Against All Odds

by Hannon, Irene

  Interesting, Coop thought. Monica viewed love as liberating. He’d always viewed it as confining. Dangerous. Predicated on passing certain “tests.”

  But according to Monica, God gave love freely. No strings attached. Even when humans didn’t deserve it, his love was constant.

  Constant, unconditional love.

  It was an awesome concept.

  And not that difficult to grasp, Coop conceded, given that God was divine. It was logical that his love would be perfect.

  Human love, however, was a whole different story. It often came with stipulations and contingencies, corrupted by selfishness and agendas. It could be used to manipulate and control. It could diminish.

  That’s why he’d vowed never to marry.

  Monica Callahan was the first woman who’d managed to shake his resolve.

  As she looked at him across the popcorn bowl, her expression placid, he realized that in the few short days he’d known her she’d already had a significant impact on his life. Her empathy and insights had forced him to reexamine some of his long-held beliefs. And to identify some issues he hadn’t even recognized. Like loneliness.

  In other words, she’d given him a lot to think about.

  Forcing his lips into the semblance of a grin, he rose. “I’d say it’s about time to call it a night. You’re sure you don’t mind if I borrow this?” He lifted the Bible.

  “No. I’m heading for bed anyway.” She remained seated.

  “Try to sleep. You’re well guarded.”

  “I know. I trust you guys.”

  There was that word again.

  Trust.

  He understood earned trust on a professional level. His life sometimes depended on it. But in Monica’s mind, trust was also inexorably linked with love. A far riskier proposition, as far as Coop was concerned. He could deal with putting his life in jeopardy. He was far less comfortable exposing his heart to peril.

  Lifting a hand, he headed toward the door. In a day or two or three this assignment would be over. Monica’s life would return to normal.

  But thanks to her, Coop wasn’t sure his ever would.

  14

  “Aren’t you going to turn in? Six o’clock will be here way too soon.”

  “Later.” Coop responded to Mark’s question without shifting focus from the two computer screens in the guest cottage.

  Instead of accepting his partner’s answer, Mark ambled over to join him behind Fendler, the field agent who was seated at the cottage’s kitchen table monitoring the feed from the security cameras. “Looks pretty quiet.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  “Everything okay at the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were gone awhile.”

  “I took a stroll around the perimeter before I came back.”

  “You were still gone awhile.”

  “I didn’t realize you’d miss me.” Coop sent Mark a wry glance as he took a sip from the disposable cup in his hand. The coffee tasted stale, but it was better than Les’s sludge.

  “How’s Monica doing?”

  “She’s tense.”

  “That’s understandable. How are you doing?”

  Shooting Mark a warning look, Coop took another sip of coffee. He wasn’t about to discuss Monica in front of the field agent, and he knew where Mark was heading. “Good.”

  “Yeah?”

  With one quick gulp, Coop drained the cardboard cup, crumpled it, and tossed it in the waste can. “I think I’ll grab some sleep after all.”

  “Good idea. I’ll join you.”

  The single bedroom in the guest cottage held two twin beds that could be joined to form a king. For the duration of this assignment, they’d been pushed as far apart as possible. With Mark close on his heels, Coop tossed his jacket on one of them and wished the cottage had two bedrooms instead of one.

  “Close quarters.” He pulled off his BlackBerry and set it on the nightstand between the beds.

  “We’ve slept in tighter—and far less comfortable—places.” Stepping around the four pieces of luggage that lined one side of the room they shared with the HRT operators on night shift, Mark stretched out on the other bed and linked his fingers behind his head. “Everything look okay outside?”

  “Yes. But I don’t like all the pines along the fence. They provide too much cover.” Coop raked his fingers through his hair and prowled around the confined space.

  “The perimeter is well patrolled. And if anyone did manage to get into the complex, the cameras would pick them up. Besides, the doors at the house are armed, and Rick or Mac would hear a window breaking. The place is as secure as we can make it short of adding another dozen agents and handcuffing Monica to one of us for the duration. And I doubt the lady would go along with that. Unless it was you, of course.”

  “Knock it off, Mark.”

  “Touchy, aren’t we?”

  “I told you before, I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

  “This job will be over soon. What happens then?”

  Returning to the bed, Coop retrieved the small Bible from the inside pocket of his jacket and sat on the edge of the mattress. “I don’t know.”

  “What are you reading?” Mark propped himself up on one elbow.

  “Nothing yet.” He set the book on the nightstand, sorry he’d pulled it out in front of his partner.

  “You’re evading the question.” Mark reached over and tilted the cover to read the title. “The Bible? Whoa!” He swung his legs to the floor and stared at Coop. “If Monica has you reading the Bible, this must be really serious.”

  “I haven’t read it yet.”

  “But you’re going to.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why?”

  “Call it intellectual curiosity.”

  “Nope. Don’t buy it. You always dismissed religion as too emotional.”

  “I’m having some second thoughts.”

  “Because of Monica.”

  “No. Because some things she said made sense.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mark stretched out again on the bed. “Like I said, this is serious.”

  “It’s too soon to be serious.”

  “Not according to those old love songs. One look across a crowded room and all that.”

  “I don’t believe in love at first sight.”

  “You didn’t believe in religion, either. And look at you now. A Bible-toter, no less.”

  With a disgruntled snort, Coop heaved one of the decorative pillows on his bed at Mark. “Go to sleep, okay? I’m going to read for a while.”

  “Sure.” Mark rolled onto his side and spoke over his shoulder. “I’d wish you sweet dreams, but I expect that’s a given.”

  Coop could hear the grin in Mark’s voice. But his partner was wrong about the sweet dreams. Or dreams, period. Worry wasn’t likely to allow him the luxury of much sleep. For a moment, he considered telling that to Mark to counter his roommate’s conclusion. But as a comeback, it felt flat.

  Because as Mark would no doubt point out, the cause of either sweet dreams or insomnia would be the same.

  Monica.

  Nouri lifted the curtain on the window of the nondescript motel room and checked the parking lot. There were a few cars positioned in front of the row of doors spaced along the long, low building, but they were clustered more toward the entrance. The back end of the lot, near the last unit that they occupied, was deserted. And at thirty minutes past midnight, it was unlikely more overnight guests would show up.

  “All is quiet?”

  At Zahir’s question, Nouri let the fabric drop back into place and returned to packing his equipment for tonight’s mission. “Yes. I must have given a convincing performance when I told the desk clerk we were two weary salesmen who’d been on the road for days and wanted a nice, quiet spot to crash, as far away from any activity as possible. The closest car is eight or nine doors down.”

  “And you are not concerned about the security camera at the en
trance?”

  “No. I pulled the brim of my hat low and kept my chin down during check-in. Besides, we have done nothing to raise suspicion. You are rested enough for tonight’s job?”

  “I slept four hours.” Zahir shrugged and pulled on a black, long-sleeved knit shirt. “I have done far more taxing work on much less sleep.”

  “You will have plenty of opportunity to catch up after we return. We will have nothing to do except wait.” He slid his extra laptop into its case, pulled a blue sweater over his black turtleneck, and secured the latches on his backpack. “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Lifting the curtains once more, Nouri scanned the parking lot. “We’re clear.”

  He flipped off the light, and in silence the two men stepped through the door and quickly covered the few steps to their car.

  The drive to Charlottesville, using the meandering route they’d mapped out through the countryside, took fifty-five minutes. They pulled into the Holiday Inn right on schedule.

  “I will be back in a few minutes.” Nouri retrieved the laptop from the backseat and headed to the room he’d booked earlier in the day, of use to him only for its wireless Internet service and close proximity to the safe house. The night clerk gave him little more than a brief, disinterested glance as he passed, then refocused on his computer screen. Probably playing some kind of game, Nouri speculated. Just as he was about to do.

  Once in the room, he wasted no time bringing up the feed from the security camera by the tennis court. Retrieving the video he’d saved from last night during this same period, he overlaid it on the live feed. When the image from the camera panning the grounds meshed with his saved file it took little more than a keystroke to switch the source of the image. No more than the barest blip marked the transition.

  Five minutes later, he rejoined Zahir and put the key in the ignition. “We have one hour and fifty-five minutes.”

  Tariq took a sip of tea and did a cursory sweep of the scene outside his window, alert for any suspicious activity. In a few minutes, Anis would bring his noon meal.

  But he had little interest in food. The pieces of his plan were falling into place, and soon David Callahan would know the power Tariq wielded. Even now, Nouri would be implementing his abduction scheme. As soon as the girl was secured, he would send a message to Callahan, letting him know she would die along with the first hostage twenty-four hours from now unless his demands were met.

  If that pressure didn’t work, he would follow through on his threats.

  It would be a diplomatic disaster for the United States, and a political disaster for the shaky Afghan leadership. Public sentiment in America had already shifted against U.S. involvement in this part of the world, and Tariq’s scheme would accelerate that change of heart. The American people had no stomach for messy, faraway wars that had no impact on their lives nor interfered with their daily visit to Starbucks. Eventually, the president would be forced to withdraw troops. It wouldn’t take long after that for the faltering Afghan government to topple, leaving chaos in its wake.

  And in chaos, there was opportunity.

  “I have brought your dinner.” Anis stood in the doorway, balancing a tray.

  “Set it on the table.”

  With a slight bow, Anis complied while Tariq examined the meal with distaste. The woman who prepared his food seemed to know how to cook little besides rice, lentil soup, eggplant with yogurt sauce, and fried pastries filled with ground beef and chickpeas, all served with flat bread. It was a far cry from the gourmet fare he had enjoyed in his better days. And that he would enjoy again soon.

  Straightening, Anis angled toward Tariq and held out his cell phone. “Mahmud is on the line. He said he tried to reach you on your phone, but the call would not go through. Perhaps your battery is dead?”

  Tariq slipped his hand inside his robe and withdrew his phone. Much to his disgust, the battery was, indeed, dead. He exchanged it for Anis’s phone. “See that it is charged.”

  After another slight bow, Anis retreated as Tariq put the phone to his ear. “Yes, Mahmud. What is it?”

  “I have learned from one of my sources that David Callahan is planning to go to the U.S. air base tomorrow morning.”

  Tariq frowned. “Why?”

  “I do not know. He may be leaving the country.”

  Was it possible? Tariq wondered. Would he leave mere hours before the first hostage was to be executed? Or was he going to the air base to confer with a high-level U.S. government official? Bagram often hosted such meetings. Tariq suspected the latter.

  “Find out more.”

  “My source knows nothing else.” Frustration and impatience nipped at Mahmud’s words. “If he is leaving the country, we will lose our chance to use his death as a tactical measure.”

  “And if we take him out now, our efforts to use threats against his daughter to force him to convince his government to comply with our demands will have been wasted.”

  “I am not convinced that will work, anyway.”

  Anger coursed through Tariq. In person, Mahmud would never have had the audacity to voice such an opinion. The man knew Tariq demanded absolute compliance and obedience, that he didn’t tolerate anything that even whispered of insubordination. It seemed the three-hundred-mile buffer between Kabul and Kandahar had given Mahmud the courage to speak his true thoughts.

  While Tariq wasn’t pleased with the man’s insolence, it validated his growing impression that Mahmud was not a man who could be easily controlled. Or trusted.

  When the silence lengthened, Mahmud spoke again, his tone conciliatory. As if he’d realized his mistake, Tariq deduced. “I am not as experienced as you, of course. If you believe letting David Callahan go to the air base is the best course, I am certain that it is.”

  “Call me if you learn more.”

  Pressing the end button, Tariq severed the connection.

  He hoped his abrupt dismissal communicated his displeasure. And kept the man in line for the next couple of days. He might need to call on him if things didn’t go as planned.

  But once this was over, there would be consequences for Mahmud.

  In the meantime, he had other sources he could call who might be able to find out more about David Callahan’s little excursion.

  Head bent against the wind, Sayed stepped into the small, obscure hut in the tiny desert village and looked from one guard to the other. “All is well?”

  “Yes. They are docile, like lambs.”

  The two men laughed, and Sayed strolled over to the three hostages who were seated on a rug on the dirt floor against the far wall. A wracking cough convulsed the older man as he approached. The government employee, Sayed recalled. His gaze moved on to the reporter. The younger man’s eyes held an interesting combination of defiance and fear. The woman next to him, one of those idealistic do-gooders, was trembling. They were probably wondering if they were going to die soon, Sayed reflected, his expression dispassionate. And perhaps they were.

  But it wouldn’t be at his hands. In twenty-four hours, when the first hostage was scheduled to be executed, Sayed would be very far away.

  As he exited, he nodded to the two additional armed guards who stood outside the entrance to the hut. Heading toward his quarters in the adjacent structure where lunch awaited him, he was struck by the irony of the situation.

  If anyone was going to die tomorrow, the men bearing arms—not the hostages—would be the more likely casualties.

  Officer Ed Martin reached for the cup of coffee in the holder beside the front seat of his patrol car and stifled a yawn. He never had gotten used to the night shift, even after twenty years of rotating through it. Sleeping during the day still felt unnatural to him. Especially for the first day or two after the shift rotation. Sometimes he just had to catch a couple of fifteen-minute catnaps in the driveway of one of the big unoccupied estates on the outskirts of Charlottesville.

  But that wasn’t an option tonight. He’d been told to cruise down a
little-traveled secondary road every thirty minutes and to report in each time. The department had started the routine yesterday, but none of the officers had a clue why. Considering all the government bigwigs who had weekend places out this way, he figured some high-profile person must be staying at one of the compounds.

  Now he was on his sixth pass of the night. Like the prior runs, it was uneventful. He saw no cars on the narrow, two-lane road. The houses on his right were shielded from view by privacy plantings and fences, and the undeveloped woods on his left were pitch dark. Maybe after this drive-by he could take a few minutes and . . .

  “What the . . .” His headlights illuminated a figure in ragged attire weaving down the side of the road. He’d run into his share of street people in some parts of his beat, but never in this area.

  Martin settled his coffee cup in the holder and depressed the transmit button on his radio. “Three-seven-oh-one. I have an unidentified person walking down Hanover Road. Looks like a homeless guy. I’m checking it out.”

  Angling the spotlight on the side of his car toward the figure, he spoke over the loudspeaker. “Sir, please turn toward me and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  The man stumbled to a stop and complied, shading his eyes from the bright light. He wore a knit cap pulled low on his forehead, and he tucked his chin into the turned-up collar of his worn coat.

  Keeping his gaze fixed on the man, Martin opened his door and stepped out of the car, his hand on his Smith and Wesson. He took a couple of steps toward the figure.

  “Sir, what are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”

  No response.

  “Do you have a place to stay?”

  No response.

  “What’s your name?”

  At the sudden press of cold steel against the base of his neck, Martin’s fingers clenched around his gun.