Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (14 page)

“This is our most recent update on Bogdan Kovalenko,” Fournier said. He glanced around the table at the members of Team Viper. “Thanks to Aisha and Vanessa, we know this
mouchard
is our most likely candidate for selling off the radioactive medical waste from the Luch reprocessing facility that was used by True Jihad to make the RDD left in the Tuileries. We also know Bogdan is currently in Minsk, where he and his toupee are apparently visiting his Belarusian girlfriend.”

Aisha raised a fist and snarled, “Can’t wait to get my hands on that
petit merdeux.
”

“So glad not to be that little shit,” Canard said with mock terror.

Jack turned his tablet toward Vanessa and she gazed down at a half-dozen surveillance photos of a sharp-featured man with an improbably thick head of very dark hair, graying sideburns and mustache, serious brows. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. Where he gazed obliquely toward the camera his eyes turned down at the edges, lending him a sad-hound look. His body was
somewhat slight, but he stood straight and his posture made him appear wiry and strong.

Around the table there were a few knowing sneers at Canard’s little joke, but most everyone followed Fournier intently. Khoury was an exception. Vanessa felt his eyes on her.

“With the cooperation of our allies,” Fournier continued, “we have Bogdan under constant surveillance. When he’s on the move, you can bet we will be as well.” He looked to Aisha and then to Vanessa. “You two will get first shot at Bogdan, so answer your phones and keep a toothbrush and alias docs with you at all times.”

Aisha glanced over at Vanessa, then back to Fournier.
“Je suis prête.”

Vanessa nodded in agreement, aware of her own impatience, and, at a deeper level, a constant and consuming drive for action.

They were listening to an update from Canard when Chris walked in with Peyton. Vanessa thought Chris looked like the intense schedule was catching up with him; Peyton, still dressed in her perfectly fitted slacks and sweater, looked refreshed and impossibly chic with just enough jewelry to catch the eye.

Chris signaled for Canard to continue, and when the analyst finished, he made introductions.

“This is Peyton, a psychologist and profiler here to assist with filling in the blanks on the self-proclaimed terrorists, True Jihad,” Chris said. “Of course, DCRI has its own highly competent profilers. However, it seemed prudent to bring in Peyton because she is also fully briefed on Bhoot and many of the players in his black-market proliferation network.”

Peyton stepped forward, quickly thanking Chris for his introduction, and acknowledging the vital work the team was undertaking. “I know some of you already,” Peyton said. “I will get to know the rest of you just a bit over the next few days while I am here in Paris.”

She took a moment to collect herself and then she said, “I’ve been developing a profile on Bhoot for more than a year, but I’ve only spent
a few hours with True Jihad, reviewing the videos repeatedly, as well as the translations of the transcripts.”

She set her hands on her hips. “I know it’s been a long day, but I want to update you on the latest from our linguistic analysts. They believe the speaker on both videos is the same adult male. They identify his speech patterns and dialect as consistent with someone coming from Upper Egypt, the Aswan-Luxor region—an area where there is long-standing and active violent conflict between Muslims and Coptic Christians. It’s not too much of a stretch to conclude that might have been a factor in his radicalization and his determination to seek retribution against Christians through terror and jihad. Obviously that is conjecture until we know more. However, some of his speech patterns are characteristic of Bedouins of the Ma’rib desert region of Yemen, and that may well be because he has worked and lived in that area. His ancestral lineage may be Yemeni—that is common for Egyptians born in Upper Egypt.” She paused for a moment, allowing space for questions. When none came, she continued. “To sum up: There are some anomalies that set True Jihad apart from more well-known terrorist groups. Most obvious is their relative invisibility up to the day of the bombing. There have been other incidents of terrorist cell pop-ups out to prove their seriousness, but this introduction is rather spectacular.” The psychologist paused to take in the group before she continued. “For the moment, until we learn more, I would caution against making any assumptions related to the backing, associations, or alliances of this group.”

Aisha stood abruptly, clearly agitated. “Are you saying we should question whether Bhoot is behind these attacks?”

“My message at this moment,” Peyton said quietly, “is that we are dealing with unknowns when it comes to True Jihad, their core associations. In regard to their intentions, we know they are deadly serious and quite intent on shedding blood.”

Vanessa slowed her steps almost to a stop, as she took in 653 Rue de Mont Thabor. Six stories high, built in the nineteenth century, elegant, prime location just blocks from Embassy Lane and completely out of reach of the pay scale of David Khoury in his official cover as a third secretary of the U.S. embassy.

She caught herself and picked up her pace again; she’d delayed her arrival so she and Khoury would not be entering his building at the same time. She adjusted the coat hood she’d used to cover her hair and obscure her face—enough to lessen the chances anyone would recognize her on the almost-empty street, especially now that darkness had fallen.

She turned and walked beneath the stone arch, passing between wonderfully detailed twin marble lions. Three more steps and she entered the interior through elegant doors.

Inside the deserted lobby, the sharp tang of turpentine and paint hit instantly and her eyes teared up. So this was how Khoury had scored such a desirable and pricey address: 653 Rue du Mont Thabor was under extensive renovation.

She eyed the ornately gilded lift: Its gate was pushed off the track, the bottom sat five centimeters below floor level, clamped wires grew out of the ceiling, and the bronze cage was filled with stacks of supplies and tools, clearly belonging to the painters and other workers.

She turned toward the darkened marble staircase. Khoury had told her he was on the fourth floor, in 407.

Now was the time to change her mind and turn around. Just an hour ago, to shake off the pall of the debrief, they’d shared a dark corner table at Café de Flore. She’d had a small glass of wine to go with her onion soup. He had ordered steak, but he barely touched his plate. They’d talked about work—and then about anything
but
work. They both wanted to leave it behind for a few hours if they could.

But Khoury had shocked her by abruptly raising a subject they both habitually danced around.

“So let’s tell them.” Khoury had announced his idea,
just like that
.

She sat up straight. “Tell who, exactly?”

“Chris. You hate sneaking around. Let’s stop.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple. You want to stop hiding, then let’s tell Chris.”

“There are consequences.”

“Everything has consequences, Vanessa. But you keep avoiding decisions, using Chris, hiding behind his back.”

“Fine. You want to end up with a desk job when they say we can’t both be in operations if we’re a couple?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She had pulled back, shocked, staring at him across the café table.

“Why are you so surprised?” he said slowly. “I’m tired of the shit the Agency’s put me through. And they’re not finished. This, Paris, this is my demotion while they figure out if I’m trustworthy. If I’m loyal to my country or to my cousins in Hamas.” He shook his head, anger rising, clouding his eyes.

She reached for his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t want to sneak around, either.” He shrugged. “And I don’t know about the future, my future. The French have treated me better than the Agency.” He shook his head, pulling himself back from the anger and resentment.

He had looked into her eyes then, holding her gaze. “Come home with me. Come to my apartment tonight. Come with me now . . .”

And here she was.

She eyed the barely lit staircase again, and then she began to climb, taking the steps fast and faster, one flight, the next, and another. The silence felt eerie; it seemed to hang in the air like smoke.

Her breathing more labored now, she turned the corner to begin the final flight and saw him standing at the top.

She slowed with her hand on the rail.

He waited.

His face in the shadows sent heat through her body.

She heard the faint sound of a television somewhere down the long, low-lit hallway. “How many tenants are actually living here?” she asked softly.

She couldn’t see his features to read him, but he tipped his head slightly, a familiar gesture. “Maybe half? Affording me not quite absolute privacy, but close.” He reached out his hand, and when she’d scaled the last four steps she clasped her hand in his.

“Carry me,” she said, half joking.

But he lifted her in his arms, feigning an effortful grunt.

At the door marked 407, left ajar, she thought he would put her down, but he simply pushed it open and then shut it again with a well-timed kick.

They had entered a living room with heavy couches and dark walnut bookcases floor to ceiling. Khoury loved books, but he never stayed long enough in one place to set up a library.

She pressed her face to his neck, breathing him in.

He carried her from the living room, past the small kitchen, to the master bedroom.

She’d recognized only two of his belongings: his leather-bound Qur’an, a boyhood gift from his parents, and the worn pair of boxing gloves from his Harvard-era Golden Gloves competitions.

Maybe it was the absence of the familiar in his apartment that triggered a deep yearning—their time apart overshadowed the weekends and occasional weeks they could steal together. But before those feelings could surface, she moved restlessly in his arms and he set her down.

His hazel eyes, catching the subdued golden light, glowed the color of old jade. He let his thumb skim the back of her neck and her breath caught. “Watch out,” she murmured, her voice low and husky now.

“Oh, I’m watching . . .”

“Just sayin’ . . .” She ran the tip of her index finger lightly along the faint scar on his chin, a badge of childhood. She lightly skimmed the angles of his jaw. He gave her a lazy smile in return, showing off his slightly crooked front tooth.

She put her lips gently to his ear and whispered, “You are too damn gorgeous . . .”

“
You
are too damn gorgeous,” he echoed, teasing his finger along her collarbone to her shoulder and then dipping it into the warmth between her arm and her breast. She inhaled quickly at his touch.

“Is it too soon to ask you to take a look at my etchings?” Khoury joked softly.

She smiled and he did, too, but she felt the questions he wasn’t asking.

She touched his cheek tenderly with the palm of her hand. “How have you been, Khoury? How has it been?” she asked, her gaze serious.

“You first.”

She dipped her head, giving a quick shake. “Hard. I saw my family for the holidays and I wished you could . . .”

He left space for a small silence and then he said, “I know. It’s been lonely.” Using one finger, he lifted her chin so she was looking into his eyes. She felt exposed.

He said, “I find myself talking to you. I tell you all sorts of things. And I ask you things. And then I realize you’re not there.”

She reached up to hold his head with both her hands. He mirrored her, touching her, kissing her with an urgency that had her shivering from tip to toe.

When they finally broke from the kiss she stood for a moment, allowing herself just to be with him, to feel the heat of his body. She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder like a child. She wanted him deep inside her.

“I love you, David,” she said, surprised by her own words. “I want you. I want us.”

“I love you,
habibti.
I have since the moment I set eyes on you.”

They took each other’s hands, moving together to the bedroom, stripping off their clothes quickly, awkwardly, happily. He flung back the duvet on the bed, and they both dove onto soft chocolate-hued sheets.

Their bodies pressed together, magnetized. Vanessa released the thoughts from her mind, diving away from logic, into a place of lust and love. She buried her face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him, her fingers catching the dark hair on his lean, muscled body.

He slid his fingers gently inside her, half purring, half moaning when he discovered how wet she was.

She felt him pressing hard against her thighs. She closed her hand around him, intent on guiding him inside her, but before she could, his tongue and his fingers sent her somersaulting into zero gravity and the deep space of her first climax.

The full moon splashed shadows across the desert floor of Yemen’s Ma’rib Province. He stared up into the sky, letting light wash over him.

For the moment, the makeshift outpost was deserted except for himself and the three men on his team, now sleeping. It was used by company crews to deliver needed supplies to the workers stationed at the rigs as well as those men who looked out for their security. But for now, he might as well be the only man for miles.

He savored this time in peace, in silence. Memories flooded back from his childhood in Egypt.

In a few hours the company Hawk would arrive to pick up his crew, and he would have another difficult job to accomplish.

After that, he would drive solo the hours across the desert to Sana’a, which he deemed the most beautiful city in the world. Of course, he would take the suitcase with him. He would board a company plane . . .

A night bird sang three notes. He stirred, replaying the phone call he had received only minutes earlier. He had one call of his own to
make before he could complete his prayer ritual and catch a few hours’ rest.

He pressed “call” and the bar display on his phone lit up immediately, catching the strong sat signal that company employees could access. He dialed the string of numbers he had memorized. It took a few seconds longer than most calls from Europe, but still it was amazing.

A voice answered—thousands of miles away.

He said, “I have arrived and have news. My team has made contact with the family of the second hostage. They demand proof that she’s alive, but they say they will cooperate.”