by Fiona Quinn
Johnna kicked Christen’s boot, “Stop gawking. Eat your lunch.”
***
The show that the village men put on after they ate was a wild display of ancient dance moves designed to develop endurance and strength. The young warriors in their loin cloths and brightly colored beads lined up and ran at the boulder, leaping it and landing in a sand pit that protected their legs and ankles. Christen itched to try it. The boulder was kind of high to get over without touching it like, a gymnastic vaulting horse, but she thought she could do it.
True to the guide’s earlier explanation, they had another photo op – again, it was contrived for excellent photos. The reality was, they’d pushed a platform up to the boulder and the men weren’t actually leaping the stone as much as they were jumping down into the sand pit. Christen demurred. That wasn’t any fun.
The hike out, following the festivities, found a whole lot less grumbling under the breath. The men were obviously tired, but they seemed to have had a good time. And they had delighted on seeing how brave and strong they looked in the images the photographer had scrolled through for them to review.
Christen saw this day for what it was. A shared experience where they’d felt a little fear, had a laugh, had an adventure, struggled together. It was the kind of thing that corporate boards liked to do to make a team cohesive before they sat down and hashed through a mutual issue. Negotiations were much more successful once you see each other as comrades and allies instead of stiff-shirted individuals fighting for personal goals. Now, Christen thought, these men would start opening up and sharing. Now, the quiet conversations would be of the most interest to the US government. And they were talking. Unlike earlier that day when everyone sort of grumped down the trail silently suffering.
The Daniel guy had taken point. Three men then Blaze. She was in the group with Gregor Zoric, and he was talking to the man from Saudi Arabia and the one from Qatar. They were aware that she was near, and they had switched to Arabic to exclude her from their conversation. Christen spoke Arabic. Not perfect Arabic, but she read the papers and listened to the news every day – if they spoke in metaphors she’d be lost, but if they were using basic language, she could follow along just fine. And it really didn’t matter either way. This was all getting sent back to Nutsbe and the US government, and they’d get it translated easily enough.
This spy stuff was boring.
Christen glanced back over the line of people. Johnna was walking near another group that included Karl, and Christen knew that she was there to pick up that conversation. Then a few more of their group walked with the other guard, Ralph, and somewhere at the back, where she couldn’t see him, Gator was the caboose. Christen felt antsy that she didn’t have him in sight. She hadn’t seen him since he’d handed off the baby to the grateful mother when the infant woke and was hungry.
Christen thought he looked sad when his baby fix was over.
The softy.
She smiled to herself as she walked along.
She only kept a light attention on the topic du jour. Qatar was not producing their own food. A closed border between the Saudi Arabia and Qatar was causing hardship for the Qatari people who needed access to food. That was problematic, it put pressures on at home. They talked about scuba gear and satellites and the use of helium…how dependent the modern world was on the supply.
They took a few steps in silence, then Nadir turned to Gregor. “The sanctions bill died in the US Senate committee, as we knew it would after we lost our leverage. I’m not sure how to work around this obstacle. But we’ll have to find a way.”
“Yes,” Gregor said. “A very surprising turn of events. If my instructions had been followed to the letter, all would have gone as planned. The persons who made the decisions to kidnap the young teacher from Maryland have been punished. Properly. Everyone has been reminded that they will act in concert with my wishes.” A few more silent steps, then under his breath, “I will think this through.” Louder, “I have the means of acquiring a new person to take the place as head of the Senate committee. If we all agree that that is the step that needs to be taken, my people can have the barrier removed from the stage. A new committee leader might then bring up the legislation for consideration once again. We could see how much pressure we can put in place. The Russian government has a deep file of kompromat to assist us.”
Kompromat was a Russian word, not Arabic. The whole conversation was cryptic as hell. At least to her. Gregor wasn’t a fabulous Arabic speaker - his verb conjugations and his noun pronunciations needed work. She was picking up a good fifty percent of what she thought he was saying. Happily, someone else was tasked with unraveling that puzzle of information. Other than recording that last bit of conversation, Christen couldn’t figure out why she was here. The other stuff about Qatar’s food problem and the pressures between the Qatari and Saudi border was reported in the newspapers; the information everyone who cared to know, knew.
The men walked along silently when suddenly Gregor said something that loosely translated to, “If we’re going to make this work, we’ll need a new Momo.”
That got her attention, but she tried to be a good spy and go along looking at her surroundings as if she couldn’t care less what they were saying.
He tapped the elbow of the Saudi guy. “Do you know someone who has a team to get the job done?”
“Properly?” Nadir added. “Momo’s activities failed three times in a row. He was not the professional he led us to believe he was.”
Well now the guy is supposed to be dead, so it was a little late to place blame, Christen thought. She wondered what country a name like Momo came from.
“I do. I’ll handle it,” the Saudi replied.
Christen wondered what job they needed filled that would be shared amongst the three. She wasn’t deeply curious. On the surface, this conversation was dull. Really, Christen couldn’t even conjure a scenario where any of this was relevant.
Lula was definitely wrong about asking her to think about a possible career change. Christen was a pilot, full stop. She’d leave this kind of day to people like Johnna and Lula.
The only bright spot in this whole crappity mission was that she’d met Gator.
Finally.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Christen
Friday, The water’s edge, North Sumatra
“I’m getting an eye tic from this damned contact lens,” Christen told the water as it lapped at the rock under her feet. They had reached the shore, and she was waiting for her turn to be shuttled to the yacht. The crew stood on the deck, holding a salute, in their snazzy white uniforms. The water was choppy and dark. Ominous clouds continued to gather. Maybe on the other side of the islands, they’d find a little sun. If she had to be here, she might as well have a little fun surfing. Then she reminded herself that Nutsbe had said not to go into the water and lose the bajillion dollar contact lens.
Gator had been with the first group that was ferried over to the yacht. Once he clambered on board, she could vaguely see that he was conferring with the security guard who had escorted the wimpy guys directly to the boat. Probably counting heads…
“Parts of this job suck,” Johnna said under her breath as she fanned herself with her hand.
“Parts?”
“Different strokes for different folks.” They were standing well away from any listening ears. “While we’re boarding and getting settled, our team will be quietly placing listening equipment around in the various cabins and public areas. The comms will pick up the conversations and store or transfer them, depending on the satellite connection.”
“Won’t that be a great big mess?”
“Each device is set to a different frequency so they’re not all on the same channel. The software can clear out auditory debris, waves, wind, what have you. You could cut down on some of that by not sighing so loudly and lessening the mumbling under your breath part.”
“I am not doing that,” Christen said. “Okay I
’m not doing it that much.”
Johnna smiled. “Hang in there we’re two days down, three days to go. When the party breaks up, you’ll be back to your unit.”
“Thank god.”
“I got in touch with Grey, Thank you by the way for what you did to save him. That was some damned miraculous air artistry.”
Christen froze. Was Grey able to pass on some intel?
“I told him you were agitated and distracted by the mission you left incomplete.”
Christen reached out and gripped Johnna’s arm.
“He said they had to explode the Black Hawk, but everyone got pulled out of the hills. Two wounded, neither of those operatives were at risk of life or limb.”
“And my guys?”
“Smitty and Prominator had some wounds from the crash, other than that they’re fine. Now. I want you to focus. The boat is a nice tight space. We like that. We want to make sure to see who talks to whom and for how long. Eyes open and recording. If you think they’re in a space where they won’t be recorded try to hang out there, if you think your presence is causing an issue, leave your phone behind and go elsewhere. Okay?”
“Got it.”
“Good. We’re up.” Johnna smiled and walked toward the dingy, accepting Blaze’s hand as she stepped in.
***
After changing into a bikini top and a sarong skirt, Christen rejoined the party having their well-deserved celebratory cocktails on the deck. They’d made it through the day. Christen wanted a cocktail, but Johnna had caught her eye and given a slight shake of her head. Christen opted for Perrier and lemon.
She sat down next to Nadir. He was young and looked intelligent. Possibly, he was educated in America, which would make him more open to speaking with a stranger. Christen hoped she could start a conversation with him about what his role was in the group.
“That’s an odd place to get a burn,” Karl said.
Christen looked down at the white blister that was exposed when the fabric of her wrap slipped to the side. “Occupational hazard.”
“You’re an artist?” Nadir asked, his gaze was fastened on the burn and then they slid up a few inches toward her crotch. Obviously, a gentleman of the first caliber.
She flipped the fabric to better cover herself and said, “I try to be anyway.” Normally, she’d move away from a creeper like that. She knew Johnna would think this kind of attention was a win and would milk it for all it was worth. Christen didn’t have milking skills. She had shooting skills, though.
“Look!” Taro yelled. He gripped the railing and leaned forward. He was the only one wearing a life vest. “I told you so,” he said as he scanned behind him until he found Nadir. “Here look.”
The group moved over to the rail to see what had excited Taro. “Those are sea wasp. See the color? See the boxed shape? See how long the tentacle?”
Karl said, “Aren’t you allergic to jellyfish?” and then he grabbed her arm and gave a kind of push-pull to frighten her into thinking she was going over. But as soon as he gripped her arm her reflex had her grabbing his thumb and twisting it until she had control of his body. This told her that her subconscious still recognized Karl as the enemy of her childhood – the one who enjoyed tormenting her. And what it told the others who gawked at her move, was that she had other skills than folding paper. Shit.
“You did it!” Johnna laughed and clapped her hands. “Awesome!” She slid over to put her hand on Christen’s so Christen would release her grip on Karl. “That totally worked! And we just saw that on the YouTube video. How cool is that?”
“Pretty cool,” Christen forced a plastic grin and high fived Johnna.
Attention went back to watching the sea wasps. They were beautiful as they floated about. There was death, surrounding their boat. Well at least she was safe and sound on board.
The captain ahem-ed. “Ladies and gentlemen. I am Captain Baluk. We are now underway toward the island for your swimming and surfing pleasure. The string of islands off the coast of Sumatra means there is very little wave action here on the mainland. We must round the islands to reach the Indian ocean and there, there are some spectacular waves. These waves are considered some of the best in the world of surfing because of the good barrel, and a right-handed break.”
“What’s that, the right-handed break?” Nadir asked.
“If I’m surfing with my left foot forward on a right hander, I’m facing the wave,” Christen said, and he nodded his understanding.
“This evening we will anchor off the coast of our destination,” The captain was saying. “You will eat dinner under the stars. And tomorrow will be your day to enjoy the beach. Hopefully, there will be a shift in the weather, and you will have sunshine. While you sleep tomorrow night, we will continue on to Davidson Realm where you will disembark for brunch. Please let me or the staff know if you have any needs. And if it is in my power, I will see it done.”
There was a general murmur of thank yous, The captain bowed and left.
Christen looked up at the sky. She’d been reading weather by observation for decades. This didn’t look promising to her. She’d lay good money that by tonight it would be raining hard. Probably all through tomorrow as well. And while conversations would be easier to catch in the confines of the yacht’s interior versus the mansion and garden grounds, they should probably skip the day of surf and sand and head back to her dad’s island. But then again, that might just be wishful thinking about the rain. She wanted to be one step closer to ridding herself of her cloak and dagger.
Chapter Thirty
Christen
Friday, The Davidson Yacht
“A dangerous darkening of the heavens, a sudden hush of the hustle that made life tick; the boats swung drunkenly at their moorings with the crouching breeze stalking its quarry... Then the mighty drums rolled, the boys with their sticks and their bright rat-a-tat-tat, the sound of a thousand heels stomping against the over-pressed earth. The whinny of the horse, the cracking whip of light against the dark, and the gods lifting their fists with a Huzzah! resounding across the hills and echoing long like the moan of a child lost in the shadow of his dreams.”
Christen stepped toward the yacht railing and lifted her face to see Gator’s eyes. His far-away look reached out over the water. She wondered if he even knew he’d said that aloud or realized she was there. Christen didn’t know him as anything other than the affable and capable Marine who watched her back for the last two days. But even still, she could feel that something about the water and sky had gripped him. His face was stone.
“That was Erwin Prath,” she said, her tone soft so as not to startle him.
He dragged his attention from the horizon and focused stormy eyes on her. Just that morning, they were warm and laughing. Yes, something had profoundly changed throughout the day.
“Ma’am?”
“You were quoting from the Erwin Prath essay “The End of Days.” I can’t recite it, but I recognized it.”
He’d shifted back to himself, earnest and intelligent. He sent her a smile that made her think the word “wistful,” but with an underlying cord of determination, preparation, a girding of the loins, a man ready for battle. Christen looked out over the waters. A storm was brewing, but it seemed to Christen that he’d carried that look in his eye since they’d been in the village. What had changed?
“I was born in a little Cajun cabin on the bayou in Louisiana. It was built by hand by my great grandfather. Water was our life. I could swim long before I could walk. In that house, we were a passel of kids nestled together like a litter of puppies. At night, my mama would read to us. Essays, and stories, but mostly poetry because she wanted some peace, and she tried to bore us to sleep.” His sweet smile burst into a momentary grin then slid away. “That one I was remembering was one of her favorites.”
Christen wanted it back, that grin. Wanted a moment of happy. She had seen something in his eyes while he gazed out over the electrified night that made her tremble. The
coming storm.
She remembered the day she’d looked out of the bug-eyed bubble of her helicopter and seen a desert haboob—the massive storms of dirt, a blinding blizzard of debris—stampede its way toward her. She was charged with the safety of the mission. She’d flown as fast as her Little Bird would take her in the opposite direction; the customers laughing and oblivious in the back. But she knew the storm, like a giant monster, crawled hungrily forward, ever closer, gnashing its teeth. It could very well mean death.
She struggled away from the feeling of foreboding.
“Five children all told?” she asked, reaching for banality, something that didn’t make her feel like the world would suddenly implode. Christen hated the feeling of being out of control. She trained her whole life for not just command of the situation but micro-precision. In her gymnastics, in her flying, in her military career. Precision. Control. Here on the water, she felt as miniscule as a star in the far distant heavens with no ability at all to influence their situation.
“Yes, ma’am, three boys, me and the twins, were the filling in the sandwich with sisters on either side.”
“You were kidding about their names. Your sisters Medic and Seren.”
His lips quirked up. “Yes, ma’am. My sisters are Genevieve and Auralia.”
“Your last name isn’t really Aid.”
“No, ma’am. My name is Jean-Marie Rochambeau. Direct descendent of Jean-Baptiste comte de Rochambeau. My mama, she said we were of noble birth - kings of our destinies.” He stopped and pursed his lips. His gaze became turbulent again.
“I studied about him in history class, your ancestor. A French General who arrived in the American Revolution with enough troops that he helped to defeat the British at Yorktown. Without him, we may not be our own country. We might well still be part of the British Empire.”
“Yeah, he done good.” Gator reached out and lightly touched her shoulder, let his finger trail slowly down her arm, and slipped his hand around hers. He visibly swallowed.
