Secret Soldier (3 page)

He wasn’t the marrying type and even if he were he wouldn’t have chosen her. She had looked frightful when she’d walked into her hut and he’d first seen her, and cleaning up only marginally improved her appearance. Her figure remained hidden under the shapeless
abayah,
her hair under a black scarf. He caught a glimpse of it in the dim hut that morning, a nondescript brownish color, tied into a bun. The women he normally associated with were always expertly done up, from their expensive pedicures to their hairstyles and formfitting designer clothes.

He liked feminine women, flirty and wild. Nothing wrong with that.

Except that he had just married a humorless, ordinary, goody-two-shoes academic.

Not for real. And just for a few weeks, no more. He had to keep that in mind. And in the meantime, it could work to their advantage that she was the plain-Jane type. Certainly nobody would think by looking at her that she was up to something.

The justice of the peace went on, and the witnesses, understanding not a word of the ceremony, fidgeted behind them.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Spike bit back a smile at the unhappy scowl on her face. Technically, the buildings of the U.S. Embassy counted as U.S. territory, but physical contact would have been grossly offensive to their witnesses, who no doubt would have complained to the mullah. No reason to unnecessarily aggravate anyone. “We’re skipping that part,” he said.

He could swear he heard her sigh of relief. Which was really strange. The one constant in his life was that women responded well to him. Enthusiastically well. Except Dr. DiMatteo. She was an odd bird, hard to figure out.

The justice of the peace smiled at them. “Congratulations.”

Spike shook the man’s hand. “Thank you. I appreciate—?’His ringing cell phone cut him off. “Excuse me.” He stepped away from the small wedding party as he clicked it on. “Thornton.”

“Have you made contact?” The Colonel’s voice cut in and out.

“Yes.” He couldn’t say more than that with Abigail and the others standing a few feet from him.

“Well done. Remember the CIA’s multipronged approach I told you about? Their asset turned up dead yesterday. Then this morning, they rushed the house they’d been keeping under surveillance and found it cleared out. You are it, Logan. You and Dr. DiMatteo. You need to start her evaluation immediately.”

“Will do.” He had begun the second he’d set eyes on her. From what he could tell so far, she was not fit for the job. She was as see-through as a fancy negligee. The idea of recruiting her for the CIA seemed worse by the minute. Definitely not undercover material. Her face showed every wayward emotion that crossed her mind. She had known that she’d gotten the grant. He’d seen it in her face and had wondered who’d tipped her off. And she had planned to send him packing, which was why he’d gone to bed early, pretending to sleep to gain time until morning.

He had counted on the mullah’s vigilance and it worked. They were in a country where unrelated men and women didn’t eat, work or spend any time together whatsoever. He couldn’t very well evaluate, recruit and train her like that. But now they were married, and in this part of the world that meant she was under his power in every way, tied to him. He needed that to complete his mission successfully.

He had two weeks to lead the CIA to the terrorists’ headquarters, probably a training camp either in the mountains or in the desert. If he failed, the U.S. military would have to come in and bomb a variety of possible targets. And since the Beharrainian government refused to give permission for any type of U.S. military operation in the country, that kind of intervention would mean out-and-out war.

And still, there would be a chance that El Jafar—aka Suhaib Hareb, the head of the terrorist group, according to CIA intelligence, could slip through somehow and succeed with his attack against the U.S.

Spike dropped the phone into his pocket. Somehow within the next two weeks, he had to find a way to pin down EL Jafar. And his temporary wife was the key to the whole operation. He hoped to hell she was up for the task.

Chapter Two

“Shukran,
El Jafar,” Tsemyakov, if that was his real name, thanked him. “I will be in touch about details on transportation.” He extended his hand.

They kissed on the cheek three times as was customary among friends. He allowed Tsernyakov the familiarity because he wanted him to feel safe.

“It’s a good deal.” The Russian smiled, visibly pleased.

An excellent deal. El Jafar watched as his guards escorted the man out of the spacious tent, but in his mind he was seeing something else—news reports of his
victory.

The vivid picture in his head chased his bad mood away. He always had the ability to see clearly the things he wanted, as if they’d already happened. He was a visionary—one much needed by his people.

The first strike had to be spectacular—bigger and more devastating than the U.S.A. had ever seen. After that, once everybody knew his name, recruits would be abundant and funding would flow in. And with that, the second attack would be even better. His cause was just, and he would not stop until he brought his enemies to their knees. He could no longer argue reasonably while no one in political office listened. He could not stand by and watch as western businesses, backed by their governments, robbed and raped his country.

He was a successful businessman, but what he and his family had paled in comparison to what should have been rightfully theirs. They should have been living like princes. They would have been, if westerners had not supported King Majid’s claims to the throne, ensuring his favor that came with hefty government contracts. El Jafar fisted his hand. Contracts that should have gone to his company and other local interests, not to some global conglomerate who siphoned the profits back to the West, harvesting the riches while leaving Beharrain in poverty.

Fair Trade
was nothing but a slogan. If trade were fair, countries with valuable natural resources wouldn’t have to watch their citizens starve while their western trade partners got richer and richer, to the point of obscenity.

But not much longer. The day of reckoning was coming soon. And the thieves would have nowhere to hide.

Tsernyakov had come through. He trusted the man, or, at least, he trusted him as much as he trusted anyone. Still, he’d been careful. He had not revealed his real name, his purpose or his location. At each meeting, he’d sent a car to pick up Tsemyakov at his hotel and drive him out into the desert. The tent, a reminder of his Bedouin ancestors, had been set up at a different place each time.

“Forgive me, El Jafar.” One of his men was at the tent’s opening. “Hamid begs for a word with you.”

“Send him in.” He smiled, pleased beyond measure with the way his plan was progressing, faster than even he had expected. In another ten days or so, the world would know his name. And his enemies would learn to fear him.

ABIGAIL GRABBED FOR her seat as Gerald swerved to avoid a giant pothole. She glanced at Leila next to her on the back seat. Neither she nor Abdul, riding shotgun with his rifle slung over his shoulder, seemed perturbed by the road conditions. As far as Abigail could see in the approaching twilight, their path was riddled with craters from shelling. Although the civil war had been over for almost four years, no one had the money to even begin repairs. But Gerald was proving useful at last, handling the obstacles with the agility of a race car driver.

Mrs. Gerald Thornton.
She turned the words over in her head for the hundredth time since they’d left Rahmara. She was married. Just like that. She caught Gerald’s gaze in the rearview mirror and he winked at her.

She bit back a groan. God, what had she done?

Their marriage was a lie and, beyond any other sin, she hated deceit the most. She should have thought of that earlier. And, of course, she had. But she had to be practical. Their marriage hurt no one, while it made possible for her to stay in Tukatar and save children. That outweighed everything. And then, of course, there was that whole “stoning to death” issue. She hoped the locals would think twice before enforcing such a punishment on a U.S. citizen, but she hadn’t been brave enough to test the mullah.

Leila, her chaperone, a short but stocky widow covered from head to toe in a black
abayah,
said something to her brother. He shrugged. Maybe she was too hot. They had the Jeep’s roof up to keep the sun off them, but it didn’t help much. Abigail looked down on her own identical attire, which was roasting her alive.

She’d worn black to her wedding.

It should have told anyone who cared to pay attention how she felt about this very special occasion.

She turned west, where the sun was dipping behind the mountains at last. Cool night air couldn’t come fast enough, although she didn’t feel all that comfortable being on the road after dark. She didn’t cherish the thought of breaking her neck, or some other body part, when the Jeep hit a pothole. She kept her eyes on the road, squinting when a swirl of rising dust in the distance caught her attention. It seemed to move toward them.

“What’s that?”

Gerald leaned forward. “Army trucks.” He didn’t seem to be worried.

Thank God, Leila and her brother had come along. Westerners were common in the bigger cities, but out in the country, mistrust of them still ran high. They were sure to be stopped, their papers examined. But at least Abdul could vouch for them. She hoped they wouldn’t be held up long. Night was fast approaching.

The vehicles were close enough now to count-four open-bed army trucks, their backs filled with men. They came to a dusty halt and blocked the road. A handful of men jumped off the first vehicle, some with rifles, some with machine guns. A man got out of the cab, better dressed and better fed than the rest, wearing a military uniform, a once-white turban covering his head.

Gerald brought the Jeep to a slow stop and called out a respectful greeting.

“Get out,” the man ordered in a strange dialect.

She didn’t like the way he was looking at them. And she really, really didn’t want to get out of the car. Not that the Jeep could save them. They might be able to outrun the trucks, but they couldn’t outrun the bullets.

With unhurried motions, Gerald stepped onto the sand and moved a couple of feet away from the vehicle. She followed his example. On the other side of the car, Abdul and Leila did the same.

More men came off the trucks then, some surrounding them, some going through the Jeep. They were thin to the last man, their mismatched, worn clothes hanging on them, their scraggly beards not quite covering their hollow cheeks. Nobody asked for papers.

“Bandits,” Gerald whispered.

She sucked in her breath. According to the villagers, the bandits who controlled the mountains did not come into the desert as far as the road thatled to Tukatar. Had hunger forced them to stray from their territory?

She watched as the bandits unloaded the food they had purchased in town. The bundles quickly disappeared into the back of the army trucks.

The raggedy group looked hungry and wild. Not much distinguished them from the army troops that rode through the villages from time to time. The bandits stole from the army as much as from anyone else. Most of the men had at least one part of some uniform on them. Because the army could scarcely afford to keep its soldiers in new uniforms, they were also dressed in a blend of military and civilian clothing. Since provisions were scarce, even army troops were often forced to seize food and supplies from the general population.

She hoped Gerald was wrong and the small group in front of them was a renegade army unit. Soldiers might take everything, but would probably leave their lives. Bandits were more likely to massacre them and leave them for the buzzards. If they were lucky.

She listened as Abdul negotiated with the men in rapid-fire Arab. She caught enough to get the gist of the conversation.

They wanted the women.

Oh, God.
She grabbed onto the back of Gerald’s shirt.

“No,” he said firmly.

A dozen guns were immediately aimed at them.

One of the men headed for Leila. Abdul stepped in front of her and took his rifle off his back. Everybody shouted at once, both the bandit leader and Abdul gesturing wildly. Abdul leveled his rifle, shouted something and put his finger on the trigger. The voices stopped for a moment, even the air seemed to stand still.

She realized what was going to happen about a split second before the shots rang out. She screamed, her voice drowned by the renewed yelling of the men and the sound of gunfire. It didn’t seem real. When Abdul and Leila crumpled to the ground, she half expected them to get up.

The guns fell silent.

She stood frozen to the spot, unable to look away from the bodies and the sand that greedily drank in their blood. They were both dead. And Gerald and she were next.

The leader shouted at his men, clearly displeased, and ordered them to salvage whatever clothes they could from the bodies. She turned away, trembling, and caught sight of Gerald with his hands in the air. She should have done the same, except it didn’t seem she had that much control over her body.

The leader of the bandits looked at her and Gerald, and walked over to them. Gerald shifted, blocking her view. It took her a few seconds to realize he was trying to shield her from the man.

“If two United States citizens disappear, soldiers will be all over your mountain,” Gerald said in a calm voice and nodded toward the peaks. “You have a good camp up there, a warm cave. Winter is coming soon. Bad time to take your people on the run.”

The man sneered at him, his dark eyes vivid with anger. “I own the mountain. I take what I want.” He pulled his pistol from his belt and pointed it at Gerald.

Her lungs shrank; her heart slammed against her chest.

“Get on the truck.” The man jerked his head toward one of the vehicles.

Gerald glanced back at her and nodded. How the hell could he stay calm at a time like this? She stared after him as he walked toward the truck, but could not follow. Her legs weren’t working.

One of the bandits came over to her and shoved her roughly. She caught herself from falling and stumbled forward. Then two men grabbed her and pulled her up into the back of the truck. She scampered to the front, to Gerald, although she knew he could offer no protection. He pushed her down on the end of the wooden bench and sat next to her. One of the bandits shoved Gerald over and sat between them.

A few more men climbed up, six of them altogether in the back of the truck. They didn’t look friendly. A couple worked on stretching camouflage canvas over the metal ribs that arched above. She watched them with a strange detachment, as if seeing a movie. She was pretty sure she was in shock. She’d seen the aftermath of violence before, almost more than she could handle, but had never been part of it.

Leila and Abdul were dead.

She glanced at the bodies on the sand, but then the men finally secured the canvas so she couldn’t see out any longer. The sky was darkening, and the back of the truck was darker yet. Somebody yelled to them from the ground. The rushing blood in her ears drowned out the words.

One of the bandits got up, ordered Gerald to stand and patted him down, taking the cell phone from his pocket and the watch from his wrist.

“No weapons,” he yelled back before sitting to look at the phone. He pushed a couple of buttons, gave a frustrated groan, slipped the thing into the front pocket of his uniform and put the watch on.

Gerald didn’t say a word, which was probably the smart thing to do. And yet, she couldn’t help wishing for a miracle—that he would spring up and subdue their kidnappers. Of course, it would have been impossible, even if he knew how to fight and had not gained his muscles pumping iron in front of a mirror in a gym.

The motors roared to life, startling her. Their truck lurched ahead. Panic replaced her numbness, filling her veins in a slow trickle, spreading through her limbs. She was going to die, and get gang-raped first, most likely. Her lungs struggled for air. She shouldn’t have fought with her mother the day before.

Maybe Mom had been right. Maybe she should have never come here. Her family would be devastated when they received news that she had vanished. They would probably never find out what had happened to her.

Her sister’s death had nearly broken their parents. Her own disappearance was sure to finish the job.

THEIR TRUCK WAS second to last. Spike surveyed the men. They were underfed and tired. He figured at least a good hour’s ride to the foothills, then however long it would take them to get to camp. Not that he planned to allow things to go that far.

Were he alone, he would have been tempted to let them take him to their caves, talk them into holding him for ransom, stick around until he could determine whether they had any ties to the terrorists. But he wasn’t alone, and he could see no positive outcome for Abigail once they reached the bandits’ camp. And he didn’t really have time to pursue a tenuous lead such as this, anyhow. Jamal Hareb was their best chance. They couldn’t afford any detours.

He waited about twenty minutes, until the night and the rhythmic rattle of the truck over the sand soothed the men into complacency. He took a deep breath, ignoring the stench of unwashed bodies, and bent to scratch his ankle, retrieving a switchblade hidden in the sole of his ordinary-looking sandal.