“So she’s dead?” Booker asked. He was seated on the cot to the right of Estelle’s.
Rick shrugged. “Maybe. I survived.”
The implication hung in the air like a bad smell. Nobody addressed it. Estelle watched Rick pace. She hadn’t ever really liked him, even when she’d thought he had been sent by Nasim al-Faradi. Once his deception was revealed, her dislike had deepened. There wasn’t much to like, from the way he seemed to regard everyone around him as a waste of time to his flippant disinterest in Berhanu’s death. Watching him, Estelle realized she probably should have hated the man right now. Everything that had happened could, more or less, be laid at his feet. His lies and his recklessness.
The only thing that gave her a modicum of empathy for him was the sight of him pacing, and the knowledge that it was out of concern for Kai. Kai, who had saved her life several times in the last twenty-four hours. Kai, she decided she could like. Which, in a transitive sort of way, meant she couldn’t entirely hate Rick Álvarez. At the very least, he had enough of a heart to be worried sick about one other decent person in the world.
“Listen,” Booker said after a moment. “We need to figure out what we’re going to say when they start asking us questions.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Not the truth?”
Out of all of them, Booker looked the least worse for wear. His clothes were in tatters, partly self-inflicted to create bandages for Kai, but he had very few cuts or bruises. Still, he looked drained and wounded in a way that wasn’t immediately apparent. Lost, as if he wasn’t quite sure where he was.
At her question he winced slightly. “I’m not suggesting we lie… but we need to be careful with how we frame the events of the last several days. The fact is, we travelled with smugglers and crossed a closed border. I’m not sure what exactly they can do to us, being American citizens, but it would be best if we just…played it close to the chest for now.”
“But you’re a Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Of America,” Rick said, in a tone of false enthusiasm. “Surely you can whip out that big badge and clear everything up.”
Booker glanced over at him, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll see what I can do. But it would make things easier if we could all get on the same page --”
The door opened. Two MPs stepped inside, their uniforms crisp, their faces expressionless. Estelle wondered if they had been listening at the door. The pair regarded her, Booker, and Rick for a moment. Then:
“You may go,” said one of the women.
As one they all exchanged looks of disbelief. “Go where?” Booker asked cautiously.
The other woman arched an eyebrow. “Home. Or wherever it is you need to be.”
Rick had stopped his pacing, and was instead near the back of the room. Estelle was reminded strongly of an abused animal, wary of attack. “You’re letting us go. Just like that.”
“Just like that,” said the first woman.
“Why?” he demanded.
The two MPs shared their own private look. “We don’t know,” sighed the first. “It’s not our job, ok? We just need to escort you off the base. So let’s go, yeah?”
After everything that had happened, it seemed far too good to be true. But Estelle didn’t feel like arguing against her own freedom, and neither did Booker or Rick. They stood and let the two MPs lead them from the prefab building and back out onto the tarmac. Hardly an hour had passed since they’d first arrived.
Just beyond the border of the base, the MPs stopped. Estelle, Booker, and Rick stopped as well, looking around awkwardly. “Um,” Estelle said finally. “Now what?”
“Your ride will arrive shortly,” said one of the women. “We are to wait with you until it does.”
“Ride?”
The two MPs merely shrugged.
They didn’t have to wait much longer. Only a few minutes later a sleek black car could be seen crossing the tarmac. Rick seemed to bristle with nervous energy as it pulled up to them, electric motor humming softly. The rear passenger door on the opposite side opened and -- in an almost premonitory burst of insight -- Estelle knew who would step out an instant before she did.
Nasim al-Faradi was dressed all in black as if to match her car. It made her profile blend with the night, so that only her olive-skinned, tattooed face was visible within the folds of her keffiyeh. Estelle sensed the two MPs shifting in surprise as Nasim came around the back of the car. Booker stood up a bit straighter, mouth opening slightly. Rick’s reaction was to go very still, eyes narrowed.
Nasim stood before them for a moment, her dark eyes surveying each of them in turn, her expression impossible to read. All sound seemed to have gone out of the world. Nasim’s eyes fell last on Estelle, making her feel as if she were being presented to a particularly harsh professor. All at once she wanted to go back into the FOB and be alone. But then the corners of Nasim’s mouth twitched, and she drew a deep breath.
“I’m so glad to see you’re alright,” she said, voice warm and earnest. She was speaking, not just to Estelle, but to Booker and Rick as well. “We’ve all been so worried.”
She stepped forward, embracing Estelle. Before Estelle could recover Nasim had already released her. Keeping one hand on her arm, she glanced over Estelle’s shoulder and said to the MPs, “Radical Dynamics is indebted to the Ethiopian National Defense Force. Please make sure my gratitude is passed on to your superiors.”
“Of -- of course, ma’am.” Both MPs saluted, somewhat hesitantly.
Nasim smiled. “Thank you.” She released Estelle’s arm, reached back and opened the car door. “After you.”
Estelle realized she had been staring at Nasim’s face as if searching for answers. The woman’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes widened slightly. Estelle blinked, then hurriedly ducked into the car. Booker came in after her, followed by Rick. The interior was beyond luxurious. There were no front seats or a driver’s position, merely two broad, curving benches of soft tan leather facing each other, with a small island in the space between.
The door shut behind them, and Nasim entered a moment later from the other side. Estelle, Booker, and Rick were all seated on one bench; Nasim sat opposite them. She closed her door, then tapped at a touchscreen interface on her arm rest. The car began to move smoothly, all sound entirely muffled. Next Nasim removed her keffiyeh, taking her time to unwrap it properly. Her long raven-grey hair reflected the soft lighting that glowed from the edges of the ceiling. When she was done she folded her scarf into a square on her lap, stared down at it for a moment, then took a breath and looked up at them.
“I would like to begin,” she began, “with an explanation of why you went to Axum. We can deal with the how later.”
Booker cleared his throat. “Ah, Miss al-Fa --”
“Not you.” Nasim’s voice was soft and even, but there was a finality to it that shut Booker up at once. “I was speaking to my employee.”
Estelle had never seen Nasim like this, so frighteningly cold. Granted, she had only just met the woman, but it was still an uncomfortable change. She opened her mouth. It felt very dry. Nothing came out. She must have known, on some level, that she would need to explain herself to Nasim, but she had never thought it would be so soon. “I -- well, what happened…” Nasim’s steady gaze never left her face. She trailed into silence, at a loss.
Nasim sighed. “When we last spoke, I made it very clear that your job -- your only job -- was to meet with your father’s contact. Establish a relationship. Restart the project. It should have taken a day, two at the most. You were never to leave Addis Ababa. Please tell me how on Earth that translated to you traveling to Axum, becoming embroiled in the local conflict, and ending up in the custody of the Ethiopian military.”
Something inside Estelle twitched irritably at that. It wasn’t as if she had tried to be kidnapped by K’ebero. “I -- I met with Berhanu --”
“Who?”
Her annoyance deepened. “My father’s conta
ct. His name was Berhanu Abraham. He was curator of the National Museum of Ethiopia, and leader of the --” She paused. What had it been called? Thinking back to her first meeting with Berhanu, recalling his enthusiasm, made her heart hurt. “The Historical Preservation Committee,” she finished quietly.
“So you met with him. And then what happened? I don’t know, you see, because you never contacted me with an update, despite my express instructions for you to do so.”
Booker shifted beside her. “Miss al-Faradi, we’ve all been through a lot. I think maybe it would be best to wait until Estelle has had some rest --”
Nasim’s head turned towards him with bird-like sharpness. “And who are you? Her lawyer? You certainly seem to feel it’s your place to speak on her behalf.”
His expression darkened. “No, I’m not a lawyer. My name is Booker Hopkins. I’m… I’m a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Nasim’s eyes narrowed. “Are you? I will look into that.”
“That’s -- I mean --”
“What, Special Agent Hopkins, is the FBI doing sending an agent to interfere with the private affairs of Radical Dynamics, outside of U.S. jurisdiction?”
“That’s something we should probably discuss later. Maybe with your lawyers present.”
Oh, for God’s sake. Estelle leaned forward before things could get out of hand. “Nasim, when I met with Berhanu, he told me that he and my father had been able to confirm that the Ark of the Covenant was in Axum. They couldn’t retrieve it, however, because the military placed a travel ban over the entire region of Tigray. Before it could be lifted, my father had to leave Ethiopia. He had expressed concern for the Ark’s safety, which Berhanu shared. After speaking with him, I agreed that the sooner we finished the project, the better. So we arranged for transportation into Tigray, to Axum, to retrieve the Ark. There were…complications. We encountered the rebels that hold the area.” She paused. “Berhanu was killed.”
Nasim stared at her, wearing an expression somewhere between disquieted and dumbfounded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Once in Tigray, we were unable to make contact --”
“You should have reached out first, Estelle! Before leaving Addis Ababa, you should have called me, told me what you’d learned. I could have arranged a proper escort, sent security, gotten the military on our side -- we’re Radical Dynamics, Estelle. This could have been so much easier.”
“Everything was happening quickly.” She glanced at Rick, who so far had said nothing. Estelle wasn’t sure why she hadn’t yet mentioned his involvement, except that some vague part of her objected at the idea of throwing him under the bus. Even if he deserved it. “And I wasn’t sure how much time we had, or if you would have agreed --”
“I would have listened, Estelle.” Nasim leaned forward, hands on her knees, twisting the keffiyeh into knots. “I chose you for this project because I trust you. If you had contacted me, explained the situation, of course I would have listened. I could have helped you do the thing properly. Instead you vanished the moment you landed, and I had to spend four days tugging every string I could, hoping your face didn’t show up in some execution video leaked online, hoping I hadn’t killed you less than a week after your father. You’re damn lucky I had already decided to come down here myself, or you’d still be in military custody.”
Estelle gaped, feeling dumbstruck. She was taken aback, not by Nasim practically shouting at her, but by the genuine concern shining through her eyes, the tension that was straining every word. She was actually worried about me, Estelle realized. The moment she thought it, she felt foolish, guilty. Of course Nasim had been worried. She’d drafted Estelle for the Pharos Initiative personally, put her in charge of a seriously delicate operation. Clearly there had been more than cold business calculus behind that decision. There had been genuine trust.
And I took it for granted. Threw it away before I really even understood what I’d had.
“I’m sorry, Nasim. I was -- was so stupid. Of course you’re right, I should have reached out at once, should have done what you said instead of thinking -- instead of letting myself get caught up. If I had done that, I -- thing’s would’ve -- Berhanu --”
She broke off as her throat tightened. Estelle gulped, glancing away from Nasim’s gaze as her own eyes burned sharply.
Nasim drew herself up, taking a steadying breath. She pulled a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted. Special Agent Hopkins was right. Now is not the time, after all you’ve just been through. I was only -- well, it doesn’t matter.”
Estelle removed her glasses to wipe her eyes. “It’s fine.’’
“There will be plenty of time to catch up in the morning. For now, you need rest. All of you.” She nodded to Booker and Rick, pausing for a second to study Rick as if only just noticing him.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I’ve rented suites at the Gondar Hotel.” She paused. “Actually, I’ve rented the entire hotel. It’s just outside the city, in the hills to the north. We’ll have plenty of privacy there, for as long as we need it.”
Rick glanced through the darkened windows at the diffuse glow of the city lights. “You can drop me off at the University of Gondar Hospital. Or just drop me here. I’ll get another car.”
“Let’s go to the hotel first,” Booker said. “Get cleaned up.”
“Yeah, I’m not doing that.”
“I’m sure that Kai --”
Rick turned to him, and his gaze was so intense that Booker actually withdrew half an inch. “I am going to the hospital. You can stop the car right now, or I’ll just bail out. I’m pretty good at it.”
Booker opened his mouth, but it was Nasim who spoke, her tone diplomatic. “We can drop you there. It’s along the way, more or less.” She was already adjusting their route on her touchscreen.
“Thanks,” Rick said without looking at her, and turned back to gaze out the window.
* * *
The Gondar Hotel stood on a hilltop, providing a stunning panoramic view of the city that Estelle was too tired to appreciate. She barely processed the short trek from Nasim’s car to the suite that was designated as her own.
“Rest,” Nasim told her in the hallway. “Clean up. I will have some food delivered shortly. We can talk after you’ve slept. When you’re ready.”
Estelle nodded, entering her suite and closing the door behind her. Booker’s room was right next door; she could hear him moving around, the creak of his bed as he sat or laid down. Her own room was furnished simply, but still comfortable. New clothing was waiting for her on the bed, no doubt provided by Nasim. Moving to the window, she pulled back the curtain to take in the view of Gondar. From here the city looked peaceful, still as a bright painting. She stared at it, unsure of why she couldn’t look away. After a few minutes she realized she was waiting for something to happen -- gunfire, an explosion -- and forced herself to close the curtain.
There was a flat monitor on the wall and a table beside her bed with a universal induction plate. She set her glasses on it, a small blue light blinking to let her know they had started charging. Then she kicked off her shoes, stumbled out of her pants, and stripped off her dirty blouse.
She examined her bare skin in the bathroom mirror. Beneath the grime, there were more bruises than she had ever had in her entire life, and she had been a defender in lacrosse. Cuts, ugly with furrows of dried blood. Her hair was matted with filth and caked to her scalp, and her right eye was blood-red, the brown iris made nearly black by contrast. At the sight of it her head twinged with pain. Psychosomatic, most likely, but it was enough to make her turn away from the mirror.
She had been through hell, or the closest she ever hoped to come to it. And yet she had survived. Done things she never would have thought herself capable of. Estelle wasn’t sure if she felt different, or only thought she did. She looked down at her hands, the nails dirty. They trembled ever so slightl
y. She tightened them into fists, squeezing until they began to hurt. When she relaxed them, the tremor had gone, and they were still her hands.
Everything had changed. And nothing had.
Sighing, Estelle shed her bra and panties and climbed into the shower. She turned the tap to the hottest setting and let the water pour over her, burning away the dirt and blood and dead skin until she couldn’t even feel the sting of the jets. The bathroom filled with steam until she could barely make out the fixtures. She wished she could float in it, weightless, and stop waiting to figure out how she felt.
She had fucked up. That much was clear. Estelle could blame Rick and Kai for their deception all she wanted, but it all came down to her decisions. If she hadn’t let them push her into a stupid decision, if she had said no when they met with the smugglers, if she had refused to board that train -- so many decision points where she could have stopped, could have turned back.
Why hadn’t she?
I came here to finish my father’s work. That was what she’d told herself from the beginning. Now, alone with not even a layer of clothing to hide behind, Estelle realized it had been a lie. Or rather, only part of the truth. Yes, she’d felt a responsibility towards her father -- that same responsibility she’d bore her entire life -- but that had only been a small factor in her decision to go to Ethiopia. The much larger part -- the predominant truth -- was that she had wanted to go because it was exciting. Because it was new, and because Nasim al-Faradi herself had asked her to go.
Simply put, she’d wanted to go because it was an adventure. And she’d kept going because the prospect of turning back, of facing her solitary life in Paris, of facing the vacuum of her father’s death and the pitying looks of her colleagues, had been far worse. Standing still had been a crippling prospect, and so she had acted, throwing herself into the unknown without considering what might be waiting, because so long as she was moving she didn’t have to face the empty page that was the next step in her life.
And now Berhanu was dead. And now she was back where she had started, staring down what she had been so desperate to run away from: a blank page. The next step.
A Covenant of Thieves Page 43
