Читать книгу Remnants of Trust - Elizabeth Bonesteel - Страница 19

A nd to think I was actually worried about him.

Elena watched from the entrance to the pub as Çelik lifted a glass, surrounded by his usual crowd of acolytes. He said something she could not hear, and they all laughed uproariously as he drank. He had not changed at all, apparently, not in the nearly eight years since she had worked for him.

Not that she flattered herself that she knew him. She did not think anyone could truly know a man like him. She was not sure there was anything genuine in there for anyone to touch.

She could not, from this angle, see the prosthetic, although she spied the cane Bob had told her about lying on the bar behind him. Bob had tried to talk her down from her anger: “However he acts, Elena, he’s in considerable pain right now. That’s not going to improve anyone’s disposition.”

She did not have to ask Bob why he had let Çelik leave.

“He is DEFCON-1 pissed off,” Jessica had told her, catching Elena in the hallway before she entered the pub. “But he’s thinking. Or at least he was, before they swarmed him after that speech. You think he believes his own bullshit?”

Elena hadn’t heard the speech, but she could imagine it. “No,” she said. “But I think he knows what they need to hear.”

Jessica’s eyes had narrowed then, and Elena braced herself for compassion. “What about you, Lanie?” she asked. “What do you need to hear right now?”

Elena inhaled, exhaled, smiled. “Mostly,” she said, “that you’ll stick with me when I finally have a fucking meltdown over all this.”

Jessica had reached out and rubbed Elena’s elbow, and for one moment she had thought about falling into her friend’s arms and sobbing until she couldn’t feel anything anymore. Instead she had put her hand over Jessica’s and squeezed, then let her go.

She nudged her way through the crowd of men and women around Çelik, avoiding their eyes. The man himself watched her over his glass, gaze shrewd and sober. When he was off-duty, she recalled, he often had a drink in his hand, but it was usually the same one over several hours. She was not convinced she had ever seen him drunk.

He waited until she was directly in front of him. “Something I can help you with, Commander?” he asked easily.

Just like that, the others fell silent, waiting, and she felt her annoyance deepen. He was always surrounded by toadies, and she had never understood the appeal. He was one of the brightest people she had ever known; she had no idea why he wasted his time with such obvious gestures. “I’d like a word in private, Captain,” she said.

Behind her someone snickered. She ignored it.

But Çelik, as he always had, took her seriously. “Leave us alone, please,” he said, and the others dissipated like so much smoke. He waited until they were gone, then took a sip. “Still brimming with judgment, I see. How’ve you been, Shaw? Managed to recover from your lousy career move?”

It took more resolve than she liked to admit to keep from arguing with him. She had argued enough at the time, albeit from a much more vulnerable position. He had thought moving to Galileo was a choice to take the path of least resistance. She had agreed with him. Where their opinions differed was on exactly what resistance she was avoiding. He had refused for nearly six weeks to sign off on her transfer request, but in the end, the reference he gave to Greg was not only honest, but complimentary. Çelik could be spiteful, but he was never unprofessional.

“May I speak with you candidly, Captain? There are some things I’d like to ask you that may seem rather blunt.”

“Are there now?” He smiled, harsh and humorless, and his eyes grew hard. “And why on earth should I recognize your authority to ask me questions?”

Eight years later, and he was using the same tactics: rigidity and intimidation, but only when she hit a nerve. “Because we’re on the same side. For now.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Planning some more insubordination? In your shoes, I might give that a rest for a while.” He shrugged, and sipped. “Speak as candidly as you like, Commander. Why the fuck do I care?”

At least I’ve made him curious. “Why were you transporting Niall MacBride?”

He did not look surprised that she knew. “That’s classified. But I’m guessing you know that, or you wouldn’t be so pissed off.”

“He wouldn’t even have been arrested if it wasn’t for me,” she told him.

“So I understand. By the way, I found it fascinating that he ended up losing his career for not killing people, while you managed to stay on your feet after—what did they call it? ‘Unauthorized equipment damage’? I love military understatement, don’t you?”

Privately, she did not disagree with him. MacBride could have followed orders and made his life much easier; instead, he did the right thing. “Why did they take him, sir?”

His eyes slid away from hers. “How the fuck should I know?”

“I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Do you think it matters to anyone what you believe?” He turned back to her, his eyes bright and piercing. “Why does it matter, anyway?” he asked, curious. “What is MacBride to you, except the guy that took the heat for you?”

“It matters,” she replied deliberately, “because he’s the reason you were hit. And you know it.”

He watched her for a moment, eyes still bright; and then he relented, leaning one elbow on the bar. “Yes,” he said, suddenly serious, “I do know it. And whether he was kidnapped or rescued, it’s my responsibility, Commander. Not yours.”

It crossed her mind, then, that he might be trying to do her a kindness. Along with all of his less pleasant personality traits, he had always had a streak of military honor—a calculated form of chivalry—that surprised her. For an instant she looked at him and saw beyond his abrasive persona to a man, nearly fifty years old, body badly injured, psyche nearly mortally wounded. His rank, his patriotism, his loyalty to his command chain would seem like lifelines right now. And she could respect that.