Against All Odds Page 15

  “Excellent.” After Nouri had dropped him off half a mile from the safe house last night, it had taken Zahir close to two hours to move into a concealed position close enough to afford a good view of the compound and to allow his mini shotgun mike to pick up verbal communication from the patrolling agents. Then he’d spent twelve long, cold hours in a tree observing and listening.

  Nouri took a sip of his cinnamon spice latte and set the disposable cup on the wooden table. He liked his colleague’s style—quiet, competent, professional. Zahir did what he was asked to do without question or hesitation. A man like that was invaluable . . . even if he did have a few quirks.

  “You do not have a large window.” Zahir’s comment was matter-of-fact.

  “It is enough.” From his table in the corner of the coffee shop, Nouri scanned the room. At two in the afternoon, he had the place almost to himself. “There has been no activity in the master bedroom?”

  “None that I can see. It remained dark all night.”

  “That will be my access point. I will pick you up in thirty minutes.”

  Ending the call, Nouri went back to perusing his computer screen, angling it more toward the back wall of the shop and away from any curious glances. It had been easy to circumvent the firewall at the safe house’s security monitoring firm, and the feed he’d tapped into from the cameras was excellent.

  After watching it for much of the past twelve hours, he had a good sense of the level and pattern of protection being offered to David Callahan’s daughter. The perimeter was patrolled by four agents, the activity at the small guest house indicated it was being used as the command post, and two agents remained on duty in the main house at all times.

  It was a tight net, but not impenetrable.

  He also had a good feel for the entire compound, thanks to the satellite photo on Mapquest that had provided an excellent aerial image.

  The layout of the main house hadn’t taken long to nail down, either. A web search had yielded the name of the owner, and that, in turn, had led him to a feature on the house in an architectural magazine two years ago. The photos were excellent . . . and the floor plan, while bare bones, did show room locations.

  Thanks to the GPS devices still in the HRT operators’ luggage, Nouri also knew they had deposited their bags in the guest cottage. Meaning that’s where they were sleeping. He’d have found a way to work around it if they were staying in the main house, but their sleeping arrangement dovetailed nicely with his plans.

  Last night, he’d saved two hours of the video feed from the security camera mounted on the corner of the tennis court—the one that panned the back of the house at regular intervals. It would be an easy matter to override the live feed when the time came. Unless the agent monitoring the cameras displayed remarkable diligence, Nouri doubted whether he would notice the quick blip on the screen or the date change in the bottom corner.

  Closing down his laptop, he took a final sip of his latte. There were risks with this job. Big risks. One mistake, one miscalculation, could mean disaster.

  But he didn’t intend to fail. Tariq believed in him. And Nouri believed in the cause. Since his father’s death and his uncle’s downfall at the hands of the Americans, his hate for the United States had grown exponentially. He’d chosen to work for the demise of the country from within its borders, and his success rate had been phenomenal. He didn’t lack for assignments from a variety of insurgent groups. And he took them all.

  This job, however, was personal.

  This job was vindication for his father and uncle.

  Failure was not an option.

  He would not make a mistake.

  “Good morning, sir.” Salam entered David’s office and set a cup of coffee on the diplomat’s desk.

  “You’re here early.”

  “It is difficult to sleep these days.”

  “Yes, it is.” David rubbed a weary hand down his face. “At noon tomorrow they start killing hostages. That gives us only twenty-nine hours.”

  “Your government has discovered no leads?”

  “No.” Locating the hostages had been given the highest priority by every pertinent U.S. security agency, but there was simply nothing to go on.

  “Perhaps the informer will decide to follow through on his bargain.”

  “I’m not counting on that at this point. It’s been almost two days since I delivered the money. But I suppose we can always hope for a miracle.”

  His phone began to ring, and Salam exited with a slight bow. “I’ll get that for you, sir.”

  Reaching for his coffee, David took a sip of the scalding brew. Not that he needed it to stay awake. Despite his sleepless night, the drumming tension in his pulse was producing more than enough adrenaline to keep him alert.

  The intercom buzzed, and David picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Lindsay Barnes from the secretary of state’s office is on line one, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Setting his coffee down, David tapped the number to take the call from the secretary’s aide. “Good morning, Lindsay.”

  “Good morning, sir. The secretary will be leaving Iraq tomorrow morning at five and would like to detour for a meeting with you at Bagram to discuss the hostage situation in person before heading back to Washington. His ETA is about eight hundred hours.”

  The secretary’s impromptu visit didn’t surprise David. The hostage situation was being given front-page coverage in every U.S. newspaper, and the government’s response was being scrutinized by the American public. Each day that passed without a resolution saw the president’s ratings slip in the polls. The fallout from the deaths of three American hostages could cause irreparable political damage to a man who had his eye on a second term.

  The meeting at the U.S. air base thirty miles north of Kabul would be a last-ditch effort to discuss possible solutions and damage control. David would have liked to think it was being prompted by humanitarian concerns, but he’d been in the business too long to believe that was the only motivation for the summons to meet with the secretary. The president was a good, decent man—but the political pressure in this situation would be immense.

  “I’ll be waiting for him, Lindsay.”

  “I’ll let him know. And I’ll alert you if there are any changes to his itinerary.”

  As David replaced the receiver, he reached for his coffee again. To his surprise, he noted a tremor in his hand. Odd. He’d weathered these kinds of situations in the past without any visible sign of nerves.

  But he’d never had a personal stake in one, either.

  The president might be worried about political fallout. David was more worried about the impending loss of life. And about his daughter.

  Monica might be ensconced in a safe house, but “safe” was a relative term. And until this crisis was over, he wasn’t going to rest easy.

  “Mind if I join you? I’ll bring popcorn.”

  Turning away from the TV screen, Monica found Coop grinning at her from the doorway to the hearth room, waving a bag of microwaveable kernels.

  “Didn’t you get enough of old movies this afternoon?” She sent him a teasing smile, surprised and warmed by his unexpected presence. When he and Mark had disappeared after dinner, leaving her security in the hands of Rick and Mac, she’d assumed she wouldn’t see him again until his 6:00 a.m. shift started on Wednesday.

  “I have to admit I found it relaxing. They don’t make comedies like that anymore. It did, however, convince me I never want to build a house.”

  Her smile broadened. “I might have to agree. Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House can’t be a favorite movie of architects or home construction companies.”

  “That would be a safe bet. I liked the scene where Cary Grant got locked in the closet.” He chuckled, the sound a pleasing rumble in his chest. “I hoped I’d be in time to catch some of the late show.”

  “It’s only nine o’clock. I don’t think this qualifies as the late show.”

  “Dep
ends on how tired you are.” He scrutinized her face. “You need to get some sleep.”

  “Easier said than done.” No sense pretending her nights had been anything but restless. The shadows under her eyes proved otherwise.

  “You’ll get through this, Monica. Things have to break sooner or later.”

  The huskiness in his voice tightened her throat, and she had to swallow before she could respond. “I know. I’d just prefer it to be sooner.”

  “Me too.”

  “I don’t suppose there are any updates? Or that my father has heard from the informer?”

  “No. I’d have let you know if there were any developments.”

  “I figured you would.” She brushed her hair back with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.

  He observed her for a few seconds, then inclined his head toward the TV. “What’s playing now in your movie marathon?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a musical. But it’s winding down.” She mustered the semblance of a smile.

  As she spoke, Gene Kelly launched into the title song from Singin’ in the Rain and began to dance his way through the thunderstorm.

  “At least you picked a classic. How about that popcorn?”

  “You mean the musical didn’t scare you off?”

  “Nope.”

  “Brave man. Sure. I’ll have some. I ran out of these an hour ago.” She lifted her empty, crumpled M&M bag.

  “I’ll have to put those on the resupply list.” He winked. “Back in a minute.”

  The enticing aroma of fresh-popped corn filtered into the hearth room a couple of minutes later, and Coop reappeared soon after carrying one large bowl. He took a seat on the couch beside Monica and set the bowl between them.

  “Dig in.” He helped himself to a handful and turned his attention to the TV screen.

  Although Monica followed his lead, she had difficulty concentrating as the movie wound down. Coop had changed into worn jeans and a black sweater that enhanced his dark good looks, and despite the bowl separating them she could feel his presence in an almost tangible way. It was reassuring and comforting . . . but also disturbing. His proximity caused her nerve endings to tingle in a strange, though not unpleasant, way, creating a physical awareness in her that defied reason.

  It was odd, she reflected. She’d met dozens of eligible men over the past twenty years, at school, in the course of her work, at social events. None had attracted her as Coop did. And he wasn’t even her type. He was too enclosed, too uncommunicative. Still, he’d done a pretty good job of loosening up this afternoon when he’d talked about his past, she admitted. But she suspected that had been an aberration. That he’d been acting against type, for reasons that eluded her.

  His appeal must be related to his role as protector, she theorized, trying to apply logic to the situation. She was depending on him to keep her safe. And despite the popularity of women’s lib, despite her own convictions about equal rights and standing on her own two feet, there was a certain romantic allure about the stereotypical archetype of a knight in shining armor. Thrust into a situation of high danger, where her life depended on the ability of Coop—and the other agents—to protect her, it was only logical that she’d be grateful for their help.

  But gratitude didn’t explain the zing that shot through her when she dug into the bowl for popcorn and found her hand resting against Coop’s.

  She snatched it back as if she’d been burned. “Sorry.” The apology came out in a breathless whoosh.

  “I didn’t mind.”

  He gave her a slow smile that turned her insides to jelly and did nothing to stabilize her respiration.

  “Do you want the last of the popcorn?” He motioned to the few kernels remaining in the bottom of the bowl.

  “No thanks.”

  Gathering them up, he popped them in his mouth as the closing credits of the movie began to roll. “Do you have a third feature planned?”

  “No. I think I’ve had my movie fix for a month, let alone a day.”

  “Heading to bed?”

  She stared at him, fixated on the word bed.

  He tilted his head and gave her a curious look. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Everything! Her heart was thudding in her chest as if she’d run a fifty-yard dash. What in the world was wrong with her? She wasn’t some teenager suffering through her first crush. She was a thirty-four-year-old professional, mature woman. Get a grip, she admonished herself.

  “Are you sure?” Skepticism narrowed his eyes.

  “Yes. Absolutely.” She had to leave. Now. Running away wasn’t the most adult response to her unruly emotions, but she didn’t trust herself to stay in Coop’s presence. Not when she kept wondering what it would feel like to be wrapped in those strong arms.

  As Monica picked up the Bible, obviously preparing to exit, Coop tried to interpret her expression. He’d seen that type of look before, and in a typical social situation, he’d classify it as longing. And invitation.

  But this situation was neither typical nor social. Monica’s emotions were running high for a lot of reasons, including fear. No surprise, considering her life was in danger and her world had been turned upside down. Perhaps the glimpse of yearning he’d seen was more a silent plea for reassurance than anything else. A reluctance to break the connection between them and retreat alone to her room with only worry for company.

  Nor did he want her to retreat. To his surprise, their discussion earlier in the afternoon had been a cathartic experience. He still couldn’t believe he’d opened up about his childhood. But he didn’t regret it. Sharing the trauma with Monica had diminished the loneliness he hadn’t even been aware of until the past few days. Eased it to the point that he’d reneged on his promise to himself to steer clear of her once he was off duty for the day.

  Now he sat inches away from her, fighting a powerful urge to lean over and taste those soft lips that were dusted with salt and glistening with popcorn oil.

  “I-I guess I’ll call it a night.”

  Her shaky words, the slight dilation of her pupils, almost compelled him to step over the line between personal and professional conduct. But calling on every reserve of discipline he could muster, he managed to rein in his impulses.

  “Good idea. Maybe that will give you some comfort.” He tapped the Bible clutched in her hands.

  Hugging the volume tight against her chest like a shield, she gave a slow, deliberate blink. As if she was shifting gears. “Whenever I feel in over my head or things seem to be spiraling out of control, this centers me.”

  “I envy you that consolation.”

  “It’s yours for the asking.”

  He gave a quick, dismissive shake of his head. “You make faith sound easy.”

  “I don’t mean to. It’s not easy at all. There are days I struggle, especially if I don’t understand why certain things are happening. Doubt is part of being human. But my core belief—that no matter what happens, God is with me—never wavers. And it’s a great comfort to know that once you turn your life over to him, you never have to face anything alone again.”

  He draped an arm over the back of the sofa and angled toward her. “I don’t think I could turn my life over to anyone. Letting go of control, relying on someone else . . . that requires a lot of trust.”

  “You trust Mark, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But that’s different. We’ve worked together for three years. He’s earned my trust.”

  “So has Jesus.”

  Her quiet response took him off guard. “How so?”

  “He was an innocent man, wrongly accused, who died to pay the price for our sins. He redeemed us when we didn’t deserve redemption. And he did it out of love. Pure, unselfish love. If that isn’t enough to earn our trust—and our love—I don’t know what is.”

  Coop knew the salvation story from the sporadic Bible classes he’d attended as a youth, but Monica’s succinct summary of its significance suddenly struck a chord.

  Dying to save
innocent people was a concept Coop understood. Much of his work revolved around that very principle. But would he lay his life on the line for someone who didn’t deserve to be saved? No.

  Yet that’s what Jesus had done. Motivated, according to Monica, by selfless love. And she believed his sacrifice had earned him allegiance.

  On the rare occasions when Coop thought about God, he always pictured him as an oppressive, omnipotent dictator. A stern, faceless, impersonal judge.

  By contrast, Monica seemed focused on the personal relationship she had with the Almighty. The God-man who had loved humans enough to die for them despite their imperfections and flaws and mistakes.

  That concept put a whole different slant on religion, Coop reflected. A God like that would be worthy of the leap of faith he’d always shunned as irrational. There was a logic to it that appealed to him. And to his concept of loyalty.

  “That kind of love is pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

  At Monica’s gentle question, Coop drew a deep breath. “Yeah. It’s a little hard to grasp.”

  “You said you enjoy reading . . . would you like to borrow this?” She held up the Bible. “It might give you a few insights. And some answers.”

  “I wouldn’t want to take away your source of comfort.”

  “I’ve read it lots of times. My favorite verses are filed away up here.” She smiled and tapped her head.

  If someone had told him a few days ago he’d be interested in reading the Bible, Coop would have laughed. But considering the way his feelings for Monica had thrown him off balance—and given rise to some pretty uncharacteristic behavior—he figured anything that offered the possibility of answers was worth checking out.

  “Okay. Thanks.” He took the book from her and tucked it under his arm. “Let me ask you one more question. This concept of turning your life over to God—don’t you find that diminishes your freedom? That it chips away at who you are as a unique individual?”

  “No. I’ve had the opposite experience. Giving my life to God has been liberating because I know he loves me. And when you know you’re loved, you trust the other person. That frees you to be exactly who you are. To reach inside and bring out the very best you have to offer without fear or pretense.”