continued. “Discussion concluded. You now know what I think. You heard my suggestion. If you can use anything I said to protect those kids, then good. If you can’t, that’s okay, too, because just getting them out of there is …” She nodded her head, her eyes behind those glasses so warm and brown. “It’s enough. It’s plenty. I didn’t mean to imply that you needed to do more than that. I just thought—”
“Oh, don’t go soft on me now,” he said. “It’s hot when you get all in my face, order me around, grab me by the junk and squeeze—and suggest you know the best way to risk my life, the lives of my team members, and the lives of these kids. Your life, too, sweetheart, should our nasty friend Steve find out you helped.”
She didn’t respond. She just gazed at him with those eyes.
Ian couldn’t help himself. He went into total asshole mode. He drew in a deep breath. “Mmmm,” he said. “Could you move your hand a little higher and …? Ooh, that’s nice.”
“Don’t do that,” she said quietly. “Just … don’t.”
Ian spoke just as softly. “Don’t you be foolish and naïve and make assumptions about what I am or am not capable of.”
Phoebe blinked first. “Fair enough. But I wish you would be honest with me. It must be exhausting to never really be yourself—not even with your own brother. Maybe especially not with your brother …”
“You want to know my secrets?” Ian asked her. “You’ve gotta sleep with me first.”
“Wow, I must be hitting very close to home,” she countered. “For what it’s worth, I respect and admire you enormously. I happen to think you’re brave and extremely intelligent and generally just … really pretty wonderful. And I know you don’t know me and certainly have no reason to trust me, but … I’m on your side. And not just because I’m paid to be.”
Time hung for a second as he held her gaze, and held it, and held it.
It was then, thank God, that his phone rang. “It’s Francine,” he said.
As he reached for the phone, Deb approached, which meant his conversation with Phoebe, double thank God, was over, out of necessity. Aaron, too, emerged from the bedroom.
“Seven Charlie,” Ian said, after hitting talk.
“Oscar five alpha,” France said. “I got him.”
Ian looked at his brother and said the words, knowing Aaron needed to hear them. “Shel’s safe.”
“Thank God,” Phoebe breathed.
Aaron nodded and disappeared into the bedroom to get Rory ready to travel. “Anyone following?” Ian asked Francine.
“Nope,” she told him, and Ian shook his head, so that Phoebe and Deb understood that she and Shelly were free and clear.
“Head for Miami,” he ordered. “I’ll be in touch.” He hung up the phone. “Let’s do it. Let’s get out of here.”
But before he could start organizing which of the supplies and equipment he wanted to take—all of it, because he was on a budget and God knows what they were going to need—Phoebe blocked his path.
“You want me to make you another sandwich,” she asked him. “That this time you can actually taste while you eat …?”
And Ian realized that she’d seen through him. She’d known how terribly worried he’d been about his brother-in-law, and what a blessed relief it was to know, for certain, that Sheldon was secure.
But he wasn’t willing to admit it. Not any of it. Not yet. He mentally bitchslapped himself. Make that not ever. In a matter of days, this assignment would be over, and they’d both return to their previously scheduled lives.
At least Phoebe would.
Ian was going to make sure of that.
“No, thanks,” he told her, then got to work.
* * *
“There they are.” Aaron pointed, leaning into the front, as Ian pulled their borrowed car toward the back of the truck stop’s nearly empty parking lot.
And there they were. Francine and Shel, sitting on the hood of Martell Griffin’s car. Their body language was not only easy to read but followed their individual, usual pattern to a T. France was leaning back, supporting herself with straight arms, hands braced behind her on the hood, in a position of open strength that Ian knew was deceptive. Not the strong part—she was that and more. The relaxed openness was pure pretense. Francie was more tightly wound and secretive than anyone he knew, save for his own self.
As for Shel … His shoulders were hunched and he was curled into himself, as if he were cold—or as if he’d recently been grabbed and knocked unconscious by someone who should have greeted him with a hug.
Shel straightened up, though, as he saw them
approaching, and Aaron breathed his relief. “He’s okay. He looks okay.” He put his hand on Ian’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you for stopping here. For arranging this.”
Deb had wanted to push straight through, meet Francine and Sheldon in Miami. But Ian had insisted they pull into this open-all-night throwback to the 1970s, about ten miles south of Fort Myers. And it wasn’t just because he knew Aaron was anxious to get eyes—and hands—on Shel. This was a good place to meet the other federal agent, Yashi, too.
But it wouldn’t hurt to let his brother think this was all for him, so Ian said, “Anything to make it a little easier.”
“Yeah, right,” Aaron scoffed, then slapped Ian upside his head. Not gently.
“Ow!”
“I know that this is more about ditching this car than making it easier,” Aaron said, lowering his voice in an imitation of Ian—that is, if Eee sounded like a moron. “I’m still mad at you, fuck-face.”
Ian glanced in the rearview mirror to find Phoebe watching him, her eyebrows up. He wasn’t sure what that look meant, but it couldn’t be good.
“Yashi’s ETA is between five and ten minutes,” Deb reported from beside him in the front seat.
That was good, because Aaron was right. Yashi’s arrival meant they could shift over to his vehicle and leave behind this car that Ian and Phoebe had “borrowed.” Not driving a car that could light up the databases of thousands of police officers was always a good thing when one didn’t have time for an arrest booking in one’s busy schedule.
As Ian parked next to Martell’s car, Aaron had the door open and was out before the wheels stopped rolling.
“I’m gonna hit the head,” Ian announced, as outside the car, his brother threw himself into his husband’s arms. He couldn’t watch, because it was too intense. Too sincere. Too raw, too real.
He’d always thought that seeing Aaron with Shel, and witnessing the power and passion of their love for each other, was probably a lot like seeing God. Particularly at an emotion-filled time like this one. You couldn’t look directly or you’d go blind from the sheer perfection.
