by Dana Marton
She wanted to ask him how many days he was staying, whether he could drive her to Rahmara to the bank to deposit the check so she wouldn’t have to wait until next week’s market to take the truck to town. But since he had just gotten there, it seemed rude to ask when he would be leaving. He had to be exhausted from the trip from New York City.
“Do you normally deliver the awards? I was under the impression I’d be notified by phone.” She had checked her voice mail at home from Rahmara, but there were no messages from the foundation.
He unzipped a black leather case and pulled out a camera. “I’m going to record your entire adventure. For promotional purposes.” The smile he flashed her was lethal.
She barely noticed. The words entire adventure echoed in her head and revived her forgotten headache. He was going to stay with her indefinitely? The ten-by-ten mud hut seemed to close in on her. She should have known the whole thing was too good to be true. No such thing as a free lunch.
He couldn’t stay. She had plenty of things to do. Her project of rehabilitating war orphans was barely off the ground. No time to baby-sit some city boy. And he was a real charmer just what she didn’t need. If he as much as looked at a woman in the village, they’d both be kicked out. Or worse. What she needed was to come up with a nice polite way to say no.
“Listen, mind if I crash?” He flashed her a disarming smile that would have been enough to give any woman palpitations. “Jet lag is catching up with me.”
She flushed with embarrassment. He’d caught her so off guard, she’d forgotten even the most basic courtesies. Hadn’t even offered him a glass of water yet. Inconvenience or not, he had traveled halfway around the world to reach her. “Would you like a drink or something to eat?”
“Thanks. I think I’m okay for now. More tired than anything.” He settled onto his sleeping bag with fluid, precise motions.
He was well-built, handsome as sin, with that largerthan-life quality of rock stars. He definitely looked as if he belonged in front of the camera rather than behind it. What an earth was she going to do with him?
“Good night, then.” She tried to adjust to the thought of him sleeping within arm’s reach to her. Right. That would take more than a few seconds.
She stepped outside, needing a little distance, and watched the kids who still seemed enamored with the Jeep. They were her number-one priority. She would deal with the man inside her hut somehow. Shouldn’t be that hard to come up with an excuse that would send him back.
Zaki hobbled toward her on his makeshift crutch, stumbling as it sank into the sand but catching himself in time. The bruises on his face had faded quite a bit since she’d first seen him. Because of his disability, he’d often been more successful with begging than the others, which resulted in being beaten up regularly when the bigger boys came to take his food away. She had stopped that by making it clear that any meals she gave were contingent on no more fighting. The boys took her seriously.
Zaki smiled as he greeted her. His cheeks were filling out. She smiled back. This was what she was here to do, not pose for the camera. She would talk to the kids, discuss tasks for tomorrow, give out as much food as she could and think of a polite way to get rid of Gerald in the morning. She didn’t like the idea of someone looking over her shoulder twenty-four hours a day. And her instant physical attraction to him made her like the man even less.
ABIGAIL OPENED HER eyes, then closed them again against the bright light that streamed through the small windows. People were talking outside. She had slept longer than usual, having spent half the night awake, wondering about what to do with Gerald.
He was still sleeping. She sat up. Should she wake him? No rush. Might as well let him get enough rest before she told him he couldn’t stay. He had a long drive and an even longer plane ride ahead of him.
Someone outside called out a greeting.
Gerald’s eyes popped open and focused on herdeep mountain pools of sparkling blue crystal.
She cleared her throat. “We have visitors,” she said, then stood without looking at him again.
She covered her hair before stepping outside to see who it was and what they wanted. Gerald came right behind her. They’d slept fully dressed.
The mullah stood in front of her hut with a handful of men. Probably checking out the new arrival. He’d done the same thing to her.
“Assalamuh alaikum,” the mullah said to Gerald, and she was about to translate the greeting peace be upon you-when Gerald responded in fluent Arabic. Better than hers.
She struggled to catch his words as he invited the mullah into her hut and apologized that he didn’t have any qahwa ready to offer him. No coffee meant she was definitely failing as a hostess.
The men who had come with the mullah looked over the brand-new Jeep with more reserve than the children had the day before but with just as much curiosity. None of them so much as glanced at her. She wished she could go inside and find out what was going on, but of course women did not sit in conference with the men. The best she could do was eavesdrop.
She could hear bits and pieces of the conversation, the exchanging of pleasantries, a discussion on the greatness of the Prophet Muhammad-may peace be upon him-then laments on the persistent drought. She only understood about every third word, but it was enough to get the general idea. The mullah asked if she was Gerald’s wife, if they were related. Gerald told him they were working together and explained about the foundation. Then there was a heated discussion, too fast to understand, although, from the change in his tone of voice, it seemed Gerald was on the defensive.
A half hour passed by before the mullah stepped outside, followed by Gerald.
“He says we can’t live together if we’re not related or married.”
Right. In the surprise of his arrival, she had forgotten all about that. It solved her problem just fine. Looked like the mullah was going to do her dirty work for her and kick Gerald out. Much better than if she had told him to leave. The Barnsley Foundation was giving her a substantial amount of money. No sense in stepping on any toes.
She did her best to look dismayed, and to her surprise, found that she did feel a little sorry for him. If his job was as important to him as hers was to her, he must be disappointed.
“You could probably get a place in Rahmara and come out here every couple of days to film.” She could handle an hour or so a week. He could get his documentary without invading her personal space and getting on her nerves.
“That’s not an option.”
Flexible he was not. “You could build yourself a mud hut,” she said just to spite him, but he seemed to take her seriously.
“Even if I didn’t live with you, we would still be working closely together. We’d still be alone a lot.”
He was right. It would be best if he left. “Maybe filming the project is not a good idea. I mean, under the circumstances. And it’s bound to be a diversion, which I can scarcely afford.”
“Without the Barnsley Foundation, you couldn’t afford the project at all.”
Would they withdraw the funds if she refused to cooperate with the documentary? Was that what he was hinting at?
Diplomacy was what she needed, not an outright confrontation. She had to show him some deference, at least until the money was in her bank account. “What do you recommend?”
“Marriage.”
“Very funny.”
“It will allow us to work together. We can get divorced as soon as we’re back in the States. If it means saving countless children from starvation, I’m willing to do it.” His piercing blue eyes pinned her down.
And of course, after that last line, she couldn’t very well say she wasn’t. Still. “I believe in the sanctity of marriage,” she said, as a good Catholic girl should.
“Having a man around could make things infinitely easier for you.” He flashed her a smile that was the devil’s own.
He wa
s right. Getting things done was hard almost to the point of impossible,, as most men refused to talk to her due to her gender. Her project would move twice as fast with Gerald’s language skills and his ability to relate to the villagers.
But she couldn’t get married like this. If her mother found out, she would need resuscitation. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. You will have to return.”
“You don’t understand. You living as a single woman on your own made the mullah nervous. You were setting a bad example, corrupting morals. He only let you stay in the first place because you told him you were bringing foreign money into the village. The more prosperous the village, the more prestige he has.”
“So? I’ll still bring the money. The grant is not tied to you being here, is it?” Diplomacy aside, she had to know where she stood.
“It’s gone past that. He asked me if I was willing to marry you and I said yes.”
“And I say no.”
“Technically, you don’t really get a say, although I’m prepared to respect your wishes. But if you challenge the mullah’s authority like this, I doubt he’ll let you stay.” He looked away.
Why did she have a feeling there was more? “And?”
“You spent a night with a man who’s not your husband. They can stone you for that here.”
“That’s ridiculous. Beharrain has a modem court system. Stoning has been illegal for years.”
“In theory, yes. To make the country more acceptable to western sensibilities and attract more foreign aid. But reforms take a long time to take root, especially in outlying areas like this. In this village, the mullah’s word is law, and I’m telling you, he’s a very old-fashioned man.”
Abigail stared at the dust at her feet, unwilling to look at the two men who had so swiftly arranged her fate. She didn’t want to get married. She especially didn’t want to get married to pretty-boy Gerald Thornton. But staying single wasn’t her main objective. Saving children was. And if she had to sacrifice some personal preferences to achieve her goals, then so be it. It was temporary.
“Fine.” she said. “Can he marry us?”
“Probably not. We’re not Muslims. But he wants it done before nightfall.”
“Great. And wouldn’t you know it, there’s not a priest in sight.”
“I bet the U.S. Embassy at Rahmara has a justice of the peace.”
The man seemed to have an answer for everything, didn’t he? She gave him the evil eye, but nodded.
Gerald translated for the mullah and the man responded at length, speaking too rapidly for her to understand.
“What did he say?”
“He’s going to get one of the village elders to come with us as a witness and his widowed sister as your chaperone.”
For crying out loud. She seethed in silence as Gerald and the mullah said their ceremonial goodbyes. Unbelievable. She backed away, into the sanctuary of her hut. How did this happen? Her life had turned beyond ridiculous in a blink of an eye. Thanks to Gerald Thornton. She sank to her mattress, unable to think; then, after a moment, she stood again. She couldn’t afford to fall apart.
She had to get ready for her wedding.
“I DO,” SPIKE said, grateful that they weren’t really getting married, that the woman next to him was pledging eternal love and faithfulness to Gerald Thornton, a man who didn’t exist outside a fake passport.
He wasn’t the marrying type and even if he were he wouldn’t have chosen her. She had looked frightful when she’d walked into her hut and he’d first seen her, and cleaning up only marginally improved her appearance. Her figure remained hidden under the shapeless abayah, her hair under a black scarf. He caught a glimpse of it in the dim hut that morning, a nondescript brownish color, tied into a bun. The women he normally associated with were always expertly done up, from their expensive pedicures to their hairstyles and formfitting designer clothes.
He liked feminine women, flirty and wild. Nothing wrong with that.
Except that he had just married a humorless, ordinary, goody-two-shoes academic.
Not for real. And just for a few weeks, no more. He had to keep that in mind. And in the meantime, it could work to their advantage that she was the plain-Jane type. Certainly nobody would think by looking at her that she was up to something.
The justice of the peace went on, and the witnesses, understanding not a word of the ceremony, fidgeted behind them.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Spike bit back a smile at the unhappy scowl on her face. Technically, the buildings of the U.S. Embassy counted as U.S. territory, but physical contact would have been grossly offensive to their witnesses, who no doubt would have complained to the mullah. No reason to unnecessarily aggravate anyone. “We’re skipping that part,” he said.
He could swear he heard her sigh of relief. Which was really strange. The one constant in his life was that women responded well to him. Enthusiastically well. Except Dr. DiMatteo. She was an odd bird, hard to figure out.
The justice of the peace smiled at them. “Congratulations.”
Spike shook the man’s hand. “Thank you. I appreciate—?’His ringing cell phone cut him off. “Excuse me.” He stepped away from the small wedding party as he clicked it on. “Thornton.”
“Have you made contact?” The Colonel’s voice cut in and out.
“Yes.” He couldn’t say more than that with Abigail and the others standing a few feet from him.
“Well done. Remember the CIA’s multipronged approach I told you about? Their asset turned up dead yesterday. Then this morning, they rushed the house they’d been keeping under surveillance and found it cleared out. You are it, Logan. You and Dr. DiMatteo. You need to start her evaluation immediately.”
“Will do.” He had begun the second he’d set eyes on her. From what he could tell so far, she was not fit for the job. She was as see-through as a fancy negligee. The idea of recruiting her for the CIA seemed worse by the minute. Definitely not undercover material. Her face showed every wayward emotion that crossed her mind. She had known that she’d gotten the grant. He’d seen it in her face and had wondered who’d tipped her off. And she had planned to send him packing, which was why he’d gone to bed early, pretending to sleep to gain time until morning.
He had counted on the mullah’s vigilance and it worked. They were in a country where unrelated men and women didn’t eat, work or spend any time together whatsoever. He couldn’t very well evaluate, recruit and train her like that. But now they were married, and in this part of the world that meant she was under his power in every way, tied to him. He needed that to complete his mission successfully.
He had two weeks to lead the CIA to the terrorists’ headquarters, probably a training camp either in the mountains or in the desert. If he failed, the U.S. military would have to come in and bomb a variety of possible targets. And since the Beharrainian government refused to give permission for any type of U.S. military operation in the country, that kind of intervention would mean out-and-out war.
And still, there would be a chance that El Jafar—aka Suhaib Hareb, the head of the terrorist group, according to CIA intelligence, could slip through somehow and succeed with his attack against the U.S.
Spike dropped the phone into his pocket. Somehow within the next two weeks, he had to find a way to pin down EL Jafar. And his temporary wife was the key to the whole operation. He hoped to hell she was up for the task.
Chapter Two
“Shukran, El Jafar,” Tsemyakov, if that was his real name, thanked him. “I will be in touch about details on transportation.” He extended his hand.
They kissed on the cheek three times as was customary among friends. He allowed Tsernyakov the familiarity because he wanted him to feel safe.
“It’s a good deal.” The Russian smiled, visibly pleased.
An excellent deal. El Jafar watched as his guards escorted the man out of the spacious tent,
but in his mind he was seeing something else—news reports of his victory.
The vivid picture in his head chased his bad mood away. He always had the ability to see clearly the things he wanted, as if they’d already happened. He was a visionary—one much needed by his people.
The first strike had to be spectacular—bigger and more devastating than the U.S.A. had ever seen. After that, once everybody knew his name, recruits would be abundant and funding would flow in. And with that, the second attack would be even better. His cause was just, and he would not stop until he brought his enemies to their knees. He could no longer argue reasonably while no one in political office listened. He could not stand by and watch as western businesses, backed by their governments, robbed and raped his country.
He was a successful businessman, but what he and his family had paled in comparison to what should have been rightfully theirs. They should have been living like princes. They would have been, if westerners had not supported King Majid’s claims to the throne, ensuring his favor that came with hefty government contracts. El Jafar fisted his hand. Contracts that should have gone to his company and other local interests, not to some global conglomerate who siphoned the profits back to the West, harvesting the riches while leaving Beharrain in poverty.
Fair Trade was nothing but a slogan. If trade were fair, countries with valuable natural resources wouldn’t have to watch their citizens starve while their western trade partners got richer and richer, to the point of obscenity.
But not much longer. The day of reckoning was coming soon. And the thieves would have nowhere to hide.
Tsernyakov had come through. He trusted the man, or, at least, he trusted him as much as he trusted anyone. Still, he’d been careful. He had not revealed his real name, his purpose or his location. At each meeting, he’d sent a car to pick up Tsemyakov at his hotel and drive him out into the desert. The tent, a reminder of his Bedouin ancestors, had been set up at a different place each time.
