Covert Evidence (7 page)

“You’re talking about the Silk Road?”

“I’m talking about a Silk Road
bypass
.”

John sat back in his chair. He looked impressed. “That would be something.”

She leaned forward, warming to the subject, which, after all, had been her obsession for months. “I think dyes, precious metals, gems, spices—you name it—were traded using underground passages. With Lidar mapping, I can find those cisterns and aqueducts and prove my theories.”

“You really think there are hidden tunnels in the Eastern Anatolia hills?” His tone was skeptical.

“Have you ever heard of the Gadara Aqueduct?”

John shook his head.

“It was Roman, built to supply water to the city of Gadara in modern-day Jordan. It’s the longest known tunnel from antiquity. Construction began around AD 90 or 100, and it took a hundred years to build. The underground sections are sixty-six miles long. The tunnel is about two meters tall and one and a half meters wide.”

“Yes. But people know about it.
You
know about it. Nothing that big could remain hidden for two thousand years.”

She grinned. “That’s where you’re wrong. Gadara was discovered in 2004. By an archaeologist.”

That handsome mouth curled into a sexy smile, and his eyes lit with warmth that said he didn’t mind being told point-blank he was wrong. “Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“What makes you think there’s something like that here?”

Cressida leaned back. No one knew the complete answer to that question. Most of her fellow students were good people. Friends. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t try to beat her to making such a significant discovery by submitting grant proposals of their own. She took a sip of wine. Tonight it would remain her secret. “Tell me about your work, John. What are you doing in Van?”

He laughed. “Touché.” He lifted his glass in a toast to her and took a drink. “As for what I’m doing in Van, right now, I’m having dinner with a beautiful woman.”

Heat pooled low in her belly. This first date was going awfully well. But numbering it implied there could be more. And there couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She was here to work.

What made this date special was its singularity. This was a one-time fantasy come to life. A no-strings, one-night-only, once-in-a-lifetime fling with a hot man in Turkey.

Anything more than that was just asking for trouble.

I
an almost wished the date were real. If it were, he wouldn’t hesitate to act on the ready invitation in her eyes. Lulled by the food, dim lighting, and fine wine, she had transformed from the timid American he’d met on the plane into a sultry siren.

Her reluctance to reveal too much about herself had faded as she warmed to her subject, but what surprised him even more was how much he—Ian, not the prick John he pretended to be—was turned on by her.

But he couldn’t let his dick do the thinking, especially since she hinted she had a lead on ancient tunnels in the Kurdish region of Turkey. If such tunnels existed, the information would be valuable.

Turkey had many security issues, the least of which were bordering unstable regimes like Syria, Iraq, and Iran. The real concern for the government was the country’s Kurdish population. Years of government-sanctioned second-class treatment of Turkish Kurds, whose very language was forbidden, had created a large discontent population. The recent alliance between the Turkish government and the local Kurdish population due to the threat from ISIS in Syria and Iraq wasn’t enough to make up for decades of repression. The Kurds remained uneasy, untrusting, and not all factions were on board with the alliance.

The restaurant they were eating in was owned by a local Kurd who’d once whispered—in Kurdish—his frustration with the ongoing harassment by Turkish military officers who acted as the governing authority in the region. The very fact that Ian was fluent in the forbidden language made finding Kurdish allies in this part of the country easy. The hard part was letting them know he spoke their language when everyone was a potential informant.

Smugglers’ tunnels in the region could be a game changer. The
Partiya Karkerên Kurdistan,
or PKK, was only the largest and most well-known rebel group. Hejan’s group was smaller, was not allied with the Turkish government, had designs on becoming the leading separatist group in the region, and had a history of using terrorist tactics to make it happen.

After learning the focus of her study, one thing was clear to Ian. It was no fluke that Cressida had been selected as courier. She might be unwitting, but somehow, her research had nabbed the attention of Hejan’s group. Given that, as tempting as Cressida was, sex with her could screw up the mission. For starters, if she was in bed with him, she could hardly be out passing off the microchip.

After dinner, Ian placed a hand on the small of her back as they strolled down the narrow street. If this were a real date, he wouldn’t hesitate to duck into a covered doorway with her so he could slide his hand lower, pull her against him, and taste her.

Damn, she smells good.

But this was a date between Crista Portman and John Baker. John couldn’t get laid when Ian had work to do.

The street was quiet as they walked the blocks to the hotel. Neither Ian nor John entwined fingers with hers, no matter how natural such an action might have felt. John wouldn’t start something he couldn’t finish, and Ian wasn’t invited to play at all.

Inside the hotel, they crossed the lobby to the lift. She paused and met his gaze before hitting the button for her floor. He smiled as he again inhaled her sexy scent. From her pause, he figured she’d hoped he’d invite her to his room, but with his silence, she’d caved and would lead him to hers.

She’d left the cautious woman on the airplane, apparently.

They reached her floor, and he followed without a word. At her door, she paused and met his gaze, one eyebrow raised in question.

This was the moment when John, if he existed, would pull her close and taste that mouth. He’d run his tongue along the full upper lip that had fascinated him from the first time he saw her—right before she decked a man.

He was hard and ready. Ian would have trouble walking away if John kissed her. “I’m afraid the evening ends here, Crista.”

Her brows flattened in confusion, not anger, but with the right pressure, he could push her in that direction and debated which reaction would suit his needs.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a soft voice, “did I misread you all evening?”

He let out a sigh. “You didn’t misread, I miscalculated. Tomorrow will be a busy day, and I need to be sharp. I’m still adjusting to the time zone—I flew into Antalya from DC yesterday morning. Much as I would love to continue this evening, I need to sleep. Alone.”

A nice guy would ask if he could see her again. John
was
a nice guy, but Ian, not so much. And right now, Ian was calling the shots, because Ian was the one with a job to do. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a brotherly peck. Insulting, really, after how much John had hit on her. “Have a good night,” he said and headed to the elevator. He turned and met her gaze, then stepped into the lift.

Chapter Seven

W
hat the hell just happened?

Cressida stood outside her door in stunned silence as John stepped into the elevator. The door slid closed behind him, and still she stood there. She breathed into her hand. Her breath might be a bit garlicky, but he’d eaten the same damn food. Shock dissipated as she remembered the avuncular kiss. Anger surged past confusion.
What an ass.

She’d made such a fool of herself. She unlocked her room with quick, angry movements, jerked the handle down, and shoved open the door. What was
wrong
with her? How the hell did she meet these guys?

Tired and has a long day tomorrow, my ass.

She was baffled as to why he’d bolt after the blatant signals he’d sent all evening. She hadn’t misread him, dammit.

Had he been telling the truth? Was she just being petulant because she was hot and bothered and unsatisfied? He’d given her his card. She could call and ask him point-blank what his deal was.

She dug around for the card in her purse and found her phone instead. A glance at the screen, and she groaned. The voice mail messages she’d ignored when she sent Berzan a text with the name of her hotel earlier had since doubled in number. She scanned the list of missed calls. None were from Berzan’s number. Odds were the messages were either from or about Todd. She didn’t want to deal with Todd right now.

Why the hell not? She was already in a bad mood. May as well get it over with.

But the first message wasn’t from Todd. Nor were the next several. They were all from Suzanne, who sounded upset but wouldn’t say why.

Dr. Hill had probably had sex with her and scrammed. And while she wanted to judge Dr. Hill badly for it, she was feeling a little perturbed that at least Suzanne had gotten laid. She couldn’t deal with Suzanne’s post-hookup emotional trauma on top of her lack of hookup trauma.

Of course, she’d have to
care
to feel trauma, and she definitely didn’t care about John Baker and his lame-ass excuse for bolting.

The next message was from Trina, who was concerned after receiving Cressida’s text about Todd. As she’d expected, there was no message from Berzan.

She frowned at the phone. Call Trina or leave the line open in case Berzan called? As she stared at the smooth face, the phone vibrated with an incoming text. Relief flooded her. It was from Berzan.

Sorry for the delay. Hejan said he explained. We can set out tomorrow morning. If you meet me at the ferry dock at the end of my shift at 2100, we can discuss our itinerary. I have already arranged lodging in some of the smaller villages.

She glanced at her watch. It was only eight thirty—or twenty thirty—more proof her date had ended pathetically early. Just enough time to meet Berzan. She replied to his text that she’d be at the dock then tucked the phone into her purse. She’d call Trina later.

It was for the best that things hadn’t worked out with John. She was here to work, and meeting Berzan was a thousand times more important than getting laid.

I
an’s hotel room was one floor up, directly above Cressida’s. He entered his room and nodded to Zack, who lounged in the corner chair with a tumbler half-filled with an amber liquid cradled in his hand. “Interesting shit, that stuff she told you about tunnels in Kurdistan,” he said.

Ian nodded and approached the dresser where Zack had left the bottle of scotch. Glenlivet. A brand to make a good Scot proud. Not that he knew where in Scotland his ancestors were from, or if he had any kin there now, but he liked to think he did, liked to believe he had greater familial connections on this earth than the woman who’d birthed and named him.

A drink would dampen his reflexes, and he needed to stay on guard. He poured a splash of scotch into a glass. A taste. That was all he could have. He tossed it back, and his belly warmed instantly. The placebo effect eased knots in his shoulders he hadn’t even felt until that moment.