from shadowed sockets were Caucasian.
Her breathing quickened, and so did her heartbeat. Here at last was the infamous Fahad al-Rami.
He lifted a long-fingered, graceful hand and gestured to them as he spoke, in perfect British English. “Ah, my American guests. I am certain you must be hungry after your long journey. Refreshments are being prepared for you, but in the meantime, I hope you will join me in a cup of tea.” Framed by the beard, his lips curved in a smile that didn’t show his teeth. “A habit I picked up during my years at Oxford. Please-” he nodded at Cory and extended a hand toward a pile of cushions on his right “-Mr. Pearson, do be seated. It is an honor to meet you face-to-face at last. I have found our e-mail correspondence enjoyable.”
The eyes shifted and the hand moved languidly through the air-like a frond of seaweed, Sam thought, waving with the ocean current-to indicate Tony. “And this, I presume, is your photographer, Mr. Whitehall. First, allow me to apologize for asking my men to appropriate your equipment. I’m sure you can appreciate the necessity for doing so. Your cameras will, of course, be returned to you, with the understanding that you may take photographs only within these walls.
“But first-we must eat. Please-sit.” The hand dipped toward another pile of cushions.
After a quizzical glance over at Cory, who had already seated himself and was presently squirming around trying to figure out what to do with his feet, Tony sank gingerly onto the cushions.
For one horrible moment Sam thought she wouldn’t be able to hold back her laughter as she watched the two men in their jungle boots and cargo pants attempting to make themselves comfortable in a setting reminiscent of a Persian bordello. A favorite expression of her Grandma Betty’s popped into her mind:
Then al-Rami’s dead dark eyes slid toward and then over her, and any notion she might have had to laugh vanished in an instant. Heat rose to her cheeks, and she became aware of the steady thump of her own heartbeat.
But when al-Rami spoke again, it was to Cory, in a voice as smooth as silk. “As you can see, there will be no need for the services of your…interpreter. In any case, she would no doubt prefer to rest and freshen up in privacy. Quarters have been prepared which I am sure she will find comfortable. My guard will show her to her room. Refreshments will be brought to her there.”
A wave of anger washed over Sam, catching her by surprise and testing her self-control even more sorely than the laughter a moment ago. Loathing clogged her throat like sickness. Her vision shimmered. She was barely aware of Cory’s face swiveling toward her, his eyes reaching out to her, flashes of warning…beacons of calm. Then, through that mind-fogging rage, she saw his lips quirk sideways in a wry little smile. She could hear his voice, mild and amused, inside her head.
She began to breathe again, but she was still seething. She answered his nod with a sarcastic one of her own as she turned to follow yet another camouflage-wearing, rifle-toting guard from the room. But every fiber of her being, every part of her, from her free-thinking, independent woman’s soul to her strong, red-blooded-American woman’s body to the bare-knuckled tomboy she still was at heart, raged in mute rebellion over being dismissed from the august male presence like a child. No-even worse, a woman.
As she was leaving the room, she lost the battle with her pride and looked back once more at Cory, reaching for him across the vast emptiness of the room…ashamed to admit even to herself that right now she wanted- needed-the reassuring touch of those wise blue eyes. But he wasn’t looking at her, leaning forward to accept a cup from his host as if, she thought, he’d already dismissed her from his mind. A quiver went through her, a manifestation of emotions too intense to contain. She wasn’t even sure she could have named them-
How many times had her dad said that-before he’d gone away to Iraq and gotten shot down and disappeared from her life for eight years-when she’d been fouled in a soccer game and lay howling and writhing in the grass? And how many times had she pulled herself together and gotten up, sniffling, to wipe away tears and blood and get right back in the game?
Resolutely, she banished the hurt and the loneliness. But she held on to the anger, tucking it away in the back of her mind like a secret talisman.
She was taken to a room up one flight of bamboo stairs from the large main room. It was sparsely furnished-a pile of those same all-purpose cushions on the floor, a small bamboo table and stool near the only window-but seemed hospitable enough. A basin filled with water sat on the table, and a shelf below held folded cloth towels.
Her escort nodded her into the room, then closed the door and departed-hurriedly, and without a word or a smile, as if anxious to get as far away from her as possible. Alone at last, Sam let her breath out in a gust and went quickly over to the window. It had neither glass nor screen, just a bamboo shutter that could be closed to keep out the rain and indigenous wildlife-the larger varieties, at least. She leaned her head and shoulders out, looked up, then down. It was a long way to the rushing stream below. She was, for all intents and purposes, a prisoner in the room; though she didn’t think she’d been locked in, she was quite certain any attempt to leave through the door would be foiled by those ever-vigilant guards.
What had she expected? This was the hideout of the most wanted man in the world; she could hardly have expected to be given free run of the place.
A picture flashed into her mind, of Cory leaning forward to accept a cup of tea from the bloody hand of Fahad al-Rami. A shiver of outrage shook her from head to toe.
The anger ebbed, and in its place came a cold resolve.
Anyway, her fit of pique had been only a momentary thing, a knee-jerk reaction to the injury to her feminine pride. The truth was, she knew her “banishment” couldn’t be more opportune. For what she needed to do next, privacy was essential.
Privacy…and a good satellite signal. An awful thought came to her, and she swiveled her gaze upward again to where only minute fragments of hazy sky were visible through the dense foliage.
It was time for a test. She took in a deep breath through her nose…whooshed it out…flexed her fingers, then gave her hands a shake. Loosening herself up, shaking off the tension. Then, carefully touching back the hair behind her right ear, she lifted her finger and placed it on the small bump located there, beneath the healing scar. Head bowed, eyes closed, concentrating on blocking out the twinges of pain from still-tender tissues, she pressed the bump in a well-rehearsed code sequence:
She waited, heart thumping. Several minutes later-it only seemed like hours-the answer came. A single but unmistakable zap:
Quivering and clammy with relief, she tapped out a new message:
The answer came more quickly this time. Two zaps:
She repeated it:
And the answer came back-one zap:
It was done. For now, anyway. Wobble-legged, suddenly, she turned and half sat, half leaned against the windowsill, letting the tension and adrenaline drain from her body and her thumping heart settle back into normal rhythms. Later, when the time was right, she’d send another signal-the signal to move in. But for now, all she could do was wait. Wait until Cory finished his interview. Wait for word on the hostages. Wait until they were all safely away.
Waiting had never been easy for her.
And in the meantime, somewhere out there beyond the ravine, Philippine government forces and their American special ops advisors would be gathering, homing in on her GPS signal. Waiting for the signal to move on Fahad al-Rami’s jungle hideaway.
