Hidden Steel (5 page)

“I need—” she said.

“I can’t—” she said.

“I—” she said, and finally stopped for good.

“Just breathe,” he told her. “It’s okay.”

“Naia—” She looked up at him in utter confusion, and the confusion made way for pure frustration, that quick gleam of perfectly composed and self-possessed awareness. “Dammit. I almost had … well,
some
thing. Blasted memory. They said the drugs—”

“Some of them do that,” he agreed, and added gently, “You’re still better off if you take them.”

She gave him a startled look. “What are you talking about?”

Suddenly he felt like the one whose reality had to be skewed. He cleared his throat. “Schizophrenia medications.”

She laughed. Right out loud, she laughed. Hard enough so she staggered a little, and this time she let him catch her. “Oof,” she said. “I needed that. But no, I don’t think so. I need help, all right, but …” She trailed off again, distracted by her inner landscape. Not good thoughts, those. Steve didn’t have to wonder long. “I could have hurt that boy,” she said. “I could have
killed
him.”

She had that much right.

But he remembered what he’d seen. How precise she’d been. How controlled. And almost in spite of himself, he said, “I don’t think so, Mickey. You’re trained. You’re
good
. You did exactly what you meant to do, how you meant to do it.” And at that, he hesitated. “You’re sure there’s no one I can call—?”

He expected resistance, not the rueful twist of her mouth as she shook her head. “I just need a few days,” she said. “Somewhere I can stay out of sight. Just until I can figure out—” she stopped, shook her head. It wasn’t in response to anything he’d done, but he was used to that. Overlapping conversations with the same person. Abruptly, she said, “Can I stay here?”

“I don’t—” he started, and stopped as she wavered.

“I’m sitting,” she said abruptly. “Don’t stop talking. I need this conversation to happen.” And she sat. She barely gave him time to follow suit, bemused and wishing the air conditioning could handle the heat of the offshore flow just a degree or two more efficiently. “Look, I know this place isn’t a shelter. And I know I could find a shelter if I went looking. But that’s where they’re—” She stopped short on those words, probably catching the paranoid sound of them. “I need a few days to—” she said, and decided against finishing that, too. “I know what you think I need. But I won’t get in the way … I’ll do whatever work you want me to, and …”

He hadn’t said anything. He studiously hadn’t said anything—although there was plenty to say. He couldn’t establish a precedent … he couldn’t say yes to her and no to everyone else. And the cot in the office was hardly private, hardly appropriate.

Besides, he wasn’t sure he could keep his balance around this woman who, when not mired in quicksilver moments of confusion, struck him as one of the sanest people he’d ever met. He’d learned his lessons young—to love, but not to lose yourself. To help, but to know you could never help enough. He’d built those walls with care.

Mickey didn’t so much blast through his walls as she simply appeared on the other side.

That’s just what she did now, looking him in the eye. None of the evasiveness of so many off their meds, and none of the glittery intensity. Just pure, straight and honest connection. “Please,” she said. “I just need to stay off the streets a few days.”

When he opened his mouth, it was to offer a gentle refusal—for all the reasons that made so much sense. He simply couldn’t give this woman the kind of help she truly needed. Cruel, to pretend that he could.

Except she wasn’t asking him to pretend anything. And when he sighed, when he looked away to grab some room to find his badly astray equilibrium, his gaze skipping over old floor mats and ragged wall posters to the big glass storefront windows covered with bars …

His gaze caught on a dark green sedan cruising down the street. Too slow to be going somewhere in particular; too fast to be preparing for the turn at the corner. Looking for someone, just as the kids had said. And here he was, with someone who wanted to stay off the streets. Curiosity and coincidence.

He’d already checked in with the clinics; they hadn’t known her. At this, he ought call the cops. But the cops seldom paid much attention to the street community and its denizens, other than to pump them for information. One way or another, Mickey was probably on her own—and seemed to want to stay that way. Maybe for once he could actually
help
. Truly make a difference.

There was time enough to change his mind if he’d made a mistake. He turned back to the hope on Mickey’s face and said, “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 4

Naia’s classes were heavy with the literary and the arts; she was to emerge from Stanford as a cultured, intelligent young woman with no aspirations for career, and no particular foundation for one.

She really wished she could slip in a computer science class or two. Or better yet, resource management, with which she could do something to improve the way her country burned through its natural gifts. What good was it that the upper class had all the oil money they could imagine, when none of the outlying villages even had electricity?

So it was not with any particular enthusiasm that she gathered her notebooks for
Great Archeological Sites in Europe
, stuffing them into her briefcase as she reached for the bright scarf that would cover her hair in public.

It was with considerably less enthusiasm that, once she opened the door to her upscale apartment, she unexpectedly confronted her advisor, Badra.

Advisor.
The woman was a chaperone, meant to keep her in line—meant to report back to her father. During her first days here, Naia had engaged in a fierce battle of wills with Badra. In the end—against threat of being recalled home—Naia agreed to maintain certain customs of her country’s conservative social requirements, and to post her daily schedule. When she went to public events, Badra came with her.

But Badra
didn’t
come to her apartment in the middle of the day.

And Badra never came with one of the San Francisco embassy’s burly security men at her heels.

Naia tried to cover her instant plunge into fear and guilt—as though she’d never even met a woman named Anna who taught her about dead drops and casual lying and compartmentalizing her feelings. “
As-sallamu aleykum
,” she said, automatically greeting Badra with appropriate words. And then she dredged up resentment. “Whatever are you doing here? I’ve got class in half an hour, and barely enough time to get there.”

“You should plan better,” Badra responded, not the least put off. She didn’t exactly push past Naia—she was too proper for that, too outwardly respectful. But somehow she made it into the apartment anyway, and Naia couldn’t bring herself to stand in the way of the security officer as he followed. The door remained open. She felt an impulsive desire to dash through it.

But that wouldn’t solve anything. And now she had a reason to stay in her father’s good graces … she couldn’t help him, she couldn’t help her people, if she became so restricted she couldn’t make contact with her CIA case officer.

Because now … I have a CIA case officer.
Incomprehensible.

“I did plan,” she said. “I planned to use this half hour to make it to class.” She looked at the security officer—a man who blended well into this diverse society, and who didn’t wear any head covering at all to attract attention to his nationality or religion. A small religious tattoo on his neck, nearly obscured by his collar, was the only sign of his devotion to a small, intense sect from northern Irhaddan.

“Then you will have to hurry. I’ll be waiting here when you get back—don’t tarry. Your father has become concerned about you. He insists that from now on, I accompany you outside this apartment. In the future, I’ll attend classes with you. You may also expect to see Mr. Fadil Hisami or one of his associates at any given time.”

Mr. Fadil Hisami gave her a respectful nod. She didn’t see that same respect in his eyes.

Because now … I’ve been trained by a CIA case officer. …

They didn’t know. They
couldn’t
know. She hadn’t done anything yet. Until recently, she hadn’t even known that the CIA had operations within the United States—like most people, she assumed they were limited to working outside their own country. Only after making friends with Anna at San Francisco’s society parties, after coffee shop dates and movies and shopping trips, had she learned about the Foreign Services Branch and how carefully they recruited those who visited their country. Only then had she learned her new friend was one of the case officers who operated this way.

She never would have guessed it of Anna. Anna was carefree; she was bubbly. She respected Naia’s culture and yet helped her explore this new world. She giggled, she sang loudly to the car radio, and she doted on her cat and her high-end antiques business.

Naia supposed all that had made her the perfect woman to approach one such as Naia.

But she hadn’t even
done
anything yet. They couldn’t know! Not her father, not those who pretended to speak for her father.

So although ingrained habit demanded that she acknowledge her unexpected new restrictions, she found a way to tap into the new Naia, the self-assured and confident young woman who wanted only the best for her people and her family, and who could ignore the guilt surging in her throat. She said, “Then I shall see you when I return.”

And all the way down the hall, all the way down in the elevator, all along the brisk walk into campus, Naia thought nothing of great European architecture. She thought only of how to reach Anna.

* * * * *

Huge brown-black eyes. Frightened eyes.

They haunted Mickey, pulling her away from her supper.

Earlier in the day, there in the gym, the teens had gone through their paces, giggling and clowning around and posturing, and Mickey had let her eyes go unfocused and her mind—still blessedly clear—go wandering for clues.
Eyes. Naia’s eyes. Naia’s trepidation. Her courage. Her … pottery?
Maybe that particular impression would make sense later.

Then there was the woman who had held Mickey prisoner—the woman who wanted Naia. Mickey thought about her, too, let her mind wander among possibilities, hoping actual memories would surface.

The silver tabby cat, crouched over a porcelain water bowl. The glimpse of a sitting room, a Black Walnut gateleg table with pristine lace runner and pewter Jarvie candlesticks.

And that’s when she’d seen the gawky teenager standing without a partner, awkward and embarrassed, and she’d stood, still lost in her thoughts. She hadn’t even paid particular attention when the larger boy stepped in. Not until he’d grabbed her—and then it was too late. Then she’d just …

Reacted.

Gone into adrenaline high, sapping every bit of the precious reserves from her nap and her meal. Left her reeling with all the implications—the awareness of how easily she could have killed the boy.
And who the hell knows how to kill someone without even thinking about it?

That
was the question.

God, was that the question.

“Pizza’s getting cold,” Steve observed, watching her in that way he had. Compassionate, but just a little as though he thought he already knew the answers.

Mickey could only
wish
he had her answers. No wonder he thought her ill. She looked down at the pizza—the meat lover’s version—and realized she was completely stuffed. “I’m keeping track, you know. I’ll work it off, or when I—”

When I figure out whether I’m a good guy or a bad guy, when I remember why I got into trouble, when I
get
out of trouble …

“I’ll pay you back,” she said firmly.

“I could use some help sorting the women’s clothes. They don’t all have sizes.”

Mickey instantly stood. “That box in the showers? I can do—”

Steve laughed. A genuine laugh. Whatever he thought of her, he was comfortable with her. Not the least put off by the mental illness he’d decided she had. He relaxed on the office chair, leaving her the cot again, and seemed unconcerned about the slight froth of beer on his lip. She’d opted for milk, and together they’d made serious inroads on the pizza.

“Well, he said, replacing a half-eaten slice in the box on his desk, “whatever you’ve been through, I think you’ll bounce back fast enough.”

She patted her full stomach. “You mean, the skinny? I don’t think it’s …” No. She had no distinct memories behind those words. And still … she saw herself as wiry, but not underfed. She realized anew that she’d have to learn to trust those impressions. She wouldn’t get anywhere if she second-guessed her every response.

Steve had apparently become used to her unfinished sentences; he didn’t pay this one any mind. “Way too skinny,” he said, but he smiled. Comfortable with her, comfortable with himself …

Only belatedly did she realize she was smiling. That she found herself liking him, in that way that came from within.

Stop it. You don’t even know what kind of judgment you have.
Not to mention how attached she might be to someone else. Only one thing to do about that. … She glanced at the computer.

If she couldn’t remember, then she’d just have to sleuth it out. Follow clues to herself … to her life.

And figure out who had handcuffed her to a makeshift hospital bed and drugged away her memory.

Done eating, Mickey insisted on picking up after the pizza and then picking up after the day—sweeping, restocking the freebies barrel, applying liberal amounts of disinfectant in the locker room and bathroom areas. Steve eventually settled into accounting work, muttering over the computer. She’d initially thought his clean desk was an effort to keep things secure, but as he worked—and as she explored more of the gym—she began to suspect he was simply an organized soul.