Flashpoint (26 page)

Most of the crowd had scattered, rushing to cover. But now the injured and bleeding were picking themselves up off the ground if they could, dragging themselves away from the fire.

From where she was, Tess could see no sign of Murphy.

“Stay with Khalid,” she ordered Will.

Nearly everyone was moving in the other direction—away from the blast site. Some people just sat in the street. Some would never get back up again.

The smoke was chokingly thick. Tess had lost her scarf, so she pulled the front of her shirt up over her mouth and nose and headed to where she’d last seen Murphy.

“He rules with fear,” Sophia said. “I didn’t meet anyone in that palace who wasn’t scared to death of him. Even his nephews.” She laughed as she shook her head. “He plays them off of each other, in a constant competition. It would have been funny to watch if, um . . .”

If she hadn’t lived every moment wondering if she’d be executed now or later.

Deck sat in the barn and just let Dave run the interview with Sophia. His trip into the city had taken a little longer than he’d expected, and she’d already answered most of Dave’s questions about Bashir’s palace, about the layout of the place and the security there—the number of guards, any patterns and routines they might fall into.

Dave had a legal pad upon which he was taking notes, and when Decker had come in, he’d already filled dozens of pages with his spidery scrawl.

“Keep going,” Deck had said. Dave could catch him up later. No need to make Sophia answer these difficult questions twice.

“A rumor that I’ve heard,” Dave said now, “is that Bashir’s sterile. Some late childhood illness . . . ?”

“Yeah,” Sophia told him. “I’m pretty sure that’s true. I don’t think he believed it at first. That’s probably what got him started with his vast collection of wives—you know, it must be the woman’s fault that there are no children, so find another wife. That and the fact that he stood to gain financially from killing his enemies and marrying their wives. Neat little trick, huh?”

She shifted in her seat, glancing briefly at Decker. He could see that she was trying to be nonchalant. She was trying to pretend that talking about this wasn’t hard as hell.

The porcelain paleness of Sophia’s face—the part that wasn’t bruised—was accentuated by her hair, now dyed a dark shade of brown. The short cut that Tess had given her made her look young and fragile. It was an effect enhanced by the clothes that Tess—who was much taller—had given her. On Sophia, Tess’s shirt hung loosely from her shoulders, and her pants had to be cinched with a belt around her waist.

“That was a power thing, too,” she added. “His marriages to the wives of the men he wanted to best. I don’t think he enjoyed sex even half as much as he liked winning. It wasn’t about pleasure for him, it was about inflicting pain and humiliation. Half the time, he didn’t . . .” She cleared her throat. “You know, ejaculate.” She forced a laugh, but she didn’t meet either of their eyes. “I don’t know, maybe he was saving that for one of the wives that he liked—assuming he was even capable of liking anyone—and . . . Is this going to show up in some Agency report?” Now she did speak directly to Dave. “Make sure you include the fact that he has terrible halitosis. Terrible. And flatulence.”

Now it was Dave’s turn to clear his throat. Come on, Dave. Say something comforting, something kind.
That must have been awful—what you went through. To have your entire life just . . . stolen from you. To have to fight to stay alive, to endure, even while knowing it was possible your life could end instantly, on the whim of a man who hated you. . . .

“It’s important, Sophia, that the information we include in our reports doesn’t come off sounding, well, as if it was provided by someone with a definite agenda. You know, in terms of wanting to make Bashir look bad,” Dave said.

Oh, Dave.

Sophia laughed. And laughed. “I don’t have to make things up so Bashir looks bad. All anyone has to do is go into the wing of his palace where he keeps his wives and count their scars. Do you know that he gives his new brides a special gift upon their marriage—” She cut herself off, her hand up over her mouth. “No. No one will ever believe that.”

There were tears in her eyes now—real tears. Decker wanted to push this, to ask her what it was that no one would believe. He wanted her to stick around for a while—this seemingly honest version of Sophia. But if he’d thought she looked fragile before, well, this Sophia looked as if she might break into a million pieces.

So instead he asked her, “Do you want to take a break?”

“No.” She wouldn’t look at him. She straightened up, quickly wiping her eyes. “Let’s get something in this report that will make a difference, that’ll make people understand who and what Bashir is. He’s always been described as a religious man,” she told them. “But that’s total bullshit. He uses some of the beliefs of Islam to his advantage, but he is in no way the devout Muslim that most people think. He plays the part in public. He even had some top level al-Qaeda leaders fooled for a while—including Sayid. But they caught on, and they wanted nothing to do with Bashir.

“The falling out was mutual,” Sophia continued. “That’s one of the reasons I knew Sayid wasn’t staying at the palace. He was no longer welcome. But you know what? I thought of a way that you can double-check me if you want.”

Dave looked up from his notepad. Glanced at Decker, before giving his full attention to Sophia. “Double-check you?” he asked. “How do you mean?”

“Ma’awiya Talal Sayid had some kind of serious medical condition,” Sophia told them. “Did you know that?”

“No,” Dave said.

Decker sat up. Shit, no.

“I don’t know exactly what it was,” she continued, “but he needed some kind of treatment that I think involved, I don’t know, maybe blood transfusions? Once when I saw him he had these tubes—they looked like they were filled with blood—attached to his arm.”

Decker looked at Dave. “Why would someone need blood transfusions?”

“Maybe Murphy would know. Sophia, please, go on.”

“Both times he stayed at Bashir’s palace, there was a shipment of medical equipment from the hospital. I’m not sure exactly which hospital is closest to Bashir’s palace—”

“L’Hôpital Cantara,” Decker said, exchanging a look with Dave. There would no doubt be records of such a shipment.

“This,” Dave said, “is exactly the break we needed.” He flipped back several pages in his notepad. “I have Sophia’s estimate of the dates Sayid visited Bashir over the past two months.”

Excellent. “Can you describe the equipment you saw?” Decker asked Sophia.

“I think there was an IV stand in his room. You know, one of those metal hook things, like a coat stand on wheels? And a tall machine—a box with tubes . . . maybe it was some kind of monitor.” Sophia looked from Decker to Dave and back. “This helps?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“We know Sayid was in Kazabek at the time of the quake,” Dave told her. “We don’t know where he was staying. But if he needed medical equipment supplied by a local hospital . . . Well, we’ll find out exactly what equipment was shipped to Bashir’s palace in the past and see if there was a similar shipment made elsewhere in the city several days before the quake. If we can get that address, we’ll more than likely know where Sayid was staying.”

But what were the chances that his laptop was still there?

“Dave,” Decker asked, “do you have a contact at—”

“The Cantara hospital?” Dave finished for him as he stood up. “Not yet, but I’m about to make one.” But then he stopped, obviously remembering Decker’s request that he not be left alone with Sophia. “That is, unless you want me to—”

“Go,” Decker said, and Dave went out the door.

Jimmy Nash was playing a game of ‘If I Were Sayid’ when his phone vibrated.

He’d heard the distant explosion, heard the rumors that had immediately started.
Car bomb. In City Center.

He’d stayed seated. He’d even kept himself from reaching for his phone. Murphy was with Tess. They were both safe—over at the north sector relief aid headquarters. He was not going to freak. Not this time. She was doing her job, he was doing his.

It might’ve looked to some as if he were simply sitting in an open air café, enjoying a cup of coffee, but he was, in fact, hard at work, running different scenarios.

Option one. He was Sayid, and he was in town to meet with Padsha Bashir. Where would he stay? Bashir’s palace, of course. The only other place that came close to the kind of comfort that could be found at the warlord’s palace was the Kazabek Grande Hotel—and that was the last place Sayid would stay. He wouldn’t be caught dead in that testament to Western culture and capitalism.

Option two. He was Sayid, and he was in town, but he wasn’t staying at Bashir’s palace because . . .

There was no reason Sayid wouldn’t stay at the palace. It was secure, it was comfortable, it was safe—from all of Bashir’s enemies.

Of course, it wasn’t safe from Bashir. Hmmm.

He was Sayid, and he was in town, but he wasn’t staying at Bashir’s palace because he
wasn’t
meeting with Bashir.

And if he wasn’t meeting with Bashir, it was possible there had been a falling-out. In which case Sayid would need to be careful while he was in town, to hide his presence
from
Bashir.

He was Sayid, and he was in town, and he needed to be sure Bashir didn’t find him while he was in town. Where would he stay?

If
he
were Sayid, he’d stay the last place on earth Bashir—or anyone—would expect him to stay.

The Kazabek Grande Hotel.

Jimmy could see it from his table here in the café—a structurally damaged time bomb, the late morning light reflecting off its windows.

Shit.

He was going to have to go in there. Before this was over, before they got on that plane that would take them back home, he was goddamn going to have to go into that motherfucking about-to-fall building. He just knew it.

It was immediately after this most unhappy realization that his phone started to shake.

The rumors about that car bomb were flying fast and furious in the street outside the café. Even the waiters were talking about it now. A hundred people killed, dozens injured. A cargo van had been driven right up to the front of the main relief headquarters.

Jimmy flipped open his phone and saw that Tess’s number was on the display. Thank God. She
was
safe.

He stood up, aware that he was getting curious glances from simply having a phone. Who in this city could possibly have a working phone? He tossed several bills on the table and went out into the street as he took the call.

“Hey,” he said, working to make sure his voice sounded completely unworried. “What’s up?”

“Jimmy!” she said, her voice shaking, little more than a exhaled sob.

Instant adrenaline flood. The connection was bad, she kept cutting out. His heart nearly stopped. “Tess! What’s the matter?”

“. . . can’t believe . . . actually got you!”

“Where are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m . . .” It was garbled, but then he heard, “. . . Murphy! We were with Khalid, in the cart, just outside main . . . Q . . . City Cent . . .”

No fucking way.

“Shit, Tess, I can’t hear you very well!” He moved back several steps, searching for better reception, until . . .

“. . . car bomb,” he heard, and he stood still. His heart was beating again, though. It was pounding, as if he were running a six-minute mile.

“at the hospital . . .” she said. “Servant of the . . . Guided. . . . dul-Rasheed.”

Jimmy forced himself not to start running, to start searching for a map.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her. “Is that where you are? At that hospital? Repeat the hospital’s name, Tess. God damn it, I’m having trouble hearing you!”

“Abdul-Rasheed.” He could barely make her out. “. . . Murphy’s inj . . .” He strained to make sense of her words, but then part of it leapt out, clear again. “. . . wouldn’t let me in with him.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked again.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Fuck.
As the king of evasive answers, he knew damn well that “I’m fine” was not the same as “No, I’m not hurt.”

“Please, Jimmy,” she said. “. . . got to make sh . . . Murph’s getting . . . care of . . . urt bad . . . can’t reach Deck . . . an’t believe . . . got you. This . . . nection’s bad. I’m gon . . . peat the . . . pital. Abdul-Rasheed Hospital. Abdul-Rasheed Hospital.”

She repeated the hospital’s name over and over and over, with bits and pieces of it cutting out, until he was convinced he got it.

He did the same, repeating it back to her, then repeating, “I’m on my way.”

“Thank . . .” he heard her say.

The connection was cut, and Jimmy started to run.

Tess hung up her phone and punched in Decker’s number again.

Again, there wasn’t even an automated message telling her that the “customer you are trying to reach is out of range.” Even though she was standing on the room’s only piece of furniture—a hard wooden bench—with her phone up as close to the narrow slit of a window as she could get it, she still got nothing.

She tried Dave’s number.

Zilch.

Okay. Okay. Jimmy was on his way to Murphy. That was good. That was very good.

Tess wiped the last of her tears from her face as she climbed down from the bench and started to pace, aware that for the first time since she’d gotten off the plane in northern Kazbekistan, she was actually chilly.

The irony of that was profound, and she rubbed her bare arms as she examined the inside of the tiny prison cell into which the police patrol had thrown her.

The walls, floor, and ceiling were solid stone. The bench was bolted down and the window—far too narrow for even a child to slip through—was way up, close to the ceiling.

It was obvious that there was only one way out of this cell, and that was through the ancient wooden door.

Tess ran her hand across it—the wood was thick and smooth, made even harder with age. There was a small barred window in the center, with some kind of apparatus on the outside that would allow it to be opened and shut.