Star-Spangled Bride
Iris Johansen
PROLOGUE
Mekhit, Turkey May 9, 1983
The darkness was absolute, pressing down on her, taking away her breath.
Her hands clawed weakly at the block of concrete barring the entrance, but it was too heavy to shift. Why did she keep trying? She was going to die. Her throat was raw with screaming, but no one had heard her.
"Are you there? Dammit, answer me. Talk to me." A man's voice shouting, strong and angry.
"Here." It came out a hoarse croak. "Help me.. .."
"I'm trying to help. I've been trying since I heard you two hours ago." She could hear the shifting of concrete slabs. "Are you hurt?"
"I don't think so." It was difficult to tell. At first, she had been aware of pain, but time and terror had blurred sensation. "Arm hurts ... a little. Why did the . .. parking garage blow up?"
"The entire world blew up," he said. "It was a seven-point-five earthquake on the Richter scale. The hotel collapsed. We've been trying to dig survivors out for the last eight hours."
Was that how long it had been? It had seemed forever, an eternity of forevers. An earthquake. Why hadn't that possibility occurred to her? Her first thought had been a missile.
"Is there anyone else there with you?"
"No." It was always her job to make sure the rendezvous was deserted. Evan said no one ever suspected kids. "I'm alone."
"You're fading away. Keep talking. What's your name?"
What was the name on her passport this time? she wondered hazily. Anita . . . Anita something. "Anita."
That seemed enough for him. "I'm Gabe. Can you tell me how close you were to the door when the quake hit?"
She tried to remember. "Close. I started running. ... I didn't reach it in time."
"How close?"
"Three feet..."
"Then we're almost there. Hold on."
How could she hold on when there was nothing to hold on to? Just darkness and the destruction around her. "Could you hurry? I'm . .. afraid."
"There's nothing to be afraid of."
A sudden flare of anger pierced her panic. "Not for you. You don't have a hotel sitting on top of you."
There was a moment of surprised silence and then Gabe chuckled. "Touche. It was a stupid remark. I must be getting tired. Of course, you're afraid. Try to get your mind off it. You're American?"
The passport said Spanish. "No."
"You sound American."
"Spanish. English mother."
"I'm American. Texas. I was born and raised in Piano. Do you know where that is?"
"No."
"It's a little town right outside of Dallas, almost like a suburb. Well, it used to be a small town. Now it's growing like a mushroom after a rainstorm. You're not talking."
"I'm listening. I can't do both."
A sudden rush of air touched her face as one of die blocks was shifted to the side and she saw the conelike beam of a flashlight through the narrow opening. Hope flared and she tried to wriggle forward. "You're here. I can see the light."
"I told you."
Then the sound of movement ceased and she heard low voices.
Something was wrong, she thought desperately. Nothing was happening.
"Anita," Gabe called. "We've reached some heavy metal beams barring the entrance. We have to go and get more help."
"You're going to leave me?" She couldn't keep the panic out of her voice.
"Only for a little while. I'll be right back."
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "It's all right. I'll be fine."
Another discussion and then Gabe said quietly, "It's okay. I'll stay." He thrust his hand through the opening. "Here, take my hand."
She reached out and his hand closed over hers in the darkness.
Strength. Safety.
Her heart stopped its frantic pounding.
"All right?" Gabe asked quietly.
"Yes." The hand grasping her own was big, powerful. She tried to identify the shape and textures of the anchor that was keeping her from the terror; light calluses on the ball of the hand and the forefinger, long fingers, strong tendons. Most of all she was conscious of the warmth and strength. "I'm sorry I lost it for a minute. I'm not usually this cowardly."
"You don't usually have a hotel sitting on you." Humor colored his voice as he repeated her words. "I thought we agreed you had a right to be afraid. I've been in better situations myself."
Her grip on his hand tightened. "It's just that it feels . . . like a coffin."
"You simply have to remember that it's not. In the daylight it would look like a rubble heap at the local dump."
Her laugh was half-hysterical. "And I'm part of the trash."
"No, you're not trash. You're a human being and your life is very, very precious."
He meant it. She did have value for him even though she was a stranger. The realization caused her rising panic to abate.
"What are you doing in Mekhit?" he asked.
He was trying to keep her talking, trying tokeep the fear at bay, she realized. "I was on vacation from school."
"School? Which university do you attend?"
"None. I'm not old enough."
"How old are you?"
"Fourteen."
"Then what in hell were you doing alone in a parking garage at three o'clock in the morn-ing?"
She couldn't think of a plausible answer, so she asked a question of her own to divert him. "Why are you here?"
"I'm a reporter and I was staying at the hotel. I was having a drink in the bar in the lobby when the hotel started shaking like a belly dancer. I was luckier than you; I made it to the street before it toppled like a house of cards. The entire town is a disaster."
Evan had been waiting in the car outside the hotel. If Gabe had survived, Evan was probably all right too. She hadn't really been worried. Evan always said he had nine lives and she herself had seen him use up at least three of them.
"I hear them coming. We'll have you out in no time." He started to release her hand.
"No!" She grabbed frantically at the lifeline he was taking away. "Don't go."
"It's not safe for me to—" He stopped and then said, "I'm not going to leave you." His big hand tightened around hers once more. "See, I'm right here and I'm going to stay here. Hold on to me."
That feeling of infinite safety washed over her again. Warmth in the cold. Safety in danger. Light in die darkness.
She would hold on to him.
She would hold on forever.
ONE
"It's too dangerous." Evan's gaze slid away from Ronnie's face. "Eve changed my mind."
"The hell you have." Ronnie Dalton smothered the spark of panic her father's words ignited within her and kept her expression blank. She knew Evan would pounce on any show of weakness on her part as an excuse to abandon the plan. He would respond only to absolute determination. "No way, Evan."
"Falkner's too hot to handle. You'll get us both killed."
"You're not even going to be there. You make the final payoff and then head for the border."
"That doesn't mean they won't come after me if they suspect I was in on it. These terrorists are not ones to fool around with." He frowned. "I don't even know why I let you talk me into this."
"For Lord's sake, we're Falkner's last hope," she said, exasperated. "The discussions have broken down and they'll kill him if we don't get him out of there."
Evan shook his head. "Falkner's too important for them to waste. The Red December would have everyone from the CIA to the Associated Press breathing down their necks."
"They've had them breathing down their necks for over a year and it hasn't bothered them. The Red December are fanatics. Who
should know that better than you?"
"The government will start negotiations again. You told me yourself that everyone in the media is in an uproar about his kidnapping. Politicians can't take that kind of heat without caving in to pressure."
"It will be too late. The terrorists have already lost face. Those idiots in Washington have blown it."
"What if they have? Why should I care?" he burst out. "It's not my responsibility. You may have a king-size case of hero worship for the man, but he's nothing to me."
"He is your responsibility."
"You're talking as if I personally kidnapped the bastard," he said sulkily. "You're not my conscience, Ronnie. I'd have thought you would have learned that by now. You can't change me and I won't march to your drummer."
She had learned that a long time ago, she thought wearily, but this time she couldn't let him wander away without his cleaning up his mess. "He's an extraordinary man. He deserves to live, Evan." His expression didn't change and she added in desperation, "I promise I won't ask your help again."
He gazed at her a moment and then a sudden boyish grin lit his heavy features. "The hell you won't. Whenever you decide you can use me to get a story, you'll be right there trailing behind me just like you did when you were a kid."
She smiled. "Well, maybe ..." She pushed on quickly, heartened by the sign of softening. "But you've got to do this. There's practically no risk for you."
"Why are you being so damn stubborn? You don't even know the man." He tilted his head and gazed at her curiously. "Or do you?"
"What do you mean?" she asked warily. "I already told you I didn't."
"Falkner has a pretty hot reputation with the ladies," he said slyly. "I thought he might have shown you sex is more fun than taking pictures."
"Maybe for you," she retorted, then went on quickly, "Gabe Falkner is a legend. I don't have to know him to know the news business would be a lot worse without him. What other boss would trade himself to a bunch of fanatical idiots like the Red December to free two of his reporters?"
He stared at her in astonishment. "Good God, I believe I was right about your case of hero worship. I thought I'd brought you up with more sense."
"No such thing," she countered. "That was just a comment. I'm only after the story. Any photojournalist in the world would risk their necks to film Falkner's escape."
"Film?" He snorted in disgust. "You never mentioned filming. I suppose I should have known. You'll be lucky to get away without being blown to bits, and you're thinking of taking pictures?"
"Only if it's convenient," she said.
"There's nothing convenient about this crazi-ness. Falkner's ankles will be chained so that he'll barely be able to shuffle. He's been beaten and starved, so that he'll scarcely be able to function much less react quickly enough to give you any help."
"You underestimate him. He's hard as nails."
Evan thought for a moment before acceding. "Maybe you're right. Mohammed says he's one tough bastard."
He was more than tough, Ronnie thought. He was larger than life in every sense of the word. After spending five years as a foreign correspondent, Gabe Falkner had taken a small Texas radio station he had inherited from his father and built it into a worldwide news network, comprised of newspapers, magazines, and a cable news network that was currently giving CNN a run for its money.
Though he strode ruthlessly over anyone who stood in his way, Falkner was known to be absolutely fair in his business practices and to battle tooth and nail to protect his employees. In a world where newsmen were evaluated and discarded by computer polls, Falkner exhibited an old-fashioned paternalism. He chose excellent people, paid them excellent money, and then gave them unlimited protection. In return he inspired a loyalty unprecedented among the media.
"Even if Falkner can help," Evan said, "even if everything goes right, it will be a miracle if you can get him away and into hiding. If you get in a jam, you can't rely on the Said Ababa government. They'll just look the other way. They give lip service to Washington, but they're too afraid of the Red December to interfere."
"I know that," Ronnie muttered impatiently. "Why are you rehashing old news? Nothing is going to go wrong; we've got everything covered."
"We could wait another day," Evan coaxed. "Maybe Washington will come through."
"And maybe those murderers will decide to shoot Falkner in the head tonight." She shook her head. "And if they didn't, you might not be able to find where they'll take him tomorrow night. They never keep him in any one place more than twenty-four hours." She stood up, jammed her hands into the pockets of her leather flight jacket, and said belligerently, "Now stop arguing with me. You agreed to do it and we're going to do it tonight. I'll be in that alcove on the Street of the Camels at eleven tonight. If you don't send the help you promised, they'll catch me and have two newspeople to execute." A sudden mischievous smile lit her face. "And then you'd have to go to my funeral and you know how you hate that kind of hoopla."
"What makes you think I'd go?"
"Because you know I'd haunt you if you didn't."
"You'd do it too." He scowled and with reluctance said, "All right. We'll go on with it, but don't expect anything else of me. I'll make die payment to Mohammed and Fatima and then I'm on my way."
Her relief was immeasurable. "That's all I ask." Then after a moment's hesitation, she added, "You're sure Mohammed is a good enough shot?"
Evan nodded. "It will be close range." He smiled crookedly. "I'm surprised you sanctioned shooting the guards. Isn't your heart bleeding for them?"
"I don't like it, but there's no other way." A shadow crossed her face. "And their hearts didn't bleed when they blew up that busload of schoolchildren last month." So much violence, so many tears in the world. No matter how often she was forced to face it, she never got used to it.
She impulsively bent down and brushed a light kiss on her father's forehead. "Thanks, Evan."
He stiffened at the gesture. "You must be more worried about this than I thought, if you're getting mushy on me."
"I'm never mushy. I just thought..." She turned on her heel and headed for the front door. "Oh, what the hell."
"Be careful."
She glanced over her shoulder in surprise. "That sounds a bit mushy too."
He shook his head. "Purely selfish. I just hate funerals."
Funerals, sentiment, and every other convention, including the responsibilities of fatherhood, she thought with a tiny pang. She quickly dismissed both the thought and the accompanying hurt. What was wrong with her today? She had no more need of a father now at twenty-four than she had when she was ten. She had been brought up to be completely independent of Evan and everyone else. That was how Evan liked it and that was the way she liked it too.
She saluted him jauntily. "I'll try not to inconvenience you. See you next time."
She didn't wait for an answer but quickly left the hotel room, cursing herself for the affectionate gesture that had embarrassed both Evan and herself. She couldn't remember the last time she had kissed her father. El Salvador? Probably not. Beneath that easygoing facade he was completely self-centered and found physical demonstrations unappealing.
Well, so did she. She didn't need any affection from anyone. She was just as self-centered and tough as Evan and she had reached out to him only because she was a little frightened about tonight.
Who was she kidding? She was terrified. Every argument Evan had used had hit dead center. If she was smart, she would abandon the plan, turn her back on Falkner, and get the hell out of Said Ababa.
The latest picture the Red December had released of Gabe Falkner rushed back to her. His broad face was thinner than before his capture, the flesh bruised, one eye blackened, his dark hair tousled. Yet despite the obvious mistreatment he conveyed the impression of boundless strength. He was staring into the camera with intimidating coldness and a recklessness that had caught her imagination. She had replayed the news tape dozens of times, and each tim
e she saw it, maternal ferocity had surged through her. Blast it, a man like that didn't deserve to be used as a punching bag by those creeps. Even if Evan hadn't been involved, even if the opportunity for an Emmy hadn't beckoned, she would probably still be here.
Not because of any mushy feelings of nobility, as Evan had charged, but out of respect for an extraordinary man, her own professional ambition, and a certain amount of gratitude. If those reasons had been powerful enough to bring her to this point, then they should be enough to make her go through with the escape plan.
If she could just get over this damned panic soaring through her.
The Jeep containing Falkner and his two guards stopped at the top of the Street of the Camels.
Ronnie drew a breath of relief. Ten minutes late. She had been afraid they had changed their plans.
She edged forward in the alcove and focused her camcorder on Falkner as he stepped out of the Jeep. The light from the street lamp played over him. Lord, he was big. Almost six foot five and built like Schwarzenegger. The jeans and cotton sweater he wore were soiled and ragged, but they revealed the enormous strength and power of his thighs and shoulders. His hawklike features reflected the same toughness. She couldn't see his eyes from where she was, but knew they were a pale icy blue.
The guards were evidently well aware of that power because his hands were manacled and his ankles chained so that he could walk with only a shuffling gait. One of the guards said something to Falkner and then pushed him to start him down the street. Falkner turned and looked at him. It was just a stare, but the guard faltered and then started to curse as he prodded Falkner with his automatic rifle.
Great stuff, Ronnie thought absently as she continued filming. She could almost hear the voice-over—Falkner, dominant even in captivity.
The three men were heading toward her, their destination the house at the end of the block. She was located at the halfway point. Reluctandy she turned off the camcorder and put it in her camera bag.
The men were now a hundred yards from where she stood.
Bracing herself, Ronnie reached behind her, silendy opened the door she had previously oiled, and took the smoke grenade from her jacket pocket.
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