Night Hush (8 page)

 

Chapter Twelve

August 19. 2:30
P.M.

Base Hospital, al-­Zadr Air Force Base, Azakistan

T
HE STEADY BEEP
of the heart rate monitor was driving Heather crazy. The tubes running from her arms to various drips annoyed her. She'd been swarmed the moment the helicopter touched down. In short order, she'd been whisked from a rapid bedside ultrasound to a CAT scan, and in less than an hour she'd been in surgery. The doctor had taken one look at her battered body and been generous with the pain meds; the first days had passed in a blur.

This time when the doctor made his rounds, she would be coherent enough to get some answers. She pressed the button that raised the head of the bed so she could sit up, wincing as her bruises made themselves known, and drummed her fingers against the bed rails.

Finally, Dr. McGrath came in, followed by a straggling group of interns. He picked up her chart and flipped through it, then handed it to the closest one. “Dr. Sottile, run down the history for me.”

The intern cleared his throat, glancing at Heather and away again. He ran quick fingers over his trimmed beard, the red in his face matching the red of his hair. “Patient is a twenty-­six-­year-­old female presenting with a grade three blunt trauma splenic injury, causing intra-­abdominal bleeding in the retroperitoneal space. Failed observation with dropping hemoglobin . . .”

Heather tuned the intern out. She wasn't interested in what had happened; she wanted to know when she could get out of the hospital. Finally, his litany and the subsequent questions died down, and the group turned to leave.

“Dr. McGrath,” she called.

The group stopped and turned as one, staring at her with mild curiosity. Dr. McGrath came back to her bedside and gave her a gentle smile. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“When can I go home?”

The smile turned into a grimace. “I'll move you from ICU onto the medical-­surgical floor tomorrow, but only if your vitals remain steady and the infection in your shoulder starts responding to treatment. If you continue to improve, you might be released as early as Friday or Saturday. Just so you know, though, the base Public Affairs Officer approached me about moving you into an inpatient room to control media access when I feel you're fit enough for that particular impending circus.”

Four more days. Heather groaned. Military health care was much more conservative than its civilian counterparts; in the civilian world, she would probably be home already. Still, she was not a hundred percent yet. A lethargy that had nothing to do with the morphine running through her veins tugged at her. Her skin felt hot and dry.

Dr. McGrath checked her wrists, rewrapping them in soft gauze. “These are healing nicely.”

Heather frowned. “Can you at least make that beeping noise go away?” she grumped.

“Sure. The danger's past. Try to get some rest.” He patted her hand and left.

As soon as Dr. McGrath closed the door behind him, it opened again. Expecting the nurse, Heather sat up, ready to yank the leads off her body.

“Hello.”

Her head swiveled around in surprise. The broad shoulders filling the doorway sent an immediate wave of relief through her. Jace.

“Hi.”

“You're awake,” he said.

“For the first time in days, I think. I've been pretty much out of it.”

“I know.” He entered, glancing around a room that suddenly seemed smaller. He rolled his shoulders, looking uncomfortable. “So, ah, how are you?”

“I'm doing all right.”

The banal chitchat felt odd to her, as though somewhere in the past week her veneer of civilization had slipped.

“They still have you on pain meds. That's not the same as being all right.” He pointed to the IV in her arm. “Demerol, right?”

She nodded. Her head felt too heavy, so she eased it against the pillows.

“Can I, uh, get you anything?”

“A little water, please.” Her skin prickled as he came closer and filled her small cup from the pitcher on the table beside her bed. Instead of handing it to her, he leaned over her, one arm braced near her head and the other holding the plastic cup to her lips. His gaze snared hers, and she found herself lost in his eyes as she sipped. It felt surreal. Her vision tunneled and grayed around the edges.

Jace set the water aside. His hand came up to cup her jaw, carefully, and he brushed her lips with his mouth; just a whisper of sensation that she felt to her toes. He came back again, just as softly, and Heather deepened the kiss without conscious volition, tracing his lips with her tongue. He made a soft sound of pleasure, but then straightened. Heather looked up at him, confused, her throat already dry again. A headache seemed to have banded itself around her head.

He smiled down at her, but his hand slid away. “Sorry. I know you're still hurt, but I've wanted to do that for a while.”

“Ahem.”

Heather jerked away guiltily. Jace was slower to move back, glancing over his shoulder at the nurse without embarrassment or apology. The nurse came farther into the room, her eyes twinkling.

“Your EKG showed a sudden spike. I now see why.” She grinned. “The doctor says we can unhook you. I'd say I have to agree. You seem healthy enough.” She made a shooing motion with her hands, and Jace obediently stepped back. “Now just let me unhook the electrodes.”

Face heating with embarrassment, Heather turned her face away as the nurse whisked the small round pads off her chest and back. Thankfully, the
beep-­beep-­beep
finally stopped. The nurse left with a stern admonition not to tire Heather. Silence descended in the room.

“They're being ultracautious with me,” she finally said.

Jace eased himself into the blue plastic visitor's chair. “I know. I've been checking up on you.”

Heather didn't know what to say to that. “Why?”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I always check on damsels in distress once I rescue them.”

Dismay coursed through her, but there wasn't much she could say. He
had
rescued her. She
had
relied on him to get her to safety. Her relief at seeing him turned to chagrin.

“What did I say?” Jace cocked his head. “I didn't mean to offend you.”

Heather shook her head, not looking at him. “I'm just . . . used to making my own way. I don't rely on ­people. They let you down.” It wasn't his fault. He had been doing his job, the same as she had been doing hers when she had been taken. He couldn't know the many disappointments of her childhood as her parents ignored her pleas to go to space camp or join the Civil Air Patrol—­anything meaningful—­in favor of their own ambitions, nor the subtle or open contempt of male soldiers as she struggled for acceptance and respect.

She'd proven herself strong and capable time after time; yet, in her first real test, she'd been dependent on someone else to save her. It galled her.

“Not a team player, eh? Odd profession you chose, then.”

Heather's chin lifted of its own accord. “I work with others. Intelligence ­people share information, at least in the Army. Dealing with the alphabet agencies is a nightmare. The CIA is the worst. They won't tell you the sun is shining half the time.”

Jace laughed. “We have the same problem with them.”

“We? We being . . . ?”

Jace waited, silent.

Heather shrugged, obscurely disappointed. “Fine. Just tell me you stopped those insurgents from attacking US personnel.”

His brows rose. “Nobody told you? The Azakistani Air Force sent two fighters out to the compound. Bombed the shit out of the place. It doesn't exist anymore.”

Heather's breath left her in a whoosh. “The ­people? There were women . . .”

“Virtually deserted. Once al-­Hassid beat feet, the rest of the troops pretty much deserted.” He paused. “We bumped into a . . . surprise while we were there. Do your intelligence resources have anything on SCUDs in insurgent hands?”

Heather's vision cleared and her eyes widened. The headache grew worse. “What? They had a SCUD?” Then, in a breathy whisper, “Please God tell me you destroyed it.”

“We destroyed the inertial guidance system. The Azakistanis took care of the missile itself. There was no warhead on-­site that we saw.”

Her breath whooshed out. “Who knows about this?”

“It went to the Tactical Operations Center at Forward Camp Gryphon. I'd bet my last dollar Central Command has it now.” He assessed her. “There's nothing you need to be worrying about right now except healing.”

The tension left her body. “Who were they? It seems odd that I still don't know who they were.”

Jace grimaced. “You were the special guest of Sheik Omaid al-­Hassid, of the Kongra-­Gel. That name mean anything to you?”

Heather fluttered a hand, startled. “Yes, actually. That makes . . . a lot of sense. I think that's why I was taken prisoner.” Since she couldn't seem to lift her head, she pressed the button and raised herself a little more erect. “I overheard a conversation in one of the open-­air markets in Eshma. Three men, one of whom—­the leader—­was the man who . . . questioned . . . me at the camp.” A quiver ran through her. Jace reached for her, but stopped and let his arm drop.

Disappointed, Heather forced herself to continue. “It's my job to listen, to eavesdrop, to figure out how things fit together. You never know when small grains of sand will clump together to form a real, live piece of intelligence information.” She traced her fingers along the blanket covering her lap. “I heard part of a name. Omaid something, and you've just given me the rest of it. They were concerned because one of their group members had died, but not worried enough to stop their plans. Based on the questions I was being asked, I'm betting it's someone named Demas Pagonis. Also, they were using a boy—­I didn't catch his name—­to do part of their job. He was having second thoughts, and the leader threatened to kill him if he didn't cooperate. It wasn't a whole lot, but enough to get me thinking.”

Heather stilled her fingers. “I got a ­couple of decent photos with my iPhone. We went to the chief of police, guy by the name of Sa'id al-­Jabr, with the pictures. He said he didn't recognize them, but I'm pretty sure he lied. The next day, our convoy was ambushed.” She shivered, suddenly chilled.

Jace shifted closer. Heather stopped herself a fraction before she reached for his hand.

“I'd say we stopped them, at least for now,” he said. “The rest can wait until you're stronger. You've been through enough.”

“I guess.” She twisted her fingers together. “I just feel . . . helpless. There's something going on out there, and I need to figure it out before ­people get hurt.” The sheik's henchman wouldn't give up so easily. His crazed eyes . . . she shuddered. Real evil lived in that body. She knew in her gut that he had escaped with the sheik. She finally turned her head to meet Jace's gaze.

“Look,” he began. What had they been talking about? She couldn't seem to focus. His voice trailed off, his gaze tracing over her face. His brows snapped together. Pushing himself to his feet, he took two steps and bent over her. His fingers were cool as they cupped her face. She leaned into them, welcoming the relief from the heat that coursed through her body. “Shit.” Jace grabbed the nurse call button and pushed it several times. He pressed the inside of his wrist against her forehead, which had beaded with perspiration. She shivered harder.

“She's running a fever,” Jace said, his voice far away. A lighter voice answered. Pain pulsed in her joints, unconnected to her bruises or the site of the surgery. She sensed the bustle around her, but couldn't seem to muster the strength to lift her head.

“Out, now.” Heather didn't like that voice. “We need the room cleared, stat.”

For a brief moment, Jace leaned over her, smoothing her hair away from her face. He pressed a brief kiss to her forehead. “Stay strong, Heather. Fight it.”

She thought she might have answered him, then gave in to the swirl of confusion in her mind, closing her eyes with a tired sigh.

 

Chapter Thirteen

August 24. 8:00
P.M.

Ma'ar ye zhad, Azakistan

A
A'IDAH SHIFT
ED HER
abaya's sleeve so she could grasp the frozen yogurt her father handed her. The abaya was light and comfortable, though fitted loosely enough to hide the shape beneath it. Blue satin edged the sleeves and front hems, with a second edging of pale sequins. Her scarf covered her hair, but left her face visible. Her mother and two younger sisters dressed similarly, while her little brother wore trousers and a button-­down shirt. He had already smeared the frozen treat over his face.

The sun had set long ago, and cool breezes wafted through the causeways. She strolled with her family down a wide bricked path between shops and under an old walled arch. Stopping with her sisters to look at dresses, she exchanged pleasantries with the proprietress, a young woman wearing a long skirt and blouse. Her head scarf swirled purple and pink flowers. An old man dozed in a chair at the back of the shop.

“Your hijab is lovely,” Aa'idah murmured.

“I have another.” The young woman slid her hands under a stack of head scarves and pulled one free, draping it across her arm to show it off. Aa'idah fingered the soft chiffon. Her own hijab was a conservative gray silk.

“How much?” she asked.

“For the daughter of Mahmoud Karim, seven thousand
tenge.
”

“Five thousand.” Roughly twenty-­seven US dollars. US dollars had been much on her mind lately as she transferred sums back and forth per her father's instructions. Sometimes dollars, sometimes
tenge
or Iranian rials.

“Six.”

Normally Aa'idah enjoyed bartering, but this evening her thoughts were elsewhere. She paid the proprietress and waited while the purchase was wrapped. Her family had moved to the next boutique, her sisters fingering necklaces and brightly patterned belts.

“We will sit and enjoy a coffee,” her father said, gesturing to a café with an outdoor patio.

Wooden tables with red chairs littered the area. Most were full. A slew of young Azakistanis chatted together. Others scrolled through their phones, sipping glasses of Persian tea as their thumbs tapped across phones or iPad screens to text or reply to email. A young ­couple bounced two babies on their knees. Four college students played Pasur, a card game that had them laughing raucously as they won or lost a round. Aa'idah heard at least three languages swirling through the throng.

Shukri pulled three tables together. Her mother and the girls sat at one end, leaving the males together. Her father pulled her to a middle seat next to him. Unease shivered through her.

That was seven. Who were the other seats for?

A server hurried to them. Her father ordered for them all: Syrian coffee for five, and fragrant rose tea and bitter almond biscuits for the rest.

The guests arrived before the coffee. Three men approached the table. One loomed over the others, shoulders seemingly wide enough to block out the sun. White tape covered his hooked nose, which had clearly been broken recently. His five o'clock shadow gave him a sinister mien. He wore a brown, ankle-­length tunic and red-­and-­gold sandals. His white cotton
ghutrah
headdress was banded by a black cord doubled around to keep the
ghutrah
in place.

The second, shorter and older, wore the traditional white cotton tunic. His
ghutra
had red and white checks, and his beard was long and bushy. He must be a sheik, Aa'idah decided, an elder and a leader. The third, much younger, dressed like Shukri in jeans, T-­shirt, and sneakers.

Her father rose and shook hands all around. “Peace be upon you.”

“And unto you, peace,” replied the sheik. He sat at the head of the table as though it were his due. The hulking man sat to his right. The third one sat next to Shukri, and her father resumed his place next to her.

Her father made no introductions. The server arrived with a tray and served the three visitors, Shukri, and her father the strong Syrian coffee, then distributed the tea and biscuits for the rest of the family.

“I should get to drink coffee with the men,” her little brother complained. Her mother quickly shushed him.

“Things went well in Eshma?” her father asked.

The big man with the broken nose inclined his head. “A great success. Shukri was very helpful.”

Shukri straightened, beaming with pride. “It was my honor, sir.”

Shukri had been gone for days on a trip that even their mother knew nothing about. A bad feeling began to churn in her stomach. The bombings in Eshma had been headline news for weeks. Please, please let it be coincidence. Please let her brother not be involved in anything illegal.

“One minor inconvenience,” the sheik said, frowning. “Zaahir was careless. But our friend the chief of police in Eshma warned us in time, and we removed the problem.”

The big man with the broken nose glowered. “It will not happen again, I assure you.”

“What problem?” her father asked.

“Apparently an American woman overheard Shukri, Rami, and me. It was my fault; I do not deny this.” It seemed to gall him to say the words. “We were in a public place. After the Ubadah bombing, we had nowhere private to talk.”

Aa'idah bent her head over her tea, blowing across its surface to hide her expression. Was it Christina? Was she the woman they discussed? What had happened to her after the imam, Salman Ibrahim, dragged her away?

“Removed the problem how? Is she confined?” Her father lowered his voice. “Dead?”

Aa'idah couldn't control her start of dismay, causing the big man to glance her way. Their eyes met and held, hers wide and fearful, his fierce and his sharp as daggers. Then, amazingly, he smiled. It didn't make his any less frightening, but Aa'idah dropped her eyes, relieved anyway.

“Escaped. But no matter. She knew nothing.” Zaahir's fingers clenched around the coffee cup. “To the problem at hand, which is serious. The filthy infidel dogs bombed our home in the hills. We will need to start reconstruction.”

Her father nodded, a bit reluctantly, it seemed to Aa'idah. “Of course. Do you have a cost estimate?”

“Four million
tenge,
” the sheik said, shrugging carelessly. “That is the easy one.”

Aa'idah pretended to nibble a biscuit as she calculated the amount in her head. Twenty-­six thousand American dollars, give or take, would buy many guns in this part of the world. And would also buy the hands to hold them. Did her father not understand that he was condemning hundreds of young men and boys to death? Terrible to consider, but was he actually in charge of sending millions of Azakistani
tenge
into the countryside, to terror-­training camps?

“The difficult problem is that our special item must be replaced.”

Her father set his coffee cup down and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I see. It was not easy to locate.”

“And expensive to acquire,” Zaahir said. “We understand. My contact in Tehran is trying to find me another as we speak. He says it will be at least four million.”

Her father grew very still. “Euros?”

“Dollars.” Zaahir narrowed his eyes. “Is this a problem?”

“No, only . . .”

“It will come through the usual sources,” the sheik said over him. “Some from Zaahir's international business company, some from our friend in the government through one of his holding companies.”

Aa'idah bit her lip. Shell companies to funnel hidden capital into the sheik's pockets. Who was their ‘friend' in the government? What would happen if she asked?

She wasn't brave enough to find out.

But she couldn't pretend or plead ignorance. Though she did not understand what they planned to do, it was clear they meant harm. Where? Against whom?

What should she do?

Her thoughts settled on the British aid worker, Christina Madison, who she suspected was an agent for the CIA, given how her accent came and went. Should she report what little she knew? Betray her father, her brother.

No. Aa'idah felt unclean just thinking the thoughts. But . . . what if she did arrange to be alone with Christina?

If the woman was not dead already.