“Lab work isn’t going to give us answers fast enough.” Coop joined the conversation, his lips settling into a thin, unyielding line as he paced. “Monica may be alive now, but she doesn’t have a lot of time. These guys are playing for keeps.”
“We’re doing our best,” Mark reminded him.
“I know. But as David Callahan pointed out, our best hasn’t been good enough.”
The twin creases on Mark’s brow deepened. “That’s a pretty harsh assessment.”
“Maybe. But I can’t disagree with him. Can you?”
His partner’s silence was more eloquent than words.
“I want to review the security video.” Coop headed for the door. “Let’s go back to the guest cottage.”
They walked through the early morning darkness in silence. The feed from the security cameras was still playing on the monitors as they entered, but Fendler was preparing to shut things down.
“I’ll meet you over there in a minute.” Coop tipped his head toward the screens. “Pull up the video for the thirty-minute segment when the abduction occurred.”
As Mark strode toward the kitchen, Coop detoured to their room to retrieve his watch from the nightstand. As he picked it up, his gaze fell on the Bible. The book Monica turned to for comfort and guidance and strength.
He rested the tips of his fingers on it, wishing it would infuse him with those very things. While the concept of faith and religion wasn’t yet a comfortable fit for him, much of what Monica had said over the past few days made sense. And he’d liked what he read last night too. As he’d paged through Mark, one verse in particular had stuck with him. “For with God all things are possible.”
He clung now to that hope, wanting to believe, as Monica did, that God would stand by them through this storm and bring them safely to shore.
I’m not much of a believer yet, Lord. But I’m trying. Monica believes in you, and I believe in her. I think, with her help, I could learn to believe as she does. Please . . . give me that chance. Let us find her before it’s too late.
As a prayer, his plea was pathetic, Coop knew. But he hadn’t had a lot of practice. Nor was he good with words. With talking the walk.
He had to trust that God would give more weight to intent than to execution.
“Unless our demands are met, she dies with the first hostage.”
In shock, David reread the message that had been sent to the embassy’s general email address and forwarded to him by security. The text chilled him. And the accompanying photo of Monica turned his blood to ice.
“Sir, are you still on the line?”
The voice of Bob Stevens, the embassy security chief, echoed in his ear. He was glad the man had called first to warn him about the graphic nature of the photo before sending the email.
“Yes. What’s being done to trace this?”
“We’ve got our top cybercrime investigators already on it. Based on a preliminary look, however, it won’t be easy to nail down the source. The header’s been stripped. That doesn’t leave us a lot to work with.”
“Can we respond?”
“No. It’s formatted as an announcement.”
“I want the FBI on this too.”
“Of course.” The man’s businesslike tone softened. “I’m sorry about your daughter, sir.”
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat, struggling to hold onto his composure. “I’m hoping there’s a clue embedded somewhere in the message that will help us. Keep me informed.”
Ending the call, David dropped the phone back in its cradle. He’d spent a lifetime in the most violent parts of the world, seen sights that could turn the most ironclad stomach. He wasn’t a hard man, but he’d learned to steel himself against horror, to build up an immunity to cruelty and carnage. The only way he could do his job was to ignore concerns about individuals and focus on the needs of humanity as a whole. Nothing he had seen in forty-plus years of diplomatic service had shaken his commitment to that mode of operation.
Until now.
As he stared at the image of his daughter’s battered face, his resolve wavered. The terrorists believed he had sufficient influence to convince the secretary of state and the Afghan government to release political prisoners and pay a twenty-million-dollar ransom. And, in truth, he did. He was a skilled negotiator. Good enough to convince those in power that, Monica’s involvement aside, there were reasons to cooperate in this case. Behind the scenes, if not in the public eye. He’d accrued enough credibility and political capital in his four decades of diplomatic service to pull off that argument.
Doing so, however, went against every principle he believed in.
Yet how could he let Monica die?
It was the toughest moral choice he’d ever faced. And David didn’t know how to resolve his dilemma.
But he did know one thing.
He had less than twenty-two hours to figure it out.
“What the . . . ?”
Coop’s frown deepened as he stared at the screen displaying the feed from the camera mounted on the tennis court.
“What’s wrong?” Mark joined him and scanned the monitor.
“Look at the date.”
Mark leaned closer and squinted at the small digital date displayed in the bottom corner of the screen. Now it was his turn to frown. “That’s yesterday’s feed.”
“Fendler.” Coop summoned the agent, who was pouring a cup of coffee. “Is this video from tonight?”
“Yes.” The man joined them. “Find something?”
“Check out the date.”
As the agent bent toward the screen, he lifted his hand to take a sip—and froze. “That can’t be right.”
“Back it up for us. A couple of hours.” Coop traded places with him, leaning over the man’s shoulder as Fendler took his seat, set the coffee aside, and began typing.
“Okay. This takes us back to midnight.”
“Run it fast forward. Let’s watch the date.”
The man punched a few more keys, and they concentrated on the numbers at the bottom of the screen.
“There. Stop it there. Now back up a couple of minutes and run it forward at normal speed.”
In silence, Fendler followed Coop’s instructions.
“The date’s correct on this section,” Mark noted.
The video played in silence for four minutes, the attention of all three men riveted on the date.
At 1:36, there was an almost imperceptible blip on the screen as the nineteen changed to an eighteen.
The color faded from Fendler’s face as he swore softly. “They must have hacked into the security system and switched out the video with stuff they recorded last night.”
Coop wanted to vent his anger on the man seated inches away. It would feel good to punch him out, to place the blame for Monica’s abduction on him. But the video merge had been so subtle, and the date so small, he knew he could have missed it too.
Jerking away from the table, he walked over to the kitchen doorway and slammed the heel of his hand against the unforgiving molding. He welcomed the pain that radiated up his arm.
“I’ll call Les.” Mark spoke quietly behind him but kept his distance.
“Fine.”
He heard Mark pull out his BlackBerry. Heard him tap in Les’s number. Tuned out the conversation. He didn’t want to hear Les’s response to this latest piece of information. If the bad news kept piling up, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Bulldog yanked them back to Quantico and assigned them to desk duty for the rest of their careers. Unless the White House fired them first.
Why couldn’t there be some good news for once?
“Coop.”
At Mark’s solemn tone, Coop slanted a look over his shoulder, steeling himself. The taut line of his partner’s features confirmed that the streak of bad news wasn’t yet over. “There’s been a new development. Les wants us on speaker phone.”
“Does he have information about Monica?” It was the hardest question Coop had ever as
ked, but avoiding it wasn’t going to change the answer.
“Yes. She’s alive.” Mark inclined his head toward the bedroom.
“Let’s take the call in there.”
Without waiting for a response, Mark strode toward the room, phone to his ear, talking in a voice too low for Coop to hear. Sitting on one of the beds, he motioned for Coop to join him as he depressed the mute button. “David Callahan heard from the kidnappers. Les is going to forward their email to us.”
As Mark spoke, Coop’s BlackBerry vibrated, indicating a high-priority message.
“It’s here.” He started to withdraw the device from his belt, but to his surprise Mark laid a hand on his arm, restraining him.
“Les warned me that it’s not pretty.”
With a curt nod, Coop pulled out the BlackBerry as Mark spoke into the phone. “Les, I’m putting you on speaker. The email just came in, and Coop is opening it. Hang on a second.” He pushed the speaker button.
Steeling himself, Coop clicked on the email and angled the screen so both he and Mark could read the brief, chilling message from the terrorists.
Unless their luck changed, in twenty-two hours Monica would die.
“Did you open the attachment?” Les’s disembodied voice cut through the silence.
“I’m doing that now.” His fingers fumbling, dread knotting his stomach, Coop called up the photo.
He thought he’d prepared himself.
He was wrong.
As the image of Monica’s battered face flashed on the screen, he sucked in a harsh breath, as if someone had delivered a sharp jab to his midsection. She looked as if she’d been in a street fight. Her porcelain skin was discolored with purple bruises and bloody abrasions. One eye was swollen almost shut, the other wide with fear. The pink sweat suit she’d been sleeping in was stained with blood.
He wanted to pick her up, cradle her in his arms, soothe away her pain.
And with his bare hands he wanted to kill the men who had hurt her.
“At least we know she’s alive,” Mark noted softly.
“I think we can assume they’re going to keep her that way until 2:00 a.m. tomorrow,” Les said. “They wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of taking her out of the house alive if they intended to kill her before their deadline.”
“Is the email being traced?” Coop pushed the question past his stiff lips.
“We’re working on it, but there’s not much to go on. Whoever sent this knows computers. In all probability it’s been forwarded several times. Trying to trace it will take more time than we have and could lead to a dead end, anyway.”
“Maybe we can initiate further communication,” Mark suggested. “Every contact provides another opportunity for us to get a handle on her location.”
“The email was sent as an announcement,” Les informed them. “David Callahan can’t reply.”
“He can respond through the media.” Coop’s initial shock at Monica’s appearance was giving way to cold fury and a ruthless determination to win at this deadly game. Losing was not an option.
“What are you suggesting?” Les asked.
“I think Callahan should go public with this. Communicate with the terrorists via the media. Insist he be allowed to talk to his daughter before he’ll consider their demands.”
“There’s no assurance they’ll comply with that request,” Les pointed out.
“We don’t have anything to lose by trying. And if he can talk to Monica, she may say something that will give us a clue about her location. I guarantee she’ll try if she gets half a chance. Words are her business. She’ll use them to her advantage.”
In the silence that followed, Coop suspected Les was breaking in his cigar of the day.
“Okay. Let me broach that idea to the State Department. I’ll be back in touch.”
As the connection was severed, Mark slid his BlackBerry back into its holder. “If the story breaks in Afghanistan, it won’t be long until the U.S. press is all over it.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Coop stared at the photo of Monica on his screen. “Some of my best leads during my field agent days came from people who read news stories and called in tips.”
“It will be harder to pull off a clandestine rescue if the press is breathing down our necks.”
“I know.” He closed the email and looked at Mark. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “But unless we use every resource available, we may not have a rescue to pull off.”
17
Someone was standing over her. She could sense it.
Doing her best to tamp down her burgeoning fear, Monica opened her eyes. The man who had carried her in from the car was staring down at her.
She remained motionless, determined not to let him see how much his silent, unemotional perusal unnerved—and chilled—her. But when he reached down and stroked his fingers along her neck, her instincts kicked in and she recoiled.
At her reaction, a strange light glittered in his eyes. Monica saw malice. Evil.
From her prone position on one of the two double beds, she angled a frightened glance toward the utilitarian desk on the other side of the room. The leader had tossed his gear on the second double bed beside the wall containing the window and door, and he was intent on his computer screen. Oblivious to—or ignoring—his partner’s activities.
When the man began to play with the bottom edge of her sweatshirt, Monica’s gaze swung back to him. He tugged it up a bit, exposing her skin. Dread choked her, and horror. She shuddered.
Please, Lord, not this too! Please!
“I could use a little stress relief after the past couple of days.” A sick smile curved his lips as he ran a finger across her bare midriff.
“Not now, Zahir.”
At the leader’s quiet command, her tormentor’s hand stilled. Monica turned her head toward the man, sending him a silent plea with her eyes.
A mirthless, threatening smile twisted his lips. “Perhaps I’ll let you have a go at her later. If she causes us any trouble.”
With that, he returned to his work.
For several long moments, the other man stood unmoving, one finger resting against her skin. At last, after a painful jab, he withdrew it and moved away. Transferring the equipment on the second bed to the table, he stretched out and turned his head to watch her.
She looked the other way, unable to control the tremors coursing through her body. She’d been about to ask for a drink of water; her mouth was parched, and she wanted to rinse away the sour taste of vomit from her tongue. But she had no intention now of asking for any favors.
Shifting on the bed, she bit back a moan. Every inch of her body hurt, and the pounding in her head remained at jackhammer level. A lethargic weakness had robbed her limbs of all strength. Focus remained a problem too, with the edges of the objects in her sight blurring at regular intervals.
On the other hand, her thinking was a bit clearer. It was obvious that with her two abductors between her and the door, there was no way she’d be able to get past them even if she was operating at full strength. They would subdue any physical attempt to gain freedom as harshly as they’d checked her first effort. Yet there had to be some action she could take to help those who were searching for her.
She risked a peek at her watch. Six in the morning. More than three hours had passed since she’d been snatched from her room. By now, an all-out effort would be underway to find her. And she had no doubt Coop would be leading the charge. Assuming he hadn’t been injured . . . or worse . . . in the assault that led to her abduction.
But she wouldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t. It would paralyze her.
Instead, she tried to recall kidnapping scenarios she’d seen in movies and on TV. In general, the abductors contacted the person who was expected to pay the ransom, sending some kind of proof they had the victim. The picture the leader had snapped of her earlier suggested her captors had followed that pattern.
What usually happened next? She
frowned, trying to think. Didn’t people often demand to talk with the victim in order to verify they were alive? Might her father do that?
She didn’t know. But it seemed like a reasonable possibility. And if they let her talk with her father, perhaps she could send him a clue about her whereabouts.
Closing her eyes, she blocked out everything—her pain, her terror, her fears about Coop, her awareness of the man watching her from the next bed—and concentrated on coming up with innocent-sounding phrases that might provide listeners with a hint about her location.
Because she had a feeling that might be her only hope of survival.
Tariq cast a scornful look around the dingy quarters in Kandahar he’d occupied for the past couple of days, a few miles from his previous lodging. He was tired of moving from one dive to another, but he wasn’t going to get lax about security at this stage. If anyone happened to suspect his involvement in the kidnappings, a shifting target would be harder to hit. And once this was over, he’d lay low for a while in nicer surroundings and focus on working his contacts in the disintegrating government.
“You are prepared to begin the executions at noon tomorrow?” He directed the query to Sayed over his shoulder as he lit a dim light to dispel the early evening shadows.
“Of course.” The man gave a slight, deferential bow. “We await your instruction.”
“Excellent. All is proceeding as—”
“Many pardons.” Anis paused in the doorway. He, too, gave a small bow.
“What is it?” Tariq glared at him, his curt tone expressing his displeasure at the interruption.
“Al Jazeera just reported that David Callahan has issued a statement. He will not consider your demands unless he is allowed to speak with his daughter.”
Tariq’s eyes narrowed in speculation. The counter ultimatum didn’t surprise him. The diplomat was known as a tough negotiator, and Tariq had expected him to want proof his daughter still lived.
What did surprise him was Callahan’s insinuation that he might consider the demands if his condition was met. And he wouldn’t have communicated that unless he’d already discussed the possibility with the U.S. State Department.
Against All Odds Page 19
