Taking Fire (12 page)

“Noted. But we're going out tonight. What about transpo?”

He'd surprised Talia again; she hadn't been sure he'd be on board with her plan to search tonight. She was beyond relieved that he was. It had been a long time since someone had had her back.

“Get a pen and paper,” Rhonda said.

“Just shoot it to me.”

“All right, Memory Man. I knew you wouldn't take my advice and start tomorrow. So in forty-five minutes, you're to walk to the following intersection.” She very precisely gave him the street names. “That location should be exactly six blocks from the safe house. I don't have to tell you to take measures to make sure you aren't followed. There'll be a city taxi, number 393, waiting for you. That's 393,” she repeated.

“Copy that,” he said firmly.

“Don't get into any cab but that one. If another cab shows up, leave, call me, and we'll regroup. You'll find what you asked me for in the backseat. Should be enough money to get you in and out of where you need to go. And Talia, if the clothes don't fit, blame Bobby, not me.”

Talia was impressed that Taggart had thought of that very important detail. They needed to blend in. And she wondered again what kind of organization he worked for that had assets here capable of arranging the things Rhonda had managed on this very short notice.

“One final thing,” Rhonda added. “Unfortunately, you two made quite a stir with the media. And you look like hell, Bobby. Talia, you look a little rough, too, sweetie. Are you sure you're both up to going out tonight?”

“Your point?” Bobby said, rolling past Rhonda's concern.

“My point is, you have to be very careful out there. There's a ‘be on the lookout' for both of you. Not only the embassy staff but the local police and the military want you for questioning about the bombing.”

“I figured that would happen when we didn't show up among the living or the dead at the compound. The news coverage didn't help any.” Bobby sounded disgusted. “Isn't there anything you can do to squash that BOLO?”

“I'm working on it, but these things take time.”

“Don't worry about it, babe. We'll be careful.”

“All right, then, chickies.” Rhonda's voice was soft with concern and affection. “Keep your eyes open, and watch each other's back, okay?”

“We'll be fine,” Taggart assured her.

“You'd better be. And Talia, you have every reason to hope for the very best outcome. We're going to get him out. If you two get lucky on your search tonight, we'll have him back even sooner.”

Talia closed her eyes and nodded, unable to speak. She wanted to be hopeful. She needed to be hopeful.

“I'll be back in touch with an ETA for the team's arrival. Keep the phone charged, and keep it close. And for God's sake, Bobby—”

“I know,” he cut in. “Don't do anything stupid.”

22

“Who are we waiting for?” Talia looked up from the sofa. “I thought they'd already be on their way.”

Bobby had known this was coming. “Some of the guys were doing drills in the field, down in Central America. The good news is they weren't running black, so Nate was able to call them back.”

All the blood drained from her face.

“Don't. Just don't,” he said, seeing her panic set in. If this was a flat-out op where her child wasn't involved, she'd be icy cool. So he cut her a little slack. “They're already on a charter flight back to Virginia. Should touch down within three hours.”

“And you know this how?”

“Because I've done those same drills. I know how quickly they can gear up and get home. That 737 in Dulles will be wheels up shortly after midnight Oman time.”

“So we're looking at what? Another twenty-four hours?”

“Unfortunately, yes. The miles are there, they have to fly them.”

“And then what? How do they clear their landing with the Omani government? It's not as though the United States has a military base here.”

“They'll make it happen. They'll be cleared, okay?”

She still looked skeptical. “It's too long.”

“It's not too long. And it's the time frame we've got to work with, so you need to accept it. With a little luck, by the time they arrive, we'll have something for them to go on.”

She lowered her head, clearly frustrated and attempting to control it. “We're looking for a sand pebble on a beach. How can we possibly—”

“You're not thinking like an operative,” he snapped. “You have to get your mind-set right.”

She gathered herself. Drew a deep breath. “You're right. I'm sorry. I will.”

Her phone rang.

She grabbed it, checked the screen. “Text from Rhonda.”

“I'm going to change into a dishdasha,” he said. “No one's going to be looking for a local.”

“No,” she said, glancing up from the phone. “They're going to be looking for a Caucasian with a huge bandage on his head.”

“Got it covered.” He headed for the bedroom.

“Virginia?”

He looked over his shoulder, one hand on the door frame. “What about it?”

“You said the charter flight from Central America was on its way back to Virginia. And Rhonda said the Pentagon approved your ‘team' to investigate. CIA? Is that who you're with now?”

She didn't miss much. The ITAP team
was
stationed out of CIA headquarters in Langley, and Nate
had
worked his magic and gotten the Pentagon to sanction this op. But that was where the connection ended. “No. Not CIA. Look, don't sweat the small stuff. We've got you covered. All you have to do is keep it together.”

*   *   *

Along with the dishdashas, he'd found a few pieces of traditional men's headwear. He was pretty sure that here in Oman, they called the white cap he put on first to hold his hair in place—no biggie for him—a thagiyah. The gutrah, a scarflike white head covering, fell a little past his shoulders in back and almost to his brows in front.

Someone would have to be looking really hard to pick up on the bandage on his forehead. Both the thagiyah and the gutrah were held in place by an ogal, a black band that surrounded the top of his head. Too bad he couldn't figure out how to get the damn thing to stay put.

He walked out of the bedroom dressed in the dishdasha, the ogal in his hand. “I need some help with this.”

Talia looked up at him, her expression wild.

“What?” he asked.

She held up the phone, screen toward him so he could see Rhonda's text. A head shot of a young Arab man filled the screen.

“Hakeem?”

She became a warrior before his eyes. “If he hurts my child, I'll kill him.”

He stared into the face of a dead man walking. “You're going to have to stand in line. She send a pic of Amir?”

She nodded, found the other text, and brought Amir al-Attar's head shot up to view. A shiver ran through her body as she held up the phone for him to see again.

Jesus. Straight out of Ali Baba and the Forty Degenerates. Amir had a mean, crazed look in his eyes, and for the first time, Bobby gave in to a stark, gut-clenching fear for Meir. If that bastard touched him—

He stopped. Shut off his thoughts. He couldn't think of the possibility of the child being hurt by this man, or he wouldn't be able to function.

“Those license-plate numbers come through?” he asked, taking the phone from her hand.

She nodded and looked away, but not before he saw the haunted look in her eyes. He understood, but it wouldn't do either of them any good to live in that mind frame.

He walked to the kitchen, opened a drawer where he'd spotted a charger cord earlier, and plugged in her phone. Then he returned to the living area and held up the ogal. “I can't get it fastened.”

She rose from the sofa and took it from him. “Clothes may make the man, but they can't make you into an Arab man. Your skin is too light.”

“It'll be fine. The places we're going will be dark. No one's going to notice.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“To hunt for Amir in his playground.”

She studied the ogal and then his head. “Back up to the coffee table so I can reach you.” Then she stepped up onto the low table.

He should have thought about proximity, his to her, before he gave up on the ogal. Too late now. He backed up to the table, and she looped the cord around his forehead, then brought the ends to the back of his head.

“Hold still.” He sensed her unease at being this close to him again as she pulled the band tight.

“Easy.”

“Sorry. Um . . . can you move the cord so it hits someplace where it doesn't bother you? Then I'll tie it.”

He reached across his body with his right hand to position the ogal and the gutrah over the bandage on the left side of his forehead, and his fingers touched hers. Touched and, after a moment's hesitation, covered. Large over small. Rough over smooth.

It would have been a forgotten moment if he'd merely moved his hand away. But he didn't. For some reason, it felt as if he couldn't. The unexpected physical contact seemed to tether them in an unbreakable hold. And for long, tentative moments, they both stood frozen, neither of them capable of moving.

Only the tips of their fingers touched, one soul reaching out to another and hanging on, because both needed something to hang on to so badly.

She slowly turned her hand into his, and nothing in the world could have kept him from lacing their fingers together and holding on.

Just holding on.

“We're going to get him back,” he whispered, as much for his sake as for hers.

“I know.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “I know.”

For another long moment, they stood that way. And then her fingers tightened in his, tugging on strings attached to memories of how good they'd been together and to thoughts of what could have been, what should have been, and to a very big piece of his heart. He turned and faced her.

“You . . . you could have walked away,” she whispered, her eyes glistening as she searched his. “You could have—”

“I couldn't,” he interrupted. “I wouldn't,” he assured her. And because he couldn't tell which one of them had started to tremble, he slid his arms around her and pulled her close.

She leaned into him, laid her head against his shoulder, and drew him tighter. And there they stood, locked in an embrace of emotions that bound them together with a common history, a common fear, and one common goal.

He didn't want to be on the attack with her anymore. He couldn't continue to let his thoughts lead with anger. In this one thing, they must be united. They'd both lost something. And the only thing that mattered was getting Meir back.

What would you have done?
How could I bring a child into this world and introduce him to a man who hated his mother? And how could a child have possibly fit into your world?

She'd been right to be afraid of what he would have done.

But not any longer.

“I don't want to fight with you anymore,” he whispered into her hair, as her remembered words brought not only understanding but an aching need for peace between them.

She made a sound, part sob, part relief, all gratitude. And she clung even tighter.

23

A white taxi with orange markings and the number 393 on the roof waited for them exactly where it should be and exactly on time. The driver was a local, and Bobby had expected to haggle over the price of the fare, but the man—Sanju, according to the placard mounted on the dash—said in English, “All is taken care of, sir. I have been provided with a list of places where you may wish to go.”

“Thank you,” Bobby said. Sanju nodded and closed the glass divider between the front and rear seats, giving them privacy. He pulled away from the curb, headed toward the heart of the city, and not long after switched the radio station from Arabic pop to American pop.

It made Bobby wonder just how much Sanju knew. He had no choice but to trust the man.

“Sounds like Rhonda came through,” Talia whispered.

“She always does.” Bobby turned toward her in the dark backseat. He'd been more than grateful that Rhonda had called just before they'd left the safe house, telling them the driver would know where to take them. He would drive them to hotels, clubs, and bars where a man like Amir al-Attar might go to satisfy his appetites for partying and women.

“I take it you found the package,” he said, hearing the rustle of paper. The backseat was fairly dark, and there was only a sprinkling of streetlights in this part of the city, but he'd spotted the promised package when he'd gotten inside.

“She seems to have thought of everything. I think this is for you.” She handed him a packet that could only be currency: Omani rial.

He unwrapped the packet, gave it a quick count, then whistled low. Inside was a stack of notes worth fifty rial each. They shouldn't run out of cash anytime soon. “Looks like my bonus came early this year.” He tucked the money into one of the dishdasha's deep pockets, right next to the 9mm Beretta and an extra clip he'd taken from the floor safe. Then he glanced at Talia. “You have everything you need?”

“Looks like more than enough.”

She'd already hiked the dishdasha above her knees and was in the process of tugging off the white socks she'd worn in lieu of shoes for the six-block walk to the rendezvous point. Short of going barefoot again, it was the best she'd been able to come up with. In the dark, with little foot or car traffic in the neighborhood, if anyone had seen them, they'd assume they were a father and son out on the streets together.

“Are those going to work?” he asked, as she slipped on low-heeled sandals with straps covered in gold beading.

“Better than the socks.” She glanced his way as she started tugging the dishdasha up her thighs. “You might want to look to the left.”

He whipped his head toward the passenger window as the sounds of crinkling paper, swishing silk, and delicately jangling glass beads filled the backseat. Then he tried to ignore the bouncing of the seat springs as she shifted and started to remove the dishdasha.

Okay. He'd once been an altar boy—his mother had insisted—but he was no monk. And when a streetlight illuminated her reflection in the window glass, he couldn't resist looking as she lifted the dishdasha over her head and bared all that golden skin. Her graceful neck. Her slim shoulders. Those incredible breasts, which he knew by touch and taste. Her dark brown nipples pebbled tight against the air-conditioned cold, the way they used to peak for him when he touched her.

He closed his eyes too late; the picture would be burned into his mind forever. Just like memories of them together, skin on skin, remained branded in his psyche for what he was beginning to think would be forever.

Despite the air-conditioned chill in the taxi, a line of perspiration beaded on his upper lip. He'd done his damnedest not to think about how good they'd been together. But here, in the shadowed intimacy of the taxi's backseat, with only inches and a newly minted peace separating them, it wasn't working.

“How are you doing over there?” he made himself ask, because he needed to get grounded again.

“Okay, I think. It's not one size fits all, but the loose construction makes everything wearable.”

When he turned to her, she was covered from neck to wrist to ankle in delicately embroidered and beaded silk. They'd reached a more central part of the city, which meant more streetlights and more light in the taxi.

Rhonda had managed to acquire a woman's dishdasha for Talia, made of multicolored silk in a swirling pattern of blues and greens and golds, coming just below her knees instead of to the floor.

Beneath the dishdasha, she wore sarwal—­trousers—drawn snug and embroidered at her ankles, then loose to the waist.

She'd wrapped a soft blue waqaya around her head and neck, and over that a scarf—a lahaf—fell like a shawl to her shoulders. With her complexion and dark eyes, no one would question whether she belonged here.

She motioned toward her traditional clothes. “This could go either way tonight. These clothes will conceal our identity, but they may bring more attention if we end up being the only ones in the crowd dressed this way. A lot of the young people here wear Western clothes.”

“We'll be fine,” Bobby assured her. “Rhonda wouldn't let us go out like this if she thought it would increase our profile.”

The center window slid open, and Sanju caught Bobby's eye in the rearview mirror. “Excuse me, please. We are about to arrive at your first destination.”

Talia's body tensed beside him. It was showtime, with no dress rehearsal. This could be an exercise in futility, or they could get lucky and find a lead. Either way, they were walking straight into the fire and stood a very good chance of getting burned.

“You're probably aware of this, but remember,” she said, looking across the seat at him, “we're ‘locals,' so we can't slip up. Keep your left hand in your pocket. Don't shake hands with it; don't accept food with it. Use your right hand only. A tourist could be excused for making that blunder, but a local would immediately become highly suspect.”

He knew the drill, but he let her talk. She was focused, and they both needed to be that way.

“And no PDA, even if the situation seems to call for it. No holding hands, no hugging, no kissing. No public displays of affection of any kind. We'd draw the wrong kind of attention.”

“Got it.” He watched her draw her Glock from the folds of the discarded men's dishdasha and tuck it into a roomy pocket.

He'd debated the wisdom of carrying tonight. If either of them was caught with concealed weapons, they'd be marched straight to jail, where they'd be no good to Meir. They'd lived through a bombing, a high-speed chase, and a forced car crash today, but they couldn't depend on luck getting them out of another scrape. So they'd weaponed up.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“Let's go find him.” A renewed strength seemed to have come over her. Her short nap and the food and energy drinks must have helped recharge her batteries, but her tipping point had come afterward.

I don't want to fight with you anymore.

Everything had changed for both of them in that moment. He'd felt a weight lift from his shoulders and from his soul. And she'd apparently felt something similar.

He leaned toward Sanju. “Wait for us.”

“I will be right here, sir.”

Armed with a single-minded purpose, they slipped out of the taxi and into the nightlife.