Alexa gritted her teeth and funneled all her frustration into getting answers. It pained her to leave Kinkaid alone, but she had questions, and the residents of this house held the key. When she got back to the living room, Hank had their prisoners sitting on a sofa and chair. The two dressed in pajamas were nervous. The woman held the hand of the man sitting next to her, probably her spouse.
But the odd man out—dressed in dark slacks and a Cuban Guayabera shirt—didn’t look anxious at all.
“The two having a pajama party own the place. This is Eduardo Gomez and his wife, Marisa.” Hank made the introductions. “Eduardo is a doctor.”
Alexa nodded, and asked, “How is he, Doc?” She hoped the man understood her.
“His body is fighting off a severe infection,” Dr. Gomez replied in perfect English. “I’ve got him on strong antibiotics, trying to get him stabilized. He’s not out of the woods yet. And if he survives, he still might have permanent damage from the infection. It’s too soon to tell.”
She considered what Gomez told her. If she hadn’t seen the doctor’s care firsthand, she might have doubted that he was telling her the truth. But no one would have gone to so much trouble to harm Kinkaid—not now and not like this.
“And that man says you know him,” Hank said.
“Yeah, I do. And I haven’t figured out if that’s a good thing.” Alexa glared at the gray-haired man sitting in a chair across the living room. He had a cup and saucer in his hands. “You’ve got some explaining to do, Father Ignatius. Start talking.”
“Certainly, my dear. But can I get you some fresh coffee?” He raised his cup and smiled. “I brewed it myself. I used to prefer tea, but Cuban coffee is an acquired taste.”
Alexa rolled her eyes and sighed. The priest had his own clock and wouldn’t be rushed. She had to focus on what he’d tell her about Sayed and Kinkaid. She had a job to do, and her team needed a hasty clean departure from Cuba, under the radar of the local law. And the clock was ticking.
But she’d already made up her mind. No matter what happened, she wasn’t leaving Jackson Kinkaid.
CHAPTER 23
Once they were given their freedom, Dr. Gomez and his wife offered breakfast and coffee to their guests. Hank accepted if he and Adam Booker could cook. That allowed their hosts time to change out of their pajamas and join them without lifting a finger. Alexa left three of her men on guard duty as a precaution. And she took a walk outside with Father Ignatius to have a few words alone with him.
They headed toward rolling foothills and walked down a dirt road. The morning sun brought heat and had burned off the clouds she’d seen at dawn. If she hadn’t been worried about Kinkaid, she might have appreciated the beautiful day. They walked in silence, something she hadn’t expected from a man who venerated the spoken word, especially coming from him.
“You’re an artist, Father Ignatius,” Alexa began. “But your rendering of Ghazi’s estate didn’t include a helipad. For a guy with an eye for detail, I found that odd. I hope you gave yourself at least ten Hail Marys for your lie of omission.”
“Ten? You drive a hard bargain, but ten it is.” He smiled. “I wasn’t sure who you worked for, my dear. I’m still not clear on that point.” Father Ignatius clutched his hands behind his back and squinted into the sun when he looked at her. “That gave me no choice. I left off the helipad for a reason. I had to intervene.”
“And how exactly did you do that?”
“You might be curious about that point, but it’s really not very important in the bigger scheme of things. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” He winked. When she nodded, he continued, “I had an opportunity to question Sayed and Ghazi. And they were most cooperative.”
“They must have seen the error of their ways.” She raised an eyebrow. “Did you threaten them with eternal damnation?”
“You might say that, yes.” He chuckled. “Sayed wasn’t keen on being dismembered. Can’t blame him actually. I’m not too keen on it myself.”
Alexa grimaced at the man. She had a hard time picturing what he meant by “being dismembered.” A part of her didn’t want to know, but he never gave her a chance to ask.
He told her about Sayed’s plot to explode a radioactive dirty bomb near Chicago using spent nuclear fuel rods stockpiled at one of the larger nuclear plants in the area. The terrorist had planned to enter the United States using phony documents issued by his Venezuelan government contacts. And he had members of his terrorist sleeper cell working in security and other critical operations within the targeted facility.
Alexa had heard about such a conspiracy theory before. Each year, spent fuel rods were removed from nuclear cores and stored in pools to cool down. It took years for that to happen. Eventually, the waste would be encased in concrete or glass and consigned to dry storage before it got transported to a long-term facility—in theory.
But without resolution on the issue of developing a longer-term storage site, nuclear waste across the country had been stockpiled for years. Until a year ago, the Yucca Mountain Repository in Nevada was the proposed storage facility for spent nuclear-reactor fuel and radioactive waste. Given the delays in upgrading the site and the most recent withdrawal of government budget dollars to develop it, that left nuclear facilities across the country with no place to store waste.
If not controlled on a very tight basis, nuclear waste could be stolen by domestic or foreign terrorists. The homegrown material could be fashioned into a dirty bomb. She knew stringent controls were in place to protect against such a thing, but this was a case where not one single failure could be allowed. There’d be no such thing as being wrong once.
And if Sayed and his men had been successful, the full extent of the damage would be hard to assess. The blast radius would be an immediate concern for casualties and damage. And depending on how much radiation would be present, only a limited area would be directly impacted, but the long-term aftereffects could be more demoralizing. Exposed individuals would have a greater potential for developing cancer in time. And buildings and land would be unusable for years.
“I turned Sayed and Ghazi over to my local counterpart in the NSA. And I’ve provided details of my interrogations. We have Sayed’s funding sources and other key contact information. And arrests are being made as we speak, from what I’ve been told,” he said. “We built quite a case against him with his abductions and killings in the British Virgin Islands. And between his offenses toward your country and mine, I’d say his days of freedom are over.”
If she believed what he’d told her—about working with the NSA—that meant the so-called priest worked for Britain’s GCHQ, the Government Communications Headquarters. It made sense.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like a name at the NSA to confirm what you’ve told me. No offense,” she said.
“Oh, none taken, my dear. I completely understand.” He stopped and looked her in the eye. “If you’d like, I could call our operation a joint effort. Your government should know that if it weren’t for you and your young man in there, we never would have tracked down Sayed. He might have slipped through our hands and not surfaced until it was too late.”
“I appreciate the thought, Father Ignatius. But no, recognition isn’t necessary. And I’m sure Kinkaid would feel the same. I’m just glad Sayed was stopped…and most of the hostages were rescued.” Her thoughts turned to the dead. And she hoped Kinkaid wouldn’t be added to that list.
“Yes, I thought as much,” he said. “I admire quiet heroism…yours and the people who work with you. For most, freedom and democracy are taken for granted. Yet every day, there is a price to be paid by a brave few. I make my contribution to the cause, but not like you. You risk your life, and yet you’re content to operate in anonymity. People in your country, and dare I say the world, will never know your name or see your face.”
“With any luck they won’t.” She felt an uncomfortable rush of heat to her cheeks, caused by his unnecessary praise. “But if you’re looking for the real hero in all this, he’s lying on that bed in there. If it hadn’t been for him…” She fought to stay in control, but the catch in her voice gave her away. “…many more people would have died.”
“It never gets any easier, does it, my dear?”
She took a deep breath and stared into the foothills to regain her composure. And the priest let her do that,
