Night Hush (13 page)

 

Chapter Twenty

September 5. 7:20
A.M.

Prince Nasser Hospital, Ma'ar ye zhad

“U
NTIL THE
RE IS
an investigation, he will remain in custody.”

Jace stepped forward. “Can you run us through the timeline? We're a little behind the power curve here.”

The Marine's eyes slid to Jace. “And your name, sir?”

Jace pulled his ID out and handed it over. “Captain Reed.”

The guard—­Gunnery Sergeant Bisantz, according to his rank insignia and name tag—­checked his security clearances list. “Yes, sir. Your command faxed over your clearance an hour ago.”

Heather was not surprised. Delta always got the best. Their clerical support must also be top-­notch.

“What I can tell you is that the courier from Tehran was on his way to the embassy at around four in the morning when another vehicle ran a red and T-­boned him,” Bisantz said. “They found the kid's courier ID, their call got routed to the embassy agent on duty. He authorized the Marine Security Guard to dispatch me to the hospital because of the classified pouch.”

“You said the pouch was open,” Heather said. “Anything missing? Any documents recovered from the car?”

“No, ma'am.” The Marine's voice was completely neutral. “The contents appeared to be intact on cursory examination.”

She peeked into the room, where another Marine stood near the door, watching a nurse adjust some tubes running into Na'il Fakhoury's arm. The young man looked so small, so pale, lying in the hospital bed. His head had been bandaged. He had bruises and cuts on his face. Tubes and wires hooked him to various machines. Gauze covered what little she could see of his chest and arms. One thin wrist was handcuffed to the side rail of the bed.

What was going on?

A slim brunette sitting off to the side stood as Heather came in. “Heather? Are you Heather Langstrom?”

Heather crossed to her and shook her hand. “Yes. And this is Jace Reed.”

“I'm Shelby Gibson. I'm sorry I dragged you out of bed so early. Thank you so much for coming.”

“I'm happy to help. How is he?” She gestured to the injured man. When Shelby just shook her head, Heather went to the bed. The nurse looked up as Heather repeated the question in Arabic.

“I will fetch the doctor for you, miss. He will be able to tell you.”

Heather went to Na'il's bedside. The sharp scent of antiseptic and detergent invaded her nostrils. His eyes remained closed, and his breathing seemed labored.

“Hello,” came a lightly accented voice from behind her. She turned to see a man in a white lab coat, stethoscope slung around his neck. “I am Dr. Ramzi Alam.” He came forward to shake her hand.

“Thank you for coming to talk to me. How is he?”

Dr. Alam shook his head. “Not well. His injuries are quite serious. His spleen ruptured, and his liver was bleeding rather extensively. There is swelling in his head. The surgeon has stabilized him, but he is still in critical condition.”

Heather swallowed, feeling sick. “Consciousness?”

“He is in and out of it.” The doctor checked the chart at the foot of the bed, made a notation, and went out.

Almost immediately, another man entered. This one was fiftyish, with a rapidly receding hairline. He crammed half a powdered donut into his mouth, barely bothering to close his mouth as he chewed.

“Jed. Finally. What took you so long?” Shelby Gibson's voice was sharp.

Jed brushed powdered sugar from his blue shirt and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Traffic.”

“But I called you hours ago!”

“Where's the courier pouch?” Jed ignored Shelby's protest. Seeing it on the table by the window, he brushed past the brunette and went over to it, glancing at Jace without interest. Heather joined Shelby.

“Okay, so why does the Marine Security Guard think this guy is a terrorist?” she asked.

“Holy shit!”

Heather whirled around, immediately regretting the action as her still-­sore body protested. Jace straightened, coming forward. Jed stared at a small, open case next to the misnamed security pouch, a boxy contraption with metal buckles and straps and a cypher lock. His mouth hung open and his face paled. The other Marine, Corporal Landry by his sleeve stripes and name tag, actually took a step back.

“That's why.” Shelby pulled a worried face.

Heather moved so she could see, shaking off Jace's restraining hand. Nestled in the metal case, in individually padded pockets, were five sealed, opaque vials and some sort of large metal syringe. She tipped her head toward the case. “Drugs?”

“No, ma'am,” said Corporal Landry. “Please be careful.”

“Then what . . . ?” And the significance of the tubes clicked. She flashed hot, then cold. “Oh, my God! You think these are some sort of biological weapon. Like anthrax?”

The Marine nodded. “It's possible, ma'am. We need to get them tested to be sure. They are intact; the accident didn't rupture them. But, ma'am,” he said, “we found them inside the pouch.”

Heather blinked. “But why assume the courier was smuggling them? Come on. For all we know, it's a compound for the chemical guys at al-­Zadr. Some controlled substance. What does the paperwork say?”

Jed shuffled through the list of contents. “Nothing,” he reported. “It's not on the manifest.”

And that was the reason for the two Marine guards and the handcuffs. Not to protect the classified data inside the pouch, but to guard a suspected terrorist carrying a possible biological weapon. Sweet Lord in heaven.

Shelby scraped her hair behind her ear. It immediately fell forward again. She looked to Jed. “What do we do?” she whispered.

He brushed a hand over his thinning hair. “We call DTRA—­the Defense Threat Reduction Agency. Turn these over to them. And notify the Regional Security Officer, unless you guys called him?” He directed his question to Corporal Landry.

The young Marine nodded. “Our orders are to take Na'il Fakhoury into custody and safeguard the classified pouch until an authorized representative picked it up.” Someone with the proper security clearance, he meant.

Heather put a hand to her head, which spun a little. “What's a Regional Security Officer?”

“Our boss,” Corporal Landry said. “The Marine Corps Security Detachment reports directly to the Regional Security Officer. He's the senior security advisor to the ambassador. By now, he's probably briefed Ambassador Stanton. He'll be looking for answers, and fast.”

Jed clicked through his Blackberry. “Need the number for DTRA,” he muttered. “It's not here.”

Heather rubbed her arms, feeling cold. What if those vials were anthrax, and they leaked? All of them could get sick. Or even die. Without being able to see what was inside, they couldn't even be sure if the vials contained a liquid or a powder.

Why had it taken so long for someone at the embassy to react? “Were you the duty officer, Shelby?” Heather asked.

Shelby gave Jed a disgusted look. “No. Jed was.”

So Jed apparently had opted to order Marine embassy guards to the hospital last night rather than come himself. The Marines must have updated Jed at the same time they briefed their boss. Lacking further orders, the Marines had remained at their post, guarding both the classified data and their prisoner, waiting for someone from the State Department with a Top Secret clearance to come pick up the pouch. That Jed had not come was unprofessional in the extreme.

“Did you know this last night?”

Jed didn't look up. “Nothing happened. Don't make a federal case out of it.”

“For the love of God, Jed,” Shelby nearly shrieked.

That earned her a glare. “No, I did not know about the vials. We had a conversation on an unsecured landline. The Marine just told me the pouch was open, and there was an irregularity.”

And had, no doubt, told Jed to get his butt down to the hospital as fast as possible. The irresponsibility of it sucked the air from Heather's lungs.

“You better believe I'm going to make a full report of this,” Jace snapped, snaring the odious man's attention.

Jed opened his mouth, shot a glance toward Corporal Landry, scowled, and resumed searching his phone directory.

Shelby wrapped both arms around her middle. “What is DTRA, Jed?”

He scrolled to a different area on his phone. “They're the experts in weapons of mass destruction. We don't have one here. I think the nearest might be in Kazakhstan.”

She shivered again. “But that could take hours, for them to get here. What do we do in the meantime?”

A soft moan from the bed got their attention. Heather and Shelby both hurried to his side. Na'il. He muttered something, tossing his head from side to side.

“Get the doctor!” Shelby called to Jace.

The nurse came in, taking Na'il's pulse and feeling his forehead. The doctor wasn't far behind, pressing his stethoscope to the boy's chest. He apparently didn't like what he heard, for his brow furrowed, and he moved the stethoscope to another spot.

“We need to talk to him,” Heather said “Is he conscious enough for that?”

The doctor shook his head. “He must rest.”

Shelby's phone rang. The doctor gave a disapproving frown. “You must turn it off, miss. Our equipment can't be compromised. You may use it in the lobby.”

Shelby silenced the phone and powered it off. “I'm sorry, Dr. Alam. About Na'il . . . we won't make things worse, I promise. But if it's at all feasible, it really is vital we talk to him.”

The Marine from the hallway came inside. “My boss authorized me to conduct a preliminary investigation. Ambassador Stanton wants an update.”

Dr. Alam nodded. “His condition is still critical, but speak with him if you must. Try to limit to your questions to five minutes. I would be happy to translate.”

The Marine shook his head. “I'm sorry, Doctor. This is a classified investigation.” He looked at Corporal Landry. “Man the door. No one in or out.”

“Yes, Sergeant Bisantz.” The corporal disappeared.

Shelby planted herself at Na'il's side. The doctor gave a warning glare all around and departed. Sergeant Bisantz leaned over the bed.

“Mr. Fakhoury. Can you hear me?”

Na'il focused on the Marine. Hostility flared in the younger man's gaze, his mouth tightening and twisting as a spate of words flew out of his mouth. Heather's cheeks reddened.

“Not a compliment?” Sergeant Bisantz asked, deadpan.

Heather nearly choked out a laugh, but the seriousness of the situation focused her. “Uh, no. Not unless your mother really did copulate with a camel.”

Sergeant Bisantz lowered his gaze to the man in the bed, face expressionless. “Mr. Fakhoury, I need you to answer a few questions. What are those vials? Where did you get them? Did someone give them to you?” The sergeant asked the questions as though he had all the time in the world, with an air of patience that clashed with his impassive face and stiff posture. Heather translated in the same calm tone.

The young man pressed his lips together, face shuttered and sullen.

Sergeant Bisantz posed more questions over the next few minutes, but Na'il refused to speak. Finally, the Marine slapped his own leg with a hand and rose. “We'll try this again in a bit. We'll just have to keep at him until he talks.”

“But that could take hours.” Jed said. “We may not have hours.” He glanced meaningfully at the case containing the vials. “We may not have minutes.” He ran his palm over his thinning hair several times. A drop of perspiration slid down his temple.

“Now, Jed,” said Shelby. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Obviously, nothing has happened. The vials are intact. Let's not panic.”

Ignoring her, Jed turned to the Marine. “I want this room quarantined. I want decontamination units sent here. Do you understand?” His voice quavered as he gave the commands.

Heather rolled her eyes. Jed was working himself into a state. Across the room, Jace snorted with derision.

Ramrod straight, the Marine blanked his face. “Mr. Callum, please don't overreact. Corporal Landry and I have been here all night. The doctor believes we're safe. I think the first step is to contact DTRA, as you suggested. How 'bout if you do that now, sir.” He maneuvered Jed out of the room, pointing down the hallway. “The nurses' station has a telephone you can use. The sooner we get some concrete information, the sooner you can update the ambassador.”

Clever. The prospect of briefing the US Ambassador to Azakistan finally got the man moving in the right direction. Away. Heather exchanged an amused look with Jace and the Marine.

Heather sat at Na'il's bedside, trying to coax the young man into talking to her. He just shook his head and glared. The utter hatred and contempt he levered at her stunned Heather. Could he really have agreed to transport the case of vials inside the classified pouch? No one would stop or question a courier for the Embassy of the United States. It was the perfect cover; and, she had to admit, the perfect way to transport hazardous chemical weapons without being detected. If the vials were really dangerous, where had Na'il been taking them? And for what purpose?

After a few moments, he slipped back into unconsciousness. That, or he pretended to sleep, to avoid her questions.

Sergeant Bisantz ran a hand along the back of his virtually nonexistent buzz cut. “Damn it. We're not getting anywhere.” He gave his attention to the woman from the State Department. “Are there any other irregularities in the morning pouch, ma'am?”

She grinned. “Call me Shelby, for heaven's sake. If we're going to die of anthrax poisoning, we might as well be on a first-­name basis, right?”

Amusement glittered in the other man's eyes as his lips twitched. “Then you better call me Hugo.” He crossed the room and lowered his voice. “Is it inappropriate for me to tell you that I'm impressed with how you're handling this? You're keeping your cool. Not overreacting.”