SIALKOT • SOUTHERN PORTUGAL
The nightmare was as real as anything she’d ever experienced, and seemingly endless, a sickening montage of fire, blood, and death. It had been playing on a continuous reel in her mind, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not force the images from her subconscious. They seemed to dwell there, in the deep, dark recesses of her imagination; only she knew they were not a creation. Everything she was seeing was real. At least, it had been real. Now, she was no longer sure what was real and what was false. The hours, days, or weeks of horror—she couldn’t be sure how much time had passed—had stripped her of certainty. Of hope. Of her very identity.
She didn’t know if she could trust her own thoughts. Was she still sane? It seemed that she was, at least for brief stretches of time. There were short, fleeting moments that seemed to work, times where she found herself able to focus, or at least conjure a lucid thought. But those moments never lasted more than a couple of minutes. Then her rational thoughts would slip away, just out of reach, and she’d begin the long slide back into the abyss. The tape would start again in her mind, and she’d open her mouth to scream, but all she could hear were the sounds of death and destruction: the screech and the sickening thump as the rocket tore into the car; the crack of the shot as it ripped its way through Lee Patterson’s brain, and the nameless woman’s cries for help, which she’d uttered a moment before the Algerian had fired that final, fatal bullet into her pleading face. She could see it, too—an endless display of what had to be hell, or at least the earthly equivalent.
Brynn Fitzgerald wanted it all to stop, but she knew there was no hope of reprieve. If there were any hope at all, she would have gladly endured the pain she was feeling. As it stood, she just wanted it all to end, even if that meant the end of everything. She didn’t want to die, but it seemed like the only escape. She would give anything to know that she had something to look forward to, that there was even the slightest possibility of returning to the world she had once known. If there was only a light at the end of the tunnel, she felt she could go on for as long as she had to. . . .
And suddenly, there was.
“She’s awake,” Said Qureshi announced, stepping back from the bed.
On hearing the words he’d been waiting for, Benazir Mengal moved off the wall of the surgical suite and stepped forward to see for himself. The second surgery—the pericardial window—had ended eighteen hours earlier, and Fitzgerald had been out the whole time. The pain medication, which Qureshi had been administering every couple of hours, had played a part in keeping her under, but much of the sleep was natural as her body worked to regain its strength. At Qureshi’s suggestion, Mengal had ordered a few of his men to bring a bed down from one of the second-floor rooms. They’d set it up in the suite, and once the surgeon was sure she was stable, they’d transferred Fitzgerald from the operating table to the bed. Now, as Qureshi busied himself checking the monitors, the former general leaned over the acting U.S. secretary of state. His face was less than a foot from hers as he watched intently, waiting for a sign of life. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened, and for the first time, he looked directly into the sea green eyes of the woman whose abduction he had helped orchestrate four days earlier. Their eyes locked for a few brief seconds, but Fitzgerald did not react. She seemed confused, distant, and completely unfamiliar with the man she was staring at. Mengal knew this should not surprise him; there was no way she could know who he was. Still, he felt oddly let down by the moment, which struck him as anticlimactic. Fitzgerald’s eyes drifted shut. Mengal hovered over her for a moment longer, then straightened and let out a low, disappointed grunt. Brushing past him, Qureshi approached his patient and touched her arm gently. She let out a soft groan, but otherwise, she didn’t react.
“Ms. Fitzgerald, can you hear me?” Qureshi asked gently. “If you can hear me, please respond.”
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then Fitzgerald opened her eyes once more. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Finally, she managed to croak a single, unintelligible word.
“Excuse me?” Qureshi asked. “I didn’t quite—”
“Water,” Fitzgerald said again, finding her voice. “Please . . .”
“Yes, of course,” Qureshi said hastily. He hurriedly went to the sink and filled a glass, then brought it back as Mengal looked on silently. Setting the glass on his instrument tray, Qureshi turned back to his patient. “Ms. Fitzgerald, before I give you the glass, you’re going to need to sit up. When I move you, it’s going to hurt. If the pain is too much, just tell me, and I’ll give you something for it. Do you understand?”
She seemed to consider his words for a moment, but she didn’t acknowledge them. After an interminable pause, her eyes cleared and she said, “Where am I?”
Qureshi hesitated, then shot a glance at Mengal, who simply nodded his permission. It didn’t make any difference if Fitzgerald knew where they were; in her current state, she was completely helpless to act on the information. “You’re in a town called Sialkot. It’s about an hour north of Lahore.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Said Qureshi. I’m a surgeon, the person who treated you.” Qureshi paused for a moment. “Ms. Fitzgerald, do you know why you’re here?”
Fitzgerald seemed to think for a moment, her eyes rolling up, as if she were trying to see the wall behind her. Then she regained focus. Hesitantly, she said, “There was an attack. . . .”
Qureshi waited for more, but Fitzgerald had lost her train of thought. “That’s exactly right,” he told her. “There was an attack on your motorcade in Rawalpindi. You were brought here, and I treated you for some injuries you sustained in the . . . incident.”
Fitzgerald considered this for about ten seconds. Then, without warning, she tried to sit up. Immediately, she winced and cried out in pain. Qureshi quickly eased her back onto the bed. Mengal, who was standing near the foot of the bed, didn’t react at all, his hard eyes fixed on his hostage.
“You shouldn’t do that,” Qureshi admonished her, checking to make sure that the catheter in her left arm was still in place. “Please, don’t try to move without help. I haven’t taken the chest tube out, so anytime you move suddenly, it’s going to hurt.”
“Chest tube?” she murmured. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with the obvious question.
“As I said, you were injured in the attack,” he told her gently. Qureshi paused, thinking about the best way to explain it. In his experience, some patients needed to hear things in layman’s terms, while others were capable of breaking down the most complicated medical jargon. He didn’t know much about Fitzgerald, but she was obviously a very astute woman; otherwise, she wouldn’t have risen to such heights in the American government. He saw no need to talk down to her.
“You suffered a pneumothorax of the left lung,” he continued,
“and a moderate hemopericardium. In other words, your lung was partially collapsed, and your heart was bruised, causing an accumulation of excessive fluid inside the pericardial sac. However,” he said quickly, seeing the alarmed look on her face, “you’re fine now. The operations—both of them—were a complete success.”
Qureshi paused and shot a glance at his watch. She’d be complaining about the pain shortly, and he was already thinking about how much Dilaudid she would need. Probably less than a milligram, he decided, but it was too early to make the call. He’d see how she felt in an hour or so.
“Now,” he continued, “I think you should—”
“Enough,” Mengal growled. Surprised by the sudden outburst, the surgeon stopped and turned to stare at him. “Just give her the water. I need to talk to you outside.”
Qureshi frowned but didn’t respond. Murmuring a few quiet words to his patient, he helped raise her into a sitting position. Fitzgerald managed the best she could, Qureshi noticed, but it was obvious from the tight look on her face that the effort had caused her a great deal of pain. When she was finally sitting upright, he handed her the water, and she drank deeply, draining the glass in a few seconds. She immediately asked for more, and Qureshi went to refill the glass. Bringing it back, he handed it to her and watched with satisfaction as she raised the glass to her lips again. Although she was clearly uncomfortable, she was alert, lucid, and coherent enough to ask the usual questions, all of which were excellent signs. At that moment, there was a sudden commotion outside the room, the sounds of violent squabbling in English. Fitzgerald stopped drinking and pulled the glass away from her lips, a quizzical expression coming over her face. Qureshi and Mengal both turned to look as the door burst open, revealing a tall figure framed in the doorway. Amari Saifi stormed into the room, followed closely by two protesting guards, both of whom immediately looked to Mengal, their dark faces tinged with apologetic fear.
The Algerian stopped a few steps away from the foot of the bed. Looking down at Fitzgerald, he smiled warmly, his brown eyes glittering with the wrong kind of happiness. “So, she’s finally awake,” he said in a syrupy tone. “How do you feel, Dr. Fitzgerald? It’s good to see you’ve come back to us. We were starting to worry.”
Qureshi looked from the Algerian to Fitzgerald and, in that fraction of a second, saw something that would stay with him for the rest of his life. Her eyes were wide and round, as if a camera flash had gone off right in her face, and her eyebrows were pinched together and raised to the edge of her reddish brown bangs. Her mouth was slack and gaping, her body completely still. Her face was a mask of pure terror. As Qureshi watched in mounting horror, the plastic glass slipped from her hand, rolled off the bed, and hit the tile floor. The second it hit the ground, Fitzgerald released a prolonged groaning sound, as if she were straining to lift an impossibly heavy load. Then her eyes rolled up into her head, and she went completely limp, her upper body slumping to the right side of the bed. For a few seconds, there was nothing but frozen disbelief as everyone stared at her unconscious form. Qureshi, a veteran of ER wards in Seattle and London, was the first to snap out of it.
“Get him out of here!” he screamed, flinging a finger in the intruder’s direction. He rushed to his patient’s side as Mengal pulled the Algerian from the room, the guards babbling their apologies to the general the whole time. Qureshi could hear arguing in the hall as he rearranged Fitzgerald’s position on the bed, then quickly checked her vitals. He was relieved to see that everything was in order. Apparently, she had not suffered an aneurism or a heart attack, as he’d initially feared.
Once he was sure she was in no immediate danger, the anger kicked in. For the first time since the general had shown up with Fitzgerald, fear was not an issue for the diminutive Pakistani surgeon. He crossed the room in five quick strides, pulled open the door, and stepped into the hall. The Algerian was nowhere in sight, but Mengal was standing a few feet away, berating the guards in rapid-fire Urdu. Catching sight of Qureshi, Mengal dismissed the guards and turned to face the smaller man. As the guards sulked down the hall, Qureshi stuck a finger in the general’s face and snarled, “What the hell did he think he was doing? We’re lucky she didn’t—”
Before he knew what was happening, the words died in his throat. He felt a hand crushing his windpipe, then a sharp, bursting pain as the back of his head bounced off the plaster wall. Suddenly, Mengal’s face was less than an inch from his own, his small eyes filled with rage and contempt.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”
Qureshi couldn’t respond; he was too focused on trying to breathe. It had been less than a few seconds, but already it felt like his lungs were exploding. He began struggling involuntarily, his entire body screaming for air. His hands came up of their own free will and began clawing at Mengal’s iron grip, but it was no good. The man was just too strong.
“You will do as you’re told, Said . . . nothing more, nothing less.”
Mengal’s voice was low and harsh, like a shovel scraping across cement. “If you ever question me again, I’ll kill you without a moment’s hesitation. You work for me. Is that understood?”
Qureshi nodded frantically, his chin moving against the coarse flesh of the general’s right hand. Finally, Mengal released his grip, and Qureshi slumped to the floor, choking for air.
“Now,” the general said, shooting an idle glance at his watch as though nothing had happened. “How long will it be until the woman can move?”
“I don’t understand,” Qureshi rasped, once he could manage the words. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not a difficult question,” Mengal growled. “How long until she can move? Until she can walk?”
Qureshi thought quickly, dismissing the first numbers that came to mind. He didn’t want to do anything else to incur the general’s wrath, but at the same time, he wanted to do what he could for Fitzgerald.
“Eight hours,” he finally said. Mengal’s face darkened instantly, but Qureshi didn’t back down. He desperately wanted to escape this situation with his life, but the woman was still his patient, and he had to speak up for her. No one else was going to do it, and the thought of putting his own welfare ahead of hers didn’t even cross his mind.
“She can’t move with the chest tube in place,” Qureshi explained. “I have to take it out, but I can’t do it safely until the intrathoracic space is fully drained of excess fluid. I—”
“I saw the tube,” Mengal snapped. “There’s nothing in it. The machine stopped draining an hour ago.”
“Yes, but—”
“Stop talking.” The general squatted down on his haunches so they were almost eye to eye. “I want you to listen very carefully, Said. It’s been eighteen hours since the surgery, and I’m tired of waiting. I know you’ve been stalling. If you think you can trick me with your superior medical knowledge, you’re mistaken. I’ve seen every kind of injury you can imagine, and I’ve seen how they’re treated. I warn you, if you try to fool me again, you will not live to regret it.”
Qureshi took a few shallow breaths, then gave a small, quick nod, showing he understood.
“Now,” Mengal continued in a calmer voice, “once you take out the tube, how long until she can move?”
This time, Qureshi didn’t even hesitate. “Four hours. She should be ambulatory in four hours.”
“Fine. Then go take it out, and don’t give her anything else for the pain. I need her to be coherent when she wakes.”
Qureshi muttered his agreement. Shakily, he got to his feet and, without another glance at the general, reentered the suite. He closed the door behind him, then stood motionless for a moment, thinking it through.
As he started across the room, he realized his hands were trembling uncontrollably. It was the first time Mengal had ever verbally threatened him. It was also the first time he’d put his hands on him, though Qureshi had always known the threat was there, lurking just beneath the surface. It was not a natural relationship—he was the healer, Mengal the killer—but somehow, he’d fallen into the trap. It was the money, of course. The money and the fear of what would happen if he didn’t comply. He hadn’t done enough to sever their ties when he still had the option, and now he was paying the price. As was Randall Craig, he thought, with a surge of guilt, but there was nothing he could do about that now. Hopefully, his old friend would forgive him for involving him in this mess, assuming they both managed to survive it.
As Said Qureshi stood next to his patient, who was still unconscious, it occurred to him, and not for the first time, how far he had fallen. It was not for want of effort; for the most part, he had always tried to do the right thing. It was just that he’d come up short on so many occasions. He couldn’t help but feel that Fitzgerald was his last chance at salvation. If, by some miracle, she managed to survive this scenario, he would be able to take some pride in that. He knew it was asking a lot, that she should survive, but it was all he wanted. If she could just make it through, he would feel he had done something right for the first time in years.
With this thought in mind, he began moving around the surgical suite, collecting the items he would need to remove the tube. He was preparing to act against his better judgment, but the whole time he was fixed on what Craig had said earlier.They want her for pro- paganda value, Said. In the end, they’ll probably kill her. And if they’re willing to kill her, we don’t stand a chance. You must know that. . . .
Qureshi had known as much from the start, but he had tried to remain optimistic. Now, given what had just transpired with Mengal in the hall, he could no longer ignore the truth. At some point, he was going to have to take a chance. There was no other way, not if he wanted to live, and he was surrounded by potential weapons. For some strange reason, the last part of this thought didn’t register—at least, not right away. Then he said it again in his mind, and this time it clicked: he was surrounded by weapons. They had given him full access to his surgical tools, and Mengal had never followed through on his decision to keep one guard in the surgical suite at all times. Inside the large room, no one was watching; Qureshi was able to do as he pleased.
As he considered the full implication of this realization, the possibilities coming together, he temporarily forgot about his assigned task. He found himself drifting toward the counter, his eyes passing over the assorted equipment. His gaze quickly settled on the tray bearing his scalpels. For the first time in his career, he was looking at the tools of his trade in terms of the damage they could inflict, as opposed to the good they could do. It was an unsettling change in perspective, but completely necessary. He knew that now, just as he knew that Mengal would not allow him to live. He simply couldn’t afford to: Qureshi had seen and heard too much. Shooting a quick, furtive glance back at the door, Qureshi steeled his nerve and started to move. He quickly gathered the things he would need: a pair of shears, a roll of surgical tape, and an aluminum cot splint with a U-shaped, clip-style design. Using the shears, he cut the finger splint into two nearly identical pieces, cutting at the rounded point where the tip of the finger would be. With that done, he began looking for the largest scalpel he could find. After a brief search, he settled on a No. 20 blade, which was mounted in a sturdy titanium handle. The No. 20 was a larger version of the No. 10, a long, curved blade primarily used for cutting through skin and muscle. If he had to use it, it would do the job. Moving as fast as he could with his trembling fingers, he wedged the sharp part of the blade between the two cushioned halves of the splint, then wrapped tape around the entire contraption. Holding the makeshift sheath in his left hand, he practiced pulling the scalpel out with his right. He saw that it moved freely; if he had to use it, he would be able to draw the blade quickly. Satisfied, he positioned the scalpel so that the only part protruding from the sheath was the handle. Then, after rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he awkwardly taped the modified splint to his inner left forearm. Pulling his sleeve back down, Qureshi looked at his arm and turned it from side to side, trying to determine if the slight lump beneath the fabric was noticeable. After a few seconds of careful, objective consideration, he decided that it wasn’t. Having accomplished his goal, Qureshi gathered the leftover evidence—the remains of the splint, the tape, and the shears. With a sweeping move of his arm, he slid all of it into an open drawer directly beneath the counter. Then he resumed attending to his patient. As he prepared to remove the tube from Fitzgerald’s chest, he felt a little stronger, a little more assured. Deep down, he knew he was deluding himself; if he was forced to use the weapon, he would likely die before he could do any real damage. Still, he felt better just knowing it was there. Now, all he had to do was wait for the right opportunity. Randall Craig didn’t know how long he’d been locked in the small room. For the most part, the past day was a blur, as was the previous evening, but he’d done his best to piece it together. He had a vague, troubling recollection of what had transpired after the truck had arrived. The guards had congregated around the vehicle, and they’d begun unloading it, lugging what appeared to be camera equipment into the small barn that stood next to the house. He could recall the moment of clarity, the knowledge that came with the sight of the cameras. In that moment, he’d seen what they intended to do with him, and he had decided to act.
That was when he’d gone after the Algerian. It had been an instinctive reaction, completely unplanned, and with predictable results: the guards had stopped him before he could finish the job. He did remember hitting the man, knocking him to the ground. He’d been about to hit him again when the first guard had arrived on the run. A split second later, he’d felt the blow. The butt of the rifle—at least, that was what he assumed his assailant had used—had struck him in almost exactly the same spot he’d been hit before, when they’d first taken him, and he was feeling the effects. The pain was bad, but not nearly as bad as it had been that morning, when he’d first opened his eyes. Craig didn’t know how long he’d been out, but it had been just after dawn when he had regained consciousness. His makeshift prison didn’t offer much, but it did have a window, unlike the first room in which they had held him. Looking out, he could sense the gathering darkness. His brief attempt at resistance had occurred around nine the previous evening. Based on those two facts, he guessed that he’d been locked up for about twenty hours, maybe a little bit longer. There was nothing to do in the small room, and the time had passed slowly. Although he’d searched the entire space, he’d found nothing that might serve as a weapon. Clearly, they had stripped the room before locking him in. There was a metal-framed bed, on which he was currently sitting; a small nightstand; and a bucket in one corner, which was obviously meant to serve as a crude toilet. Craig had examined the bucket thoroughly. He had wracked his brain, searching for a way to take it apart, but it didn’t seem possible. If there had been a handle, he might have been able to snap it off. It probably wouldn’t have done him much good, but obviously, his captors weren’t taking the risk; they’d thought to remove it beforehand. Later, his thoughts had shifted to the springs in the mattress. If he could find a way to dig one out, that might suffice as a weapon, but the covering was too thick to tear, and he had no way to cut the fabric. It seemed they had left him with nothing; they had even thought to remove the drawers in the nightstand. There was the window, of course, but it faced the rear of the house, and there were two guards stationed outside at all times. If he were to break it, they would know immediately, and one way or another, he would pay for the act. He wasn’t afraid to take them on, but the repeated blows to the head had slowed him down, and he was no longer eager to fight. When he’d first regained consciousness, the pain had been intense, almost unbearable, but that was secondary. When it came to recurrent concussion, Craig knew what to look for, and pain was not his main concern. Neurologic sequelae, a condition resulting from injury to the brain, was the real threat, and it could manifest in any number of ways. Some of the major symptoms were cognitive impairment, seizure, focal deficit, and persistent headaches. Temporary paralysis was also a possibility, but so far, Craig had yet to experience anything worrisome.
Still, he was leery of incurring his captors’ wrath; in that respect, his reckless abandon was gone. He was prepared to resist, but next time he would not act impulsively. Attacking the Algerian had been a mistake; he should have held off until he was sure. At the same time, he knew he didn’t have long. If he were going to move, it had to be soon.
His mind kept returning to what he had seen the previous night. It was clear that Mengal and the Algerian were erecting a film set in the barn, and it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to figure out what it was for. Craig did not think they were preparing to kill Fitzgerald on tape. She was too valuable to them. On the other hand, he was nobody special, and he knew they would not hesitate to take his life. In that respect, he wasn’t alone; once Qureshi had removed Fitzgerald’s chest tube, his life would likely be forfeit as well. He could feel the seconds ticking away, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to think through his fear, which was steadily rising. He kept drifting back to what the Algerian had said the night before, when Craig had first seen the cameras.Doctor, you didn’t think you were brought here for just one rea- son, did you? You’ve performed admirably so far, but your work is far from done. You’re going to be famous, my friend . . . more fa- mous than you ever dreamed possible. The words had merely confirmed what he’d already known. Craig didn’t want it to end that way, with him pleading into the camera as they spouted their rhetoric. Anything was better than that. If they shot him as he tried to run, at least he would die like a man, on his own two feet. At this point, that was all he wanted. There was no escaping his ultimate fate; all he could do was choose how and when it happened, and he intended to do just that.
Getting to his feet, Craig moved to the window. He stared out, not really seeing the lush, fertile landscape, the broad acacia that dominated the back garden, the fields beyond, and the gentle rise of the Kashmiri foothills. It had been overcast all day, and a light rain was still falling, but Craig could feel the night coming on. It would be dark in an hour or so, maybe less.
They’ll come for you tonight.
Involuntarily, his breathing quickened, and his hands balled into fists by his sides. The thought had struck him suddenly, out of nowhere, but he knew it was right. He didn’t know how, but he knew they would come.
And when they did, he would be ready.
As the truck rolled over a deep, unnatural pitch in the road, the vehicle shuddered violently, and Naomi Kharmai shuddered in turn. She wrapped her arms tightly around her calves, closed her eyes, and lowered her head to her knees. She had no idea how long she had been in the dark, dank bed of the cargo truck, but she didn’t think she could handle it for much longer. It had been tolerable when they were on the main roads, if only just, but she could tell that Machado had left the A4 behind, as the ride had become progressively bumpier. It was only adding to her nausea and her headache, which was bad enough to bring real tears to her eyes. The headache had started several hours earlier as a dull throb at the base of her neck, and it hadn’t stopped there. Now, it felt as if a pair of strong fingers was digging into either side of her spine, pinching the tender nerves that resided there.
The nausea was even worse. She’d vomited several times, and she’d tried a half dozen more, but she hadn’t been able to bring anything up. She could feel the sweat all over her body; her arms were slick and coated with grime from the floor, and the perspiration was running over her face and stinging her eyes. Her clothes were completely drenched, and she was still sweating, despite the fact that her mouth was completely dry. She had tried drinking water to quench her unremitting thirst, but it simply refused to stay down. She was starving, but food was out of the question. Her entire body felt as if it had been carefully and methodically worked over; there were no bruises, but the pain could not have been worse if she’d actually suffered a physical beating. It had been thirty-three hours since she had taken her last pills, and she’d been awake for fourteen of them. As a result, the withdrawal symptoms had been hitting her hard and fast. It had been ten times worse than she had expected, and for the past several hours, she had been cursing herself for getting rid of them. What a stupid, spur-of-the-moment move that had been. It wouldn’t solve anything, and it certainly wouldn’t assuage the source of her inner turmoil. In fact, the pills had been the only thing she could really depend on. At that moment, she would have given anything, absolutely anything, for just one more, if only to settle her nerves. But they were gone, and that was that.
The truck hit another pothole. Her body came off the metal floor for a split second, and then she landed hard, her tailbone stinging with the impact. She groaned and slumped to the side, her chest and stomach tightening in a now familiar routine. She started to dryheave, and though she could hear the choking, strangled noises she was making, they seemed very distant, far beyond the steady groan of the truck’s diesel engine. It went on for several minutes, and then the nausea began to subside once more.
She waited for her stomach to stop convulsing, and when it did, or at least came as close as it was going to, she eased herself back into a sitting position and rested her head against the metal wall that divided the cab from the cargo area. This was a bad idea, she thought, the notion arriving like a load of wet sand on the back of a brokendown flatbed.I should have stayed in Cartagena. I should have let it go. I shouldn’t have flushed the pills. . . . Driving that last thought to the back of her mind, she steeled her resolve and reminded herself that it had been her decision to leave. Or at least, her decision to push Harper for another chance. When Machado had returned to the house that afternoon, he had given her back her sat phone, explaining that Harper had called while she was sleeping. When she called him back, she’d noticed that the call log was deleted, but she had let it go. She didn’t know who Machado might have been calling on the phone, or if deleting the log was just force of habit, but it didn’t really matter to her. What did matter was that Harper had agreed to put her into play. He hadn’t exactly agreed to send her to Pakistan, but she knew it was just a matter of time. He couldn’t shut her out forever, and before long, he would realize that he needed her. That Ryan needed her. Hopefully, it would happen sooner rather than later. She knew—
both from Harper and televised news reports—that nothing major had happened in Pakistan, which meant she still had time to change the deputy director’s mind. He had sounded odd when she had talked to him earlier, as though he was holding something back, but she’d decided it was nothing, and she’d let it go. Naomi had been somewhat surprised when Harper had asked Machado to help get her out of the country. She was even more surprised when the Spaniard had readily agreed. He had made a few calls, once again using her phone, and the truck—a Mitsubishi Fuso with a canvas tarp strapped over the gated cargo area—had arrived in record time. Then he’d said something that caught her completely off guard—that he would be taking her across the border personally. It seemed like a huge risk, and she’d told him as much, but he’d waved away her concerns. Still, there was something about his manner that was bothering her, something she couldn’t quite shake. She’d had hours to think about it, though, and she had finally hit upon the change in his demeanor. For one thing, he refused to look her in the eye, even when he was speaking to her, and he seemed nervous. No, she thought to herself, that wasn’t quite right. He didn’t seem nervous. It was more like he was . . . resigned. But resigned to what, she didn’t know. When he returned her phone before they left Cartagena, he mentioned that the battery had died at the end of his call with Harper. She tried to power it up without success, and she’d been unable to find the backup battery, despite an hour’s worth of increasingly frantic searching. In the end, she’d reasoned that it didn’t really matter, as her next stop—if all went well—would be the U.S. embassy in Lisbon. From there, she’d be able to get in touch with Harper and Ryan, and then she could start angling for a seat on the next plane to Pakistan. She heard a voice behind her. For a second, she thought it was the dashboard radio, and then she decided it was Machado. A cold chill swept through her body when she realized what was happening. They had reached the border, and Machado was talking with the entry officials. Lost in her thoughts, she had missed the jerky stopand-go movements that the vehicle had made as it moved forward in the queue.
Pressing her ear to the thin metal wall, she held her breath and listened hard, trying to catch the gist of the conversation. Machado’s voice—a quiet, confident baritone—was easy to recognize, and she couldn’t detect a hint of unease; he seemed as relaxed as he had the day before. She wondered if she had imagined his strange mannerisms earlier that afternoon and decided that she probably had. She wasn’t herself, she knew, caught up in all that had happened, and she was just seeing things that weren’t really there. The Portuguese official was saying something, but even though he was speaking in English, Naomi couldn’t decipher the words, which were distorted by the metal wall of the cab and the vibration of the engine. Machado said something back, which was followed by a burst of shared laughter. Then the truck dropped into gear and jolted forward. Naomi slumped to the floor and closed her eyes, as relieved as she’d ever been. She was well concealed by a group of rough wooden boxes, which Machado had told her contained automotive parts bound for Peniche, but even a casual search would have resulted in her arrest. She couldn’t believe they had gotten away with it, but the truck was still rolling forward, and now it was picking up speed. . . .
They continued on for another twenty minutes or so, the Mitsubishi rising and falling over a series of gentle hills. The ride was much smoother than it had been on the Spanish side of the border, and with the crossing over and done with, most of Naomi’s tension had faded away, leaving her utterly exhausted. She didn’t feel the sleep coming on, but it did, and when she woke with a start a short while later, she realized that they were no longer moving. In fact, the engine was shut down completely; all she could hear was the sound of cicadas or tree frogs, or whatever it was that they had in Portugal. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she heard a movement at the back of the truck and tensed, her breath catching in her raw, parched throat. It hurt to breathe, let alone speak, but she relaxed when she heard Machado saying her name.
“Yeah, I’m . . .” She cursed as her knee banged painfully against one of the wooden boxes. “I’m here,” she said, the words coming out in an awkward rasp. She moved blindly through the cargo area, hunched at the waist to avoid the tarp, which drooped overhead. She extended her arms and moved them back and forth in an effort to detect any obstacles before she ran into them. A blinding white light suddenly pierced the darkness, catching her full in the face. She squeezed her eyes shut again and glanced away, but not before she caught a glimpse of Javier Machado’s bulky profile. Someone was standing next to him, a smaller, slender figure, but she couldn’t see his face, as she was still blinking the dancing spots from her vision. She had seen something else in that brief moment, something that looked like . . . a gun in the smaller man’s hand, but that didn’t seem right. Still, she hesitated before moving forward, and Machado seemed to catch her reluctance.
“Come on, Naomi,” he said quietly, but there was something in his voice that touched off her internal alarm. “It’s time to go.”
“Go where?” she said. She could hear the nervous tension in her own voice, and she hated it. The last thing she wanted was to appear weak in front of them, even though she knew that Machado had already seen her at her worst. “I thought we were—”
“Change of plan, Ms. Kharmai,” he said. “Now please, get out of the truck.”
Naomi hesitated again, but there was nothing to do but follow his instructions.
Carefully, she edged forward, the spots still dancing in front of her eyes, and Javier Machado stepped up to offer his hand.