Читать книгу Edge Of Truth - Brynn Kelly - Страница 9
ОглавлениеFlynn ground his heels into the dirt. This was the man America had been hunting since the Los Angeles terror attacks? “You don’t look like a Hamid.”
She laughed, the sound dull and harsh in the thick air. “You don’t think a woman can be a powerful adversary?”
Oh, he knew all about how dangerous women were. “You’re American?” Bloody hell, their intelligence really...wasn’t. “You’re supposed to be Somali. And a man.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “In the twenty-first century we no longer need to be defined by lines on a map or the accident of our birth. I am a person of the world, as you are. I am defined by the things I can control, not those I can’t. Gender, age, lineage, provenance—these are outdated concepts.”
“You forgot to mention religion,” said Tess, sounding like she was clenching her teeth.
“Oh no,” the woman—Hamid—said, her heavy eyes drifting to the bearded soldier next to her. “Religion can still be very useful.”
She and Tess looked like they were about to shoot lasers out of their eyes at each other.
“Why am I here?” Flynn said.
Hamid didn’t take her eyes off Tess. “Because my captive here was lonely and I like to play matchmaker. She’s pretty, don’t you think? You are well suited.”
“My government will not pay a ransom for a lowly soldier.”
Hamid tilted her head, assessing him again. “I would pay a good deal of money for a man like you. But, yes, I’m counting on that.”
He fisted his hands against his thighs. “Then why?” Like he didn’t know what was about to happen.
“I requested a pretty French soldier and my men did not disappoint.”
She stepped forward, lifting her hand to the square patch sewn on the chest of his jacket and tracing her fingertips over its twin stripes. “And an officer. Even better.” She glanced at Tess. “The French lieutenant’s woman—it has a certain allure, right?” She hooked a finger under the thin red foulard looped around his shoulder and tugged it. “And what does this mean? This scarf?”
“It means it’s dusty out there.” He resisted the urge to swallow. If she didn’t know he was legion, she’d figure it out when she saw his patch. Once she knew how expendable he was to France he’d be worth less. And it wasn’t like Australia would give a damn.
Her fingers grazed his cheek. One movement and he could have his hands around the throat of the psycho who’d ordered the deaths of thousands of civilians.
“Yes. My men chose well. The world will be twice as incensed by the brutal execution of two beautiful people as they would by the deaths of regular people. Unfair, yes? You will look handsome indeed on television, next to your new friend. I think we will kill you first and make her watch. Maybe she will cry for you—people love that kind of thing.” She flipped her hand and slid the backs of her fingers down to his jaw, lowering her voice. “Did you make the first move last night, or did she? And was it as good as I was imagining?”
“You are Hamid?”
“It depends who’s asking, and what story fits your worldview.” She spoke just above a whisper. “To the Western world, yes, I am that shadow from their worst nightmares, the one who could invade their comfortable lives and blow them up any second.” She clicked her fingers, right next to his ear, the snap echoing off the walls. “Your supermarket, your cinema, your school. I can be anywhere, take any form. A former soldier driven mad by war. A frustrated immigrant whose dream of a new life never came true.” She rested her palm on his chest, her breath smelling of coffee and toothpaste. “If you are poor and powerless and from this side of the world, I am a rallying call, a raison d’être in an otherwise disenfranchised life. No, not a raison d’être. A reason for dying.” She smiled.
He made a point of eyeballing her. “You expect me to believe that a mob of jihadists would take orders from an American woman?”
She trailed her hand across to his shoulder, sliding a sideways look at the goon next to her. “You mean these people?” Her lashes were so thick with mascara he was surprised she could keep her eyes open. “Oh, they think I am Hamid’s jihadi bride, and if they play nice little jihadists I will introduce them to the oracle. I make them call me Mrs. Hamid. You see? Different things to different people. I am whatever you want me to be.” She stroked one side of his neck. “And what would you like me to be, Lieutenant?”
He swallowed, drawing her focus to his throat. She laughed. “I make you nervous. Don’t worry. I make everyone nervous.”
Flynn’s gaze flicked to the nearest weapon. If he tried to strangle “Hamid” he’d be dead before her heart stopped and she’d be revivable. Breaking her neck would be quicker and more permanent. He unclenched and clenched his fists. Taking out a mass murderer would be a fitting end to his life—and better to die with his secrets safe than have his face broadcast in one of al-Thawra’s snuff videos.
“But why are you telling me all this?” He made his words come out slow and halting, like he was settling into a long speech. “Aren’t you worried that—?”
He sprang to her midsentence, spun her and caught her in a headlock with his left arm. Shouts bounced around. One chance. As his right hand gripped her jaw and yanked sideways, pain slammed into his skull. The room twisted. His crown exploded with heat.
A force grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him backward, as Hamid scrambled away—gasping but alive, fuck it. The silhouette of a sidearm rose above him. The pricks had pistol-whipped his wound. He bit down on his cheeks, internalizing the pain pinballing through his head.
A female soldier leaped down in front of him, a reinforcement from above. Flynn pulled at his captor—captors, now, one pinning each shoulder. They bore down as he dragged them across the dirt toward Hamid. He tossed forward to flip them but the reinforcement launched a boot to his gut. His breath yelped out.
“Don’t touch his face,” spit Hamid as she repositioned her scarf and hood. “The rest of him is yours.”
The woman pulled out a cable tie and sprang round back of Flynn as the other goons pinned him. It clicked as it tightened around his wrists. Warm liquid dribbled down his forehead and into his eye. Blood. He blinked to clear it but a filmy smear remained, coloring the room red.
Damn sedative must have slowed him. No point fighting now. Better to concede and hope they didn’t take it out on the journalist. Light flashed in his face. A phone camera. Taking his picture for their press release? His vision swam in blues and reds.
At least with a dirty face, a bandaged head, an eye socket running with blood and a scruffy half beard he’d be unrecognizable from the teenager Australia remembered. A soldier shoved him to the floor face-first. Something smashed into his lower back. A knee? He inhaled through the pain. In his peripheral vision, the woman stepped back and leveled her rifle. One chance and he’d screwed it up.
“We’ll take a more attractive photo once we get you cleaned up,” said Hamid, her voice ironed smooth. “Maybe I’ll shave you myself. And now, my other pretty one, you must write a note for me.”
With his cheek rammed into the dirt, Flynn watched Hamid tower over Tess. Tess lifted her gaze, defiant, her fists clutching her cargoes. Hamid snapped a command—in Amharic?—and something small pelted through the hole. A soldier passed it to Hamid. Baby wipes.
“Clean your hands first,” hissed Hamid, handing them to Tess. “You’re filthy and I don’t want the paper smudged.”
“A note?” said Tess, with a hint of challenge.
“To your producer. You will write exactly what I tell you.” Hamid’s robe swished as she lifted something from it. “Use this.”
“My notebook.” Tess said it like an accusation.
“Date it a week ago, exactly. Write, ‘Quan. There’s nothing in the story linking al-Thawra with Denniston Corporation. Hyland’s clean.’”
Tess scoffed, a tick from the back of her throat. “Let me guess. Quan will receive this after my death?”
“Write it or I’ll remove your hand and write it for you. And no tricks—I know your handwriting.”
Shaking her head, Tess pulled a pen out of the notebook’s spiral top and began writing.
“Good,” said Hamid, peering over her shoulder. “Now add, ‘I can’t trust using a phone, so I’m posting you this.’”
The pen rolled over the pad.
“Sign it with ‘Ciao’ and two small Xs. And now a T, with a full stop.”
Tess looked up, her forehead creased. “You’ve been reading my emails.”
“Do it.”
Biting her bottom lip, Tess returned to the note. When she was finished, Hamid snatched it, smiled and stomped on Tess’s right foot. Tess yelped. The pen skidded onto the dirt by Flynn’s nose. Hamid ground in her heel a couple of seconds before releasing. Tess crumpled to her knees, air scraping into her lungs. Jesus. Flynn bucked against his guards but all it got him was a smack on the head.
Hamid stepped back, sniffing. “Oh, and thanks to the information on your laptop, I’ve discovered the identity of your other whistle-blower. She will soon meet the same fate as the first. Nice and tidy.”
A cry squeaked out of Tess.
“It’s over.”
“Never,” Tess breathed, raising her chin. “If I found out the truth about al-Thawra, someone else will, too. They’ll take you down, along with Denniston and Senator Hyland.”
Wait—Senator Hyland? He was in on this? Shit, Flynn was even more dead.
“No. You have kindly revealed a crack in this organization and I am fixing it. I am going through your so-called evidence piece by piece to ensure there will be no more lapses.”
Tess pushed to her feet with a slight grunt. “You can’t win this.”
“I already have and your death will seal it. In a matter of days, the US and its allies will announce war on Somalia. Very soon, the senator will be president.”
“With you behind the scenes doing his dirty work.” If Tess was scared, she hid it well. Wrap it up, sunshine. This ain’t comfortable.
“You say that as if you think it is he who is in charge of me,” Hamid said, brushing a streak of dirt from her robe.
“He’s got you believing you hold the power here? You know that sucking people in and spitting them out is what he does best? You’re his pawn, as much as these people.”
“Oh, I am looking forward to the hour I get to spit you out.”
A swishing noise. Hamid was climbing the ladder. The pressure on Flynn’s lower back released. More scrambling marked one soldier’s departure, followed by another. The one remaining guy rubbed Flynn’s face in the dirt and let go.
Flynn inhaled dust, pain stabbing his chest. A cracked rib? The hatch clonked shut, sucking up the beam of light.
“I have nail scissors,” Tess said weakly, nodding to his bound hands. “You took me by surprise with that move on Hamid. I should have done something, tried to grab a gun, or...”
“You couldn’t have done anything. And for future reference, don’t try. I can look out for myself. You should, too.”
In a minute she’d snipped off the ties. He rolled onto his back with a groan and pressed his fingers into his ribs.
“It was worth a shot,” she said. “Broken?”
“Don’t think so.” Hope not. He hoisted himself onto his elbows, suppressing a wince, and wiped his eye clear with his jacket sleeve. “Your foot...”
Tess swept her leg around in front of her. Even in the gray light a scarlet bloodstain stood out, spreading over the toe of her sock, following the path of a darker stain like fresh lava over old. The sock was stuffed with something—a bandage?
“They ripped out your toenails.” The pricks. As torture went, it was old-fashioned but painful as hell, by all accounts. At least nails grew back—given the chance. “What did they torture you for?”
“A dossier of the evidence I have on them—they wanted to know whether there were copies and where they were.”
“Did you tell them?”
“Everything.” Her answer was strangely short.
“There’s some shit going down here, isn’t there?”
“Oh yeah.”
He caught her other leg and trailed his hand down to the foot. More blood, but dry. She pulled both feet away.
“Hamid’s a psychopath, in case you hadn’t worked that out,” she said.
“Hamid’s a woman.”
“You noticed. I’d better take a look at your head—I might have to close the wound again.”
“And an American. What’s with that?”
She pushed to her feet and unrolled his bandage. “Yep. Born and raised in Chicago. Ex-marines, ex-CIA. Her real name is Sara Hawthorn.”
“Sara. The most wanted man in the world is a hot Chicago cougar called Sara.”
“Hey, if she’s your type, you have problems.”
“A woman heading a jihad?”
“Al-Thawra is no jihadist group, despite what their thugs believe.”
“Really? They kind of give it away with all the ‘death to the infidels’ shit.”
“That’s what Hamid—Sara—wants people in the West to believe,” she said, her voice cut with bitterness. “Hell, it’s what we’re quick to believe, isn’t it? That we’re under attack from whacked-out extremists from the other side of the world? It’s harder to understand if the cracks are in your own country.”
“Now you’re sounding like her.”
Featherlight fingers drew through his scalp. He bit down on his cheeks.
“This doesn’t look too bad—the strips have held.” She knelt in front of him, her knees and legs splayed awkwardly. To protect her toes? With a finger under his chin, she raised his head so his eyes were level with her chest. What could he do but explore the hint of cleavage diving into her T-shirt? Sure, he could shut his eyes, but he was no monk, and hey, this could be his last happy moment.
He inhaled. Earthy and musky. He shouldn’t find that sexy, but...damn. He’d never been into women who reeked of perfume—or worse, tasted of it.
Crap, she was talking. Mind out of the cleavage, mate.
“...goons are mostly Muslim, answering the call to jihad, but they’re being fooled as much as anyone. It’s all a cover.” She bent slightly to get something from her bag, bringing her cleavage within millimeters of his nose.
Focus. “A cover for what?”
She snipped something—surgical tape?—and pressed it on his wound, shooting sparks through his skull. He forced himself to imagine what was under that T-shirt, seeing as he didn’t have a real anesthetic...
Man, he was screwed up.
Like he didn’t already know that.
“Long story.” She wound the bandage on, sat on the mattress and removed a wipe from the packet Hamid had left. She ran it across her forehead, leaving a pale streak.
“So you said. We have time.”
She scrubbed her cheeks like she wanted to erase them. “God, I hope you’re right.”
She studied the wipe, now the same dusty gray as the floor. How long had she been here—a week? In solitary, under threat of death, with a couple of rounds of interrogation and torture. Enough to send a commando berko but she seemed calm. Tougher than she looked, maybe. Or just good at hiding the damage.
Dirt—technically mud, now—was swirled over her face, mixed with scoured pink streaks. He itched to lean over and finish the job, so he could stare at something beautiful for a minute. He hadn’t seen much of that in a long time.
Not that he was about to hit on Tess Newell. Hell, no. Journalists cared about headlines, not people, no matter how much they pretended otherwise. He wouldn’t fall into that trap again, just in case these weren’t his last days.
“Hold still.” She leaned forward and smoothed a clean wipe over his forehead and around his eye. “So,” she said, sitting back and hugging her knees. “Interesting times to be a soldier. Where have you served?”
Changing the subject? “Classified.”
She sighed. “And here’s me thinking it might be nice to have someone to talk to.”
You want polite conversation, you got the wrong cell mate. He dragged his sorry arse along the floor and sat on the mattress cross-legged, a hair short of touching her. So the warm, pliant body he’d woken up pressed against was hers. He’d thought it was a soldier from his commando unit. Pity he hadn’t figured out the truth before he’d panicked and leaped up—or maybe just as well.
Ah, crap, her guilt trip was working—she looked genuinely bummed by his brush-off. He could give the woman some company without going into details. “You don’t last long in this business without seeing a bit of action. I’ve served in a lot of places. Too many. One dusty, pointless conflict after another.”
“What had you expected?”
He shrugged, shamelessly watching as she drew out another wipe and attacked a cheek. At least talking gave him an excuse to stare. “I didn’t get into it to be noble, if that’s what you mean.” Even at twenty, when he’d signed up, he hadn’t been naive enough to think it was all exercises and hard drinking—though that would’ve suited him fine. But he hadn’t counted on seeing so much death and misery in so many places. Like he hadn’t lived through enough of that growing up. He scratched his elbow and found a Band-Aid on it. Did she do that last night, too?
She closed her eyes and ran the wipe over them. It felt weirdly intimate, watching a woman clean her face—the kind of thing you only usually saw if you were screwing her. And this was not a woman he’d be screwing.
“Why did you get into it?” she said.
Deflect attention, a-sap. “You said al-Thawra’s a cover—for what?”
“You tell me. Who benefits from those conflicts you’ve been sucked into?”
“No one,” he spit out. Pain stabbed his torso, where that bitch had kicked him.
“Really?”
“No one I’ve seen,” he gasped, clutching his side.
“Maybe I should take a look at your ches—I mean check your ribs.”
He held up a palm. If he could survive broken ribs without medical help as a kid, he could survive them now. Anyway, if his ribs were cracked, a Band-Aid and nail scissors wouldn’t do shit. And the last thing he needed was those pretty fingers skating all over his chest. “Just bruised.”
A pause. “But someone benefits, right?”
“From war? Yeah, journalists.”
“You think?”
He shuffled back to rest against the cool stone wall, buying himself a few inches of space. “Gives you a job, doesn’t it?”
“I could say the same about you.”
“I’m guessing your job pays better than mine.”
“But there are easier and safer ways for both of us to make a living, right?” She stretched her legs out, angling them awkwardly to avoid his. “If the US and its allies invade Somalia tomorrow, to crush the supposed threat from al-Thawra, who benefits?”
“Supposed threat? That’s a whacked comment coming from a woman sitting on jihadist death row—or whatever kind of death row you think this is. Who benefits? How about the people who don’t get blown up in the next terrorist attack?”
“Oh, come on—you don’t believe the PR about war making us safer?”
“Ah, crap, really? I’m stuck in a hole in I-don’t-know-the-hell-where, about to have my head sliced off, having some philosophical debate with...” With a woman who was getting more attractive—and formidable—by the second. He swallowed. “With some lefto greenie...tinfoil-hat-wearing conspiracy-theory crusader.”
“Power and money, right?” She bulldozed on, but with a hint of a smile. “That’s what it’s about—what it’s always about.”
“Not from where I’m looking. You missed survival and the fact that some of us actually like defending innocent people.” God, now he sounded like he was on 60 Minutes, or whatever self-righteous program she worked for.
“Yeah, but you’re looking at the foot soldiers, right? And the victims—the poor people just trying to keep their goats and children alive. Who benefits from a war in Somalia?”
“Ah. That would be no one.”
“No one in Somalia, sure. But how about in America? In the UK, in France, in Australia, in every other country al-Thawra’s trying to provoke?”
“Sunshine, my brain’s too fuzzy to decode your conspiracy theory. And I’m guessing you’ve had no one to lecture for an entire week, so how about you lay it all out for me?” At least she wasn’t interrogating him about his yo-yoing Australian-French accent.
She smiled again, the pale light catching her eyes. He could get used to looking at a face like that. Pity he wouldn’t get a chance. “What about the good old-fashioned war profiteers? In the Civil War they were the carpetbaggers. In World War II, the industrialists. Now they’re the contractors and suppliers.”
“Bloody hell, I’m gonna need more painkillers—you’re saying al-Thawra’s a military contractor?”
“Not directly, but I have—I had—a paper trail proving that al-Thawra is controlled by the biggest military contractor and supplier in the world—Denniston Corp.”
“Seriously?” Half the legion’s supplies were stamped with that logo. “Okay, that could be interesting, if it’s true.”
“Oh, it’s true. It was the story I was chasing before I was captured. Denniston’s about to go bankrupt, and when they do, a whole lot of dirt will wash up. Not just the ties to al-Thawra, but money laundering, terrorist links, political corruption... Kickbacks have been bouncing around the world for years, and a lot of people have got very rich and very powerful—senators, members of Congress, business leaders, at least one prime minister. Jail terms all round.”
“Wasn’t Denniston the company set up by—”
“Senator Hyland, yes. When he left the marines, that’s where he made his money. Officially he’s sold out of it, but unofficially he still calls the shots—in Denniston and al-Thawra.”
“Isn’t he the guy running for—”
“President. Yep. If Denniston goes bust, he loses everything—including his liberty. The one thing that’ll save them is a lucrative multigovernment contract, and soon.”
Whoa. It was like having his own live news service. “And they’ll get this contract if there’s another war?”
“Bingo. Things aren’t profitable right now, with troops withdrawing from Iraq and Afghanistan, and the US and its allies wary about getting mired in another conflict. So Denniston and Hyland and his buddy Sara invented al-Thawra and Hamid, and she masterminded the LA attacks—using foot soldiers who genuinely thought they were martyring themselves in a jihad—and made it look like Somalia was sheltering the terrorists. This invasion would not only get Hyland out of the crap—it’d make him look good.”
“The presidential candidate was behind an attack on his own country? Bullshit.”
“You think al-Thawra kidnapped me just because of my profile?”
“Hey, I was kidnapped and I don’t know about any of this.”
“I’d just verified enough evidence to run with the story and, bam.” She gestured at the room.
Okay, the fact she was in an al-Thawra dungeon might back up her story. “Does anyone else know?”
“My producer knew I was chasing the story, and my crew, but I had to keep it contained—many people would do anything to prevent this getting out, or find a way to discredit it.” She chewed the corner of a fingernail. “I don’t know what happened to my translator—we were separated when al-Thawra sprang. The cameraman was killed.”
“The translator—Somali guy?”
“Do you know what happened to him?”
The woman was in her last days—did she need the details?
She swore, and rubbed her eyes with the fingers of one hand. “Oh God. Really?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I could see it in your face. Dead?”
Very. “Afraid so.”
She tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling, her shiny eyes reflecting the light. His gut twisted—he knew the pain and guilt of losing buddies. Hell, he might have just lost all the friends he had.
“So all this stuff about them kidnapping you because you offended Islam...?”
“As you so eloquently put it? ‘Bullshit.’” She lowered her head and stared at a stain on the mattress. “Hamid will play the publicity for all it’s worth, then kill me, live—so to speak. She’ll want to generate more anger in the States, so Hyland can stir up the political will to get over the line in Somalia.” She lifted her gaze. Strength had returned to her eyes, cut in with new anger. “She’s also eager to pull France into her game. Your execu—your capture could tip them.”
Subtle she wasn’t. “Hamid will assume you’ve told me all this, that I know her secret.”
She winced.
“Guess I was dead anyway,” he said.
“Didn’t want to say it.”
A clink and a squeal—the door upstairs. Footsteps crossed the floor above. Dirt drifted down between the boards, lit by slits of weak light. One soldier, by the sound of it.
“I’m just pissed I’m going to die before I get this story out,” she added.
A grin tugged at his mouth. Smart, gutsy and hot. If he could have chosen one person to share his last days, it might well have been someone like her. As the room lightened she was looking paler and more fragile—but there was fire in her, for sure. He twitched with competing urges—to fold her into him and hide her from all this, and to tease that flame out of her in a far less honorable way. He stayed rigidly still.
Above, one bolt shot across, then another. She gripped the mattress, knuckles blanching.
“Tess, look...” he whispered, ignoring the burn in his ribs as he leaned closer. He stopped short of making it Tess Newell, as he’d heard hundreds of times on TV. Tess seemed incomplete. “Them kidnapping me buys you more time. Sounds like they plan to kill us together, and if your theory is true—”
“It is true.”
“—they’ll want to drum up anger about me in France first, right? That’s got to give us a few days.”
“You’re a real comfort,” she said flatly, but her knuckles returned to a normal color.
“I’ll find us a way out of this.”
She smiled, sadly—acknowledging his attempt at solace even if she didn’t believe it. Well, damn, he’d just have to prove her wrong.
The hatch yawned open. He tensed. Or he could be wrong about the whole time thing. One burst of fire down that hole...
A rope lowered, from the hands of a woman in gray camo gear and a hijab. Flynn shuffled in front of Tess but she exhaled, pushed to her feet and hobbled past him.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Trust me, we want to cooperate with this.” She grabbed a yellow bucket from the corner of the room and hooked it up.
“That what I think it is?”
“Hey, at least they change it twice a day. Otherwise I guess the smell would float up.”
“Real hospitable.”
The bucket rose and disappeared. Something fell. Before he could warn Tess, it clonked her on the head. Another bucket. Clean, at least.
“You okay?”
“Peachy,” she said, rubbing her head. She ducked as a brown plastic packet thunked onto the dirt, then another. She threw one to Flynn.
“An MRE?” he said.
The hatch dropped and was bolted.
“The finest field rations Denniston produces. They earn a dollar in profit from every meal, and they supply dozens of forces around the world—sometimes both sides in a conflict. And that’s only one of their contracts. They might not be making the bombs but they’re sure making the money—or they were. Most countries have a stockpile of these things now, so they’re not renewing their contracts.”
He ripped open the plastic, went straight for a brownie and bit in. Scam or not, he was as hungry as a wolf. She sat on the mattress and hugged her knees again, pulling her socks away from her toes. He got the idea she’d spent a lot of the week sitting like that. It’d sure suck to be alone down here. Hell, it sucked anyway, but it sucked a little less with her next to him.
“You not eating?” he mumbled.
“Later. Hard to drum up an appetite for something with a shelf life of three years.”
“Takes that long to go through your system.”
“I don’t want to know about your system.”
There was that unexpected smile again. He’d have to watch that smile—better yet, not watch it. He studied the packet, speaking through a mouthful of brownie. “This one expired two years ago.” He shoved the last of it in his mouth.
“So now you’re speaking with a French accent.”
“Am I?” he said, trying to sound offhand as he fished out a packet of crackers. “I don’t speak English much, so I’m all over the place.” That was true enough. French had become his official first language when he’d signed his life to the legion nearly a decade ago. The less of his old identity that remained, the better.
He felt her gaze as he crunched, the sound bouncing off the walls like shrapnel. He glugged from his water bottle.
“What are you hiding?” she said.
He choked, and the water splattered his jacket. “What?”
“I once did a story on the legion. It’s not a career path for well-adjusted kids from good families. They say everyone’s hiding or running—or both. So what’s your story?”
“No story. I wanted adventure.”
“Come on—we could be dead by dawn.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“I’m not taking notes. You could at least be civil—this could be the last conversation of your life. Between you and me, what are you hiding?”
Between him and her and her audience of millions? “Maybe I’m just an idealist.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Uh-huh.”
“What you said, about escaping—maybe it’s true of some of the foreigners. But for French officers it can be a quicker trip through the ranks, if you’re prepared to put up with a platoon of lunatics.” Again, not exactly a lie.
“And are they—lunatics?”
“Non,” he said. Watch yourself. “Most just need a job. Others want to earn a European passport. Sure, some are running, but they’re not serial killers.” He gulped. The words had slipped out. Dumbass. “They’re more likely to be escaping bitter ex-wives.”
“Ah. And do you have one of those?”
“No, thank God.”
“Where are you from?”
“I told you—France,” he said, too quickly.
“You already said that. I meant, where in France?”
Damn. “Corsica, where my regiment is based.”
“Corsica, huh? That’s the...parachute regiment.”
Mate, she sure paid attention. Proceed with caution, soldier. “Oui, le 2E Régiment étranger de parachutistes.”
“The elite force—paratroopers, commandos.”
He shrugged. “My parachute training is about as useful down here as your notebook.”
“Do you spend much time at the French base at Djibouti—Monclar?”
“When I’m in town.”
“Maybe that’s why you look familiar—maybe I saw you there, when I was researching my legion piece. I watched a few training sessions.”
Yeah, that wasn’t why. “That’s it, then.” Let it go, lady. He scanned the ceiling. Enough chitchat. “Is that the routine here—bucket goes up, food comes down?”
“Twice a day—morning and evening.”
He stood, and ran his hand over the wooden planks that marked the ceiling, ignoring the sting in his ribs and his throbbing head. At one point the gap was wide enough for a few fingers. He scanned the ceiling, then the hatch, then the room.
“Looking for something?” she said.
“Hooks, nails, staples, bolts. Anything that could attach to the wood up here.”
“It’s all rocks and dirt. You have an idea?”
“I’ll tell you if it works. What’s above us?”
“Some storage bunker, I think.”
“Empty?”
“Mostly.”
“Number of guards?”
“They come and go, usually in pairs. They might beef up patrols now—I don’t think I was much of a threat.”
You are to me, sunshine. “When they bring the evening rations and do the bucket thing, does one person do it, like then?”
Her gaze shot to a corner of the room, thinking. “Yeah.”
“Is it light or dark outside?”
“Dark—right after sunset, I think. They don’t seem to have electricity in this building—this is as floodlit as it gets.”
That presented possibilities. Maybe if he could create some leverage... “Give me a look at your bag.”
She chucked it over. “You planning to bust us out with tweezers and diarrhea pills?”
“Beats waiting for the execution.”
