Controlling Interest (34 page)

She slipped her hand into the pocket of the jeans she'd borrowed from Jewel's granddaughter and found the dollar Jewel had given her, along with a scrap of paper containing the Hardys' phone number. Jewel would tell her what to do. Or at least reassure her that she was not alone. All she had to do was find a pay phone.

She trudged back inside the museum gift shop and approached the young woman behind the cash register. “Excuse me, please,” she said timidly, “but could you direct me to a pay phone?”

“Car trouble?” asked the girl sympathetically.

“No, I . . .” How humiliating to admit that she had no car, but had been stranded due to her own stupidity. “Well, yes. I need to call my friend to pick me up.” Jewel would insist on driving all the way to rescue her, when of course the dear lady had many more important things to do. Stupid, Yasmine.

“Here,” said the clerk. “Just use the store phone. Dial nine to get out. It's local, right?”

“Satsuma,” Yasmine admitted, her stomach knotting. “I do not — ”

“Oh, that's local.” The girl smiled. “Go right ahead.” She turned the phone in Yasmine's direction and politely moved to the other end of the counter to give her privacy.

Sick with embarrassment, Yasmine picked up the receiver. She dialed nine and then Jewel's number. The phone rang twice in her ear before Jewel's gentle voice answered. “Hello?”

Yasmine deliberately firmed her voice. “Jewel? It is Yasmine.”

“Yasmine? Are you in Pensacola already?”

“No, I am at the battleship museum.”

“What on earth are you doing at the battleship? Never mind. I'm so glad you called, because there's somebody here who wants to talk to you. Will you promise to stay where you are and not run off?”

A shiver went through Yasmine. “Who is it?”

“Wait just a minute, honey. Hold on. Here she is.”

Yasmine clutched the phone. “Jewel?”

But Jewel was gone. A young female voice came through the speaker. “Yasmine? Please don't hang up. This is Natalie Tubber-ville. I really need to talk to you.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY

N
atalie sat in a gingham-cushioned kitchen chair in Jewel Hardy's kitchen, heart pounding like a jackhammer. She had actually heard Yasmine's voice. Yasmine sounded a little like her sister Liba, a lot like her mother, and wholly scared out of her mind.

And no wonder, being chased all over the South by strangers.

Natalie waited, hardly daring to move. There was no answer for so long she was afraid Yasmine had hung up.

At last there was a sharp breath. “Please, I beg you, do not tell my father where I am.”

Natalie felt tears spring to her eyes. “I'm not doing anything until I talk to you in person. Where are you?”

“I am stuck.” The soft voice sounded forlorn. “I need to talk to Mrs. Hardy.”

“Oh, Yasmine, I'll come get you. Please tell me where you are.”

“No! I am not going back to my — no!”

“Listen to me.” Natalie strove for calm. “I know you're a Christian. I found your backpack, and I have your notebook and Bible.”

This time tears splintered Yasmine's voice. “I want them back. Please.”

“Of course. But listen, I'm a believer in Jesus too. I think I know why you're running away, but you don't have to. Nobody can make you marry somebody you don't want to. This is America, remember?”

“But I am not an American citizen. I must do what my father says.” The broken voice took on a note of stubbornness. “But not if he cannot find me.”

Natalie looked at Jewel, who seemed to have heard every word. The elderly woman's deep-set eyes swam with compassion. “I'm on your side. So is Jewel.” Natalie made up her mind. “Will you let us come help you? I think you need a friend.”

Yasmine was sobbing in earnest now. “Maybe. I need to think. Okay. I stay, you come. But don't tell my father. Don't tell
anyone
.”

Matt made it to the Pensacola Naval Air Station in just under an hour. He would love to have made the drive across the bay bridge in Natalie's open-topped Miata. Instead he was stuck in a compact sedan with cloth seats and an AM radio.

He had to grin at himself. Riding shotgun with Natalie had spoiled him.

He'd gotten spoiled by her company, period. Maybe she came at an investigation sideways and backwards, but she always managed to get there. He'd bet she would pull something useful out of Jewel Hardy.

The naval base began with a long, winding drive through flat, palm-lined Florida sand. The Gulf of Mexico stretched like water in a lead-colored bathtub on one side, a golf course with jewel-like greens on the other. After passing a series of barracks and warehouses, the secured entrance appeared under huge iron letters.

Matt stopped at the gate and rolled down his window.

A uniformed guard stepped out of his little booth. “Morning, sir.” He leaned on Matt's open window. “Need to know your business.”

Matt handed over his card. “I'm going to NCIS. Judge Laurel McGaughan called ahead for me, I believe.”

The guard's tired face lifted slightly. “She did. I have a pass for you.” He reached into the booth for a ticket, which he handed to Matt. “Bring that back to me on your way out.”

“Yes, sir.” Matt touched a finger to his brow and drove through.

A few minutes later he sat in an office facing a young officer with “Digman” on his nametag. In a khaki uniform with a bunch of colored ribbons on his collar and across his shirt pocket, he was Navy from the top of his close-clipped hair to the tips of his shiny shoes.

Feeling positively slovenly, Matt took the chair offered by the petty officer. Laurel had pulled rank to get him this far. He'd better act confident, even if he felt like an eight-year-old in the principal's office.

Matt straightened his spine. “I'd like to speak to Special Agent Zachary Carothers, who was stationed in Pakistan just three weeks ago. Do you know him?”

Digman, who had about as much expression as the coffee mug on his desk, regarded Matt with hooded eyes for nearly thirty seconds. Finally he picked up a pen and tapped it on the blotter. “I don't think so. What's your business with him?”

Matt understood the game.
I tell you a little, you tell me nothing, eventually I give you the whole spiel, and maybe we get somewhere.
“Carothers has connected with the daughter of a well-placed Pakistani oil baron. She's trying to find him.”

“Connected? How?”

“I believe they're engaged to be married. And her father's not happy about it.”

“What does this have to do with NCIS?”

Matt tried to decide how much he could make up and get away with it. Then he remembered he wasn't supposed to make things up anymore. He cleared his throat. “Look, I talked to Carothers Tuesday night. He was in contact with the girl while she was a translator at the American embassy in Islamabad. She came to the U.S. last week with the intention of marrying the son of the Pakistani Commerce Chairman but disappeared in the airport. Her father and fiancé hired me to locate her. I've tracked her this far. I'd like to talk to Carothers and see what he knows about her.”

Digman glanced at his watch. “Wait here, Mr. Hogan. I'll be right back.” Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared through his office door.

Matt slouched in the chair and clasped his hands across his stomach. Hurry up and wait. The story of his life.

Some five minutes later, the petty officer opened the door sharply. He stood with his hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart. “Special Agent Phillips will see you now.”

“Wow. Okay.” Matt leaped to his feet.

Digman gave Matt a cool look. “I'll need to hold your cell phone, sir.”

“Why?”

“Security.” No other explanation was offered.

Matt shrugged and handed over his cell phone.

“Thank you, sir.” The petty officer moved aside.

Matt had no idea what was going on, or how this little dance was going to help him find Yasmine. He passed Digman with a nod and entered the office. The two agents in the room, both dressed in civvies, stood as Matt entered the room. The one behind the desk was clearly the Agent in Charge. He looked like someone who rarely heard the word “no.”

The younger agent offered a hand to Matt. There was nothing familiar about the strong, clean features, but Matt still had a feeling he should know him. The guy wasn't tall, but his shoulders were broad and muscular; extreme intelligence and a glint of humor lit the dark gray eyes. Matt instantly liked him.

“Mr. Hogan,” said Phillips, indicating that Matt should sit in one of the two leather chairs opposite his desk. “This is Special Agent Carothers. I believe you have spoken with him by phone.”

Matt smiled, relieved. “Absolutely. Nice to meet you, Carothers. Thanks for seeing me.”

“My pleasure. It's good to get back on solid ground.” Carothers took the empty chair and deferred to his superior.

Phillips steepled his fingers. “Mr. Hogan, we understand you have current information about a young woman named Yasmine Patel. We'd like for you to tell us what you know about her.”

Matt looked at Carothers. The young agent's gaze was steady, if a bit guarded. Yet there was a hint of eagerness in his expression. “I think what I have to say may be . . . personal, as well as related to national defense.”

Carothers's smile was dry. “I'm afraid lately those two things are all mixed up. Feel free to go ahead.”

Matt started with Natalie's aborted pick-up at the airport, continued through interviews with the Patel and Haq families, and wound up at Liba's phone call and the translation of the notebook.

Carothers straightened. “May I see the journal?”

Matt flicked the cover of the book in his lap. “A lot of it's written in Urdu. We had to have it translated.” When Carothers gave him a look, he handed it over.

The young agent read in silence for several minutes. As he reached the end, his tanned cheeks reddened. He looked up at Matt. “I didn't know she felt this strongly. I thought it was just me.”

Phillips frowned. “Were you having a love affair with this woman?”

“No sir. Not exactly.” Carothers looked down. “We're both Christians, sir, and everything stayed very . . . platonic. I have the greatest respect for Yasmine. My assignment was to investigate her father and his dealings with the Haq family. But eventually . . . well, you'd have to meet her to understand, sir.”

“I'd like that.” Unexpected humor slid into Phillips's expression. “But it appears Miss Patel has been misplaced.”

“My partner and I are certain she was headed this way,” said Matt. “You can tell from the journal that she was obsessed with what she called ‘Pins Up Cola.' Carothers, I think she was determined to get to you, even though she couldn't have known you'd actually be here.”

Carothers frowned. “Her father's going to make it hard on her. He's probably outraged that she ran away. And the Haqs — ” He looked at Phillips.

“Speak freely, Carothers.”

Carothers shrugged. “Yasmine's family's Muslim. They'd arranged her marriage to Haq, even though he's been here in the States for nearly a year.
His
family is a powerful political entity, with control over oil transportation — imports and exports. So the engagement was in the nature of a political and business merger. For Yasmine to back out against her parents' wishes is not only a breach of honor, but a torpedo in the side of her father's financial hopes.” Carothers leaned forward, his bony face intent. “But Haq himself is the most dangerous thing about this situation. What I've learned about him in the last month makes many of the terrorists we deal with look like a bunch of flying monkeys.”

Matt felt the hair rise on his arms. “What do you mean?”

Carothers clamped his lips together. “I had to let Yasmine go to keep Haq pacified. Now that she's here . . .” He glanced at his superior. “I need to find her, sir.”