His gaze dropped to her lips, then rose again to her eyes, holding them captive. “Monica?”
One word. That was all he said. But she heard much more. Tell me the truth. I care. I want to know how you really feel.
Several silent seconds ticked by as she considered how to respond.
“I’m not sure.” Her voice was little more than a whisper as she responded to his unspoken entreaty. “This has been very hard. And scary.”
“I know. But we’ll do our best to get you through it.”
Under his probing scrutiny, Monica felt her composure begin to disintegrate. Since Coop and Mark had turned her world upside down yesterday morning, she’d been struggling to appear poised and confident and strong.
Except she didn’t feel strong now. She felt off balance and unsure, especially in light of this latest bombshell, with its unsettling implications. And in desperate need of something solid and safe and dependable to cling to. Something or someone.
Someone like Coop.
Even as the thought echoed in her mind, she dismissed it as absurd. The man was a stranger to her.
But she couldn’t dismiss as easily the powerful urge to walk across the room and lean into him, to let his muscular arms enfold her. Protect her. Shelter her. The urge was so compelling she took an involuntary step back to counter it.
“Thanks.” A single word was all she could get past her tight throat.
His eyes narrowed a bit at her retreat. “Try to get some sleep tonight. You’re in good hands.”
“I will.”
With a final assessing look, Coop disappeared down the hall. A couple of minutes later, she heard the front door open, then click shut.
He was gone.
Taking with him whatever residual peace of mind she’d been clinging to. His departure left her feeling abandoned. And uneasy.
This is ridiculous, she berated herself, grabbing a dishcloth to give the spotless counter another vigorous scrubbing. Rick and Mac were in her living room. They were HRT operators too. Just as competent and qualified as Coop and Mark. Hadn’t Coop himself said she was in good hands?
She believed that. She did.
The problem was, they weren’t Coop’s hands.
And for whatever reason, that made a huge difference.
8
“May God go with you, sir.”
Hoisting the bulging Mickey Mouse backpack onto one shoulder, David gave Salam the ghost of a smile. “Thank you. I hope he’s listening.”
It was time. Buttoning his fleece-lined coat against the frosty air, David strode down the hall and exited the office building. His State Department security team was clustered around his car, and every member looked nervous. He understood that. Their job was to protect him, not let him walk into a potential trap. Once the decision had been taken out of their hands, they’d lobbied for at least a few security precautions.
But David’s only concession to their concerns had been a bulletproof vest. Too much was at stake to play games with the informant. He wasn’t about to jeopardize this opportunity by going in armed or wired, as security had suggested.
Besides, no safety measure would shield him from a bomb. He knew that as well as they did.
With a nod to the security team, he slid into the backseat. The door shut behind him. The car moved forward. After a brief pause at the main gate, they pulled onto Airport Road, leaving behind the protection of the walled, heavily fortified embassy.
And as the car headed toward Pushtunistan Square and the bridge that would take them over the Kabul River, David Callahan wondered if this was the day he would die.
“Nouri?” Tariq pressed the cell phone to his ear and peered through the smudged glass, hating the dirt and indigence and destitution that surrounded him. He could afford better, thanks to the opium trade. But he needed to lay low, hide in an obscure hole until this operation was finished. After that, his sacrifices would pay dividends.
“Yes.”
“Is the speech still to be given?” He turned his back on the view. David Callahan had not responded to the threat to his daughter. It was time to take the next step.
“My source says there has been no change.”
“Good. That is your window. Use it.”
“I understand. It will be done.”
The line went dead.
Three thirty-seven.
Squinting at the LED dial on her bedside clock, Monica leaned closer to verify that only twenty sleepless minutes had crawled by since she’d last allowed herself to check the time.
Slowly she sank back onto her pillow and did the math, factoring in the time difference between Richmond and Kabul.
In less than an hour, her father would risk his life in the hope of saving three hostages.
And her.
The refrain that had been echoing in her mind since Coop told her the news replayed again.
He’s willing to die to keep you safe.
But it’s his job.
People don’t choose to die for a job. People die for principles—or love.
He never told me he loved me.
Maybe he’s telling you now, in his own way.
But I wanted to hear the words.
It takes more courage to die than to speak. Yet you didn’t even have the courage to call him.
The guilt pressed down on her, relentless as the oppressive, humid heat of a Richmond summer day, and she swallowed past the sudden pressure of tears in her throat.
Struggling into a sitting position, she flipped on her bedside lamp and reached for the Bible she’d brought in with her from the kitchen. She held it unopened in her unsteady hands, her thumbs brushing the worn cover. She didn’t need to turn to Exodus to know what the Lord thought about stiff-necked people. And she didn’t need to flip to Ephesians to be reminded of his opinion on bitterness, indignation, and reviling. Or his instruction to be merciful and forgiving.
As Coop—a confessed lukewarm Christian, at best—had pointed out, forgiveness was at the heart of her faith. Everyone knew that.
She also knew it was one of her biggest failings. At least in terms of her father.
On that front, her mother had been a far better Christian, Monica acknowledged. Elaine Callahan had forgiven her husband long ago. Yes, she’d been disappointed in her marriage. And yes, she’d placed the bulk of the responsibility for its demise on him. Yet somewhere along the way, she’d not only found the grace and charity to forgive him, she’d come to feel sorry for him. And she’d encouraged Monica to do the same.
But after taking her mother’s advice on forgiveness once—with disastrous results—Monica had resolved never to repeat that mistake.
Now, in the quiet of her room, far removed from whatever peril David Callahan was facing at this very moment, she knew she had to start down that difficult path. Clenching her fingers around the Bible, she closed her eyes.
Lord, I know I should have done this years ago. But bitterness is powerful, and fear can be paralyzing. I ask you to help me overcome both and to follow the example you set. Please forgive me for my stubbornness. And please keep my father safe.
For a full minute, Monica let the prayer resonate in her mind as she recalled the old Chinese proverb: a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. She’d taken that step tonight. Tomorrow, she would take the next one. In the interim, she had to trust that the Lord would keep her father safe. It was beyond her power to do anything else.
Determined to put aside her worries, Monica flipped off the light. If she didn’t get some sleep, she’d be a zombie when she delivered her speech tomorrow—correction: today.
Staring at the dark ceiling, she thought of her mother’s antidote for a sleepless night: warm milk with a dash of vanilla and a sprinkle of cinnamon. She hadn’t had one of those tonics in years. Hadn’t needed one. But if ever a situation called for comfort food—or drink—this was it. Too bad her house had been taken over by the FBI. She wasn’t about to traipse out there again in the
ratty sweat suit she liked to sleep in. And she didn’t have the energy to get up and change.
She punched her pillow into a different shape and turned on her side.
Thirty minutes later, she was still wide awake, still trying to imagine what was happening in Kabul.
She had to think about something else.
The reconnaissance trip to the Jefferson Hotel popped into her mind. She’d half expected Coop to call afterward and tell her how it had gone, but then, why should he? As he’d said when he left, she was in good hands.
Hands.
An image of Coop’s fingers resting on hers in the car flashed through her mind. He had nice hands, well proportioned, with lean, powerful fingers that looked competent for any task. The kind of hands that could exhibit strength—or gentleness. What would it be like to be touched with gentleness by Coop? Monica wondered. To let those strong, skilled fingers work magic against her skin?
A flutter in her stomach warned her to rein in her imagination. Romantic fantasies were fine in appropriate situations. But this wasn’t one of them. She’d just met the man. He was here on a job that was under intense scrutiny from the highest levels. He had to be nice to her. When this was over, in a day, or a week, or a couple of weeks, he’d walk out of her life as abruptly as he’d entered it.
Besides, he wasn’t her type. He was too reticent. Too unwilling to open up, to share. And she’d vowed long ago to walk a wide circle around men like that. Relationships should be based on communication and trust, and Coop didn’t strike her as the type who did either very well. His fast exit this morning when she’d tried to elicit a little personal information had been telling. If she was smart, she’d consider that a warning and keep her distance.
Nevertheless, she was intrigued by him. And it wasn’t easy to forget the feel of his fingertips against her hand. What would it take to get the taciturn HRT operator to loosen up? What emotions were hidden under that calm, controlled veneer he presented to the world?
Dwelling on those questions, however, was not going to help her get to sleep, Monica concluded. Thoughts of Evan Cooper were not relaxing.
Determined to redirect her focus, she switched sides and forced her mind to replay an old movie she’d watched a couple of nights ago. An hour later, she managed to escape into an uneasy slumber.
There was just one little problem.
Coop had the starring role in all her dreams.
Except for the recurring one with her father, in which a bomb kept going off.
At David’s direction, the embassy car dodged a bicycle and a horse-drawn cart to nose into the curb near the entrance to Chahr Chatta Bazaar.
“Wait for me here,” he instructed the driver.
“Yes, sir. Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
Pushing open the door, David hefted the heavy backpack over one shoulder and stepped onto the pavement. He’d substituted wool slacks and a casual jacket for his customary suit, and he turned up the sheepskin collar to cut the cold, biting wind that whipped down the street, sending loose papers scuttling across the road.
Lord, please walk with me on this journey.
The spontaneous supplication surprised him. Although he was a believer, prayer played little role in his life. Nor did he attend church or read the Bible. But his mother had planted a seed of faith in him as a youngster, and it sometimes poked a tentative leaf or two above the ground in crisis situations. Today certainly qualified.
Without giving himself a chance to second-guess his courier role, David strode down the street and turned into the market.
He’d been here once before, on a much earlier State Department trip to Kabul, to sightsee. In those days, he’d been enamored by his exotic ports of call. While their allure had faded in the intervening years as the term exotic came to be interchangeable with impoverished, the memory of his first visit here remained vivid. And little had changed.
The roofs of the four arcades had disappeared, but the narrow cobblestone street retained the seventeenth-century feel he remembered. Despite the cold, turbaned merchants in flowing robes were doing a brisk business in tiny shops or from the backs of donkeys. A silk dealer was haggling loudly with a customer. A silversmith was seated cross-legged inside a doorway, fashioning an ornate piece of jewelry. Elaborate beaded hats and fine embroidery were displayed on the fronts of some shops. In others, all manner of textiles covered every available space, forming a colorful collage.
The merchandise was the only bright spot in the otherwise bleak, dingy setting.
As instructed, David traversed the street in an unhurried manner. And with a calmness that surprised him. He’d been afraid that when the moment arrived, fear would paralyze him. Instead, the opposite had happened. After all, there were far less meaningful ways to leave this world. He took some consolation in the fact that his death, if that was his fate this cold February day, would be for a noble cause.
Pausing, he closed his eyes and opened his heart.
Father, into your hands I commend my spirit. Please forgive me for all of my many mistakes and shortcomings. And bless Monica always with your grace. Let her never be lonely. Help her understand why—
“. . . Disney World.”
David missed the beginning of the sentence, but the last two words suddenly registered. His eyes flew open.
A young boy—no more than seven or eight, David estimated— regarded him with solemn, dark eyes. His face was dirty, his nondescript clothing a mismatch of drab, ill-fitting items . . . and he held a bamboo birdcage containing a pigeon.
“Repeat.” David said the word in Pashto.
The boy shifted from one foot to the other, darting a quick, nervous glance up and down the street, but he didn’t comply with David’s request. Instead, he pointed to the man’s backpack.
“Repeat.” David tried again, switching to Dari. He had to be sure this wasn’t some freak coincidence, simply a young boy who’d been attracted by his Disney World backpack and was looking for a handout.
This time, the boy understood the instruction. In slow, deliberate English he repeated the words.
“I would someday like to go to Disney World.”
This was it. David’s heart began to pound. He eased the backpack off his shoulder and handed it to the youngster.
Dropping the pigeon cage at David’s feet, the boy grabbed the backpack with both hands and wove his way down the street. In seconds he had disappeared.
Slowly David backed away from the cage. He didn’t think it contained a bomb; there was nowhere to conceal one in the delicate mesh of bamboo. But there were plenty of shadowy doorways and tiny lanes where a sniper could be hiding. Now that his package had been delivered, David was expendable—if the informer had used the lure of information as no more than a ruse to generate some easy cash . . . and eliminate the courier.
Nevertheless, David followed the instructions and headed toward his waiting car, looking neither right nor left.
It was the longest walk of his life.
When he emerged from the market, the embassy car remained parked where he had left it. The driver started to get out as he approached, but he waved the man back into the vehicle and slipped into the backseat.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The ride back to the embassy was tense and quiet.
Not until they pulled into the compound and the gates swung shut behind them did David allow himself to believe his life had been spared. The informant had kept his bargain.
So far.
Now David prayed the man would honor the rest of it and supply the information they desperately needed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, communication isn’t brain surgery, although the tools of the trade can be dangerous. Words, like scalpels, can cut. But so can silence.” Monica waited, giving the audience in the Jefferson Hotel’s ornate ballroom a few seconds to digest that thought.
“You know, I must admit I’m not much of a country
music fan.” Her gaze swept the audience and she smiled. “But there was a song a few years back that captured my key message today. It was called ‘I Thought You Knew.’ It’s a song about the danger of assumptions, and wishing for a chance to say all the things you thought the other person knew.
“ ‘I Thought You Knew’ happens to be a love song. But the principle is true in all parts of our life. If you remember only one thing from my talk this morning, let it be this: don’t make the mistake of assuming someone knows how you feel—in your professional life or your personal life. Talk the walk. Thank you.”
Thunderous applause filled the room, and three hundred people rose to their feet as one. From his position to the right of the velvet-draped stage, facing the audience, Coop had a good view of the enthusiastic reception Monica’s speech was being given. And the ovation was well deserved. For the past forty-five minutes, she’d made everyone in the room think, charmed them into laughter, and touched their hearts.
Including his.
No question about it. The lady knew her stuff.
He exchanged a glance with Mark, who stood at the front of the room on the other side of the stage. His partner grinned and gave a subtle thumbs-up signal.
As Monica launched into the Q&A session, fielding questions with consummate skill and a warmth that endeared her to the audience, Coop altered his position slightly to better observe the people approaching the mike positioned in the center aisle, beneath the huge crystal chandelier. They all looked like typical business types. No one exhibited any behavior that tripped a red alert. Everything seemed under control. A visual and audio check with the agents positioned at the exits and in the red-draped alcoves along the sides of the room confirmed that nothing was amiss. Still, he was glad they were in the home stretch.
Twenty minutes later, as the president of the organization joined Monica at the podium to end the Q&A, Coop and Mark slipped backstage to relieve the agents on duty there.
“Wasn’t she great?” The man’s enthusiastic question was met with another round of applause as his voice boomed through the mike. “Talk the Walk will be available for sale in the expo area, so be sure to pick up a copy. Ms. Callahan, thank you again. I know we all learned a lot this morning. Ladies and gentlemen, lunch is now served in the Empire Room.”
Against All Odds Page 9
