The Invisible

wearing earbuds and had what looked like an iPhone in a carrier clipped to her belt.If only her father could see her now, Owen thought, biting back a smile. Her style of dress only seemed to reinforce his earlier thoughts, and the iPhone clinched it; anyone this in love with U.S. culture wasn’t likely to be involved with the abduction of one of America’s most beloved public figures. More to the point, Bukhari was young, and she had just completed a difficult program at a very prestigious school. It would be a lot to risk for a man she barely knew.

Owen stepped onto the sidewalk, moved slowly until Bukhari had built a lead of about 10 meters, and then let the crowd carry him forward. Momentarily taking his eyes off the target, he lifted his cell phone, looked at the screen, and frowned involuntarily. Once again, he found himself wondering why the hell Kealey had yet to make contact. There was no excuse for it; according to his latest information, Kealey and Naomi Kharmai should have landed several hours earlier.

Goddamnit, Ryan, Owen thought angrily as he slipped the phone back into his pocket, returning his gaze to Tahira Bukhari.If you fuck this up, I’ll fuck you up, and that’s a promise. In Cartagena, Naomi woke to the sound of rain falling outside her second-story window. She shifted her feet to the floor and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Then she stood and walked into the adjoining bathroom. Splashing her face with cold water, she looked up and examined her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She looked terrible, but that was only to be expected, and it could have been worse. Should have been worse, she thought. Her hair was askew, and the skin around her red-rimmed eyes was puffy and bruised, which was strange, considering how hard she’d slept. Staring into the mirror, she traced her scar with her forefinger, following it down from her right cheekbone to the hinge of her jaw. Not for the first time, she found herself thinking that she deserved the disfiguring mark. Drying her face on a hand towel, she wandered back into the bedroom, pulled on a robe, then walked over to the balcony. Stepping outside, she took in a deep breath of the clean morning air, then felt a sudden surge of overwhelming guilt.

What am I doing? she thought to herself, a wave of depression washing over her.I don’t deserve this. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be dead like the others. Dead like the people I killed. Hot tears sprang to her eyes, but she didn’t make an effort to wipe them away. Instead, she turned and went inside, glancing at the bedside clock on her way to the hall. Freezing in her tracks, she did a double take, her mouth falling open. She wiped her eyes to make sure the numbers weren’t blurred, but they stayed the same. The clock said 7:00 AM, which meant that she’d been asleep for nearly . . . nineteen hours.

Nineteen hours? She briefly wondered how that was possible, but she already knew the answer. Her eyes darted to her bag, which was lying at the foot of the bed. On receiving it the day before, she’d found that her pills were still buried inside. She didn’t know if Ryan had checked the bag, but she didn’t think he had; if he’d found them, he wouldn’t have let her keep them. She could dimly remember taking a few of them, shortly after he’d confronted her the previous day. A handful, maybe, but it must have been some handful, she realized, to keep her under for nineteen hours. Reaching the door, she undid the latch, pulled it open, and stepped into the hall. As she made her way downstairs, she could hear noise in the kitchen, and she entered the room a moment later. Elise Machado was standing at the counter, still in her bedclothes, pouring grinds into the top of a coffee machine. She smiled at Naomi, then caught the younger woman’s expression and frowned, a concerned look coming over her face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

“Where’s Ryan? Where’s your daughter?”

“They’re gone. They left yesterday.” Elise looked confused. “I thought you knew. . . .”

Naomi was stunned. What was going on here? “What do you mean, ‘they left’?” she sputtered, grabbing the door frame for support. “Where did they go?”

The older woman shook her head apologetically, obviously unsettled by Naomi’s reaction. “I really don’t know. They didn’t say much . . . just said good-bye and left in the car my husband gave them.”

“And where is he?” Naomi managed. “Your husband, I mean?”

“He went out to collect something. He said he’d be back in a few hours. Why?”

Naomi shook her head in disbelief. How could Ryan do this? Why would he just leave without telling her? More to the point, why had he taken Petain, and where were they going?

After looking around blankly for a few seconds, she thought of another question. “What about my phone? Did Ryan take it with him?”

“You mean that bulky black thing? The one with the antennae?”

“Yes. Did he take it?”

Elise seemed to think for a moment, then slowly shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”

Naomi closed her eyes and shook her head. Catching the gesture, Elise asked if anything was wrong.

“No,” Naomi replied, but she could tell her voice was distant, not her own. “I’m fine. I’m . . . going upstairs to take a shower. I’ll be back in a little bit.”

Elise nodded uncertainly. She offered a tentative smile, then gestured toward the dripping machine. “Would you like some coffee first?”

“No,” Naomi replied sharply. Catching herself, she tried for a more conciliatory tone. “I mean, no, thank you. I’m sorry. I just . . .”

She turned abruptly, not bothering to finish her sentence, leaving Elise Machado staring after her. She stalked down the hall and began climbing the stairs. Halfway up, she paused, placing a hand on the rail to steady herself. Then she pressed the other to her forehead, closing her eyes. She felt light-headed all of a sudden, as if all the energy had been drained from her body. She assumed it was partly due to the pills she had taken the day before, but part of it, she knew, was also anger. Blinding, deep-seated anger of a kind she rarely experienced. It was suddenly clear what had taken place. Harper must have called with additional background on Benazir Mengal, and instead of telling her, instead of trying to wake her up, Ryan had snuck off with Petain to follow it up himself. Clearly, he had taken it upon himself to push her out of the search for Fitzgerald and the other hostages. Clearly, he had decided she was no longer capable. And the worst part of all, Naomi realized, was that he was probably right. Once she was back in her room, she straightened the covers on the bed, then lay down on her back, staring up at the ceiling. For nearly an hour, she did nothing more than lie there—staring up, listening to the rain, waiting for some kind of insight. Finally, the tears came. She didn’t try to stop them, and she didn’t make a sound the whole time, even as they formed a puddle behind her head, then soaked into the bedspread. She wasn’t thinking about anything, and she didn’t have to prompt them; the tears simply came of their own accord. It was almost as if her body was purging itself of everything that had happened. Everything from Madrid to New York City the year before, but she knew it would take a lot more than one moment of weakness to fully release the guilt that was weighing her down. In fact, she couldn’t think of a single solution; there was just no way she could ever forgive herself for the things she had done. At the same time, she knew she could not continue down the path she was on. She had always thought of herself as a strong person, but the past ten months had shown her just how weak she could be. She could see that now. She had tried to numb her sorrow and guilt instead of facing it head-on, and it just wasn’t going to work anymore. For the first time since she’d arrived in Spain, Naomi realized just how badly she wanted to find Fitzgerald and the other hostages. She didn’t know if doing so would earn her some kind of reprieve from her past actions, but it was the best—and only—option she could see. At the very least, finding them would mean doing the right thing, and that was reason enough; it had been a long time since she could claim even that much.

After lying there for another twenty minutes, she sat up, her gaze falling on the foot of the bed. Getting to her feet, she went to the end of the bed and knelt by her bag. Unzipping it, she dug out the Baggie containing the last of her pills.

She was almost entranced by the tiny white tablets; they seemed to call out to her. The pull was so hard to resist, but it had always been that way. When she’d first been prescribed the morphine, she had genuinely needed it. The pain on the right side of her face had been intense, which was understandable, given the severity of the wound. It had been so bad that the doctors had initially anticipated minor nerve damage. In time they were proven wrong, but no one had ever questioned the serious nature of the injury. As the weeks went by, her physician began reducing the dosage, but Naomi had not been able to adjust as quickly; she’d needed the pills just as much as she had at the start. Eventually, he’d cut her off completely, and she’d been forced to find outside channels. An old friend had reluctantly come through for her and would continue to do so if Naomi asked her. For now, she still had two dozen of the little white pills, more than enough to keep her going until she got back to the States. And she