Out of Control (36 page)
It was cool inside, even with the flaps down. Cool and dimly lit.
He looked around, breathing in her scent. She’d washed out some clothes and hung them on a line she’d stretched across the middle of the room. Underwear. It slid cool and damp and soft through his fingers.
A notebook was open on her table. “Dear Chelsea,” he read, “I have met the most incredible, wonderful, inspiring man . . .”
This was a letter to her grown-up daughter, dated last night. He knew he had no business reading it, but he couldn’t resist hearing what Molly had to say about him. Inspiring. Jesus. She was a lousy judge of character.
“. . . and I finally know where I am going, what I’ll be doing in a month when my time here on Parwati Island is through.” What the hell was she talking about? She was leaving Parwati in a month?
“His name is . . .” What?
He read it again.
“His name is Father Benjamin Soldano, and I met him purely by chance at a church in the city. A child from our village got terribly sick, and I wrangled a ride to the hospital via airplane from one of the American ex-pats living in these mountains. (The very man you warned me about in your last letter, Chel!) He was quite the hero—you have nothing to fear. I don’t know where he’s been or what he’s done—or what’s been done to him. Lots, I think. Lots of luggage, very private stuff. But he’s a kind man, a gentle man beneath that ‘don’t touch me or I’ll kill you’ facade. I can tell you this: I would trust him with my life without hesitation.”
Wrong. He was not to be trusted—how could she write that with such conviction? A few conversations, an afternoon spent fucking, and she thought she knew enough about him to trust him with her life? What was wrong with her?
“I can’t tell you much about him here,” her words continued, “but I’ll fill you in in a few weeks when I come visit.
“Let me tell you instead about Ben. You would love him as much as I do. We met because he was also staying at Nadine and Ira’s house that night after I brought Joaquin and his mother to the hospital, and it was amazing! We were two old friends who had never seen each other before—we clicked instantly and talked almost all night long.”
That was the night she’d taken Jones out to dinner. She’d said good night to him, then gone and stayed up all night with this Ben.
Jesus Christ, he was actually jealous. Jealous that she’d talked with another man. A priest no less. He had no right to be jealous of that, but he was.
“He’s convinced me to come join his mission in Africa, so that’s where I’ll be heading next. It will help ease the pain of leaving this place and these people—so many of whom I’ve come to love. Too many of whom I’ve come to love. Oh, Chelsea, I wish I could tell you about this absolutely stupid thing I’ve done, but I don’t dare write it down.”
That was it. The letter was unfinished and that was as far as she’d gotten.
Of course, he knew he was the stupid thing she’d done. He didn’t have to be a genius to figure that out.
Jones backed away from her table, more disturbed by the fact that she was leaving the island and going to Africa where she’d talk night after night with some priest named Ben than the fact that she considered her affair with him to be stupid.
It was stupid of her to have anything to do with him. He knew that and was actually a little relieved that she knew it, too. Maybe on some level she honestly knew that he wasn’t this hero, this “kind” and “gentle” man she’d written about in her letter.
He sat down on her bed, then lay back, his feet still on the floor. Her sheets and the bright-colored spread smelled like Molly. He stared up at the inside of the tent, the news that she was leaving rolling around in his head, making him feel things he didn’t want to feel.
Angry.
Hurt. Why hadn’t she told him she would be leaving soon?
Yeah, like he ever told a lover that he wasn’t planning to stick around.
Except she was Molly. She was supposed to be here, in this village, working tirelessly to help these people forever. Wasn’t she?
He was the one who was supposed to leave.
Fuck.
He sat up and opened the book that he was still holding, opened to the place where Molly had used a leaf as a bookmark and started to read, willing to do damn near anything to silence his disturbing thoughts.
We danced until four a.m., and I pretended to drink too much champagne.
That was my big mistake, I realized far too late. And the truth was, I didn’t just pretend to drink too much. I actually did imbibe somewhat more enthusiastically than I usually did, hoping it would give me the courage I needed to look up at Heinrich von Hopf as we danced at the Supper Club, and whisper, “Take me home with you tonight.”
It didn’t. I couldn’t get the words out.
He brought me to my apartment in a taxi, saw me to my door, and quite gracefully eluded my clumsy attempt to pull him inside.
That was the best I could manage in the seduction department.
“You’ve had too much champagne. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow,” he murmured before he sweetly kissed me good night and practically ran down the steps to the waiting cab.
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
I paced. I cursed. I gnashed my teeth. I groaned, imagining what it would be like when Hank was charged with espionage and brought to trial. I imagined seeing pictures in the newspaper of him hung, a black hood on his head, his body limp and lifeless.
God, I didn’t want that to happen. I didn’t want him to die.
But if I didn’t turn Hank in, if I continued to let him work for Nazi Germany, God knows how many American lives would be lost.
Yet I loved him. I still loved him. The words I’d told him just a few hours ago had been the truth, bitter as it was.
I put on a pot of coffee and drank it all.
By the time the sun came up, I knew what I had to do.
It was the most difficult decision I’d ever made in my life, but I was an American.
And this was war.
I threw on my evening coat and, still wearing my gown from the night before, I went out into the cold morning air and took the subway—an indirect route as usual, in case anyone was following me—to the FBI headquarters in Manhattan.
Ken opened his eyes, instantly alert in the ghostly light of the predawn, with an awareness prickling the back of his neck, telling him that he was not alone.
Yeah, duh, obviously he wasn’t alone. He was sleeping in a camouflaged blind, invisible to most of the world, with his arms around Savannah von Hopf. She’d turned toward him in the night, nestling her blond head beneath his chin, throwing her leg across his. But she wasn’t why he’d woken up.
Snick.
There it was again. The barely discernible sound of someone or someones trying to move soundlessly through the jungle.
Scuff.
Pop.
Yeah, there was definitely more than one person out there. Probably three. And as far as moving soundlessly went, they pretty much sucked at it.
He saw one, two, yeah there were definitely three men in complete jungle cammo gear. He watched through the holes in the brush he’d cut to hide them while they slept. The uniformed men were almost on top of them.
Snick. Pop. Crshh. The sounds were louder—Ken couldn’t believe Savannah didn’t wake up.
He did move soundlessly, then, shifting Savannah in his arms, so that one hand was free. He used it to cover her mouth. God forbid she start talking in her sleep.
Of course, his hand over her mouth made her jerk awake, but he moved her head so that she could see him, so that she was looking directly into his eyes. His mouth was close enough to hers so that he could press his finger against his own lips in the universal gesture for silence.
She nodded, her eyes wide, and he took his hand from her mouth, pointed out toward the jungle. Held up three fingers.
There was a flare of fear in her eyes as she nodded again. She understood what he was telling her. She looked out through the branches that hid them, got a glimpse of an AK-47, then closed her eyes, tucking her head back against his chest.
He could hear her work to keep her breathing slow and steady—no doubt she was remembering how loud her breathing had been last night when she’d started hyperventilating.
Savannah was smart and she was tough, and damn, he was proud of her for somehow knowing that she should breathe steadily, for having the instincts to look away from the men who were searching for them.
Ken had absolutely no doubts that those three Rambo wannabes were hunting Americans. Hunting them.
He held onto Savannah for a long time after they’d vanished into the jungle to the north, finally letting her go when he was sure there was no one else out there, and that these clowns hadn’t doubled back.
She untangled her legs from his, lay back in the dirt, and exhaled a long, shaky breath. “I think I was hoping they wouldn’t ever get out of their helicopter.”
“I don’t think those guys were from the helicopter.”
She looked at him. “Then who were they?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her face brightening. “Maybe they can help us.”
“Yeah, those weapons they were carrying were standard Welcome Wagon issue.” Ken unfastened the side pocket of the cargo pants she was wearing and took out his knife, putting it into her hand. “While I’m gone,” he told her, “take off these pants and cut the legs off like you said last night—so we can use ’em to carry the dynamite. Use that little sewing kit you’ve got in your bag to stitch up the bottom ends and—”
“Wait a minute,” she shifted around to face him. “While you’re gone . . . ? Gone where?”
“I’m going to follow these guys. See where they’re going, hopefully see where they came from. It could take a while. As in hours. Maybe even all day. You need to stay here, stay hidden. Don’t leave this blind for anything. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
He pulled the Uzi toward her. “I’m leaving this with you. Here’s what you need to do to fire it.” He showed her. “Squeeze this—but not unless you really mean it, all right?”
She didn’t look happy. “Ken—”
“Try not to kill me by mistake when I come back.”
“You mean it’s okay if I kill you on purpose?”
“Very funny.” The fact that she was able to joke made him feel better about leaving her there alone. With the sun coming up and the light getting stronger every minute, she would be fine. He reached around to the other pocket in the pants she was wearing, took out the power bars. “Eat these if you get hungry. Give me a sec, and I’ll get you a couple coconuts so you have something to drink.”
“You know, Kenny, maybe you should just keep going,” Savannah said, turning slightly to face him.
He glanced at her, and she was watching him with those eyes, her face completely serious.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he told her tightly.
She didn’t let it drop. “You can go get help and then come back for me.”
“Nope.” He made an opening in the branches and wriggled out into the jungle, taking a few seconds to admire his handiwork. He was a computer specialist and he didn’t consider building blinds—places to hide in the forest or jungle—as one of his strengths, but this one was damn fine. You really had to know what you were looking for to find it.
Savannah poked her face out of the hole in the branches. “Ken—”
“Nope,” he said again, handing her first one and then another coconut. “If I’m going to follow those guys, I better move.”
“Be careful,” she said, her eyes and mouth worried, her hair a mess of curls around her face.
Ken leaned over and kissed her. It was a stupid thing to do, but he didn’t really think about it. He just did it. He’d just spent the night holding her, and it somehow seemed appropriate to kiss her before he walked out of their bedroom—so to speak.
It was kind of like kissing a fish, though—she was completely caught off guard. Okay, it was like kissing a sweet, warm fish that he wanted to have sex with more than just about anything.
The worst of it, though, was right afterward, when what he’d just done lay there between his realization that he shouldn’t have kissed her and her expression of complete surprise.
“Sorry,” he said shortly, then covered her up with the branches. He got the hell out of there before she could tell him for the seven thousandth time that he was a jerk.
That he already knew.
“Bhagat.”
“Sir, it’s Locke,” Alyssa said into the telephone. She was standing in Senior Chief Stan Wolchonok’s office in the Team Sixteen building in Coronado. He’d shown her there so she’d have privacy to make her phone call, and then vanished.
“What’d you find out?”
“A little too much nothing,” she told her boss, who was now on the other side of the Pacific. “We’ve interviewed Paoletti and Starrett and just about all of the other SEALs in Team Sixteen with the exception of John Nilsson, who’s out of the country. But no one here even knew Savannah von Hopf’s name. Only Starrett knew that Karmody had recently—and I mean extremely recently—met someone and begun an intimate relationship.”
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