“I’ll look forward to it.” The warmth—and gratitude—in his tone was unmistakable.
“In the meantime, be careful.”
“I always am. I’m more worried about you. Please follow the advice of your security people.”
“Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson on that score. We’re headed for a safe house in a few minutes, and I don’t plan to set one foot outside until the all clear sounds.”
“Good. I’ll sleep better knowing that.”
Another veiled message about love. This one she heard, communicated via his sincerity and the slight tremor in his words.
“Thanks again for the dinner invitation.”
“It will be my pleasure. Good night, Monica.”
“Good night.”
As Monica tapped the end button, she realized her hand was shaking. But her heart felt a new and cleansing calm.
When the line went dead, David slowly set the phone back on his nightstand. Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands. He’d started the call angry, determined to berate someone for not protecting his daughter. And he’d wanted reassurance.
He’d ended the call appeased—and reassured—in a far different manner and on a much broader scale than he’d expected. By Monica herself.
Rising from his narrow bunk, David walked over to the window in the tiny, impersonal room that was his temporary home. Tipping one of the slats in the blinds, he stared into the night. The compound was illuminated for security purposes, the artificial light giving an unnatural glow to the rows of white buildings that had staked a tentative claim on this dangerous land, creating a tiny oasis of calm in the midst of turmoil.
A sudden, unexpected yearning for the green, forested hills of Virginia he’d once called home filled David. He was tired of leading a nomadic life, he realized. Tired of dealing with unreasonable people. Tired of watching man’s inhumanity to man. And tired of waking up to a world where no one cared about David, the man—only about David, the diplomat.
You were right, Elaine, when you told me years ago that one day I’d wind up a lonely man and second-guess my choice. That day has finally come.
An aching sense of regret tightened his throat. Not for the work itself. He’d accomplished a great deal of good in his life. Yet he’d given up so much to achieve it. Too much, he acknowledged, in the clarity of hindsight. But no more. He was sixty-six years old. It was time to go home.
Especially now that Monica had given him a reason to return.
“Ready?”
“Yes.” Monica picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and handed it to Coop. “Here’s the list of things I’ll need. I tried to keep it to a minimum.”
“Let me pass this on to someone. Stay put.”
He had his earpiece in again, Monica noted, indicating he’d moved into heightened security mode. From a snippet of conversation she’d overheard between Mark and Coop as she’d stepped into the hall after her conversation with her father, she knew Coop had taken a big chance by giving her the option of requesting that her security be transferred to Quantico. It seemed the HRT commander didn’t want to consider that alternative.
Coop’s willingness to confront his boss to ensure her safety—and increase her comfort level—endeared him to her even more . . . and cemented her decision to go to the safe house.
“Okay, we’re set.” Coop handed over a keychain as he rejoined her. “Here are the keys to the car. It’s parked two cars down on the right outside the exit. A dark blue Camry. You said you’re familiar with that model?”
“Yes. My previous car was a Camry.”
“Good.” Coop’s lips tipped up as he surveyed her, and she was again captivated by the dimple in his left cheek. “You know, I think I like you as a blonde.”
With a self-conscious tug, Monica settled the long, curly wig on her head and smoothed down the unfamiliar suit. She appreciated his effort to tease away some of her tension. “I can’t say I’m thrilled with your new glasses, though. And you’ve sprouted an awful lot of gray in the past hour. But you do look very different.”
“That’s the idea. Okay, you’re clear on the directions?”
“Yes. Take Parham Road to 33, go north to Montpelier. Take 617 south to the I-64 entrance. Pull into the truck stop on the right. You’ll pick me up there, outside the ladies’ room, after I meet the agent inside and change.”
“Very good. I’ll be behind you the whole way, and another agent will be ahead of you. Others will be nearby. If anything seems suspicious, we’ll close in immediately. The car you’re in is armored and has bulletproof glass, so you don’t need to worry about your safety.”
“What about your car?”
One corner of his mouth hitched up. “I have a gun.”
As if that would protect him from a drive-by shooting, she reflected. But he didn’t give her a chance to express that thought.
“Let’s go.” Taking her arm, he guided her toward the front of the building.
“Where’s Mark?”
“He left with the first group of employees about fifteen minutes ago, out the back door. We’re leaving from the opposite side of the building. There’s a small stand of trees on the edge of the parking lot that will help shield us from any curious eyes.”
They headed toward a cluster of people near the front entrance, and Dennis Powers stepped forward.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes. Thanks again for your support.”
The man acknowledged Coop’s comment with a brief tip of his head, then addressed the small group. “Okay, people. Just like we talked about. The normal end of a workday. Chat, wave, but don’t linger. Ms. Callahan, you can walk out with Agent Reynolds.” He gestured toward a slender black-haired woman who looked to be in her early forties as he handed Monica a briefcase. “A final prop.”
As Monica started to move forward, Coop restrained her with a hand on her arm. Surprised, she looked back at him.
“There’s a mike in the briefcase. If you need help or notice anything suspicious, say the word. All of us will hear you.”
“Okay.”
She expected him to release her, but he maintained his grip for an instant longer than necessary. She didn’t mind, but she was aware that his hesitation drew a few discreet but interested glances from the agents.
At last, with a slight encouraging squeeze, he dropped his arm and she joined the agent near the door.
When it was their turn to walk out of the building, Agent Reynolds gave her an easy smile and chatted about a recent movie, as if they were continuing a conversation they’d started inside. Monica did her best to pick up her cues and force her stiff lips upward, but she was out of her league here. Agent Reynolds paused for a moment at Monica’s car, laughed about some line in the movie, then lifted her hand and waved, moving away.
Willing herself to stay calm, Monica slid into the seat and settled the briefcase beside her, watching for Coop. Thirty seconds later he exited, checked his watch, and hurried to a silver Acura as if he was late. That was her cue to start her motor and pull out.
After backing out of the parking spot, Monica fell into line at the exit with the other cars. Once on Parham Road, a check in the rearview mirror confirmed that Coop was behind her.
She followed the instructions to the letter, and forty-five minutes later she pulled into the truck stop at the entrance to I-64. She parked and went into the ladies’ room, turning on the faucet as instructed. A stall door opened, and a Richmond agent attired and wigged exactly the same as Monica stepped out. It was like looking in a mirror.
“Seeing double?” The agent grinned, lightening the atmosphere.
“Yes. It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”
“Trust me. I’ve done far weirder things.” She dropped her gaze a fraction and touched her ear, listening. “Mr. Cooper just pulled in,” she informed Monica as she handed over the tote bag that was slung over her shoulder, along with a black jacket. “The clothes and wig I was we
aring when I arrived are inside. After you change into them, stuff your clothes and wig in the bag and take it with you. Wait ten minutes. Your ride will be at the curb outside the door, in a blacked-out Suburban. He’ll open the door as you approach.”
“Thank you.”
“Glad to help. Now I’ll need your briefcase and keys.” Monica handed them over, and the woman smoothed down a stray hair. “Where are you parked?”
“Three spots down on your left.”
“Got it. Good luck.”
She stepped out the door, and it clicked shut behind her.
Slipping into a stall, Monica yanked off the blonde wig and stripped off her suit. She found a pair of black jeans and a dark green turtleneck in the tote bag and quickly made the change. Then she tugged on the short black wig.
Ten minutes later, as she exited the ladies’ room, the SUV was waiting three steps away. The door opened and she slid inside, pulling it shut behind her. The locks clicked into place.
“We’re halfway there.” Coop smiled at her. His hair was back to its normal color, still damp from a fast wash in the men’s room, and he wore a cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. A denim jacket and jeans completed the Western guise. The man looked as sexy in cowboy attire as he did in a suit, Monica decided. When he leaned closer and laid a hand on her arm, her breath jammed in her throat. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m hanging in.” A tremor ran through her words, caused as much by his closeness as nerves. “But it’s been a bizarre day. The speech feels like a week ago instead of seven hours.”
“No argument there.” He put the car in gear and headed for the entrance to the highway.
“I guess you guys are used to stuff like this.”
“We’ve had our share of . . . interesting . . . assignments.”
“Why do I think that’s a huge understatement?”
He shot her an enigmatic smile but remained silent.
“Why do you do it?”
At her quiet question, he shot her a quick look in the darkness. “Do what?”
“This kind of work.”
The lady didn’t mince words, that was for sure, Coop reflected. And she asked questions he’d never asked himself. Difficult questions. Why did he do it?
Excitement, he supposed, checking for tails in the rearview mirror as he pondered her query. He liked experiences that gave him an adrenaline rush. And being one of the good guys had always appealed to him too. He believed in justice, and the FBI offered him the opportunity to put that belief into practice.
But if he were honest, if he dug way down, there was another reason he’d joined the HRT. The high risk, long absences, and 24/7 nature of the work gave him an excuse to avoid serious relationships. The women he dated might be attracted by the glamour of the job, might be happy to share a pleasant interlude with him, but when it came to settling down, they wanted more stability. And that suited him just fine.
“I didn’t realize it was such a difficult question.”
The speculative undercurrents in Monica’s observation put him on alert, and he was grateful the night hid his features from her scrutiny as he responded.
“It’s not.” He relaxed his tense grip on the wheel and strove for a conversational tone. “I like law enforcement, and the HRT seemed like it would be an interesting challenge.”
“A rather lonely life, though, I would guess.”
His fingers tightened again, and he flexed them. “I’m too busy to be lonely.”
“Hmm.”
He didn’t know what that meant, but to his relief she let the matter drop. He tried to do the same.
But for some reason he couldn’t dismiss her comment. Until she’d entered his life, he’d never thought about being lonely. He’d been happy to go to work, train hard, and party away the weekends. It had seemed like a good life. Yes, there were occasions when it felt a little empty. But lonely? How could he be lonely when all he had to do was pick up the phone and call one of the dozen women currently in his little black book?
Because right now you can’t even remember any of their names.
The annoying little voice that had appeared out of nowhere during the past weekend was becoming way too impertinent, Coop decided. So what if he couldn’t remember any of their names? They were a great antidote to loneliness.
But the pleasure they offer is temporary. And it leaves you emptier than before.
Enough, Coop decided. He had too much on his mind to indulge in self-examination. He needed to think about the woman he was assigned to protect.
Except she was the cause of his sudden penchant for pensive-ness, he realized, casting a quick glance at her. She’d tipped her head back and closed her eyes, her even breathing suggesting she might have drifted off to sleep. No surprise there. He suspected stress had played havoc with her sleep last night, and today had been traumatic. She needed rest. And she needed someone to lean on, someone she could count on to give her emotional support.
But he wasn’t that person, he reminded himself. He had to keep his distance for both professional and personal reasons. Getting close to people gave them power over you. You came to depend on them. To need them.
Like he’d needed his father.
Yet no matter how hard he had tried, he’d never been able to elicit the words of praise and approval and love he had longed to hear from Jack Cooper. It had been a harsh lesson, but he’d learned it well, vowing never to let himself need anyone that much again. The risk was too high.
And he wasn’t about to make an exception to that rule.
Even for the special woman beside him.
11
“Shall I arrange a courier to transmit the information to the embassy?” Impatience nipped at Anis’s voice through the static on the cell phone.
“Not yet. My preparations are incomplete.” The man glanced out the window into the predawn darkness. Now that he had the three million dollars in hand, his arrangements were falling into place.
“They will begin to think you do not intend to provide what you promised. Almost a day has passed since the package was delivered.”
The man gave a careless shrug. “I honor my bargains, as they will discover. But in my own time. Are there any new developments?”
“Yes. Tariq has given me a message to send to the embassy. It is to be delivered later this morning in the usual way. He intends to begin killing the hostages one by one in forty-eight hours.”
“Anything else?”
“No. He tells me little. I am no more than a servant to him.”
Anis’s undisguised bitterness brought a faint smile to the man’s lips. Bitter people were useful. They could be bought—and felt justified in selling out. “You will not have to deal with Tariq much longer.”
“It cannot be too soon.”
“Return to your duties or you will be missed. I will call when it is time.”
The line went dead.
Forty-eight hours. That was the window he had in which to complete his arrangements and disappear. Not a lot of time, but enough.
And before he vanished, he would give the U.S. more than it expected. Generous man that he was, he would throw in a bonus.
A smirk twisted his lips.
It was too bad he wouldn’t be around to see Tariq’s reaction.
“When did this arrive?” David pushed aside his lunch and sat back in his desk chair to stare at the message Salam had just handed him.
“Half an hour ago. Intelligence had it transcribed and sent a copy over.” Salam lifted the tape player in his hand. “Do you want to hear it?”
“No. This tells me all I need to know.” He read the words again.
We have given you sufficient time and warnings. You have forty-eight hours to meet our demands, or we will begin killing the hostages one by one. The first will die at noon on Thursday.
And the next time we target your daughter, the blood will be hers.
“Get Les Coplin on the line.”
“Yes
, sir.” With a slight bow, Salam exited David’s office.
Fighting down his panic, David tapped a finger on his desk. Forty-eight hours. The ultimatum they’d been waiting for since the day of the kidnappings had finally come. And he didn’t doubt the terrorists would follow through on their threats.
He’d pinned his hopes for a resolution on their informant, praying he or she would follow through once the money was delivered. But thirty-two hours had elapsed, and no information had been supplied. It seemed the U.S. had been duped to the tune of three million dollars.
Yet if he had it to do again, he’d recommend the same response. It wasn’t a great surprise that the informer had deceived them, but there had always been a chance he or she would honor the deal—and that chance, however slight, had justified the risk. Now that it hadn’t panned out, however, they were left with only two options: meet the terrorists’ demands in the hope of saving lives, or refuse to be blackmailed and watch innocent people die.
Including his daughter.
Unless the HRT did a superlative job.
Monica seemed to trust the men who had been assigned to guard her. But David wasn’t that generous. They might be good at what they did, but so were the terrorists. And the kidnappers had one significant tactical advantage over the HRT operators.
They were ruthless.
No sooner had Coop drifted to sleep in the safe house than his BlackBerry began to vibrate.
It figured.
As his adrenaline surged, he grabbed the device off the nightstand and checked the caller ID. Les. They’d talked earlier, while Monica was settling into her room, and his boss had signed off for the night. A new development must have prompted this 2:00 a.m. call.
“Coop here.”
“Callahan heard from the terrorists. Forty-eight hours and they start killing hostages.”
Closing his eyes, Coop sucked in a sharp breath. “I take it there’s no word from the informer.”
Against All Odds Page 12
