Secret Agent Sam

Al-Rami cut him off with an imperious wave of his hand. “You refer, of course, to the so-called missionaries, spreaders of your Western propaganda-the Lundquists. I have given a great deal of thought to your…suggestion.” He picked up his teacup, eyes hooded, expression aloof. “I’m afraid what you are asking me to do-” And then he paused with the cup halfway to his lips, as if thinking about what he would say next.

Cory waited for him to go on, as did everyone else at the table. But al-Rami didn’t continue, and an instant later, in that listening silence, Cory understood why. The terrorist leader, too, was listening, to a faint and distant sound…coming steadily closer.

Next to him, Sam whispered, “Choppers,” on the gust of an exhalation. As she pushed herself away from the table Cory thought he heard her swear violently under her breath, and mutter, “Not again, damn you…”

On his other side, Tony was hurriedly draping himself with his bags and cameras, all the while blaspheming as only he could. Meanwhile Cory, though aware that al-Rami had placed his cup carefully in its saucer and was rising to his feet, kept his eyes fixed on the village, where people were erupting from the thatched-roofed houses like ants from a disturbed nest. He heard shouts coming from that direction, and the crackle of gunfire. Then…the steady thump of chopper rotors as two helicopter gunships lifted above the distant treetops. Across the cultivated fields, men began to emerge from the cover of the jungle.

Fahad al-Rami’s deep-set eyes swept over the three still seated at the table, lashing them with a cold black rage. Cory was sure the hatred in those eyes would haunt his nightmares in the days and weeks to come. Then al- Rami whirled, and in two long strides, crossed the veranda and vanished into the house.

“He’s probably got an escape route out the back.” Sam’s voice was low and urgent, more compelling than a shout. The pops and crackles of gunfire seemed closer already; some of al-Rami’s men were working their way up the slope, turning now and then to fire back on the advancing government forces. Small explosions had begun to blossom in the road leading to the village. Near the river a thatched roof erupted in flames.

“Come on, let’s go-quick-before we lose him.” Sam was already on her feet, lunging for the doorway. Tony was right behind her-though naturally he had to pause first to aim his camera and click away at the chaos breaking out below.

“Wait-” Cory caught Sam’s arm, stopping her in midstride. “What if they’re in there?” His voice was an urgent rasp as he jerked his head toward the small house perched on its stubby stilts fifty yards away across the hillside. The guard they’d seen yesterday was nowhere in sight. “The Lundquists-we can’t just leave them there. They could be hit-killed.”

She gave him a long, furious glare, then abruptly nodded. “Okay, dammit-you’re right.” She pivoted, and instead of ducking into the house, headed for the far end of the veranda.

Once again Cory caught her arm. “Wait-it’s too dangerous. You guys stay here. Let me go. If they’re in there, I’ll-”

“Like hell you will,” Sam snapped, jerking herself free of his grasp. “What if they need help?” And she was already jumping down off of the veranda, her voice bumpy and breathless as she landed in a crouch on the wet grass. She paused to glare up at him. “What if they can’t walk?”

“Fine-we’ll all go,” Cory grunted as he dropped down beside her, knowing it was no use arguing with her anyway. He looked up at Tony. “Unless you’d rather stay-”

Tony peered down at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Are you kiddin’ me, man? Here-hold this…” He handed down his camera, then lowered himself carefully over the side of the veranda, corralling his assortment of bags with one hand. He landed awkwardly, but was grinning as he reclaimed his camera. “You think I’m gonna miss a possible ‘Dr. Livingston, I presume?’ moment? What kind of photojournalist you think I am? Come on, man. I’m thinkin’ Pulitzer, here.”

“Think about staying alive,” Sam snapped. “Keep your head down and run like hell-zigzag! Okay, come on-let’s go, go go!”

And she was off, running like a flushed rabbit, leaping and dodging in an erratic course across the slope toward the little house under the tree. There was nothing for Cory to do but follow her, while trying his best not to think about the thump of explosions and the pop-pop-pop of automatic weapons’ fire all around him. Trying not to think about bullets tearing into the soft and lovely body he still carried in his memory the way he’d seen it last: lit by a flash of lightning to the pristine whiteness of marble.

Then they were there, all three of them, breathing hard and taking stock, backs flattened against the same wall where yesterday they’d seen the bored guard lounging in the meager midday shade.

“Everybody okay?” Sam asked. Barely waiting for two confirming grunts, she spun away again, disappearing around the uphill corner of the house. Cory followed, and found her crouched beside a narrow door. She looked up at him and nodded. He reached across her head to pound on the door with his fist, at the same time shouting, “Hello! Is anybody in there?”

He paused to listen, but the explosions and gunfire were almost continuous now, and he couldn’t be sure…

“I think I heard voices,” Sam said in a low, tense voice. She straightened up and moved aside while Cory tried the door.

He wasn’t surprised to find it locked. He knocked again, then said tersely, “We’ll have to kick it down.”

Sam gave him a sardonic look. “You ever tried doing that? Believe me, it’s not as easy as they make it look on TV.”

“You got a better idea?”

“No, dammit.”

“Okay,” said Cory, glancing over at her, “how ’bout we do it together-the two of us? You’re the athlete-your legs are probably stronger than mine anyway.”

“Okay.” She drew herself up tall beside him and threw him a grin, eyes bright with challenge. “On three-my count. One…two…three!”

The impact hurt in every bone and joint in his body. It jarred his molars together and made his eyeballs vibrate in their sockets. But when he was able to focus again, he saw the door hanging crooked on its hinges, the screws having come loose from the half-rotten frame. With a great surge of triumph, he shoved the door aside with his shoulder and stepped into the tiny house, his heart pounding now with dread at what he might see.

The single room was dim, but in the rectangle of light streaming past the broken door he could see two people kneeling motionless on a mat made of thatching. They appeared to be middle-aged, a man and a woman, both extremely thin and dressed in almost identical ragged dungarees and T-shirts. The woman’s hair was mostly gray- perhaps it had once been blond-and hung past her haggard face in two thin braids. The man looked as if he had once been strong and robust, with a tall frame and sturdy bones. Now his shoulders were stooped, and his gray hair, thinned to almost nothing on top, had been pulled into a scraggly ponytail. His full beard was scraggly, too, and more white than gray. The two knelt facing each other, hands tightly clasped between them, heads bowed…nearly touching…eyes closed, lips moving. Praying.

Something lurched inside Cory’s chest. As he moved toward the couple, still huddled on their mat of rushes, he could hear Tony’s camera clicking and whirring behind him, and was aware that Sam had pushed past them both and had gone to peer out the single tiny window that overlooked the valley.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lundquist?” he said huskily, his chest so tight he could hardly speak.

Two pairs of eyes flew open and two faces swiveled toward him…wide eyes in bewildered faces. They stared at him like people who’d been roughly awakened from a sound sleep.

Cory dropped down on one knee beside them, heart pounding. “Are you…Harold and Esther Lundquist?”

“Oh…my goodness,” the woman said, and her voice was faint but musical. “You’re real. I was sure I must be dreaming…”

“Praise God…” It sighed from the man’s lips like a breath of wind.

“Are you okay? Can you walk?” Cory spoke to them rapidly, urgently, touching each one on the arm, half-afraid they might break apart when he did that, they seemed so frail and fragile. “We need to get you out of here. The village is about to be overrun. By government forces, but I’m afraid right now they’re in a shoot-first-and-ask- questions-later mode. Do you think you can-”

“Yes, yes-of course.” Harold Lundquist lurched to his feet and helped his wife up. He stood staring at Cory, still clutching his wife’s hand and swaying slightly, stooped over like an old, old man. “But…” he said in a puzzled voice, “who are you?”