A Perilous Eden (19 page)

“Because you come from a different world. Because you have never had to fight for the land of your fathers. You have not seen the raw and brutal terror in some Central American lands when the new rebels fight the old rebels, and the dictators order the deaths of thousands. I have done what is necessary to prove that I am a force that must be heard.”

Amber shook her head. “What you do is murder. And you order other men to do murder. You order them to die themselves.”

“And they will sit at the right hand of Allah.”

“It isn't necessary! And it isn't so simple. I happen to know a large number of Muslims, and they don't—”

She broke off, because he was staring at her intently.

“How do you come to know so many of my religion?”

Because she was her father's daughter, she thought fleetingly. She had traveled with him as a child to many Middle East countries, and she had been seated at endless dinners with diplomats and ambassadors. “I went to school with a number of Turkish children,” she lied. Then she found herself facing him again. “And we got on very well together! They were kind and gentle people.”

“Americanized,” came a voice from behind Amber. She swung around. Khazar had come into the garden from one of the trails. He wore an automatic rifle over his shoulder and began to speak to his father in Arabic. Ali seemed troubled by his son's appearance. He answered in English, looking at Amber. “I enjoy hearing about the lives of others.” He waved his hand in the air. Khazar cast Amber a cold glance, then turned and left them.

Ali leaned forward. “You like Washington?”

She nodded. “I love it. I love the cherry blossoms in the spring, and the parks and the monuments. And the Smithsonian—”

“Yes, yes, I would love to see the Smithsonian. I receive the magazine—”

“You what?”

“Well, not here, of course!” Ali laughed. “It is sent to me in France. I read the articles. I imagine that I can see the vast displays, the spaceships, the animals. I would most like, I think, to see the Museum of the American People.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He went on to tell her about his first trip to a museum in Cairo when he had been a boy, and how the endless rooms of mummies had terrified, then fascinated him. He talked with vigor and a thirst for knowledge that startled and somewhat seduced her. When he had finished, she realized that she had eaten a handful of grapes and an orange and a few large chunks of cheese.

Then Mohammed interrupted him courteously, and Ali sighed. “I have enjoyed our conversation. I hope that you will be returned to Washington soon enough.”

He rose, and Mohammed nodded, indicating that he would return her to her room.

Ali was already walking away. She called out to him. “Please! Wait!” He turned. “Please, just let us go. The senator and me. And I know you must be holding other Americans. The government can't help us, you must understand that. There are courts of law—”

“I'm sorry. I see what my destiny demands of me, and I must follow it.” He hesitated. “I have seen that more clothes have been brought to your room.” He hesitated again. “I heard your screams the other night, but it is not right for one man to interfere with another man and his woman. Unless it is a lie. Unless Michael has made this up, and there is nothing between you. I can have you taken from him.”

She inhaled sharply. She wanted to shout, yes! But the word would not come. She was far more afraid of Khazar than she was of Michael. She couldn't help believing that he did want her to survive. And she knew that whatever stress and humiliation he put her through, he would not attack her. In addition, he had warned her not to let Ali know she was Ted Larkspur's daughter.

“Miss…?” Ali addressed her.

“Taylor,” she said quickly. “Amber Taylor.”

“Michael asked me to watch over you in his absence. No one will disturb you again while he is gone. But even he will not disturb you, if that is your choice.”

She lowered her head. “No. I thank you, but leave me with Michael, please.”

He nodded and left, walking down the trail his son had taken earlier. Mohammed motioned to her, and she followed him.

Michael did not return to the room until very late. Ali had indeed ordered that clothes should be left for her. She had been given a pair of jeans and several shirts.

The man she thought was named Jaime brought her dinner. It was lamb, nicely cooked and well-seasoned, with carrots and potatoes. She ate, determined that she was going to maintain her health. She would either manage to escape, or she would be a fine specimen when she was killed.

When the hour grew late, she curled against the wall. She heard Michael come in, but she pretended not to. He didn't disturb her, merely lay down beside her.

In the morning, when she awakened, he was already gone, but a tray with coffee and rolls was waiting for her. She ate and showered and dressed nervously in a shirt and jeans.

She saw no one for hours and had begun to doze when she heard the key in the lock. It was Mohammed. “Ali will see you,” he said.

Amber nodded. She accompanied him to the orchid garden, where the old man awaited her once again. She took her seat before him and started the conversation by telling him that she really couldn't converse with a terrorist. He explained to her that he was not a terrorist, and they were once more cast into an interesting debate. Before she knew it, she was again conversing.

“Violence with no purpose is a crime,” he assured her.

“Blowing up airplanes isn't?”

“When there is war, many men die.”

“Infants die in airplanes. Mothers with little children.”

“Children grow up to be warriors. We have learned that lesson well.”

“Children should not die.”

“The world is not a perfect place.”

He again asked her about the Smithsonian. She found herself answering him, and they talked with surprising ease all through lunch. Afterward, feeling she had to know, she said, “I want to know how Senator Daldrin is.”

Ali nodded. “Fair enough.” He stood and nodded to Mohammed, then walked with her into the complex. She was somewhat alarmed when he led her down a hallway with numerous armed guards. They came to a door with a small, square window. “You may look quickly,” he told her.

She looked in and gasped.

The senator was in the room, seated at the foot of a bed. The room looked like a hospital room. It was very large, but it housed several men.

At least they were all alive. And they seemed to be well enough. One was smoking a cigar and talking with Daldrin. Across the room, a few others were playing poker. Their confinement might be tense and harrowing as they awaited their fates, but at least they were not being starved or tortured.

Ali tugged on her arm, pulling her gently away from the window. “They are well, as you can see.”

“Yes.”

“Mohammed will take you back now.”

Ali remained in the hallway as Mohammed led Amber away. When she looked back, Ali was still standing there.

When they came to the central area, Mohammed paused. Khazar was there, armed, talking to Jaime and Juan. He had chosen English instead of Spanish, and Amber thought that perhaps he had learned that language better than the other.

“It is done. Our demands have been stated. On the Fourth of July, there will be fireworks.”

He turned around and saw Amber, saw the ashen pallor of her face. He smiled. “A woman. We will save her for last, eh, my friends?”

No one laughed. At least they felt some pity for her, she thought.

The Fourth of July. It was now June 18. There was very little time to go.

Khazar shrugged and turned away, striding down the hall in the direction she had left his father. When Jaime and Juan followed him, Mohammed said beneath his breath, “Excuse me. Wait one moment.”

To Amber's amazement, the man left her standing and followed Khazar. She looked around. The place was secure. Ali had numerous men, numerous weapons. This place had once been a Spanish fortress. Guards were posted everywhere.

Where could she go? She was barefoot, and she hadn't the least idea of her actual location.

They were going to start killing people on the Fourth of July.

Amber saw the door to the garden. She glanced around one more time, then ran desperately for the exit. No one stopped her.

She paused in the garden. Two paths led up the mountain, and one led down. To the beach?

She chose the third path and ran.

9

Island of the Damned

June 18

W
ithin minutes she was wondering why she had run—it must have been one of the stupidest moves of her life. Her feet were bare, and every step she took brought some new torture as she sped over the trail. There were pebbles and rocks beneath her feet, and roots from the endless trees. The vegetation slapped her cruelly in the face, branches seemed to reach out to try to catch her, to hold her, like the dry and brittle fingers of a phantom captor.

She hadn't the least idea of where she was going. And they would be after her very soon.

She had to stop. She had to catch her breath. The gasping sound of it was awful to her own ears, like the raging of a thunderstorm. Her lungs felt as if they would burst, and her calves ached in a million places. She didn't dare look at the soles of her feet; she could feel the trickle of blood escaping from her toes.

She stopped, bending over, bracing her hands on her knees and looking back. So far, no one was coming. Maybe they thought that she was wandering around the complex. Maybe they hadn't noticed she was missing yet. It didn't matter. When they discovered her disappearance, they would come after her. She had to keep moving.

She was probably leaving a trail as clear as written directions, but she had little choice. All she could do was run.

She started off again. Within minutes she realized that she had strayed from the true path, that she was trying to move through a thick net of brush. The farther along she went, the fewer trees she encountered, and the denser the brush became. The ground beneath her feet began to change, becoming grainier. Sandier. And the incline down which she ran became steeper.

She swore, picking up a burr in her toe. She paused to pluck it out, and winced at the raw appearance of her feet. How much longer was she going to be able to go on before the pain caused her to scream, and then hobble to some bush, fall down beside it and sob like an idiot?

She had to keep going. Downward was the sea, and her only chance of escape.

She turned to look back again. She saw nothing but the endless green of the tropical jungle, the color becoming softer now with the coming of twilight. It would be dark soon. Would that be in their favor—or hers? Probably theirs. They were jungle fighters. The only darkness she knew or welcomed was when she was safely curled up with her head on a down pillow in bed for the night.

She moved on, crying out when she ran straight into a huge spiderweb. Nearly hysterical, she clawed the clinging web from her face, inhaling, bringing it into her mouth, blowing it out again, stumbling along as she did so.

She turned too late. Just as she swept the sticky remnants of the spider's web from her lips and lashes, she saw that the ground had all but disappeared before her. Her feet slid out from under her, and she landed hard on her rump.

She began to roll, but she realized quickly that she wasn't going to be able to stop her descent down the steep incline. She covered her face with her hands and went with the motion as best she could. Leaves slapped at her, branches scratched her arms and hands. Then she opened her eyes in time to see the dark and mysterious world as she catapulted forward … seemed to fly … and landed, stunned and soaked, in a pool of water.

It wasn't deep. And there was sand beneath her feet. The water was temperate but salty, and she assumed that it had to connect with the sea. Struggling to her feet, she looked around.

The mountains rose immediately before her, their jagged peaks stretching far to the right. She was on a plateau, probably very near sea level. She could see nothing but brush when she twisted to look behind her, but it seemed that there was a break far to her right, where the water trickled and tumbled to some destination below.

She smoothed her hair and stumbled onto the sand. Where the earth rose again, she realized, there were caves. She stared that way through the growing darkness as she sat on the sand, bathing her stinging feet in the water. Did she stand a chance of moving with night almost upon her? Should she take refuge in a cave until morning, when she could see again? Her slide down the mountain had brought her here. A second slide could send her tumbling down to solid rock, or shafts of coral.

She hesitated, squinting and trying to fathom the direction of the water's flow. The entire island was Ali Abdul's, she thought. The fishermen were probably on his payroll, along with anyone else who inhabited the place. They were not, at the very least, a people friendly to the U.S. government—unless some Central American coup had taken place in the past few days.

Despair nearly overwhelmed her. Where could she possibly go, even if she survived the night without recapture? She could steal a boat, with luck—if she wasn't shot in the process. Then she would have to navigate the coral reefs and the shoals, and then she would be in the open Caribbean, without a notion in hell of how to reach a safe port.

What were her alternatives? she asked herself dryly. Ali had liked her—but that was before she had caused trouble. And his demands on the U.S. government were preposterous—they couldn't possibly release convicted assassins. If she was captured, she would await her day to die—with the others. If she could make good her escape, perhaps there was a prayer of rescue for them all.

There was a sudden rumble of sound behind her. Forgetting her sore feet, Amber leaped up and swung around. Someone was coming. Someone was coming just the same way she had come, sliding down the incline. There was a huge splash, and the water thundered and roared as a body made contact with it.