Night Hush (15 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­Three

September 6. 9:00
A.M.

US Embassy, Ma'ar ye zhad, Azakistan

H
EATHER'S
GUIDE BROUGHT
her to Na'il Fakhoury's cubicle and left her there with a cheerful farewell. She probably shouldn't have presumed to come to the embassy to investigate Na'il's belongings. Her contribution to this mission lay in her Turkish language skills, nothing more. But she'd had nothing else to do with her time, and no way back to al-­Zadr without Jace.

She frowned. He'd disappeared after Na'il died this morning. They had barely spoken during the hours she'd sat at the courier's bedside. At one point he'd brought her food; another, insisted she shower and change into fresh clothes. She wished now she hadn't shut him down so hard yesterday. He'd done nothing wrong; her own fear had caused her retreat. Fear of liking him too much. Fear of getting involved with another soldier. It never ended well.

Heather sifted through the contents of Na'il Fakhoury's cubicle. Like the dozen others on the first floor of the embassy, the six-­by-­six space was walled on two sides, with a half partition on the third. It boasted a computer on an L-­shaped desk, a wall shelf, a small filing cabinet tucked underneath, and nothing else. No posters. No plants. The boy had been obsessively neat. A few personal pictures—­a group shot, and two of a girl who was most likely his sister, based on their strong resemblance—­and a calendar, detailing his work schedule. Nothing in the filing cabinet except napkins and ketchup packets.

There wasn't a shred of anything useful to be found. Hopefully, there would be something in the computer itself. She logged in using the administrator password she had been given.

Again, there was very little on the computer. No personal files, no documents conveniently entitled, “Plans to blow up the president.” His email was, likewise, virtually empty. Most of the missives tended to be general embassy notifications.

His browser's home page was set to Yahoo mail. On a hunch, she called up to IT security.

“Fellars, here.”

Heather identified herself. “Can you crack the username and password on a Yahoo mail account?”

“No, ma'am. We don't usually run a keystroke logger. At least not on every machine. But . . . where did you say you were?”

She told him.

“We've monitored that system for two months, maybe three,” Fellars told her. “For contract fraud. Money being funneled out under pretense . . . Let me check. Yes, among other things, we installed a keystroke logger. Give me a second to search through . . . here we go.” He read off a user name and password combination. “It repeats a number of times. Is that it?”

Heather typed it in. Don't get too excited, girl, she told herself. Someone as careful as Na'il probably wouldn't leave anything incriminating. An inbox icon appeared. “Yes. That's it. Thank you.”

She disconnected and scrolled through a number of emails in the inbox. Direct-­mail medications, low mortgage rates, Viagra. Natural male enhancement. Sexy, hot girls looking for a good time. How did this junk get through the spam filters?

On a hunch, she clicked over to the Drafts folder. And struck gold.

There were four messages.

One immediately caught her eye. It was addressed to Na'il. The Sent From field was blank. She clicked on it.

“Delivery to Zaahir al-­Farouk on 5 September at 0600, at the Starbucks at Kahraba Almarkiz.” That was it. A lowercase letter N had been typed in below the message.

It was an old trick.

Christina joined her at the desk. “Found anything?”

“Oh, hey,” said Heather. “Where did you come from?”

Christina settled a hip on the desk. “Looks like we had the same idea. I'm here to talk to Jay Spicer about the SCUD's warhead your rescue team decommissioned. He can't see me for a bit, so I thought I'd take a chance and see what I could ferret out here. How's Na'il?”

Heather just shook her head. “He died two hours ago.”

“Damn it! Did he say anything?”

Heather blew out a breath. “Nothing except terrorist rhetoric.” A heavy weight settled onto her shoulders. “A confession would have been too easy, I guess. On the good-­news end, I found something interesting on his computer. A free mail account with draft messages. Four of them.”

Lines appeared between Christina's brows. “Huh? Drafts?”

Heather pulled the other woman over and showed her the screen. “Since rumors of Echelon, it's become a trick terrorists use to communicate securely with one another. Terrorist Cell A sets up a free email account. Rather than use it to send messages back and forth, however, every member of the cell has the same user name and password. Since sent email is subject to interception, no mail is ever sent. Instead, Cell A leader types up messages for each member and saves them as drafts. Each member of the cell logs in, reads his or her own instructions, and puts an initial or a word or whatever at the bottom, or in the subject line, to tell the cell leader he's read and understands his instructions.” Heather grinned. “And I just found four of them.”

Christina's eyes lit up. “Do they give us a plan?”

“One is for Na'il. A date and time for a meet-­up. He missed it.”

Christina pointed to the red light blinking on the telephone, indicating new voice mail. “We'll have to check that out, too.”

“Good call. I didn't see that.” Heather called back the security guy. “Can you send someone up who can retrieve a voice mail?”

“Sure.”

While they waited, Heather opened the other three messages. All of them listed dates, times, and a contact name. All but one had an initial typed in at the bottom. The dates ranged from three weeks prior all the way to Na'il's meeting yesterday morning. The presumably unread message's date was for five days hence, the day of the president's visit:
Pick up transportation vehicle on September 11 at 9:00
A.M.
Link up with me by 11:00
A.M.,
the Arabic symbols read.

Heather's eyes widened. “That's proof! They were planning an attack on the president!”

Christina fluffed her hair with her nails. “We'll need to get this to the Secret Ser­vice ASAP. What vehicle, and where is he picking it up from? And linking up where? The base?”

“It has to be. They must have found a way to get onto al-­Zadr.” The possibility the vehicle might contain the warhead for the SCUD intrigued Heather, but she discarded the idea after a moment of thought. “When was this email written? Maybe they don't know the SCUD is out of commission.”

The communications tech arrived. He lifted the telephone receiver, punched in a long stream of numbers, listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Heather.

A male voice snarled into the phone in Arabic. Heather pressed the speakerphone button, and the harsh voice resounded through the tiny cubicle. She blanched and gripped the edge of the desk with both hands.

“That's him. The man from the Kongra-­Gel training camp.” She took in a lot of air and exhaled hard. “Run it back.”

Christina restarted the message.

“Where the hell are you?” Heather translated. “You missed your delivery. You better meet me tomorrow, same time, or you will meet Allah earlier than we planned.” The sound of a receiver being slammed back into its cradle, then silence.

The two women stared at one another.

“Well,” Christina finally said. “How about that.”

Heather shivered with excitement. She had a chance to catch the cell leader! Then she sobered. The odds of her being allowed anywhere near this were slim. Technically, she should be at home resting. Still, she
was
involved now. She could still be of use.

Heather realized Christina was speaking, and forced herself to listen. “ . . . where they're supposed to meet. If we can get local police there, surround the place . . .”

“We don't know where the meet-­up was supposed to be,” Heather interrupted. “And even if we did, that won't help us. We lose control immediately. The Azakistani police would want to question him themselves, and we'd be shut out.”

Christina sighed. “I have to brief my boss anyway. Let's bite the bullet and see what he says.”

J
AY
S
PICER SIMPLY
looked at them.

“Sir,” Christina Madison tried again, “the SCUD, the vials the courier carried, and now these messages. I think we have to acknowledge the Kongra-­Gel terrorists might have a Plan B. It merits an investigation, surely.”

Spicer threw his pen down onto his desk. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Madison. And I know your reputation, Langstrom.” He sighed. “I also know what you've been through. Some distrust and suspicion is natural after your ordeal. But I think you're barking up the wrong tree with this one.”

Heather bristled. “You have no idea what I've been through.” She worked hard to keep her voice steady. “I was questioned because my captors wanted to know what I knew about an impending attack. And they specifically wanted to know what I knew about Omaid al-­Hassid, and he was in charge of the camp I was held at. I'm simply suggesting we look closer at this.”

Spicer bobbed his head. “I get that. I do. But the threat's been neutralized. The Azakistani Air Force took care of the SCUD. We know Omaid al-­Hassid wasn't there when they bombed his camp. But alive or not, he's been incapacitated for the moment.”

Heather couldn't shake the nagging sense the CIA station chief was wrong. The danger still existed; she could feel it in her bones.

“What if there's a backup plan?” Christina asked, fidgeting in her chair.

The station chief pinned her with a look that had her clasping her hands together. “Have you forgotten your screwup in Iraq six months ago? Your misjudgment there could have cost us several lives, including your own. If the SAS hadn't pulled you out of the fire . . . well, let's just say I assigned you here with me to give you time to gain some experience. And perspective. This isn't really helping me believe you've learned anything.”

Heather blew out an irritated breath. Spicer turned to her. “What has 10
th
Group said?” he asked.

She hated to admit it, but. . . . “I haven't run this past them. I'm still on medical leave. Truthfully, I'm not exactly certain leaving the hospital was sanctioned.” Sitting back, she met Spicer's gaze squarely. “The new regimental intelligence officer at 10
th
Group doesn't know me, and I'm in limbo pending reassignment. After the docs clear me to go back on active duty, I'm due to rotate back Stateside.” She smoothed her hands along her thighs. “But the SCUD's warhead is still physically out there, and we don't know what they plan to do with it. Look, what would it hurt to let us poke around a little?”

Spicer rubbed his chin, leg jiggling under the desk. He tapped his fingers against the chair's arm. “The SCUD's dead, and so is the courier. We have the vials, whatever they turn out to be. Whatever meeting they planned is over. The last email gives no clue where or what, but the Secret Ser­vice has it and is investigating. We'll support them, but it's their baby. Their call. They need me, they ask. Meanwhile, I got half a dozen ops running. I have better things to do with my resources. Including you.” He jabbed a finger at Christina. “What progress have you made with Aa'idah Karim?”

“None, sir,” Christina mumbled. The young agent managed to keep her face blank, which was more than Heather was able to do.

They were wasting their time here. Heather pushed herself erect.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Spicer.” She held out a hand.

He rose and took it, tilting his head forward. “Bring me something more concrete than obsolete emails, and I'm all over it, Langstrom. But resources only stretch so far.”

Heather sighed. “I understand, Mr. Spicer. I'll be back.”

“Call me Jay.” He shot a glance at Christina. “Madison, get out of here before I bust you back to trainee.”

 

Chapter Twenty-­Four

September 6. 11:45
A.M.

Forward Operating Base Hollow Straw, al-­Zadr AFB

T
HE SILENCE BETWEEN
Jace and Heather persisted on the trip back to al-­Zadr Air Force Base. She mulled over how to bridge the distance between them. Finally, she just blurted, “I'm sorry for how I acted.”

“Forget it,” Jace said gruffly.

That didn't sound forgiving, but Heather didn't push it. How would she feel if, in the end, he dropped her at the bachelor officer's quarters and simply left? Relieved, of course.

Wistful.

“I asked Dr. McGrath if he felt you were capable of making this trip,” he admitted. “He asked me to bring you by the hospital so he could check you out.”

“No. I'd rather you take me home.”

“Let's wait till we get closer, then we can fight to the death about where I take you.”

That sounded a little better, maybe a little bit teasing. Heather held her breath, but he didn't say anything more. With nothing else as a distraction, memories flooded her. Her prison cell, her captor, and that rusted, creaking cot. She shuddered.

Heather had not been able to open up to the psychologist the Army had insisted she see. The man had extensive experience with post-­traumatic stress disorder. The soldiers of 10
th
Special Forces Group lived for weeks or even months in the field, accomplishing virtually impossible tasks in the war on terror. They were encouraged to seek counseling; but unless it was directly ordered, they didn't go. Heather had always thought the man-­code forbade such a perceived weakness. She now realized it was not machismo, but an inability to put words to what they had seen and done. As long as they kept on keeping on, memories could be compartmentalized or suppressed. As much as she knew the psychologist was only trying to help her, she just couldn't face talking about it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She just wanted to forget.

The embassy's VIP treatment had ended with the courier's death. No Blackhawk waited to fly them back to al-­Zadr. The car and driver drove them east all the way to the Air Force Base's airfield, where Jace's car waited exactly where they'd left it the previous day.

Jace held the door for her, then hopped in and started the engine with a roar. Strangely unsettled, she stared out the window as he put the car in gear. The sudden coughing backfire of a nearby truck startled her; Heather jerked back. Farther down the tarmac, a plane fired up its engines. For a moment, she found herself back in the Kongra-­Gel training camp, in the middle of the chaos as she tried to escape under cover of explosions and automatic gunfire as Jace's team attacked the compound. She found herself grabbing for the door handle, her pulse slamming in her throat, choking her. Her vision blurred, and she couldn't hear over the thunder of her heart.

“Heather. Listen to me. You're safe. Hear my voice. You're in a car. It's just a plane engine. There's nothing wrong.” The voice was calm, soothing, persistent. It cut through her panic. Her vision cleared.

Jace slowed and pulled to the side of the road. His hand hovered at her shoulder without actually touching her. Her eyes wide, Heather stared at him, breathing hard. Jace lowered a single finger to her shoulder, touching her so softly she barely felt it. It served to ground her back to the here and now.

“You're safe,” he told her again.

Heather turned away to hide her sudden rush of tears. “I know. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. It happens.”

Heather wiped both hands down her face, then clasped them in her lap to still the trembling. “Not to me.”

Jace slipped his finger under her chin, nudging her face around. She leveled a defiant glare his way.

“To everyone, Heather. You're not the only soldier to experience PTSD.”

Heather focused for a moment on breathing. Inhaling and exhaling. She flashed back to the small cave in the mountains, of Jace holding her against his body, rubbing circles on her back, telling her to breathe with him. In and out. Over and over.

God, she wanted him to hold her.

He had been so strong in those mountains, sure and confident. He'd led his team with unapologetic competence. He hadn't sneered at her weakness or her tears.

Jace slid a hand to the back of her neck and up under her hair, massaging her scalp. She leaned into his touch. Was it weakness to let him affect her? Maybe. At the moment, though, nothing mattered but the slide of his fingers through her hair. Her skin prickled, hot and tight, and her breath hitched. It was a small sound, but he heard it, and used the hand at the back of her neck to pull her to him. She expected him to kiss her. Instead, he pressed his forehead to hers, and spoke, his voice low and rough.

“You should never have had to go through that. Your convoy attacked, seeing your friends get shot. None of it. You should never have been . . . I want to kill the man who put that fear into your eyes.”

Heather jerked in his arms. “Man?”

Jace pressed his lips to her temple. Heather had to fight not to turn her head, to search out his mouth, to let him kiss her until her memories disappeared. “You said in the hospital that . . .” His voice trailed away. “Was it more than one?”

What had she said? What had she admitted, in a moment of weakness? Shit. She pulled away from him and stared ahead, out the windshield. “It was nothing.”

Jace sighed. “Heather . . .”

“Let's just go. Please.”

She could feel his gaze, resting heavily on her. Finally,
finally,
he put the car in gear and pulled onto the road that would take them away from the airport. Scenery rolled past; she didn't see it. All she could see was
him,
above her, straddling her. Her stomach churned.

“No matter how well trained we are in Delta, and we are the best-­trained force in the world, there comes a point for all of us—­
all
of us—­when something happens we can't put into perspective,” Jace said, as if he'd read her thoughts. “That just . . . defies justification. So horrible, you have to stuff it away just to stay sane. But, eventually, at some point, you have to bring it out and look at it. Some don't. Probably a lot don't. But if you don't, the black place inside of you just . . . gets bigger. A tiny piece of you dies every day until you're just, I don't know, empty. Not quite human anymore.” He sighed. “By the time an operator hits that point, everyone's clued in, and the guy just retires. But every once in a while . . . there was one guy, guy named Harvey, just snapped one day. Not part of my team. Not even from my squadron. But out on a mission, he just started shooting. There was no enemy, but he couldn't see that. I guess he just couldn't see anything anymore. He killed an old man and a little girl, just out getting some fresh air.”

Heather sucked in a breath. “That's awful!”

“Yeah.” He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “As bad as it is, you can't just keep it inside. I'm sure they sent you to a shrink. Talk to him. Please.”

No. No way.

“What happened to Harvey?” she asked, in an attempt to distract him.

Jace was silent for so long she was sure he wasn't going to answer. Finally, though, he dragged in a breath. “He died. On that mission.” He grimaced. “Delta prides itself on never, ever taking out the wrong target. Never killing an innocent. Never.”

Heather put a hand over his and patted it awkwardly. “I'm sorry.”

He squeezed the steering wheel so tightly she was surprised it didn't shatter. “I almost killed you.” His voice was bleak. “In the desert, when you were dressed like . . . I could have killed you.”

Oh, Jace. “But you didn't. You saved me.”

He didn't answer her. The car slowed, and she looked around. The major intersection would take them either back to the hospital or over to the rest of the base.

“I'm not going back,” she blurted out, turning to challenge Jace. “I'm fed up with that place. They're nice and all, but enough is enough. I'm not an invalid, and I don't need round-­the-­clock care. I'm sick of hospitals.”

“Okay.”

She stared at him. “What happened to the fight to the death?”

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “If you can fight to the death, then you don't need a hospital. I did make Dr. McGrath a promise, though, in exchange for his permission.”

Uh-­oh. Something in his expression . . . it was at once contrite and gleeful.

“And that was?”

“I promised him you wouldn't be alone.”

Heather started to laugh; she couldn't help it. “No. You're not coming home with me.”

Wisely, he didn't argue with her. Instead, he squinted into the midmorning glare, an arm draped casually over the steering wheel, and turned right.

“Not going home with you it is.”

But before they reached the bachelor officer's quarters, he turned onto an unmarked road. She knew she should protest, should insist he take her back. Instead, she let her head thunk onto the seat back in tacit acceptance. They drove several miles, ending at a remote area and a fenced-­off compound she hadn't even known existed. A grizzled old sergeant with an M4 carbine slung over his shoulder guarded the gate. No wonder no one knew Delta Force operated out of al-­Zadr. Probably only a select few even knew of this remote area, and even fewer were allowed inside. The guard logged her in, using her military ID card to jot down information on a clipboard.

“Have a good 'un, Cap'n,” he said to Jace, opening the gate for them. Jace waved and pulled through. He weaved through a collection of buildings, none of which had any identifying signs or symbols. Clearly, Delta valued its anonymity.

Jace pulled up in front of a small house, on a dirt street lined with identical houses. Popping the trunk, he pulled her dress green uniform bag out by its hanger.

He came over and opened the passenger side door. “Well, come on,” he said, holding out a hand. She just looked at him.

Undaunted, he grabbed her hand and pulled her from the car. She laughed and steadied herself. “Jace, you know I can't stay here.”

“Why not?”

She gave him an exasperated look. “You know why not. There are a zillion reasons why not, and you know all of them.”

He pretended to think it over. “Okay. I'll take you back to the hospital.”

Heather reached for her uniform. “How about you take me home? To my home. My quarters. And drop me there.”

He held her belongings just out of reach. “Nope. I made a promise to the doc. It's here or the hospital.”

Looking around, Heather verified no one watched. Not at this time of day, but one never knew, and the last thing she needed was to become more of spectacle than she already was. Lord, she was tired. The excursion to the Prince Nasser Hospital to talk to Na'il had sapped her small reserves. “Fine. For a little bit, but then you have to take me home.”

Jace led the way up the tiny walk to the house and unlocked the door. He stood back to let her go in first. He had not, she was amused to note, promised to take her home later. She forced her head up and her shoulders back as she stepped into the foyer. Be strong, Langstrom.

The house was typical Army-­issue. To the right was the living room, with the dining area at the far end. The kitchen would be around the corner. In front of her, the staircase stretched impossibly far. Please, don't let her have to go up. To her relief, Jace walked into the living room and draped her uniform over the back of a dining room chair. She dropped onto the sofa with a sigh. It, like all the furniture, was also Army-­issue. She could have commented on the sterility of what was obviously bachelor's quarters, except her tiny apartment looked the same. She lived in a four-­story walk-­up, no different from her bachelor officer's quarters Stateside. Ten one-­bedroom apartments to a floor, forty officers living in proximity and mostly eating in the chow hall. The long hours she put in didn't leave her much interest in cooking.

Jace disappeared up the stairs. Heather let her head drop to the back of the sofa. Just one minute. Just let her rest for one minute.

His voice drifted down to her. Was someone else here?

Jace came bounding back down the stairs. His energy preceded him like a battering ram.

“Here.” Something soft was thrust into her hands. She opened her eyes to find a well-­worn olive green T-­shirt. “Crap and double crap. I got called in to the office. Make yourself at home. Shower. Take a nap if you want. Grab some lunch . . . damn it! Why didn't I go to the commissary last week? I'm so sorry. Rummage in the cupboards—­there might be something edible. Have that pizza place deliver. The number's on the fridge. I should be back in a few hours. I'll take you to dinner, okay?”

She managed a wan smile. “What happened to not leaving me alone?”

Jace stopped short, a comical look on his face. “God, I . . . might have stretched the truth a little on my promise to the doctor. Shit. Do you need . . . I can take you to the hospital? Are you in pain? Feeling dizzy?” He came over to kneel next to her, turning her face side to side as he examined her pupils and felt her forehead.

Heather batted his hands away. “I was just kidding. I'm fine. Go. Just . . .” Her voice wobbled. “Just come back, okay?”

Jace sat back on his heels, a gentle smile on his face. “You can bet on it.” He brushed his lips across hers, just a whisper of sensation. “Be back before you know it.”

But she did know it, as soon as the door closed behind him. The sad truth was, she didn't want to be alone. Too many thoughts, jumbled and frightening, rolled through her mind. Too much confusion, and memories she did not want to examine. Still, she couldn't stay here. It was inappropriate, and would reflect unfavorably if someone found out.