Against All Odds Page 7

  Unconditional love. An appealing—if unrealistic—concept, Coop reflected.

  “What about forgiveness? Isn’t that part of love? Doesn’t your faith call you to that too?” It was time to bring the conversation full circle, he decided.

  “Yes.” She rested her chin in her hand and shook her head. “But I struggle with it. My father has never even tried to apologize.”

  “Is that a condition for forgiveness?”

  “No.” She stared into the dark depths of her half-empty mug. “But I got burned once by forgiving someone I cared about. It was a hard lesson—and not easy to forget.”

  “A man?”

  The question hung for a moment between them.

  “Sorry.” Coop felt heat surge on his neck. It was one thing to ask about her relationship with her father. That was personal but relevant to the job he’d been sent to do. This wasn’t. “None of my business.”

  She regarded him for a few moments, her expression unreadable. “As a matter of fact, no. It was a childhood friend.”

  He didn’t try to figure out why he was relieved by her response.

  “You know, I feel at a distinct disadvantage here.” Monica sat back in her chair, watching him. “You read all about me in that dossier they gave you. And I’ve spent the past fifteen minutes spilling my guts about my past. It seems only fair that the man I’m entrusting my life to would share a little of his own background.”

  While the comment had been made lightly, Coop heard the serious undercurrent. But though her logic was sound, he wasn’t comfortable talking about his past with anyone. Even Mark, who was almost like a brother, knew only the barest details about Coop’s childhood.

  “There isn’t much to tell.”

  “How come I don’t buy that?”

  He tried a different tack. “A lot of my work is classified.”

  “I’m not talking about your work.”

  The bathroom door opened, offering Coop an out. Thank you, God!

  Rising, he drained his cold coffee and headed toward the sink to rinse the empty mug. “My turn. I’m in desperate need of a shower and shave and clean clothes.”

  When he risked a glance at her, she was still sitting at the table. Still watching him. She didn’t say anything as he made a beeline for the hall. Nor did he. In fact, he hadn’t said all that much in general during their little tête-à-tête.

  Nevertheless, he had a disturbing sense she had discovered far more about him than he had planned to reveal.

  And despite the title of her book, she’d figured it out without a whole lot of words.

  As his cell phone began to vibrate, Tariq withdrew it from the folds in his robe and checked the number. Nouri.

  “Shall we leave?” One of the two turbaned figures sitting across from him on the rough concrete floor started to rise.

  “No need.” Tariq waved him down as he answered the phone. “Yes?”

  “They left the house. We followed them to her church.”

  “She is maintaining her schedule, then.”

  “It appears so. There has been no change in the convention agenda, either.”

  “Security?”

  “Two men close by today. There are others in the crowd at the church. FBI agents. The funds you provided were useful in obtaining information.”

  “Let me know if you need more. You are prepared to implement the next step if it becomes necessary?”

  “All is ready.”

  “I am pleased. Remain in touch.”

  Ending the call, Tariq slipped the phone back into his robe and glanced at the men seated before him. His most trusted lieutenants. Still, they knew only pieces of the plan. And neither could identify more than a few behind-the-scenes players. It was safer that way. Trust was good—and necessary—to achieve his goal. But in limited quantities. He needed Mahmud and Sayed; the former had arranged the kidnappings, the latter was maintaining security on the hostages. They would be instrumental in coordinating the next steps in Afghanistan. After that . . . he would see.

  “All is well in America, I hope?”

  Tariq studied Mahmud before answering. Despite the black beard and smooth skin of youth, he had the shrewdness of a much older man. And despite his deferential attitude, Tariq knew he had his own ambitions.

  “Yes. Everything proceeds according to plan.” He motioned for Sayed to continue. “You were telling us of the hostages.”

  “They are secure. One of the men is ill, but it matters not. They may die soon anyway.” He lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “We are ready to execute at your command.”

  “Good.” The slightly rotund Sayed was older than Tariq, and the leader valued his blind obedience and ruthless disregard for life. He was a good man to oversee hostages. “Mahmud, you will return to Kabul tonight and await further instructions.”

  “Shall I begin to arrange for David Callahan’s . . . demise?”

  Like Anis, Mahmud tended to push for information and question commands. His more subtle approach, however, made his impertinence no more palatable to Tariq.

  “That has not yet been decided.” Tariq gave Mahmud a cool look. “Our focus now is on the daughter.”

  “Does that not seem the more . . . difficult . . . road? Killing Callahan would send a strong message.”

  With an effort, Tariq kept his temper in check. He needed Mahmud. For now. “Are you questioning my judgment, Mahmud?”

  “No, of course you know best. I am simply trying to understand.”

  “It is not important that you understand, just that you follow.”

  When a flush darkened the man’s cheeks, confirming the effectiveness of the rebuke, Tariq threw him a crumb.

  “A stronger message will be sent if we carry out a threat to his daughter on U.S. soil: if we can reach a high-ranking diplomat’s daughter in her own land, think what we can do here. Such a coup will demonstrate our power and influence. Now do you understand, Mahmud?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “The shadows grow long. It is time to return to your duties.”

  Rising in unison, both men bowed and exited.

  Left alone, Tariq sat motionless. A shiver ran through him, the feeble rays of the late afternoon sun unable to dispel the descending evening chill in the small room. Tucking his chin into his coat, he shifted on the stained cushion that insulated him from the cold concrete. One day soon, he would regain the power he’d lost. No longer would he spend his winters in unheated hovels, forced to rely on men whose ambition was stronger than their loyalty or endure the impertinent questioning of subordinates.

  Only one man stood in his path.

  And one way or another, he’d bring David Callahan to his knees. He’d settle for humiliating the man, forcing him to violate every principle he’d ever espoused by giving concessions to the terrorists. If that didn’t work, however, he’d give Mahmud permission to take him out. That tactic wasn’t as politically expedient. Nor would it make as strong a statement.

  But on a personal level, it would be eminently satisfying.

  “We have a new development, sir.”

  David adjusted his glasses and looked up. Since his call to Monica had been rebuffed two hours ago, he’d been finding it difficult to concentrate. Welcoming the distraction, he motioned for Salam to enter. “What is it?”

  “We’ve received a message from someone who claims to have information on the whereabouts of the hostages.”

  A surge of adrenaline shot through David, though he did his best to rein in his excitement. False leads were common in situations like these. In all likelihood, this would be a dead end. But he also knew that on occasion a legitimate tip surfaced. And he couldn’t contain his hope that this was one of them.

  “Go on.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and lacing his fingers together.

  “It arrived in the usual way. A young boy in Massood Square passed it to a soldier.”

  Another surge of adrenaline, this one impossible to
subdue. Few people outside the intelligence community knew about the kidnappers’ preferred delivery method. Its use suggested the message did, indeed, come from an insider.

  “An intelligence briefing is scheduled in fifteen minutes, sir. Washington will join in by conference call.”

  “Thank you, Salam.” David picked up a notebook and rose. “I know it’s late and you’ve been here all weekend, but can you stay until after the briefing in case we need to take some immediate action?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as it’s over.”

  As he exited his office and strode down the hall to the conference room, David tried to temper his optimism. This could amount to nothing. Even if the tip was genuine, there was no guarantee it would produce results.

  But he prayed it did. He’d seen too many hostage situations end in tragedy, and with each one he’d been less able to stomach the senseless loss of life. The hostages might have been strangers to him, but he’d met their desperate families, felt their terror, sensed their frustration and their helplessness.

  This time, he was experiencing those emotions firsthand. And he now understood why families always grasped at the slightest hope.

  Because he was doing the same thing.

  An hour later, David left the meeting feeling more encouraged than he had since the three Americans had been abducted. The intelligence experts considered the tip to be authentic, most likely from someone within the group responsible for the kidnappings. Someone who was disenchanted with the leadership, had ambitions of his own, or was simply greedy, they’d theorized. While the three-million-dollar payment demanded wasn’t insignificant, it was a small price to pay if the information led them to the hostages.

  That had been David’s assessment when his opinion had been solicited during the meeting. And he’d been able to offer it in good conscience. With or without the threat to Monica, he considered buying information a prudent course in this situation. It was their best hope of finding the hostages, and it might allow them to resolve the situation without giving in to the kidnappers’ original demands.

  The president had concurred.

  It was the instructions for obtaining the information that gave everyone—except him—pause.

  David was to be the courier for the payment. Tomorrow afternoon at two, he was to go into the city accompanied only by his driver. The money was to be in U.S. currency and stuffed into a Mickey Mouse backpack. After the driver dropped him at Chahr Chatta Bazaar, Kabul’s most crowded marketplace, David was to walk slowly down the narrow, pedestrian street.

  During his stroll, a young boy would approach him with a pigeon in a cage and say, “I would someday like to go to Disney World.” That would be David’s cue to hand over the money, return to his car, and leave. No tricks, no tracking devices, no tails. If the informant was satisfied all had been done according to his instructions, David would not be harmed and the promised information would be delivered in Massood Square by the usual method.

  The fear among those attending the meeting was that the arrangements had all the markings of a trap. David would be completely vulnerable.

  He couldn’t argue with that. But the risk didn’t faze him.

  Still, convincing the White House and the intelligence community that the risk was worth taking had required every nuance of skill he’d developed in his forty years of diplomacy and negotiating.

  But in the end, he’d succeeded. Tomorrow he would drive into Kabul and follow the informant’s instructions to the letter.

  And if all went well, if he wasn’t walking into a trap, if the informant followed through on his promise to provide the information, if they could find the hostages before the terrorists grew impatient and killed them . . . the end of the crisis might be in sight.

  That was a lot of ifs, he acknowledged. But it was the only hope they had of locating the hostages. And David was willing to put his life on the line to rescue them.

  And to keep his daughter safe.

  7

  The organ swelled for the final song, and Monica reached for the hymnal in the rack on the pew in front of her. The service had been the one normal thing in her life since the FBI invasion yesterday morning, and she hated for it to end.

  For the past sixty minutes, she’d done her best to pretend the two tall men who sat behind her in the last pew, on the aisle, were there to praise God, not protect her. And to forget that some of the unfamiliar faces in the congregation weren’t pious visitors seeking Sunday worship but on-duty federal agents.

  Carrying guns.

  In church.

  It was surreal.

  A touch on her shoulder reminded her of Coop’s instruction as they’d entered the church. Leave ahead of the crowd. Reluctantly she replaced the hymnal and angled toward him. He tipped his head toward the aisle as his partner exited the pew ahead of him. Picking up her coat, she edged out and fell into step behind Mark, aware that Coop was close on her heels. As Mark pushed open the door to the vestibule, Coop’s lean fingers closed around her upper arm in a firm but gentle grip.

  “Give him a chance to verify everything is secure.”

  His warm breath caressed her cheek as he leaned close to speak, and she came to an abrupt halt. He was a mere whisper away, his body shielding hers from behind as his partner conferred with a couple of dark-suited men and a woman in a black skirt and royal blue blazer. Taking her coat, he held it as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

  A few seconds later, Mark rejoined them.

  “We’re clear. The car’s in the portico. Let’s make it quick.”

  Flanked by the two men, Monica crossed the marble floor, her heels clicking in rhythm to the soaring notes of “Amazing Grace.” The three people Mark had been talking with spread out in the vestibule as a few members of the congregation wandered out. One of the agents pretended to read the bulletin board. Another checked his watch. The woman riffled through her handbag, as if searching for her keys. Yet Monica knew all were keenly attuned to their surroundings, watching for any indication of trouble.

  Protecting her.

  As they approached the exterior door, Mark stepped ahead. Lifting his left arm, he spoke softly. Monica hadn’t even noticed the unobtrusive earpieces the two men wore, nor the inconspicuous mikes at their wrists, until they arrived at the church. There, she’d learned that all of the security people were linked by these discreet communication devices.

  Without slowing his pace, Mark pushed through the door. As he exchanged a few succinct comments with the agent standing on the other side, Coop kept a firm grip on Monica’s arm. When the agent leaned over to open the door of the SUV parked a few feet away, she found herself being hustled forward and eased into the backseat. Coop slid in beside her and Mark claimed the front passenger seat while the agent took the wheel. Their exit was accomplished with such speed and smoothness that they were pulling out of the parking lot as the organ finished the first verse.

  “Wow. That was pretty impressive.” Monica drew a deep breath. “I take it you two have been through this drill a few times.”

  “A few.” Coop glanced over his shoulder as he responded.

  “Checking for a tail?” Her question was only half in jest. The level of security for this little outing had demonstrated how seriously the threat against her was being taken. And convinced her the danger was more real than she’d been willing to concede.

  Switching his attention to the road ahead, Coop watched as a car pulled out from the curb and took up a position in front of them.

  “Did he just cut in front of us?” Monica’s own antennas were up now, and her pulse tripped into a staccato beat. She leaned forward, gripping the edge of her seat.

  “Yes.” Coop settled back, his posture relaxed. “But he’s on our side.”

  The pieces began to fall into place, and Monica tipped her head toward the car behind them. “That one too?”

  “Yes. Buckle up.” He adjusted his seat belt.

&
nbsp; “Did we have an . . . escort . . . on the way to church too?”

  “Yes.”

  They were also taking a circuitous route back to her house, as they had on the way to church, she noticed. When she’d teased them about their navigational skill earlier, Coop had explained it was safer to operate “out of pattern,” as he’d put it.

  She hadn’t missed the disturbing implication. They were concerned that someone had been watching her long enough to know her habits.

  Trying to stifle a sudden wave of panic, Monica groped for her seat belt and pulled it out. But as she tried to buckle it, it slipped from her shaky grasp, retracting with a thump that startled Mark and had him reaching toward his belt.

  “Sorry.” Hot color flamed in her cheeks.

  “Let me.” Coop released his own belt and leaned across her. His broad shoulder pressed against her as he grasped the buckle and pulled it out, and his fingers brushed her hip when he engaged it.

  For some reason, her respiration went haywire. In other circumstances, she might attribute her reaction to the tall, dark man beside her, who reeked of masculinity and whose very presence evoked strength and competence.

  But as appealing as he was, she suspected her response was due more to the sudden realization that this situation was a whole lot more perilous than she’d wanted to admit. She knew little about law enforcement, but she doubted elaborate security measures like the ones being taken on her behalf were employed without very good reason.

  “I had no idea a simple visit to church was going to take this much coordination. The security was quite involved, wasn’t it?”

  At the slight quiver in her voice, Coop turned to her. Though she was doing her best to control it, he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. And concluded that the full reality of the situation was sinking in.