The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel (16 page)

What happened
after
they were inside would determine whether or not she was granted access. Munroe folded her hands in her lap and turned to him with a smirk. “If I’ve properly analyzed, their arms will open.”

“And if you haven’t properly analyzed?”

She cut him a sideways glance. “Trust me.”

Munroe’s estimate was off by two minutes. According to Bradford’s watch, the man, whose name she would later learn was Esteban, returned within eight. He inserted a key into the large padlock that kept the gate chained shut, pulled to open it, and motioned them through. Even though tree-lined, the property felt desolate, a bleakness that was possibly due to the weather or possibly not.

Bradford followed the sweep of Esteban’s hand, driving to the area beside the main house, where two vans were parked in a space made for four or five. The vehicles were in relatively good condition and much newer than the overworked and run-down vans Munroe had seen both in documents and in person.

The dogs circled the Peugeot, sniffing the tires, and Bradford killed the engine. Watching the side mirror, Munroe said, “If for any reason you have to say something, use Arabic, it’s the only language we share that they won’t understand.”

“Arabic?” he said. “It won’t raise questions?”

“It’s the only option,” she said, “unless we play you as a deaf mute.” And then, as if an afterthought, “I know you’re a professional, Miles, but in the interest of covering my ass, when you hear English, no signs of recognition, okay?”

“
Lakad fahimt,
” he said, and his reply forced from her a smile. His accent was nearly as clean as her own.

Esteban approached, and they both stepped from the car. Bradford kept a cautious distance as Munroe initiated conversation, and with the ice thawing if not broken, she beckoned Bradford closer, introducing
him as her boyfriend, hopeful that the combination of Bradford’s hypervigilance and his rudimentary Spanish would allow the meaning of what she’d just said to pass unnoticed. In her manner, she was wide-eyed and expectant, simple and generous, and she preempted suspicions about Bradford’s lack of interaction with the truth: he wasn’t from here and didn’t speak the language.

Esteban led them inside the main house, where a wide foyer opened into a wider hallway that half-ended in a winding staircase, the narrower space continuing to a back door. To their right was a large living room with furniture that was newer and in better condition than she would have expected. The size of the building spoke to the ground floor holding far more than this, although the layout didn’t provide for a view of anything else.

From what was visible, signs of occupancy were everywhere: cubbyholes that reached five high near the end of the hall, far too many couches in the living room, and in spite of the swept floors and washed windows, walls that had seen too many hands.

And yet, the house was eerily silent. There were no childish peals of laughter, neither the patter nor thud of little feet, and what voices did filter in their direction were hushed; all of it so similar to the descriptions Logan had given of Havens going Secret when unfamiliar visitors were on the property.

Esteban brought Munroe and Bradford to an alcove off the living room, a small space that, from its clean walls and minimalistic décor, appeared to get little use—or at the least far less than the rest of the house. They sat and Munroe attempted conversation, and although Esteban’s words were casual and friendly, his body language showed increasing signs of discomfort. When, a moment later, a second man approached and introduced himself, she understood why.

The newcomer was Elijah, a balding fifty-something who, after his first words of introduction, Munroe pegged for West Coast American. He greeted her initially in English, and when Munroe shook her head and half-killed an attempt to return in kind, he switched to Spanish.
His language was proficient, though not fluent, and his accent and word usage pointed to his having learned in another Spanish-speaking country.

Elijah thanked her profusely for the contribution to their home and, at times turning to Esteban for help in interpretation, asked her what had brought her and what she knew of them.

Growing up a missionary kid in the heart of Africa may not have been the logical segue to international spy and accidental assassin, but for this journey, Munroe’s childhood was perfect. She knew the answers before the questions and simply reversed course, her story following the woven fabric of what she’d first told at the gate.

She was short on details and long on emotion describing a search for happiness that had taken her through travel, then work and money, and finally drugs until she was desperate. Wanting to put an end to life, she had a vision that showed her the path to the Haven.

If there was any part of this incursion that put Munroe on edge, it was the telling of the lie. Assignments had taken her across five continents, the gathering of information propelling her into multiple roles and many stories, each washing over her conscience more spot-free than the one before it. But never had she directly preyed on the spiritual faith of another.

To so easily enter this sanctum felt like a violation of what was hallowed, and in the face of this pause her mind returned to Logan’s documents, to the pictures and images of true violation, to innocence and trust stolen, to the daughter kidnapped from her parents, and the nauseating rage that had consumed her at the first kindled again, bringing her fully around to the present.

At the core of every successful subterfuge lay the desire of the mark to believe, and in this Elijah was very eager. If he harbored doubts, her act of innocence and the thousand-dollar ticket at the gate had apparently dulled them. As if he’d at last found a true votary, he discoursed with her, providing answers to her questions, guidance to her angst, and introduced her to the building blocks of his faith.

From the windows the shade of the sky shifted from gray to black.
Esteban occasionally interpreted an English word into Spanish, as often getting it wrong as right, and Bradford sat silent until the middle of a lively exchange when he interrupted with but a stage whisper in Munroe’s direction. She deciphered his request, Arabic to Spanish, asking for the restroom.

There was a moment of pause and the predicament washed over Elijah’s face. He could let a stranger wander their house, or insist on having him accompanied and scare off the young potential proselyte who was so eager to give of herself and her fortune to God. In the end, and after an awkward silence, the man gave directions. Munroe, now certain that neither Elijah nor Esteban had understood the initial request, in turn interpreted to Bradford, adding a few words of her own.

“Try not to get lost,” she said. “We know how you can be when you’re in unfamiliar places.”

“I’ll try not to,” he said.

When he had left the room, Munroe turned immediately to Elijah and rushed onward in the conversation. The move had been intended to distract from Bradford’s absence, but it had little effect. Elijah after a continued pause finally said, “You speak Arabic?”

“Oh yes,” Munroe replied, “and a few languages besides. It happens that way when you are a mutt of no pedigree and you have relatives around the world.”

“And your boyfriend?”

She laughed, as if his question had been a joke. If they wanted to know what part of the world the Arabic-speaking, dirty-blond, gray-green-eyed stranger hailed from, they’d have to work for it. Her face drew serious, and in spite of the visible cues to Elijah’s discomfort and internal debate, she pressed forward with a question that he would not be able to ignore.

Bradford returned a long ten minutes later, and after another fifteen of continued doctrinal back-and-forth, Munroe apologized and excused herself on account of a prior appointment. Elijah begged a few more minutes of her time, and although Munroe stood to leave, he
called for his wife, and when she arrived, several smiling children were with her.

It felt like cheating, to know so much about them and what they intended from the encounter when they in turn knew nothing of her, but she was along for the ride and so hugged the children back as they hugged her. Munroe promised to return—tomorrow if she could.

By the time they left the Haven, they had been there nearly four hours. Four hours for Bradford’s ten minutes of work, but the long wait leading up to his exit from the room had been every bit necessary.

“Four bugs,” he said. “One in the kitchen, one under the stairs, one in the living room”—he shrugged—“and one in the bathroom.” At Munroe’s mock disapproval he said, “Hey, don’t knock it. Listening to teenage boys’ bathroom talk might be our best lead.”

She chuckled. “Cameras?” she asked.

“Couldn’t,” he said.

She nodded and her face grew serious. “It’s possible—highly probable, that she doesn’t go by Hannah anymore. I mean, The Chosen change names often enough without being on the run, I imagine she’s gone through quite a few.”

Bradford nodded, and they both grew silent at the implications. They were halfway to the hotel before Bradford spoke again.

“So,” he said, “how long exactly have I been your boyfriend?”

She grinned. “About as long as humans have lived on Mars,” she said.

He smirked. “That’s what I thought,” he said, “but for a moment there it seemed I might have been mistaken.”

Munroe said nothing, continued to smile, and kept her head tilted toward the window. She turned toward him to find him watching her, and this time it was she who winked.

The stoplight changed to green and Bradford returned his focus to the road, but he was grinning. “That wasn’t flirting, was it?” he said.

She turned her gaze back to the window. “Maybe,” she said. “I’ll leave it to you to figure it out.”

*   *   *

Arrival at the hotel shifted their interaction from rapport to functional business partners. There were preparations to be made before beginning the foray into the third Haven.

The nearly six hours away from the desk had allowed an overabundance of footage and voice recordings to accumulate, and so, while Bradford sat on the bed, snapping equipment into place and constructing from obscure pieces what would eventually be the night’s placements, Munroe ran through the data, scanning, listening, ever searching for evidence of Hannah.

Bradford completed his task and, with the equipment laid out, stretched out on the bed, and so typical of battle-hardened soldiers who learned to rest whenever the opportunity arose, fell right asleep.

Munroe continued on through the data, didn’t stop until she came to the end of it. She had no idea how long she’d been at the desk, her only awareness that of muscles that had cramped and a room gone silent.

In spite of all the information that had come in, there was still no indication that Hannah resided at either of the penetrated Havens. In frustration she stood and tossed the headset with more vehemence than necessary. The desktop rattled, and Bradford, with eyes closed and hands behind his head, said, “Nothing?”

“I think I’ve seen just about every child in Haven One,” Munroe said, “and unless she’s never allowed out, or is lying sick in bed, she’s not there. As for the Haven Ranch, the recordings are clear, but unless someone openly discusses kidnapping, it’s still guesswork.”

Bradford sat cross-legged on the bed. “There’s Haven Three,” he said.

She nodded. “We’ll see what tonight brings, but my gut tells me that if she’s in Buenos Aires, she’s out at the ranch.”

He raised an eyebrow, an invitation for her to share.

“It’s a larger place,” she said, “more of them are out there, and
I’ve also not seen any children over nine or ten at Haven One. If they congregate them, it’s going to be at the Ranch.”

Bradford said, “You’re going back inside?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’d like to get a visual setup in there, and I’ve got an open invitation to return—it beats getting bit in the butt by a pack of mangy dogs.”

She paused, turned back to the desk. “I’m willing to stick with this as long as it takes,” she said, “but I don’t want to waste time chasing a phantom. Right now, all we have is the word of Charity’s sister saying Hannah is in Buenos Aires. No offense to Logan or anyone else, but that’s a pretty long stretch of trust. I need to establish that she’s here before putting plans in place to get her out.”

“I’m not keen on your returning,” Bradford said.

Munroe turned, stepped toward the bed, and, with a smile that was evil, knelt on it, making a slow crawl across the mattress in Bradford’s direction. She continued until she was face-to-face with him, then reached out and patted his cheek. The physical contact was soft enough to avoid implying a slap, hard enough to make him cringe in irritation.

“I’m a big girl,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

“Just know,” he said, “that if I feel you’re under threat or in danger of any kind—physical or otherwise—the assignment or the kid be damned, I will come in, and I am prepared to use force if I must.”

She continued to smile as she backed off the bed. “That’s why you’re my rearguard,” she said, and then, having stood, and without breaking eye contact, she pulled on the black neoprene that was the base of her costume for the night.

S
hortly after midnight Munroe left the hotel room, and as he had the night prior, Bradford watched her go, continuing to stare at the door after it had shut.

Satellite images showed the house that they’d targeted as Haven Three to be the smallest of them all, and having already experienced the first two, Munroe had seen no need to waste time on a dry run.

Bradford opened the balcony door, stepped out, and, keeping back from the edge and her line of sight should she turn around, watched her step from the curb into the cab. Instinct said she was right about eliminating the dry run, and were their roles reversed it’s how he would have called it. But a job was different when he wasn’t mixed in the action. He was used to being in command, putting himself on the front and clearing the way for his men. Remaining on the sidelines left him uneasy and restless.