twisted into something she hoped would resemble a smile. “How’s that going, by the way? The interview?”
He let out a gusty breath and pushed himself away from the window. “We start this afternoon-after lunch-or dinner, or whatever. I have some prep work to do first, since all my questions-my research notes-were on my laptop. I’ve asked for some writing materials-I’m going to have to cobble something up in a hurry. That’s where I’m going now, actually.” He offered her a rueful smile, though his eyes remained shadowed and troubled. “I just stopped by to see how you were.”
“So,” said Sam, carefully ignoring the look in his eyes as she settled into the spot against the windowsill he’d just vacated, “I guess this means I’m going to be stuck here in this room for the rest of the day?”
He gave her an uncomfortable, almost embarrassed look, and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll see what I can do about that.” A smile flickered briefly as he paused with one hand on the door latch. “Maybe I can tell al-Rami you’re my secretary.”
“Yeah,” Sam said dryly, “that’s just what I’ve always wanted to be. Somebody’s secretary. Wahoo.”
His smile steadied and grew tender. “
After he’d gone, she went on sitting at the windowsill for a long time, arms crisscrossing her body, one hand covering her mouth, eyes closed…rocking herself a little…too emotionally exhausted to cry, hurting too much to laugh.
“Mr. al-Rami, I have only a few more questions…” Cory leaned forward into the pool of light.
It was late afternoon, but here, deep in the ravine, twilight had already fallen. Lamps had been lit, lending a degree of warmth and conviviality to the setting that made it hard to remember, sometimes, that the man sitting across from him in the role of gracious host was the same one responsible for the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of people, and whose professed objective was the destruction of almost everything Cory loved and believed in.
“Of course,” al-Rami said, with a magnanimous wave of a long, graceful hand.
Cory cleared his throat. On his left, he could hear the quiet click and whir of Tony’s camera. He had to fight the urge to glance over at Sam, who’d been sitting silently on his right, every now and then taking a sip of tea or reaching to pluck a piece of fruit from the bowl in front of her. She hadn’t said a word throughout the meal and the subsequent question-and-answer session, except to murmur an occasional “Thank you” when some new dish was placed in front of her, and al-Rami had treated her with the same courtesy he’d shown to Tony. Cory suspected the earlier display had been only a case of the terrorist leader demonstrating his absolute power and control, over both them and the situation.
Knowing how important it was at this juncture that he not waver or show weakness, he kept his eyes fixed on Fahad al-Rami’s. “Sir, it is known that you are currently holding two hostages. A Canadian couple-” he made a point of glancing down at his notes, although the names were etched in his memory “-Esther and Harold Lundquist.” He looked up, once more locking eyes with al-Rami. “Missionaries.” He waited.
Al-Rami nodded, his expression unperturbed, even aloof. “That is true, yes. They are in my custody. I can assure you they have not been harmed, and are being well treated.”
“Might I be allowed to see for myself that that is the case? A firsthand report from me would go a long way toward changing the perception most people have of you and your organization.”
Al-Rami gave a slight shrug, picked up his teacup and sipped delicately before answering. “I wish I could accommodate your request, Mr. Pearson. Unfortunately, the Lundquists are not here at the present time. They are being kept at another location-as I said, safe and unharmed.”
“These people are missionaries, Mr. al-Rami. They mean you and your followers no harm. What purpose-”
“On the contrary. They mean us great harm. They have attempted to corrupt the most sacred beliefs of our people.” Al-Rami replaced the cup in its saucer with a sharp click.
Cory took a breath and tried a new tack. “Can you tell me when they will be released?”
“They will be released when the time is right, and under circumstances of
“Might I suggest,” Cory said softly, leaning forward once more, “that
He broke off, his breath catching as a series of sharp, rapid pops came from somewhere outside, not too far distant. Beside him he felt Sam jerk upright and go rigid, as if someone had jabbed her in the back with a poker.
Tony said, “Holy momma, what was
Before Cory had a chance to reply, the room filled with men in camouflage. In an instant, it seemed, a phalanx of them had surrounded Fahad al-Rami and were helping him to rise. Others, with less consideration, grabbed Tony and Sam and jerked them to their feet; Cory heard Tony’s protests as he tried frantically to snatch up his cameras. Then he, too, was being jerked upright. He just did manage to scoop up the tape recorder and stuff it into the front of his shirt before they were all hustled out onto the deck, down the swaying rattan stairway and into the depths of the ravine.
Chapter 8
All hell was breaking loose behind them. Shouts, small explosions and the crackle of gunfire chased them as they zigzagged through the jungle growth, stumbling and tripping over vines and rotting logs, trying to dodge the stinging slap of ferns and fronds and branches. Then came a flash, and almost immediately after that the
In the confusion he’d lost track of Fahad al-Rami, though he assumed the terrorist leader must be somewhere in the tangle ahead of them, no doubt surrounded and protected by his special cadre of security forces. Only three or four of the guards had been left behind to shepherd the three “guests,” and it was obvious the selected ones weren’t happy about it. Every time Cory tried to pause to see where Sam and Tony were, he felt the impatient thump of a rifle barrel against his back, and heard the same guttural command repeated harshly over and over. He didn’t have to understand Tagalog-or whatever dialect these people were speaking-to recognize
He had no idea how long that headlong flight went on or how much territory they’d covered before he was ordered, with pushes and shoves and barked commands, to halt and crouch down in the dense undergrowth. Moments later, to his intense relief, Sam and Tony came crashing through the brush and dropped-or were pushed- down beside him. Tony’s face was glistening with a mixture of sweat and blood from a scratch over one eye. Sam’s face was unmarred but stony. The guards, meanwhile, had gone darting and leaping back the way they’d come and were hunkered down in cover a short distance away, rifles at the ready, avidly scanning the jungle for signs of pursuit.
As soon as he had his breath back, Cory rolled over, propped himself on his elbows and wheezed, “Everybody okay?”
He got all the reassurance he needed from Tony when the photographer began swearing as only he knew how. He left him muttering and fretting over his precious cameras and turned to Sam, who was sitting silently with her arms draped over her drawn-up knees, staring into the darkening canopy.
“Sam?”
She flashed him a glance that stung, and in a voice so low he could barely hear it, muttered, “Yeah, I’m fine.” She turned her face away from him then, but not before he’d registered, with a small sense of shock, the fact that she was angry.
Angry? Why in the world would she be angry? He sat without moving, the question spinning in his brain. Fear he could have understood-not that he’d have expected it, this was Sam, after all-but…
