Flashpoint (18 page)

“Not much,” Nash replied. “I lucked out with this picture before I got bounced off-line. I was actually hoping to find an engagement or wedding photo that would provide Sophia’s maiden name. This caption reads, ‘Dimitri Ghaffari and his American wife, Sophia,’ ” he told Murphy, who still held the printout.

“You should have asked me for help.” Tess looked from Nash to Decker. Especially since research like this was her job. Especially since this was why she was here.

“You have other things to handle—and this woman probably has nothing to do with the missing laptop,” Decker told her.

“Yes, but if Padsha Bashir’s looking for her, if she
did
try to kill him . . .” Tess looked from Decker to Murphy to Dave to Nash. “She’s in some serious trouble. And there’s no embassy here to help her.”

“You know, there was a local merchant named Ghaffari.” Dave was thinking aloud as he leaned over to get a look at that photograph. “I remember he was doing extremely well. Importing American products—pop culture. T-shirts, blue jeans, videos, books, CDs. Of course, this was a few years back. I never met him. Or his wife. Yes, I definitely would’ve remembered her.”

Murph passed the picture to Tess. The caption was in Arabic, but the photo showed a tall man stiffly posed next to a petite woman. The man was nearly as handsome as Jimmy Nash, with fashion-model high cheekbones and an action-hero jawline, dark hair swept back from his forehead. He was dressed in a tuxedo and smiling down into the eyes of the woman, who was wearing a long-sleeved, high-necked gown.

Tess had been expecting a Lara Croft type, a modern-day Mata Hari—a strikingly beautiful woman who had the guts and smarts to skewer Bashir and escape from the palace during the chaos of the earthquake. But Sophia Ghaffari was one of those ridiculously tiny blond little girls, complete with a porcelain complexion and a face that was fairylike in its ethereal, delicately featured perfection.

She was the kind of woman whom men fell in love with at first sight—the kind of woman men killed to possess. Forget about the fact that she was probably a bitch and a half, spoiled rotten and selfish as all get-out from years of being treated like a little princess.

“She told me Bashir killed her husband—some deal went bad,” Decker told them. “She said Ghaffari tried to save himself by giving her to Bashir.”

Tess winced. Not even a triple-bitch deserved that.

“Now there’s a thoughtful gift that keeps on giving,” Nash quipped.

Tess looked up at him in outrage.

“Hey, I was kidding,” he told her.

“Yeah, well . . . Not funny.”

“Not much in this country is,” he countered. “You’ve got to work with whatever you can find.”

“There is nothing even remotely laughable about—”

“I don’t know how much of what she told me was true,” Decker interrupted them. “She was definitely trying to win my, uh, sympathies, so . . .”

Tess studied the picture again. This woman, Sophia, had been through hell—married to a man who looked like Prince Charming, but who, as soon as trouble made the scene, had proven to be a total invertebrate.

It must have been beyond awful, living in Bashir’s palace as one of his “wives.” And then to escape with no papers, no passport, only to have a huge reward placed on her head—to become the most hunted person in K-stan. . . .

There was one thing that didn’t quite make sense. Tess couldn’t imagine that this woman, once having had the good luck to meet up with Decker, would have willingly let him out of her sight.

And yet, apparently, she had.

“Why didn’t you bring her back here with you?” Tess asked him now.

“Because she came closer to putting a bullet into my head than anyone’s ever done.” Delivered in Decker’s trademark matter-of-fact manner, it took her a moment to make sense of his words. But across the room, Nash straightened up.

“It was my own fault,” Deck continued. “But it seemed like a bad idea to spend any additional time in her company after that.”

“Oh, my God, Deck, are you all right?” Tess breathed. He’d nearly been murdered, while she and Nash had been . . .

Decker stood up, as if he were embarrassed by her concern. “I’m going to go back to her hiding place, see if I can find her.”

Tess stood, too. “But—”

“I don’t think I will,” he added. “She was definitely—” He stopped. Ran one hand down his face. “She was scared to death that I was going to turn her over to Bashir. Jesus, I’m an asshole for not seeing that.” He was extremely upset, and for once he wasn’t trying to hide it—or maybe he simply couldn’t hold it inside anymore.

It was actually frightening to see someone like Deck—so solid, so unflappable—looking so totally flapped. Even Dave was wide-eyed.

Deck started to leave, but then turned back. “Tess, get Nash that autopsy report ASAP,” he ordered, the team leader to the bitter end.

“Maybe I should go with you instead.” Nash had dropped his Mr. Cool act, concern for Decker on his face, in his voice, in the way he was standing there, ready to assist.

But Decker shook his head. “No. I need you here. Figure out a more exact radius around that hospital. Take Tess and walk it.”

“Dave can read that report. Probably better than I—”

Deck cut Nash off. “I want Dave out there.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me!” Even Deck seemed surprised by the vehemence in his own voice. He turned to Murphy. “I want you out there, too,” he ordered. “Sayid
was
here—and someone knows something. Someone knows why he was here and someone knows where he was staying. Let’s find that person, find what we’re looking for, and get the hell home.”

With that, he turned and slammed the door shut behind him.

“Is it just me,” Murphy asked in the silence that followed, “or did anyone else miss the part that explains why Dr. Decker suddenly turned into Mr. Hyde?”

Tess looked at Jimmy Nash. Wasn’t he going to follow Deck?

But he just met her eyes and shook his head as he answered Murphy. “You know how you’re either really funny or completely silent?” he said as they all started toward the door—all but Tess, who stood there in the middle of the barn with her heart in her throat. “Well, now would be the right time for you to do your silent thing.”

“Roger that,” Murphy said as he followed Dave out of the barn.

Jimmy stopped at the door. “Come on, Tess,” he said quietly. “We’ve been given our orders.”

She had to laugh. “For the first time in your life, you’re going to follow orders?”

“Deck’s not in danger,” Jimmy reassured her. “He was right—wherever this Sophia was hiding, she’s not going to be there now. We can help him best by getting you to your computer. After you download that report, I need you to find out everything you possibly can about Dimitri and Sophia Ghaffari.”

“Yes, sir.” Tess went through the door he was holding for her, and headed swiftly for the house.

Sophia was gone.

Of course she was gone.

Decker hadn’t really expected her to still be here, waiting for him to change his mind and return and drag her to Padsha Bashir’s palace, where she’d be hideously tortured and executed.

She’d taken everything. Her bedding, her clothes, her small supply of food. The extra burka and robe he’d brought back to her from the factory.

The pair of handguns he’d left, unloaded, outside the bathroom door were gone, too, along with the two neat little stacks of bullets that he’d set on the floor beside them.

The only thing she’d left behind was the five-dollar bill he’d tossed at her after he’d . . .

Decker went to the sink and splashed water onto his face.

Of course she didn’t take the money. She would have no way to exchange it for local bills. And using U.S. dollars in the marketplace would get her looked at, hard, by the shop owners. They might even notice she had blue eyes, guess that she was the woman everyone was looking for, and call the police, eager for a chance at that enormous reward.

Fifty thousand dollars might not seem like a lot by American standards, but here in K-stan, it could set you up for life.

Decker picked up the money from the floor and headed back into the lobby and down the stairs.

He shouldn’t have left her.

What had he honestly thought—after she’d tried to fucking
kill
him? That she wasn’t telling the truth about Bashir?

But no, he’d been too freaked out to think it through, too pissed off at her—and himself—to realize . . .

Decker had to sit down right there on the stairs. He had to put his head between his knees and force himself to take slow, deep breaths.

Sophia would have done anything to stay alive. And she had, hadn’t she? And he’d let her, telling himself that it was her choice.

But it wasn’t. She’d thought she had no choice.

And that made it tantamount to rape—what Decker had done with her.
To
her. And he’d double damned himself by leaving her there.

Terrified. Crying. Humiliated.

He was supposed to be one of the good guys. He was supposed to be a hero, fighting on the side of justice.

He should’ve walked away after she’d first told him about Bashir. He should’ve given her money—money she could use—with no strings attached. He should’ve told her to meet him tomorrow or even later tonight. His walking away might’ve proven to her that she could trust him. And he would’ve had time to get back to camp and find out if she, in turn, was really who she’d said she was.

Instead he’d fucked this up.

Completely.

There was no way on earth he was going to find Sophia Ghaffari again. Not with Padsha Bashir looking for her. Not a chance.

Decker stood and pushed his way out into the sunlight, relocking the basement door behind him.

He went up the steps and down the alley, out into the crowded marketplace.

He’d followed Sophia through a similar marketplace by wearing the burka she’d left behind when she’d ditched him at the factory. Earlier, he had watched her steal another, watched her climb back out of the window of a rundown apartment building, that nearly transparent dress hidden by this new robe, her face hidden once more by a heavy veil.

People, most of them burka-clad women, too, began leaving their houses as the curfew was lifted, and Decker had pretended to come out of a nearby doorway.

Dressed as he was, his face hidden by a veil, he’d crossed right in front of Sophia. He’d gotten close enough to bump into her, to mark her shoulder and back with a streak of gray dust from the road.

And marked like that, with the added bonus of his own disguise, it had been ridiculously easy to follow her, even through the crowd.

As Decker stood now and gazed out at the busy market, he saw a veiled figure, dust streaking her robe, standing near a table filled with fruits and vegetables.

Talk about wishful thinking.

It couldn’t possibly be Sophia.

Could it?

As he watched, a small hand reached out and pulled an entire melon up into the robe’s sleeve. It was artfully done. Poetic, even.

But it couldn’t be her. She was miles from here. Had to be. Yet hope sparked in his chest, expanding quickly, as hope was wont to do. After mere seconds he could feel it even in the tips of his fingers. The melon thief was the right height and as close to the right build as he could tell, considering she was dressed in a figure-concealing robe.

The shopkeeper didn’t notice the theft. No one noticed. No one but Decker.

Sophia—he was actually daring to think it might be her—moved off. Slowly. Just another shopper who didn’t find what she wanted.

Heart damn near pounding out of his chest, Decker followed. Finding one woman in a city of over a million people couldn’t possibly be this easy. But, Jesus, he wanted to find her. He needed to . . . what? Apologize?

Sorry about the unnecessary blow job. . . .

The melon thief moved slowly down the aisle of stands and carts, hampered by the crowd. Keeping his eye on that pale streak of dirt, Decker raced to catch up.

He didn’t bother to keep his approach covert. She was hampered by her robe and veil—and he knew he could outrun her if she bolted.

He saw the exact instant that she turned and saw him bearing down on her like a heat-seeking missile, because she picked up her skirts and fled.

She was faster than she’d been last night. Faster, and less lucky—as she ducked into an alley he knew was a dead end.

She was smarter than that—smart enough not to leave the safety of the crowd, smart enough not to let him get her alone.

Unless, of course, she was carrying those handguns and wanted the privacy she’d need to blow him away.

Decker stopped at the entrance to the alley, keeping behind the cover provided by a jarringly modern-looking Dumpster.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he called out in English, even though the hope had already faded, even though he knew it wasn’t Sophia he’d followed. Still, he had to see for himself.

There was nothing, no response. Only the strangest sound. Heavy breathing. Snuffling and . . .

“If you fire your weapon,” he called, “the police from the market will be here so quickly, you won’t have time to get away.”

Again, only that oddly familiar noise. Sniffing and gasping and . . . Was she crying?

“I just want to talk to you,” Decker said. “I’m coming back there. . . .”

He stepped out from behind the Dumpster, knowing he made a very clear target, silhouetted against the brightness of the morning sky.

If she rushed him, shooting as she came, she could conceivably escape before the police arrived.

And yet there he went. Right down the middle of that alley.

But even before he saw her huddled in the corner, crouched down on the ground, he recognized what he was hearing—why it sounded so familiar.

This was the same sound his dog—Em’s dog now—had made when he ate.

Ranger dove headfirst into his bowl, eating with a gusto that seemed part joie de vivre, part frantic starvation, and part fear that this meal might be his last. It didn’t matter what time Deck fed the damn dog, he always wolfed it down in record time, chomping and slurping and gasping.