Covert Evidence (20 page)

A minute later, Trina replied:
Keith’s office. Raptor has files. Bring Lee.

The “Raptor has files” part of her message was hopeful. It meant, thanks to his Raptor cover, they had access to information on Ian Boyd. They were gathering everything they could on Boyd. It was time to find out if he was friend or foe.

I
an decided it would be safest to leave the studio apartment an hour before dawn. He restocked the backpack with supplies while Cressida dressed. She stepped out of the bathroom with a scarf draped over her hair. “Is this how it’s supposed to go?” she asked as she fussed with the ends of the cotton cloth.

He stood and took the ends, rearranging the drape so it covered her gorgeous brown hair without signifying any particular religious group. He stared into her eyes, all at once thinking Muslims were crazy to want to hide something so beautiful. His hands dropped from the scarf to her hips. He didn’t know why he continued to touch her, and searched for a reason. Testing her timid trust? Surely he had an agenda. His life was
always
driven by agenda.

But right now, it appeared his agenda was to kiss Cressida Porter, for no other reason than that he couldn’t resist.

He kissed her softly at first, giving her the opportunity to refuse. When she didn’t, he deepened the kiss. His tongue slipped between her lips and explored both her mouth and response. Ian Boyd kissed Cressida Porter for the very first time.

Her response differed from her wild, wanton seduction in the shower. Her tongue slid against his, not promising a hot, fast fuck, but offering something far more pleasurable, far more intense. Far more arousing.

In alarm, he lifted his head, breaking the kiss. He held Cressida against his chest as he rested his chin on her covered head. Eyes closed, he caught his breath. Was he developing…
feelings
for her?

He felt responsible for her, sure. That was understandable. He might even like her. And he appreciated her intelligence, even enjoyed her company. But feelings, caring, emotional attachment, those were dangerous. He might not be John anymore, but she was still a mission. An assignment. Without her, he couldn’t prove his innocence. He’d forever be known as a traitor. That was unacceptable.

Emotional involvement with Cressida Porter was a dipshit idea.

“That was…
interesting
,” Cressida said. She leaned back and met his gaze, her eyes filled with confusion.

Yeah. Welcome to the club.
He gently pushed away from her. “Ready to go?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Goddamn typical man…” she grumbled good-naturedly as she turned and grabbed her suitcase.

He couldn’t resist objecting. “
Typical?
I assure you, I’m anything but.”

She glanced over her shoulder, her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You’re a braggart who avoids any hint of emotion.
Typical
.”

She had him there. He plucked a wad of cash in three different currencies from his backpack and handed it to her. “If we get separated, you’ll need this.”

Her jaw snapped closed, and all hint of humor left her.

“If anyone recognizes me, I want you to run—as far from me as possible. Head to the US Consulate in Adana. If you can’t get to the consulate, then go to the press. The more public you are, the safer you’ll be. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” It hardly mattered what would happen to him. The important part was getting Cressida to safety.

C
ressida grumbled with frustration when Ian insisted she choose which of her belongings were the most important and transfer them into a smaller backpack. The rest would stay behind in the studio apartment in Siirt. She was tempted to leave a note with her papers, but what would she say?
Help, I’ve been abducted by a spy who is trying to protect me, and everything he’s done to help me has only put him in worse danger. He might not be the bad guy. But I’m not sure. So only save me if you can do so without harming him.

Leaving a note proved impossible, though, when he went through all the items she left behind, ensuring nothing important was missed. His mouth quirked in a smile as he plucked the box of condoms from the suitcase and deliberately tucked it into her backpack.

His smile combined with the action sparked a flash fire in her center. Damn traitorous body. She cleared her throat and said, “What will happen to my stuff?”

“Nothing until the landlord shows up when the rent is due next month.”

Well, a month from now would hardly help her anyway. She mulled what she knew as her body cooled. She’d decided to trust him, but her trust remained fragile. She again debated telling him about the pendant.

Once he had what he wanted, he might abandon her. He’d made it clear the microchip was his mission, not protecting her.

She didn’t have to decide now. She could tell him later. Or never.

Never was probably a good idea.

With her belongings transferred, she said good-bye to her notes. To her plans. This was the end of her academic glory before it had even begun, because there was no way in hell she’d turn in that grant proposal now. She would never find the tunnel.

If she survived and escaped, nothing could convince her to return to this place where she’d been used as a courier for terrorists.

She followed Ian to the apartment building’s garage, where he led her to an Eastern European motocross-type bike and handed her a helmet. At least now the backpack made sense. No way could she carry a suitcase on that thing, and the saddlebags were only big enough to hold his backpack. “Where did this come from?” she asked.

“I bought it when I set up the apartment. It’s always good to have backup transportation, especially agile vehicles. Bikes and horses are the only way to get around here off-road.”

Cressida took a step back. “Wait. Off-road?”

“There are military checkpoints in every direction. Off-road, we can avoid them.”

She blanched. Going overland? In this terrain? Was he insane? “I can’t,” she said. Her reaction was visceral. She felt as if a brick wall stood between her and the bike. She couldn’t take a step toward it.

Ian placed a hand on her shoulder, gently nudging her forward. Toward that invisible wall. “You can.” His voice dropped to a soft, soothing tone. “You will.”

“I’m scared. I’ve never liked motorcycles.”

He pulled the scarf from her head and stuffed it into her backpack, then slid the shiny black helmet in its place. “Wear my leather. It will protect you. And I’ll take it easy. I promise.”

Leather in the summer sun would be unbearable during the heat of the day, but she understood he was sacrificing his skin for hers. Again.

His lips brushed against hers, then he buckled the strap under her chin. “You can do this, Cress.”

Did she have a choice?
No.

She broke through her mental wall and mounted the bike. “Please tell me you’re good at driving these things.”

He grinned and donned his own helmet. “Honey, have you ever seen a James Bond movie? Don’t you know spies are good at everything?”

The cocky statement made her laugh, and a small amount of her tension dissipated.

He climbed in front of her and kick-started the scary bike, and in moments they were tearing across an open oil field, heading south into the Eastern Anatolian hills.

T
he overland ride was bone crunching and miserable. Cressida clung to Ian’s back, her hands tightening in time with each jolt. He’d have bruises from her grip to match the ones on his ass from slamming into the seat so often.

A mental image of kissing bruises in the same location on Cressida’s body distracted him as he chose a bad line over a rocky outcrop and paid for it with a hard landing. Behind him, Cressida let out a stifled grunt.

She hated this. And likely hated him. But what could he do? His job wasn’t good for making positive long-term impressions.

Except, he no longer had a job.

He pulled up behind a high rocky outcrop, this one tucked next to a steep hill, and shut off the engine. They were a hundred kilometers from nowhere and hidden on three sides by the rocky cliffs. After hours of riding, they could rest. Eat. Talk.

“Why are we stopping?”

“Water,” he said simply, climbing from the bike and plucking a bottle from the saddlebag.

She followed suit but struggled with the helmet buckle. With the flick of his thumb, he released the sticky clasp. “Thanks.” After taking a long drink, she asked, “Have you decided where we’re headed yet, besides west?”

He’d given it a lot of thought while riding. It wouldn’t be easy to get passage on a container ship, and Cressida hadn’t been burned. She could seek help from US authorities. “You’re going to the consulate in Adana.”

“Isn’t that like a gazillion kilometers from here?”

He smiled. “It’s about ten hours by road.”

She shuddered slightly, gazing across the rugged terrain. “But we aren’t riding on roads.”

“Yeah. It’ll take two days. Three at most. For now, we’re heading to a friend’s, near Gercüş.”

She stiffened. “Do spies really have friends?”

“I’m a person, so yes, I have friends. And I’m a covert operative—a case officer. My job is to recruit spies—like Hejan. Technically, I’m not a spy.”

“A case officer? What does that mean?”

“I look for people—people with access to other people or organizations, like, for example, al-Qaeda, who may be interested in providing information to the US. I recruit them. They’re the spies, and I manage them.”

“That doesn’t sound nearly as sexy as being a spy.”

He shrugged. “True spies aren’t usually sexy. They’re greedy, disloyal bastards, or they’re out for revenge. Or they’re trying to play me—they want me to think I have an inside man, when they’re feeding me shitty intel.”

“Then why do you work with them—the ones who are trying to play you?”

“Because I can feed them equally shitty intel.”

“What kind was Hejan?”

“He was hard to pin down. He was a volunteer—usually they’re the squirrelly ones. The volunteers put out feelers, say they’ve had a change of heart, they want to work for the good guys. We can’t ignore them. If they’re for real, they can be vital. Like the guy who helped us nail Anwar al-Awlaki.”

“Was Hejan for real?”

“I’d been working him for about ten months. I thought he was legitimate. He had good motive for his change of heart. He told me his job was to pass a microchip to someone who would then pass it to a courier, who would then deliver it to his organization’s leader. He promised me a direct line to the big guy, who we’ve been trying to identify for three years. But he also told me the info on the microchip wasn’t the usual deal. This package was big. And because of that, a special pigeon would make the delivery—you.”

“I didn’t know—”

“Yeah. I believe that now.” Ian kicked a rock and watched it skitter across the uneven ground. “Hejan said not to lose you. He said even if I thought the delivery was made, to stick with you.” He frowned. “I had no intention of following that advice. My primary objective was the data.” Ian had spent hours considering Hejan’s wording. His guess was Hejan had played both sides very carefully. His compatriots had sent Hejan to Ian—wanting him to pretend to double—but Hejan had fooled the members of his cell and really had turned. He’d given Cressida more than she knew. Which was why Ian wanted her to remember exactly what Hejan had translated for her.
What
was on that map?