Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
Against All Odds (14 page)
Determined to redirect her focus, she switched sides and forced her mind to replay an old movie she’d watched a couple of nights ago. An hour later, she managed to escape into an uneasy slumber.
There was just one little problem.
Coop had the starring role in all her dreams.
Except for the recurring one with her father, in which a bomb kept going off.
At David’s direction, the embassy car dodged a bicycle and a horse-drawn cart to nose into the curb near the entrance to Chahr Chatta Bazaar.
“Wait for me here,” he instructed the driver.
“Yes, sir. Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
Pushing open the door, David hefted the heavy backpack over one shoulder and stepped onto the pavement. He’d substituted wool slacks and a casual jacket for his customary suit, and he turned up the sheepskin collar to cut the cold, biting wind that whipped down the street, sending loose papers scuttling across the road.
Lord, please walk with me on this journey.
The spontaneous supplication surprised him. Although he was a believer, prayer played little role in his life. Nor did he attend church or read the Bible. But his mother had planted a seed of faith in him as a youngster, and it sometimes poked a tentative leaf or two above the ground in crisis situations. Today certainly qualified.
Without giving himself a chance to second-guess his courier role, David strode down the street and turned into the market.
He’d been here once before, on a much earlier State Department trip to Kabul, to sightsee. In those days, he’d been enamored by his exotic ports of call. While their allure had faded in the intervening years as the term
exotic
came to be interchangeable with
impoverished
, the memory of his first visit here remained vivid. And little had changed.
exotic
came to be interchangeable with
impoverished
, the memory of his first visit here remained vivid. And little had changed.
The roofs of the four arcades had disappeared, but the narrow cobblestone street retained the seventeenth-century feel he remembered. Despite the cold, turbaned merchants in flowing robes were doing a brisk business in tiny shops or from the backs of donkeys. A silk dealer was haggling loudly with a customer. A silversmith was seated cross-legged inside a doorway, fashioning an ornate piece of jewelry. Elaborate beaded hats and fine embroidery were displayed on the fronts of some shops. In others, all manner of textiles covered every available space, forming a colorful collage.
The merchandise was the only bright spot in the otherwise bleak, dingy setting.
As instructed, David traversed the street in an unhurried manner. And with a calmness that surprised him. He’d been afraid that when the moment arrived, fear would paralyze him. Instead, the opposite had happened. After all, there were far less meaningful ways to leave this world. He took some consolation in the fact that his death, if that was his fate this cold February day, would be for a noble cause.
Pausing, he closed his eyes and opened his heart.
Father, into your hands I commend my spirit. Please forgive me for all of my many mistakes and shortcomings. And bless Monica always with your grace. Let her never be lonely. Help her understand why—
“. . . Disney World.”
David missed the beginning of the sentence, but the last two words suddenly registered. His eyes flew open.
A young boy—no more than seven or eight, David estimated— regarded him with solemn, dark eyes. His face was dirty, his nondescript clothing a mismatch of drab, ill-fitting items . . . and he held a bamboo birdcage containing a pigeon.
“Repeat.” David said the word in Pashto.
The boy shifted from one foot to the other, darting a quick, nervous glance up and down the street, but he didn’t comply with David’s request. Instead, he pointed to the man’s backpack.
“Repeat.” David tried again, switching to Dari. He had to be sure this wasn’t some freak coincidence, simply a young boy who’d been attracted by his Disney World backpack and was looking for a handout.
This time, the boy understood the instruction. In slow, deliberate English he repeated the words.
“I would someday like to go to Disney World.”
This was it. David’s heart began to pound. He eased the backpack off his shoulder and handed it to the youngster.
Dropping the pigeon cage at David’s feet, the boy grabbed the backpack with both hands and wove his way down the street. In seconds he had disappeared.
Slowly David backed away from the cage. He didn’t think it contained a bomb; there was nowhere to conceal one in the delicate mesh of bamboo. But there were plenty of shadowy doorways and tiny lanes where a sniper could be hiding. Now that his package had been delivered, David was expendable—if the informer had used the lure of information as no more than a ruse to generate some easy cash . . . and eliminate the courier.
Nevertheless, David followed the instructions and headed toward his waiting car, looking neither right nor left.
It was the longest walk of his life.
When he emerged from the market, the embassy car remained parked where he had left it. The driver started to get out as he approached, but he waved the man back into the vehicle and slipped into the backseat.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The ride back to the embassy was tense and quiet.
Not until they pulled into the compound and the gates swung shut behind them did David allow himself to believe his life had been spared. The informant had kept his bargain.
So far.
Now David prayed the man would honor the rest of it and supply the information they desperately needed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, communication isn’t brain surgery, although the tools of the trade can be dangerous. Words, like scalpels, can cut. But so can silence.” Monica waited, giving the audience in the Jefferson Hotel’s ornate ballroom a few seconds to digest that thought.
“You know, I must admit I’m not much of a country music fan.” Her gaze swept the audience and she smiled. “But there was a song a few years back that captured my key message today. It was called ‘I Thought You Knew.’ It’s a song about the danger of assumptions, and wishing for a chance to say all the things you thought the other person knew.
“ ‘I Thought You Knew’ happens to be a love song. But the principle is true in all parts of our life. If you remember only one thing from my talk this morning, let it be this: don’t make the mistake of assuming someone knows how you feel—in your professional life or your personal life. Talk the walk. Thank you.”
Thunderous applause filled the room, and three hundred people rose to their feet as one. From his position to the right of the velvet-draped stage, facing the audience, Coop had a good view of the enthusiastic reception Monica’s speech was being given. And the ovation was well deserved. For the past forty-five minutes, she’d made everyone in the room think, charmed them into laughter, and touched their hearts.
Including his.
No question about it. The lady knew her stuff.
He exchanged a glance with Mark, who stood at the front of the room on the other side of the stage. His partner grinned and gave a subtle thumbs-up signal.
As Monica launched into the Q&A session, fielding questions with consummate skill and a warmth that endeared her to the audience, Coop altered his position slightly to better observe the people approaching the mike positioned in the center aisle, beneath the huge crystal chandelier. They all looked like typical business types. No one exhibited any behavior that tripped a red alert. Everything seemed under control. A visual and audio check with the agents positioned at the exits and in the red-draped alcoves along the sides of the room confirmed that nothing was amiss. Still, he was glad they were in the home stretch.
Twenty minutes later, as the president of the organization joined Monica at the podium to end the Q&A, Coop and Mark slipped backstage to relieve the agents on duty there.
“Wasn’t she great?” The man’s enthusiastic question was met with another round of applause as his voice boomed through the mike. “
Talk the Walk
will be available for sale in the expo area, so be sure to pick up a copy. Ms. Callahan, thank you again. I know we all learned a lot this morning. Ladies and gentlemen, lunch is now served in the Empire Room.”
Talk the Walk
will be available for sale in the expo area, so be sure to pick up a copy. Ms. Callahan, thank you again. I know we all learned a lot this morning. Ladies and gentlemen, lunch is now served in the Empire Room.”
As the man shook her hand and she exited into the wings, Coop and Mark were waiting to escort her. Once in the food service area, two more agents joined them. The four men formed a tight circle around Monica while they wove among stainless steel counters and racks of dirty dishes.
Coop spoke into the mike at his wrist as they approached the outside fire door where they’d entered, its alarm disengaged for her appearance.
“Okay, we’re clear,” he said to the two agents in the lead.
They pushed through the door, hustling Monica into the waiting SUV, which was book-ended by two nondescript vehicles. Coop climbed in beside her, and Mark took the front passenger seat. An agent she didn’t recognize was behind the wheel. No one spoke until they were on the road and headed back to her house.
“That was quite a performance.”
A flush crept over Monica’s cheeks at Coop’s compliment. “Thanks.”
“I second that.” Mark angled toward her. “You had them eating out of your hand.”
Her color deepened. “You two are good for my ego. You can come to my speaking engagements anytime. Except I hope you can sit in the audience and enjoy the next one.”
“I enjoyed this one. Didn’t you, Coop?”
“Yes.”
“Learn anything?”
Coop sent his partner a “knock it off ” look.
“In case you haven’t noticed, Monica, Coop’s not the most talkative guy around.” Mark ignored the other man’s silent warning. “But I found him reading your book at two in the morning on Sunday, so maybe there’s hope for him yet.”
“You were reading my book?” Monica’s speculative gaze came to rest on her seatmate.
“I was having a hard time staying awake that first night, and I like to read. I found it on your bookshelf. It sounded interesting.” Coop felt a flush rise on his own neck.
She waited, as if she expected him to say more. When the silence lengthened, Mark shook his head.
“It might be nice to comment on the book,” Mark prodded.
The flush on Coop’s neck rose higher.
“That’s okay.” Monica responded to Mark but smiled at Coop. “It’s not everybody’s cup of tea. What sort of books do you like to read?”
“Biography. But I was intrigued by your book. It kept me awake.”
Rolling his eyes, Mark turned his back on his partner. “I give up.”
Recognizing his faux pas, Coop tried to think of a way to mitigate it. But to his surprise, Monica reached over and laid her slender fingers on his hand—as he had done with her yesterday.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll take intrigued. And trust me, considering that a lot of my students use my book to cure insomnia, the fact it kept you awake until the wee hours is a compliment.”
He added graciousness to her growing list of attributes.
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