Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (32 page)

“Go, David, go now!”

He shook his head, his expression agonized. Just as he turned to leave, she heard him say her name, his voice hoarse. Someone was calling out
“Polis!”
She stood alone, her hands by her side, staring down at Jeffreys’s body. Finally, he was dead.

People were yelling and the truck driver had climbed down from behind the wheel and he was shouting at her in Turkish and broken English. Three men in uniform approached her warily—Turkish authorities. She saw them and then she raised her palms, a gesture that meant,
It’s okay, I’m done here.

The plastic strips cut into Vanessa’s wrists where the Turkish officers had cuffed her behind her back. The snow grew thicker. At first there were three men, district police, who kept her standing at the scene, almost shouting when she couldn’t respond to their questions in Turkish. They talked among themselves heatedly, and individuals in the crowd offered versions of what they had witnessed.

The officers tried addressing her in French and English, their voices grim and their accents rough, when they saw by her passport that she was a Canadian citizen. They asked for her name and her date of birth. They asked why she was there and why she had blood on her clothes. They asked why she’d fought with the man and pushed him to his death. They asked who the dead man was, because they had found no identification on his body.

Through it all she remained silent, feigning muteness, in shock and feeling nauseated. She stood not far from the body. Jeffreys had died with his mouth open, and blood was trickling down his chin, staining the cobbled street around him. An ambulance finally arrived
and someone covered his head and shoulders with a cloth that looked like muslin.

Two more men arrived. These were MIT, Vanessa guessed, Turkey’s National Intelligence Agency. They examined her passport and asked her a few questions. Unlike the police, these men talked softly, calmly, and they had the sharp eyes of predators—a different breed from the local law enforcement.

Finally, after what must have been more than an hour, maybe as much as two hours, the two men from MIT roughly loaded Vanessa into the back of a small van. It was windowless except for a square wire-mesh panel the size of a shoebox on each of the two back doors. The air inside was warm and rank and stank of diesel fuel. She sat on a hard built-in bench. After twenty or thirty minutes, the van jerked forward, beginning the journey from the bazaar through winding streets to a large building. When they stopped, she peered through the mesh panels and managed to see that this place had few windows and high walls and gates. No one had to tell her this was not the Turkish version of a local precinct. This was a prison made to hold high-security inmates.

As they passed through the massive ponderous gates she flashed back to her visit to the black site in Slovakia to talk to Dieter. Had it really only been two days ago?

She was processed quickly. They took her clothes and boots, her watch and her earrings. They hosed her down and sprayed her for lice. The prison uniform they gave her was gray and the material was scratchy and made her skin itch. They questioned her again—different men this time. A woman joined them briefly. Vanessa did not respond to their questions.

She spent her first night in a cell alone, deep inside the prison. The lights glared all night and voices rang out, echoing off the hard walls. As she lay on the hard, thin mattress staring up at the stained ceiling, Vanessa felt more alone than she ever had before in her life. No one
would come for her. She had nonofficial cover, and her government could not confirm her existence.

She heard no news of the outside world during that time. In fact, after a while, the only confirmation of the existence of an outside was through the few one-by-two-foot windows. They kept her isolated, away from the general population. That was safer, she knew, but the solitude was agonizing.

Two days passed, then four, then a week.

That’s when Vanessa really began to comprehend the truth: No one except a few people in the Agency might ever know where she was, and no one was coming to her rescue.

On the eighth night her fever began and her thirst became almost unbearable. The pain in her head made her want to pound her skull against a wall. After a few hours she began vomiting even though she had nothing left inside but water. She was too weak to stand. Any light seemed to sear her eyes. The guards yelled at her in Turkish, and then, finally, they moved her out of her cell, but she didn’t see the guards or where they were carrying her. Instead, she saw Cerberus and other creatures, and what was left of reason told her she must be delirious. They brought her to a new world where people spoke in hushed voices, and even though she could not decipher the language, she strained anyway to hear what they said. The voices came closer, and she caught one word—
ölü
—and it was one of six or seven Turkish words she understood:
dead
.

Sometime in that day or night her fever broke and she imagined she had been lifted from the fires of the underworld. She even managed to open her eyes for a few seconds before the light became unbearable. At first she saw dark eyes gazing down at her, no face, just eyes. She cried out, but then she realized it must be a person wearing a protective mask, the kind they wear in hospitals. The person gave her water through a straw.

Cli-clak, cli-clak, cli-clak . . .

Was this strange sound part of a long, convoluted nightmare? Vanessa didn’t know but as the lights flashed on and off, on and off, her entire body vibrated. Earthquake? If it wasn’t the dream, were they moving her? Hadn’t they said she was dead? Or did it mean they were going to kill her?

The world narrowed until all that remained was one tiny pinprick of light.

But the last words she heard came in a whisper so soft she thought she must have imagined them: “You still have friends.”

The pinprick of light went out.

The air that brushed her skin was cool, but after the stale, close air of the prison, it felt good. To be still, comfortable, after being sleepless for so long . . .

But where was she? All she heard was silence. The sighing wind. And why couldn’t she move or open her eyes? Was that smoke she could smell faintly? And something closer? Mint? She tensed, sensing another presence.

“I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances, Vanessa. I would much prefer to offer you my full hospitality.”

The shock raced through her—Bhoot. She recognized his voice by now, and she struggled against what she now realized were bindings and a blindfold.

“Where am I?” she asked. Her voice sounded ruined to her ears. Her throat ached, so she tried not to swallow. Her lips burned and her tongue found them cracked and swollen. “What have you done?”

“I saved you from spending the rest of your life behind bars in a miserable Turkish prison. When your countrymen turned their backs
on you, I rescued you from an unmarked grave. You have much too much potential value to me for me to allow that to happen.”

She didn’t have a clue if he would kill her or imprison her, and she grabbed at details—the low, cultured tones; a slight British accent, yes; but also another accent, one that might hint at the Middle East or Asia.

“Even now you are working to remember everything you can about me—my voice, my scent, which, by the way, is new. I’m trying Eau de Monsieur by Goutal. Does it please you?”

“What do you want? Are you going to kill me? What is this all about?”

“You Americans are so primitive in your social interactions. This is not a horse trade, Vanessa. You are not my horse. You have had time to understand what your life would have been like if I did not have the resources to help you in a time of need. And you will soon have a bit more time to meditate on the meaning of friendship. This will never be over.”

There was a shuffling sound, and very faint music; she picked out the deep rich notes of the oud and the shimmering vibrations of the qanun.

She heard him move, to standing she thought.

“Good-bye for now, Vanessa.”

“Wait—what will happen to me?”

—

SHE WAS COLD.
Someone removed her blindfold. She opened her eyes, blinking against the pain of seeing again. She guessed it was hours since Bhoot left. She’d really spoken to him; that wasn’t a dream.

It was a dark night, but a bright moon was rising slowly. She was seated, in a low chair, and she couldn’t rise. She couldn’t move her hands. She turned quickly—in time to see a tall, slender shadow of a
man climb gracefully behind the wheel of a convertible jeep or something close to it. A beat-up desert 4x4.

He gave her a look, a smile, and a nod
. Bhoot’s man.

And then he shifted into gear and drove away.

Alone, she gazed out into the infinite distance at a bleached white basin of earth. The skeletal outline of ruins in the distance caught her eye. She was nowhere. Still in Turkey, maybe.

She began to struggle against the bonds that held her to a low chair. They loosened quickly and she knew they had only been meant to delay her a few minutes.

The jeep was a winking light in the distance.

When she was finally able to stand, she walked clumsily at first, in circles, trying to regain circulation. She gazed down to see that her feet were in sandals; they felt cold, and the spaces between her toes were clogged with sand. Someone had dressed her in simple, loose clothes. Her shawl was rough but warm and she wrapped it tightly around herself.

She thought she saw a tiny fire blinking in the distance. Nomads?

She stared at the jagged silhouette of the ruin.

What the hell should she do?

No phone. Nothing. No food, no water. She was so thirsty.

That was when she heard it—the low, faint groan of a rotor.

Was that a helicopter she saw coming over the ruins?

Her heartbeat quickened. She strained to see details through the shadows.

What she felt was so faint, so new after everything—she felt a light filling her, a warmth. Life.

BIGOT LIST:
List of personnel with the appropriate security clearance to have access to details of a particular operation

CPD:
Counterproliferation division of the CIA

DCRI:
Direction Centrale du Renseignement Intérieur (French intelligence agency)

DDO:
Deputy director of operations at the CIA

NEST:
Nuclear emergency support team

NOC:
Nonofficial cover

TDY:
Temporary tour of
duty

We wish to acknowledge Penguin Books and Blue Rider Press, with special appreciation to our esteemed publisher, David Rosenthal, and our exceptional editor, Vanessa Kehren.

Cheers for Aileen Boyle and Eliza Rosenberry. We would be nowhere without your tireless energy, attention to detail, and patience to launch these books out into the big world. 

A debt of gratitude to Elizabeth Shreve, whose patience and professionalism at making and keeping media schedules is unparalleled.

Thanks to Kara Welsh at NAL, Penguin Group.

Mikey Weinstein, we are deeply grateful for your guidance and passion. We hope we did it justice. 

Special thanks to Sue Seiff, Jack Arnold, Joanne Levy, and Maggie Griffin, who help us navigate the social media world with ease and grace.

Thank you to Paul Evencoe, again, for your shared expertise and knowledge!

From Valerie:

Thank you, Elyse Cheney. I am fortunate to call you my agent and my friend. You are the best in the business, and your adroit comments and discerning eye have made the books far better.

It is with profound appreciation for their help on this book and their friendship that I wish to acknowledge: Christine Biree, Bill Broyles, Betty Caroli, Munir Daair, Jonathan Eastwood, Tulu Gumustekin, Derek Johnson, Alon and Betsy Kasha, Catherine Oppenheimer and Garrett Thornburg, Jim Smith, and Kaan Terzioglu. Your willingness to answer my odd questions at any hour is astonishing and gratifying. My love forever to my husband, Joe Wilson.

From Sarah:

Thank you, Theresa Park: I so value your vision, integrity, your loyalty, and your true heart.

A special nod to Alexandra Greene, whose grace and wit and astute story instincts saved many a long day.

Merci
, Juliette Lauber, for your guidance through Paris—
encore.

Gracias a
Peter Knapp, Abigail Koons, Emily Sweet, Andrea Mai, Cassandra Hanjian, and Park Literary Group. Miss you, Rachel Bressler.

A heartfelt shout-out to Howie Sanders and Jason Richman.

Thank you, Ben Allison, Fred Brown, Bill Geraghty, Marek Nierodzinski, and the crew at Del Norte Credit Union!

My deep gratitude to all my stalwart siblings, my extended family, and my friends who are there through thick and thin. And as always special thanks to Ms. Mags, Alexandra Diaz, Pat Berssen, Lupe Baca, Alice Sealey, and Suz Johnson.