Athena Force 12: Checkmate (11 page)

“Does it matter how we got here? We’re here, and we want what we want. Worthy goals. Martyrs for our cause will find their own reward.” He looked over his shoulder, a single glance, as he headed for his men. “I think you’ll appreciate my choice.”

Selena didn’t find it likely.

She found it even less likely a moment later, when—after some minor fuss from the hostages—he returned flanked by two of his men, Atif the cook in tow. His hand clamped around Atif’s bloody white sleeve in a cruel grip, his pistol pushed solidly between the cook’s shoulders. Atif wouldn’t meet her eyes; at first she thought he was embarrassed on top of his fear. He kept his gaze on the floor even when he spoke to her. “I heard the distraction you made.” His gaze flickered, didn’t make it all the way up and returned to his toes. “I thought it my chance to escape.”

Selena had looked at Ashurbeyli with respect and even a certain understanding of his motives if not his methods. Now she looked at him with disgust. “Pick on someone your own size, why don’t you?”

She wasn’t expecting his wry grin. “You underestimate him, just as you underestimate the Kemenis. How do you think we had arms and supplies waiting inside this building? Surely you already considered that we entered through the kitchen—it was one reason the casualties there were so regrettably high. They hadn’t yet had time to run, but we couldn’t let them spread panic.”

Selena blinked, surprisingly pained. “Atif?”

He closed his eyes, a desperate gesture. “I thought I could keep down the bloodshed. I let the guns in, packed in fruit boxes.
I
opened the door, yes! I thought it would make the inevitable easier.”

“But you weren’t so sure that you didn’t have your hideout planned,” Ashurbeyli observed. “And you were quick enough to offer up our Athena here, weren’t you?”

This time Atif looked up at her, nakedly honest in his self-acceptance. “I know what I am. A weak man. I was trying to save my own life. Again.”

She met his gaze. She understood his fear…she understood why he would waver before the Kemenis. He was, as he had told her, a cook. Not a Jackie Chan fighting cook, just a man who hadn’t wanted to be involved in any of this in the first place. She said, “It doesn’t seem to have worked out as you hoped.”

“No.” His face was tight with fear. “If I had stood my ground, I would at least have died in honor.”

Ashurbeyli shook his head, short and tight. “And now you will simply die. You may hope it still counts for something.”

Selena thought…in some small way, perhaps it would. For Ashurbeyli had still asked her about his men…and that meant that Atif had not given up the kitchen cooler stash. As a hideout, it still had some value. And while one man was dead and the youth disabled, the third could have reinforced the terrorist efforts and was best kept out of the game.

Not so weak as all that. Just not quite strong enough.

She found her eyes hot with fury and frustration and sorrow. “You helped me, too,” she told him. “That still matters.” He stood ever so slightly taller, and Ashurbeyli, as if realizing this encounter wasn’t quite turning out as expected, shoved him onward, glancing back at Selena as if despite himself. She gave him a hard, unforgiving gaze, and then she crossed one leg over the other and looked away as if he were no matter at all.

His voice came harshly over his shoulder, directed at his men. “Watch her. She’s probably prone to pointless gestures.” But then he hesitated, and he looked again at her, this time more thoughtfully. “But bring her close to the door. I want to make sure she can hear.”

Incredulous, she dropped her foot to the floor.
“Why?”

“Because,” he said, and his voice was as harsh as she’d heard it, “it’s time you realized the hopelessness of your own situation.”

She didn’t have time for any kind of response, hopeful or not. Three of the Kemenis left their rest and descended upon her, and would have lifted her by the arms had she not snarled and smacked their reaching hands away with such purpose as to make it clear she’d have it out here and now if that’s the way they wanted it—when she knew Ashurbeyli wasn’t quite ready for that. Hadn’t quite seen in her eyes the defeat he wanted to see. And indeed, he looked back again to give a short shake of his head, even as he escorted Atif out of the ballroom.

The three men stepped back slightly. Of varying olive-dark complexions, one in a
yashmagh
and the other two bareheaded, two with short beards and one clean shaven…she doubted they had much in common other than their defiance and their loyalty to Ashurbeyli. Years of rotating occupation had left Berzhaan a country of scattered influences and little cohesion…and had led to this moment, this incident. Atif’s death.

Soon, her own. And that of the hostages, if she didn’t manage to deal with things. For as she’d told Ashurbeyli, she had little confidence that Berzhaan would prioritize anything but stopping the terrorists…and that any attempt at rescue made by the U.S. would be hampered by their need to work around Berzhaan. She hadn’t even mentioned the difficulty of coordinating the different agencies involved.

Up to me.

And that meant she had to hold it together through whatever came next.

A
shurbeyli’s men must have blocked the capitol’s doors open, for his voice carried clearly to where Selena stood in the ballroom—not close enough to the door to make a break for it, not with one man’s hand resting on her shoulder where he’d feel every shift of her weight and the other resting his pistol muzzle in her ribs. “Good morning!” Ashurbeyli said, his voice ringing clearly over the sprawling steps that led down to the courtyard, the halogen lights and the military vehicles ringed by press from around the world. Midwinter and still full dark as they approached 6 a.m., but Selena had no doubt that the right people were watching. Or that they would be, for the cameras were running, and this footage would find a worldwide audience.

Tory Patton might even be out there. Selena hoped so. It would take someone with Tory’s heart to make this story as real to the world as it was to Selena.

As it was to Atif. First traitor, then Selena’s silent partner in counterterrorism, then traitor again—but beneath it all, a man who had simply been caught up in something bigger than he was. Bigger than he was ever meant to be.

Ashurbeyli said, “Yesterday I made a very clear point here on these very steps—I can still see the bloodstains. No rain will ever be enough to wash them away, just as it cannot wash away the damage done to my country by those who have occupied and interfered with us over the years. Our current government is weak, and too open to the influence of those people who have previously enslaved us—or to those who would exploit us for the resources we have chosen to leave in the earth.”

The oil.

And of course he was right. Everyone wanted that oil, and no one had qualms about taking every advantage of a people in turmoil to get it.

That was the hell of it. Ashurbeyli was wrong, so
wrong,
in what he did. But he was no fool. He had a clear vision of what his country faced, and that behind every proffered friendship lurked self-interest of some kind—including her own work here. She’d come to make his people safer, to start a partnership in counterterrorism. Her genuine drive to keep innocents safe from the random cruelty of terrorism didn’t mean the United States didn’t have its own agenda behind the FBI Legate programs—for once they became entwined, once Berzhaan depended on the States to help train their own, disentangling wouldn’t be so easy. And in the end, Selena’s mandate to stop the trouble here was a mandate to keep it from spreading to U.S. soil.

She closed her eyes and wished she could close her ears.
I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t
care.
I wouldn’t have saved those women yesterday morning…I wouldn’t have stayed in the capitol when I could have tried to run. I would have stayed hidden in that room instead of coming down where I could be caught.

She cared, all right. But that didn’t mean those like Ashurbeyli wanted her here. Or that they were wrong to resent the interference of outsiders, no matter the motive.

The cold ridge of the gun muzzle prodded her ribs, demanding her attention. “Listen to him.”

She didn’t think she’d missed much. He’d either paused for effect, or he was repeating himself…the words flowed well enough. “Since then, we have heard nothing from our own government, and nothing from those of the people we hold.” Did he have Atif in front of him, shielding him? Or did the snipers—for there were surely snipers—simply have orders to hold fire, fearing for the remaining hostages’ lives should Ashurbeyli go down those steps himself? “We imagine that you think us weak—that we won’t carry out our plans. Or that you think us unprepared, that we don’t have the resources to wait.”

God, he was good. No hesitation in his voice, no stumbling over words. Conviction ringing out to the world.

“You will find we have the strength to carry out these plans, and the resources. We have warm clothing if you should find a way to cut off the heat. We have drinking water enough to raise the level of the Caspian Sea. And we have hostages enough to continue killing one each day for quite some time. We have the prime minister.” And they wouldn’t kill Razidae unless they couldn’t avoid it, for keeping him alive would keep everyone hopeful—and would keep every involved nation from storming the capitol at once. “What we
want
is for this absurd charade of friendly interest and false intentions to end. We want the government which has allowed things to come this far to admit defeat and to leave this country to those who will keep it safe. We want them to step down—every last lowly advisor. And until that happens, people will continue to die.” There was a pause; some dramatic gesture, Selena imagined. Ashurbeyli’s voice held a smile when he continued, albeit a cold one. “I don’t refer to those inside this building. I refer to those out in the turmoil you have created for us. You who think you can find some way to control us for your own gains. Right this moment, you’re killing my people.
Berzhaan’s
people. So we invite those responsible to resign, and we invite the rest of you to go away.”

And all this while, Atif waited to die.

Ashurbeyli seemed to think he’d made as much of his point as he was going to. “This man is a traitor to his government, and yet still too weak to be one of our own. He is my gift to you. The next hostage to die will be someone you cry over.”

The scuff of leather soles against marble steps, a quick, futile protest—

Selena flinched at the sudden, resounding blast of the gun, muffled as it was by the back of Atif’s skull. Nothing came close to describing gunfire in close proximity,
nothing.
Nothing came close to describing the aftermath, as she listened to the sodden thump of Atif’s body hitting the first stair, rolling down to the second…the image of bin Kuwaji came to mind, flopping his way downward to lie on the long, narrow landing until someone took the risk to acquire his body.

Closing her eyes only made it worse.

Ashurbeyli found her there. “And what do you think? The drinking water enough to raise the level of the sea—was that perhaps too far?”

She glared at him in unabashed fury. “You went too far when you stormed in here yesterday afternoon! You went
too far
when you shot a man for being less complicated than you! And then you blame everyone
else
for the turmoil of your country—that’s one hell of a case of self-delusion you’ve got going, buddy.”

“Ah,” he said, looking at her with an understanding that turned her fury to cold wariness. “You think that man was someone to cry over. And you would be the one to do it.”

She hesitated, uncertain whether to admit to it—to show the weakness, or to get right in his face about it. Two men flanked him and blood splattered them all, a pattern so distinctive she could almost tell who’d been standing where. She could certainly tell that Ashurbeyli had pulled the trigger.

And two men flanked
her,
still jamming the gun in her ribs, only far enough away so they weren’t impeding Ashurbeyli’s conversation.

She got in his face anyway. “Yeah,” she said. “I damn well would. Because of the two of us, I’m the only one with enough humanity to care!”

She grunted as the pistol barrel rode her ribs, bruising them, and Ashurbeyli raised a hand that put an instant stop to the rough treatment. “Leave her,” he said. “Put her back where she was, and two of you will watch her at all times. See to her needs, and have her ready to move if Mr. White or I choose to speak to her in the back room. Soon enough you will see her die. Until then, we will not mark her.” Touching her for the first time since he’d searched her, Ashurbeyli lifted Selena’s chin in his hand, a proprietary gesture with complete awareness. “These marks already here will be perfect, I think. Not so much as to disguise her identity, but enough to heighten the poignancy of her death.”

“Oh,
please,
” Selena said. “
Now
you’re going too far. Too much.”

He shook his head, maintaining his firm grip. She somehow stopped herself from biting his fingers. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that you underestimate the reaction of those with enough humanity to care. The stories they will tell about you…” He
tsked.
“A tragedy, really.”

This time she jerked her chin free to glower back at full force. “There’s a tragedy coming, all right.”

She didn’t have to say anything more; she saw his eyes darken. Not irked at her implication so much as at her continuing challenge…but she had to give him that much: he had patience. He had his schedule and his plans, he had other things to do and he had the patience to make her wait for her tragic end—to make it happen at a time and in a way that would do him the most good.

Even for that, she had to respect him.

But she still intended to stop him.

Cole stepped out into the gusty, spitting rain of the old runway. He pulled his shearling coat closed against the Berzhaani winter, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and the cell phone—the silent cell phone—within easy reach. Selena called this his McCloud coat, reminiscent of the fictional Texas cop who’d been transplanted to New York City, and teased that he’d chosen it to disguise his adaptable and quick-thinking nature with a laid-back image. Cole thought he’d chosen it because it was warm and he liked the rough-out leather, but a second thought made him reconsider. Made him realize she was right, that he’d done it almost without thinking.

If she knew him so well, what had set her off? Sent her away to this turmoil? She’d as much as admitted he was right about that—but he hadn’t even been home to put his foot in it. He’d been a lot closer to her than he’d expected, but she hadn’t known that.
She should have.
He should have let her know; it was their long-standing agreement. But things had developed too quickly, too quietly…and she hadn’t. And even if she’d somehow found out, it was hardly cause for…for…

This.

He shivered and turned his collar up. Nearly half a day in a noisy Lockheed Starlifter, keeping company with nine cargo pallets and one other passenger who was no more eager to introduce himself than Cole, and he’d come halfway around the world, from one winter to another. This small airstrip had made the pilots work for a landing, and the crew had given him no more than an amiable wave as they prepared to unload cargo—relief supplies for besieged villages, support gear for the small remaining military presence here. Berzhaan allowed no more than that, and gave the U.S. access to this landing site only for the relief supplies.

They definitely didn’t want the States in on the hostage crisis.

“Sir?” One of the energetic young men engaged in unloading the Starlifter moved away from the rear fuselage to approach Cole beside one of the four underwing turbofan engines, now silent. Even with the efficient bustle at the tail of the plane, after the extended noise of their travel, the whole airstrip seemed silent.

Cole’s cell phone seemed especially silent.
Selena, where are you?

Knowing Selena, she was simply busy. Or she’d very wisely taken the chance to grab some rest.

Except she should have called by now regardless—if she could—and he knew it. He couldn’t talk himself out of knowing it.

“Sir?” the private repeated. “Can I help you?”

It was a polite way of asking whether Cole had any real business being here, and of warning that without a good answer, he could expect to be removed. Remarkably polite, under the circumstances. Cole eased his duffel to the ground. “I’m waiting for my ride,” he said.

“CIA. Would you like to see ID?” Sometimes he carried it…most times he didn’t. But this trip, he’d use it to pull as many strings as he could.

The private gave a short nod, and Cole opened his jacket to the cold and fished the ID wallet from his inside coat pocket. Carefully. Letting the young man see that he did indeed have a pistol, a 9 mm Browning Hi-Power Mark III in a belt holster that wasn’t meant to be the least bit hidden but which was carefully placed opposite to the direction in which he fished for the wallet.

The young man gave it a careful look, eyebrows rising at the sight of the eagle-topped shield, and returned it. “Would you like me to check on your ride?” His tone was perfectly respectful, but Cole understood his intent. To get Cole off this airfield, and away from military turf.

Cole shook his head. “Not just yet.” If Tory couldn’t make it, she’d send someone for him. Their arrangements, made as soon as he’d snagged his transportation, had been quick but thorough. She was, he thought, quite a bit more habitually circumspect over the phone than he’d expected from her.

The young man shifted into conversational mode, obviously planning to stay for a while. He’d been sent, then; he had his orders. It made Cole wonder with just what kind of cargo he’d kept company. The private said, “You’ve been in the air a while. You hear about the second hostage?”

The second hostage? There were at least twenty-five of them as far as Cole knew. The second hostage…what?

Then he knew. His pulse hammered into overload and his shoulders stiffened and he said sharply, “They killed someone else?”

Taken aback, the young man frowned, expressively dark eyebrows bold in a face with such little hair atop. Cole had to stop himself from grabbing the fellow up and shaking the words free—he’d be useless to Selena if they detained him, or even if the cargo handlers all piled atop him with such force as to break every rib he had. But nor could he quite find the words to demand answers; his tongue tangled around things unsaid until he finally spat out,
“Who?”

The soldier’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “You know someone.” The thought froze his expression, and then he shook himself free of it and said, “Sorry, sir. I don’t know much. But it was a man—”

He said other words, but Cole didn’t hear them. Too busy dealing with the sudden loss of strength all the way down the back of his legs and the flip-flop in his stomach. His heart, formerly pounding, now just raced in relief. He realized the soldier had hesitated, waiting for some indication from Cole, and he shook his head ever so slightly. Then he reached down for his duffel, just to be doing something.
Cool, Jones. Real cool.