By Dawn's Early Light

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  Michael looked away, unable to meet those burning blue eyes. So Stedman had read his jacket—what had he read between the lines of his fitness reports?

  The president’s pencil tapped out a steady rhythm on the desk. “Don’t you think I feel the same way every time I stand outside beneath the White House portico?” Stedman continued, speaking with a gentle ferocity that made it abundantly clear he had learned the secret wounds of Michael’s past. “Every time I walk down that hallway and step out into the sunshine, I think about that Sunday morning when I lost my wife. The memory twists my guts into a knot, and I suppose I’ll feel that way for a long time to come. But I go on. Because I have a duty—and because Victoria would want me to.”

  You have a duty also. The words were unspoken, but Michael heard them as clearly as if the president had shouted in his ear. A wave of bitterness arose and threatened to engulf him, but he pushed it back and straightened his spine. Something in him wanted to shout that he had already paid his dues; now he was entitled to pursue his career without interference from the pale ghosts who haunted his dreams.

  But he had been a warrior far too long, and Stedman was his commander in chief. He lifted his chin and met the president’s gaze head-on. “I assume I am to remain at my present post until time to depart?”

  “The time to depart was yesterday.” Stedman paused to pinch the bridge of his nose, then lowered his hand and gave Daniel a weary smile. “Go back to the NSA, make your report, and submit it as usual. Say nothing about your visit to see me. I’ll set things in motion, and by tomorrow you should receive word that you are being dispatched to Israel for a routine diplomatic visit. Once in Israel, speak freely with IDF officials about the Russian threat, but don’t reveal my involvement in this matter. Communicate with Daniel; he will put you in touch with me if necessary.”

  Michael stood, tugged his cover into place, then gave Stedman a formal salute. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.” His throat constricted as he forced the next words: “And an honor to serve you.”

  Samuel Stedman stood as well, a relieved smile upon his face as he returned the salute. “I have a feeling Daniel knew what he was doing when he tapped you for this job, Michael. Godspeed, and God bless.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Moscow

  2000 hours

  ALANNA PULLED THE FUR COLLAR OF HER COAT CLOSER TO HER CHEEKS, THEN thrust her gloved hands into her pockets and continued her walk. Feeling restless and irritable in the confines of the hotel, she’d left the suite for a stroll around the river. Vladimir had not returned by nightfall, and she doubted he would. His brain had shifted to business as he left her, and once he set his mind upon a thing, he was as tenacious as a terrier.

  Shivering, she paused at an intersection and looked around, past the sluggish traffic and the stone-faced buildings crowded cheek by jowl. Curls of gauzy steam rose from grates set into the gutters, and snowflakes spiraled down from a black sky so close it seemed to brush against the painted, onion-shaped domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. Tiny lights shimmered from windows in a government building, reflecting diamondlike against the blackness.

  The light changed, and she stepped into the street, lowering her head into her high collar as the wind blew. Her American friends would think her insane for walking alone after dark in a city as large as Moscow, but in the brightly lit areas surrounding Red Square she felt as safe as the pope in Rome. More than once she caught a uniformed guard’s eye and found herself receiving a respectful nod. The soldiers all knew Vladimir, and now they all knew her. Just last week Vladimir had brought home a newspaper and proudly pointed to the front-page photo—a shot of the two of them alighting from his staff car. A string of diamonds had glittered from her throat, and in his uniform he looked like a dignified, if slightly aged, Prince Charming.

  She quickened her pace as the cold began to seep into her bones. She had been walking for half an hour, her long stride easily covering the city blocks between the Hotel Metropol and Red Square. Now it was time to go back, prepare a cup of tea, and slip into bed with one of the books she’d brought from home.

  She lengthened her stride in an effort to burn a couple of extra calories. She had gained weight moiling around the empty hotel suite, snacking out of boredom as she watched an endless stream of talk shows on the Moscow television station. The good thing about her boring daytime existence was that she had begun to develop an ear for the Russian language; the bad thing was that she had gained five pounds in three months.

  Hunching into her coat, she took a moment to lift her hand in an impromptu salute as she passed the monument to Russia’s printing pioneer, Ivan Fedorov. The brass statue dated from 1909, Sergei had told her on one of their walks, but Fedorov printed the first Russian book in 1563—a copy of the Acts of the Apostles for the Russian Orthodox Church. “Good evening, Ivan,” she whispered as she hurried past, her teeth beginning to chatter despite her brisk pace. “Print a book for me in English, will you?”

  The temperature seemed to drop as the moments passed, and she was nearly sprinting by the time she reached the marble steps that led to the hotel lobby. A few Japanese tourists lingered in a tight knot just beyond the elevator, and she deliberately turned away from them, not wanting to invite conversation. She punched the call button and flexed her cold fingers in her leather gloves, then noticed that the glass display case in the marble wall had been changed.

  She stared at the display, shocked and startled by a sudden elusive thought she could not quite fathom. The display was not particularly unique and not at all flashy by American standards. Several books on brass stands had been arranged very prettily against a swath of emerald green satin. The books themselves could not have arrested her attention, for three of them were titled in the Cyrillic alphabet, which still looked like chicken scratching to Alanna. The fourth book, a little red volume, was a copy of the classic Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

  She took a quick breath of utter astonishment. Uncle Tom’s Cabin? In English?

  She turned on the ball of her foot and strode to the front desk. “Excuse me.” She pointed to the display and hoped the clerk spoke English. “The bookstore. Is it open?”

  Apparently she had managed to communicate. “Da,” the man behind the counter said, pointing toward the curving hallway that ran along the front of the building.

  “Spasibo, thank you.” She hurried down the corridor, her heart lifting with hope. She passed a ladies’ clothing store, a newsstand, a tourists’ travel office, then braked to a halt at the threshold of an honest-to-goodness antiquarian bookstore. For a moment she merely stood there, inhaling the scent of rich leathers and dusty pages, then a child’s treble voice cut through the silence.

  “Madame?”

  She opened her eyes and smiled at the boy who stood before her. He was an adorable urchin with wide eyes the color of coffee. “Hello,” she whispered shyly, bringing her hands together. “Is this your shop?”

  The boy grinned, his new teeth too big in his small face. “You are American?”

  Alanna laughed. “You speak English?”

  “Yes.” He turned and lifted his voice toward someone in the back of the shop. “Mama! Papa! We have a customer! A beautiful lady!”

  A moment later a man came forward, wiping his hands on his work apron. He paused behind the boy, his hands resting on the lad’s shoulders. “We are about to close, Madame, but if you need something—”

  Alanna lifted her hand and gestured at the well-stocked shelves. “It’s, ah—well, I was surprised to see your display in the lobby. I didn’t know you carried English books.”

  “Yes, Madame. We have a wide variety of old and new English volumes.” The man nodded, and Alanna noticed for the first time that he wore a yarmulke firmly planted on his head.

  She tilted her head, her heart softening. “I am Alanna Ivanova, and I am pleased to meet you. My mother was Jewish. I have met so few people in Moscow and no other Jews.”

  A woman appeared from behind a tower
ing bookshelf. A touch of bright lipstick emphasized the indoor pallor of her face, but a small smile curved her mouth as Alanna finished speaking.

  The man nodded, his hands remaining firmly planted upon the boy. “We are Ari and Rochel Benjamin. And this is our son, Ethan.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you all.” Alanna basked in the warmth of their smiles for a moment, then remembered that the hour was late. “I won’t keep you, but I would like to buy—” she reached out and grasped the first book within reach. The title was in Russian, and she had no idea what the book was about. But she couldn’t leave without buying something.

  Rochel’s eyes widened. “You want that book?”

  “Perhaps you would like to look at another.” Ari gestured toward another shelf. “That volume is very old, very expensive.”

  Alanna managed a faint smile, knowing Vladimir would pay for anything she bought. And expensive was good, the money would help this family. “Don’t worry, the book is a gift. Charge it to my room, please.” As Ari took the book and wrapped it in tissue paper, Rochel scrawled out a sales slip. After Alanna signed it, little Ethan presented her with the package, neatly wrapped in butcher paper and tied with string.

  “Thank you so much.” Alanna hugged the book to her chest. “I will come again, for some English books. I love to read.”

  Rochel walked her to the door, a ring of keys jangling in her hand. “Shalom, Alanna.”

  Alanna smiled, grateful she had finally found a friend. “Shalom to you, too.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  District of Columbia

  1230 hours

  GO BACK TO THE MIDDLE EAST?

  Though Michael had been honored by the evidence of the president’s faith in him, the more he thought about his upcoming duty, the more the idea rankled. He gritted his teeth and steered expertly around a black limousine oozing through the red light. “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” he muttered, “I’d just love to go back to the place where we were neither appreciated nor welcome. I can’t wait to dredge up the memories of Hamra Street, where a man took his life in his hands just stepping out for a little fresh air. I’m just dying to get back to that dry heat, those stubborn zealots, and the Arabs who consider it an honor to blow themselves up and take Americans with them . . . just like they took Janis.”

  Even after seventeen years, his wife’s name knifed across his heart with a pain far more excruciating than any training he had ever endured. He pushed the ’Vette into the left lane and blew past the lawful drivers, but he couldn’t outrun his memories. They filled his brain, dancing on the back of his retinas as his body automatically guided the convertible toward 295 and the relative safety of his office in Fort Meade.

  For him, the nightmare of Lebanon had begun the morning he kissed Janis good-bye in Virginia, then mounted a chopper that would carry him to join the other operators of SEAL Team Six. SEAL Six, a clandestine antiterrorist unit, had been tasked with inserting into Beirut to quietly assess the terrorist threat to American targets in the area. Just before Christmas 1982, Michael and eleven of his fellow SEALs entered the city by different routes, then posed as journalists and went sightseeing.

  They didn’t like what they saw. The entire area was a hotbed for terrorist activity, each city block ruled by a different philosophical, religious, or political group. Worst of all, the American marines who helped make up the international peacekeeping force had been instructed to patrol with their hands tied behind their backs—literally, with their guns on safety and no round in the chamber. The marines were not allowed to even chamber a round unless told to do so by a commissioned officer—or unless they were in immediate danger of being mown down by machine gun fire. Trouble was, the enemy didn’t believe in middle-of-the-street, Wyatt Earp–type shootouts. They shot at the good guys from behind cars, through dark windows, and through brush so thick it’d take a machete to clear a path. When Michael saw what the marines had to deal with, he thanked God he was a navy man.

  One night the techno-wizards brought the spying SEALs a new toy— a little black box that broadcast a wide range of radio signals up to a thousand feet. Since most car bombs were detonated by radio signals, this little gadget would automatically set off any explosive device within range— before it got close enough to damage a target. Michael and three other SEALs hopped into a car, flipped the black box’s power supply, and went for a leisurely drive through Lebanon. They had scarcely driven a mile when a building two blocks ahead erupted in a fireball. As chunks of concrete and shards of glass rained down upon their vehicle, Michael ducked low in the seat and looked at Shark, his swim buddy.

  “I think we snagged a big one.”

  A wry smile flashed in the thicket of Shark’s beard. “One less bomb to blow us up, man.”

  The next week the SEAL commander presented their evaluation to a senior official stationed at the American Embassy. He detailed the results of the SEAL survey—the embassy was vulnerable, as was the airport barracks housing the marines. A wall of sandbags and light barricades wouldn’t stop a determined terrorist, but if one or two of those little black transmitters were mounted on the embassy rooftop, any potential car bomb would be detonated before it reached the building—

  The official’s answer was strictly standard issue: no. An explosion on the street might kill innocent civilians, and that could not be allowed.

  Frustrated and furious, the SEALs returned to Virginia. Michael went back to Janis, and two months later he transferred out of SEAL Six and went to work in the Pentagon, filling a temporary slot in the office of the deputy chief of naval operations. Unfortunately, that slot proved too temporary, and he found himself back in Lebanon in March 1983, working as a military attaché for the commander of the U.S.S. Independence, stationed off the Lebanese coast. His mission this time wasn’t clandestine, and every time he put on his uniform Michael thought he might as well paint a big red bull’s-eye on the back of his shirt.

  Tensions had been mounting in the area for weeks and escalated when persons unknown ambushed an Italian mobile patrol on the night of March 15. The next day someone threw a hand grenade at a marine foot patrol in Ouzai, just north of the marine barracks at Beirut International Airport. Five marines were wounded, none seriously, as were several Lebanese citizens.

  Michael called in a naval medical team to guard and treat the injured Lebanese nationals. That gesture of goodwill seemed to quiet the troubled area, so in early April, when Janis telephoned and said she’d made plans to visit, Michael was delighted.

  He met her at the airport, half-suspecting the reason she’d flown halfway around the world to see him. And yet she kept her secret until that night in the Summerland Hotel, when they lay in each other’s arms surrounded by silence. “We’re going to have a baby, Michael,” she said, reaching up to touch his cheek. “In October. I’m sixteen weeks pregnant.”

  For a moment he couldn’t speak. Though he had certainly suspected she might be expecting, hearing her confirmation sent a thrill shivering through his senses. He slid his hand beneath the sheet and pressed it to the rounded curve of her belly, then thought he might burst from the sudden swell of happiness touching her gave him. A new person lay beneath his hand. Through some miracle of God, they had managed to pass the gift of life on to another human soul.

  “Janis—” Words failed him, but she understood. She looked at him with dewy moisture in her great beautiful eyes, then she pulled him closer, hope and love and the promise of tomorrow all mingled in her kiss.

  The next morning, Michael got up, dressed, and prepared for his three-mile run. Janis still lay in bed, drowsy with contentment and jet lag. They would have one more night together, then she would have to leave . . . but Michael wasn’t ready to think about parting.

  “Hey, sweetness.” He sat by the side of the bed and lifted the tide of brown hair from her sleeping face. “I’m going out for my run. Want me to bring you anything?”

  “I’d better get up.” Her eyes blinked once, then close
d again.

  “Sleep all you want. Mothers-to-be need their rest.”

  “Gotta get to the embassy and confirm my flight for tomorrow.” She lifted one eyelid and peered out at him. “Unless you want to do it for me.”

  “I don’t even want to think about you leaving.”

  “Then let me get up. I’ll go to the embassy while you’re running, then we can spend the rest of the day together and not worry about a thing.”

  He grinned as she pushed herself up. She looked like a young girl— rumpled, fresh-faced, and absolutely innocent.

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then bent lower and planted a kiss on her tummy, too. “So long, junior,” he said, his wide hand covering the warm place where their baby grew. “Be back in an hour.”

  He had just reached Hamra Street and turned back when the explosion shook the city. A feeling of empty-bellied terror paralyzed him for an instant, then he sprinted in the direction of the blast, his legs pumping to the percussive beat of his heart.

  When he arrived, the embassy building looked as if an enemy fighter jet had bombed it. The wall of sandbags designed to discourage terrorists had contained the force of the explosion, directing the blast upward to wreak more damage. Now a heap of rubble was all that remained of the front portion of the seven-story building. A thick cloud of debris hung over the scene, a whirling haze of dust, smoke, and embers. Pieces of furniture, bits of steel, and crumbled concrete littered the ground, while a potted plant leaned against a twisted iron railing of the fence.

  The contents of the building were still raining down upon the street, papers slip-sliding through the air currents as sirens roared. With a detachment that horrified him afterward, Michael noticed a hand on the ground, the nails bitten and chewed, the knuckles covered in dark hair.

  A lone Lebanese guard stood trembling in the courtyard, a trickle of blood running from his ear, his cheek marked with a four-inch laceration that would require stitches. Ignoring the shell-shocked guard, Michael threw himself into the whirling smoke, ripping the skin of his hands as he tossed aside blocks and twisted shards of metal and glass. Part of him wanted to run back to the hotel and discover that Janis had gone back to sleep, that she and the baby were safe and sound, but another, more cynical part of his brain knew she was a woman of her word. She had said she would go to the embassy, so she had to be inside.