Blackmail Earth (34 page)

Another peculiar sensation swept over her: She felt watched again. She tried to dismiss this by reminding herself that Jason Robb had been arrested. And they were fully clothed.

But still the feeling persisted. It felt so strange that Forensia violated the rule against opening her eyes while trying to summon the dead.

Directly across from her, Sang-mi sat with her eyes open, too, but Sang-mi’s eyes were rolled up so that only the bottoms of her irises were visible. They looked like dark crescent moons in a milky sky. Sang-mi began to speak in Korean, beginning in a mumbled monotone, then becoming shrill and desperate sounding.

None of the other Pagans knew her language.

Akina whispered softly in the Korean’s ear, “Please speak English, Sang-mi. English.”

Sang-mi fell immediately silent. But her eyes remained rolled upward, and when she spoke again, seconds later, there was no mistaking her meaning:

“Tell the world. Tell the world.”

CHAPTER 21

Jenna watched Rafan sleeping on the portable bed. She’d cracked only a single bamboo blind, but it threw enough morning light into her wide, airy room to allow her to catch his peaceful expression. He looked grateful to have found respite, if only through sleep, from his considerable sorrows.

Late last night, after police had surrounded the hotel, he’d knocked on her door looking thoroughly exhausted. He’d said little as she ushered him in, only that he’d visited Senada’s grave and run into Bilal, her youngest brother. “But that was all right,” he insisted before pouring himself, completely clothed, onto the twin bed; his long, lanky frame left his sandaled feet dangling over the rose-tinted bloodwood floor. In seconds, he fell asleep.

Jenna saw no reason to wake him now. After performing her morning routine before the mirror, with the added difficulty of a bandage on her right hand, she slipped out the door, eager to have breakfast in the Golden Crescent’s open-air, four-star restaurant. Turning a corner, she spotted a Malé policeman by the elevator, relieved that a tight cloak of security still clung to the building. Nobody believed that Al Qaeda’s presence in the Maldives had begun and ended with the young man who’d tried to blow up a hotel.

She nodded at the officer, and repeated the gesture when the elevator opened to reveal one of his colleagues at the control panel. More police and members of the National Defense Force were posted at the lobby’s entrances and exits. Jenna offered them all her best smile—nothing like a real crisis to make you thankful for law enforcement—and was about to take a table that offered an expansive view of the ocean when she heard a woman call her name. She turned to meet the imperious gaze of Alicia Gant and realized that she could not escape the news producer’s company, no matter how unappetizing she might make even the most enticing breakfast soufflé. But what stunned Jenna was when Alicia’s companion turned around—and Nicci smiled at her.

They both waved her over. With no concern for pleasantries, or so much as a brisk “Good morning,” Alicia said, “We’re going to need a live interview with you about last night’s attempt to bomb this place to hell and back. If nothing astounding happens with Birk, the network’s going back to normal programming and you’re the lead story, so we’ve got to get this done soon.”

“I had no idea that we’d have to move this fast,” Jenna said.

“Of course not, you’re not a journalist.”

“Were you going to call me about—”

“I was just about to,” Alicia interrupted, “when you waltzed in.”

Waltzed?

“Maybe we’ll even get lucky,” Alicia continued, “and Birk will hurry up and bleed to death. I’m so sick of looking at his face.”

Jenna spied a huge flat-screen TV on a lobby wall about forty feet away. “Where is he?” She hadn’t thought to check on Birk till now, and she wondered if she’d ever develop strong news instincts.

“He’s been off the air since one thirty this morning,” Nicci said.

Jenna noticed Alicia slide her hand over to Nicci’s. The two women entwined their fingers and Nicci gave Alicia such a warm smile that it shocked Jenna. Not because the producers apparently had spent the night together—though if Jenna could have picked a partner for Nicci it never would have been the acerbic Alicia Gant—but because Malé was Muslim, and only the densest or most naïve sensibility would have failed to read this kind of touching. Jenna looked around protectively; nobody seemed to be staring—yet.

“When should we do the interview?” Jenna asked.

Alicia checked her watch. “I gave the crew an early call so they’d be set up when we finished eating. They’re not happy, but tough shit, they’re doing it.” All spoken in a regal tone that Jenna found irritating; she could just imagine how the crew felt. “We’ll do a dry run in twenty minutes. We’re on for real in thirty.”

“I’ll grab a quick bite and run upstairs,” Jenna responded.

“No time, and I should probably brief you now. We need you to say—” Alicia stopped as Nicci gripped her hand tightly and shook her head. For a moment, Jenna sensed that Alicia was going to continue issuing edicts, but she said nothing, and the tropical air, thick with frangipani and sudden panic, seemed to settle at once.

*   *   *

Birk woke feeling sick. Just like he’d felt when he was going to sleep. Like he felt all the time now. And his shakes wouldn’t stop. A body could take only so much abuse.

His unsteady eyes landed on his bandaged hand, his index finger still sticking out like a chunk of bloody bait from the stained and crusty gauze. At least there were no wire cutters attached right now. Raggedy Ass had dispensed with them so Birk could actually sleep. “I want you getting some shut-eye so you don’t blab so much,” the cracker jihadist had drawled. Which suggested to Birk that the bearded one really did appreciate the savvy—and always suave—correspondent’s premier importance.

It wasn’t the first sign that Raggedy Ass had understood that he and his hostage had a confluence of interest, as Birk thought of it. The most telling indication came when his abductor, at the very last moment, realized that cutting apart his prisoner-cum-spokesman like a roast chicken would, indeed, make it tough for Birk to communicate clearly.

If they couldn’t torture Birk, there was always the captain. Captain Moreno had screamed himself hoarse when the jihadist had clamped the cutters down on his thumb. The Waziristani couldn’t let the world think that he’d backed down from his very first threat. The captain’s thumb, a grisly but convincing imposter, now hung below Birk’s collar. The captain continued to bewail his wound.

Birk wished he’d shut up.
What a wuss. He needs to man up. It’s just a fucking finger. You don’t see
me
blubbering.

The jihadist eyed his most famous hostage and said, “I’m going to get another finger.” He glanced at the captain, whose eyes opened wildly at the unwanted attention. “And I need you sitting still so I can hook it on your shirt while it’s nice and fresh.”

“Righto,” Birk replied, appreciating that Raggedy Ass wanted a proper display; both of them had seen that a finger, especially one hanging severed-side up, leaked a paltry amount of blood.

Birk had come to respect Raggedy Ass’s keen understanding of visual content, but that was to be expected because the young man, no doubt, had grown up on
Sesame Street
and had developed a bold sense of color in the broadcast spectrum. Besides, under any set of circumstances, red was always a vibrant consideration.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” Raggedy Ass went on. “Ordinarily, I’d never give a man an alcoholic beverage, but you were shaking so bad yesterday that it was pathetic. It makes us look bad, like we’re mistreating you. So how much of this,” he held up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label that he must have unearthed from the captain’s private reserve—
Blue Label!!!
—“do you need to stop shaking?”

“Oh, not much. Not much at all. A wee taste should do it—every now and then.”

“I don’t want you drunk. You start looking or sounding drunk, and I swear to Muhammad, peace and blessings of Allah be upon Him, that I will cut off your head with this.” He held up the all-purpose wire cutters.

“No, of course not. I’d never get drunk. I don’t even like to get drunk.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“I totally understand your concern. It would be unseemly.”
Now give ’er here.
“The best way to keep me, let’s say, medicated, would be for me to have a few sips every hour.” That truly was how Birk had remained functional for decades. The thought of finally being able to sip away after all this misery was a bounty beyond belief.
Thank you, Johnnie Walker, peace and blessings of Allah be upon
him.

Raggedy Ass held out the bottle with two fingers, like it was leprous. Because of the awkwardness of Birk’s heavily wrapped hand, the reporter had to clench the cap between his teeth to unscrew it. Still, he performed this feat in a flash.
Ah, the sweetest scent this side of fresh-squeezed pussy.
Birk spit out the cap and took what might well have been the most satisfying swig of his long drinking life. Then a second and a third swig before he saw Raggedy Ass go bug-eyed. Warmth flooded from Birk’s belly like the most wonderful glow imaginable, lighting up every cell in his body, even numbing him to the ungodly screams once more rising from the captain.

For chrissakes, shove a sock in his goddamn pie hole.

*   *   *

Alicia had ordered the crew to set up by the hotel entrance, where the van had been. She’d also corralled three members of the National Defense Force to stand in the background in full combat gear. Only feet away was where the waterspout had savaged a garden.

Jenna rushed out of the hotel accompanied by Nicci, who had gushed in a breathy whisper on the elevator that Alicia was “wonderful.” Jenna could have done without the effervescence but thought that maybe Alicia needed a little loving to crack her emotional carapace.

If so, it wasn’t immediately clear that love had done the deed. The news producer positioned Jenna and Special Terrorism Correspondent Chris Randall facing each other with the sliding glass doors to the lobby behind them. Then she told Jenna that they needed a “strong sound bite. That’s not coming from me. That’s coming from New York.”

“This is the run-through, right?” Jenna asked.

Alicia shook her head, as if in disbelief. “Yes, it’s the run-through. Are you ready?”

“Sure,” Jenna said.

“I was talking to the crew,” the producer said frostily.

What a bitch.

“Can I get an answer?” she demanded of the cameraman, who glared at her and nodded. “Let’s go, Chris,” Alicia said to the tall correspondent.

He turned to Jenna. “What did you see here last night?”

“I came around the corner of the hotel in the middle of a powerful thunderstorm and saw a van right here by the entrance. I was rushing to get into the hotel, because I’d just seen a waterspout, when a young man jumped out of the van and we knocked into each other, and then he raced off. But a Maldivian friend of mine thought the driver’s behavior was suspicious, so he opened the door of the van, and that’s when we found the bomb.”

“What did you see first?” Chris asked her.

“About a thousand pounds of explosives. Every inch of the van was packed with it. And then I saw smoke from the burning fuse.”

“What did you do then?” Chris prompted.

“I pulled the fuse out of the bomb.” Jenna raised her bandaged hand. “It wasn’t that big a deal, once I saw it, and this is not as bad as it looks. It’s just a little burn.”

“Hold on,” Alicia said to Chris and the crew. “Don’t eat humble fucking pie,” she scolded Jenna. “You stopped a bombing—”

“No, my friend and I stopped it.”

“You pulled the fuse out.”

“He tried to, too.”

“But
you
did it. Say it! You stopped a bombing that would have been the 9/11 of this part of the world. And skip the crap about it not being a big deal. It’s a big deal, so just say it.”

“I’m not going to ‘just say it.’ I
helped
stop a bombing. I didn’t do it all by myself.” Jenna stepped away from the camera. “The only reason I even saw the fuse was my friend thought right away to check the van.”

“What was your friend doing at the hotel at that hour?”

Jenna shrugged, trying to avoid the issue. “That’s personal.”

“Personal? What is he, married?” Alicia’s remark felt sharp as a coral reef.

“I’m not going to get into that.”

“Well, then, go get him. He’s still up in your room, right? We’re going to need him, too, I guess, if you’re not going to say what needs to be said.”

“I am not getting him. There are people around here who want to kill him and he can’t risk being seen publicly.”

“I don’t care if Dr. Evil is about to put him on a rocket and blast his butt into space, we need him since you’re not going to play ball.
Persuade
him. I’ll bet you’re good at that.”

“Go to hell. That’s an outrageous suggestion.”

“Oh, please. Grow the fuck up.” Alicia spun toward Nicci. “Talk some sense into her. We’re suppose to do this for real,” she glanced at her watch, “in about five minutes.”

The weather producer looked clubbed, eyes shifting between Alicia and Jenna.

Jenna returned her gaze and knew that she’d lost her.
To that harridan.
But how do you compete with “wonderful” sex? But Nicci didn’t disappoint her.

“What Jenna said was fine, and it’ll be fine when we go live.” Nicci faced Alicia directly. “And I’m sure it was accurate. She says what she sees. But what you said
was
outrageous. And I think you need to apologize and get a grip.”

“Oh, you do, you little twerp. I’ve got—”

Jenna cut her off: “I’m not taking part in this charade.” She stepped away from the camera. “And I’m talking to Elfren about this.” Jenna started to walk away. Alicia seized her arm. “Don’t you dare touch me,” Jenna said. The producer let go.

“Okay, go,” Alicia said. “I’ll tell New York that you had a hissy fit. I’m sure Elfren will be real impressed when the weather girl says it got a little too stormy for her in the tropics. Me?” Alicia pointed to herself. “I’m talking to Marv right now. I can’t believe he puts you on the air. I wouldn’t trust you to read a thermometer.”