Taking Fire (14 page)

26

Rami Yahya sat cross-legged against the wall and glared at the child. Thank Allah he was finally asleep again. Sleeping meant he was no longer asking for his mother, and Amir and Hakeem were no longer yelling at Rami to shut him up.

He was not a babysitter. He was a believer. Yes, he was only sixteen, much younger than most of the men in Amir and Hakeem's group. Yes, he was small for his age, but he was no less devout. No less of a man. He was a better soldier for Allah. He had the discipline. And he was no longer certain that Amir and Hakeem and their men were what he'd thought them to be.

Across the large room, Amir sat at a table in deep conversation with Hakeem. He dared not say it aloud, but he'd figured out some time ago that Amir was not a true believer. Amir was the kind of Hamas man who made it difficult for the world to see the true cause. The world hated men like Amir, who professed his work was for Allah when, in truth, his work was for himself. Amir killed because he liked to kill, not to further the cause of Allah and of Palestine.

Earlier today, he'd heard Amir and Hakeem argue. Amir wanted to make money off the boy. To ransom him for a profit, then kill him and the mother when she came for him.

He still couldn't believe that Hakeem, whom Rami had once admired, had given in. Hakeem had even telephoned the infidel's mother, the woman they said had been responsible for the annihilation of the great Mohammed al-Attar in Afghanistan six years ago. She had not pulled the trigger, they said, but she had been responsible for leading a Mossad hit squad to Hakeem's father and his men.

They had been martyrs for the cause, and this operation in Oman was to serve justice. They said.

Yet the woman still lived. And now they chose to seek justice against this little boy.

He stared at the sleeping child, at the dried tears on his face and the way he curled into a tight little ball, as though making himself small would make him invisible. And he tried not to think about his own little brother. Or his mother.

He dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He saw his mother's face. Heard her comforting voice.

“You are a good boy, Rami. Be a good boy now, and take your little brother outside for a while. The two of you, you are always underfoot,” she'd said with a smile.

It was her way of letting him know she was not afraid for them to go outside. That she knew the streets were sometimes dangerous, but they should not live their lives in fear.

“Life is to be lived,” his mother had told him often. “Do not be afraid to be a part of it. Do not live it looking from the outside in.”

So he hadn't. He'd gone to school. He'd learned his lessons. He'd said his prayers. He'd heard the call to arms. The call to rise up against the infidel dogs and fight for Palestine.

“Let's do it.” His friend Ehab's eyes had been wide with excitement. “Let's quit school and join Hamas. We will be heroes.”

That was nine months ago. Now Ehab was dead. Martyred for the cause only six days ago, when he had strapped a bomb vest to his chest and walked into an Israeli deli.

Rami felt tears well up in his eyes when he thought of his friend, and he questioned the need for him to die. As he questioned the need for all those other people to die. The mother and her baby daughter? Their only “sin” had been walking by the deli at the wrong time.
The Koran does not preach war, Rami
. His mother's voice came to him again as he sat in the dark, wanting to sleep, but his mind wouldn't stop working.
What these men do, these Hamas outlaws, in the name of Allah? It is not what he asks. He does not ask them to kill
.

At fifteen, he could not see it her way. He'd seen the many online videos and calls to arms. He had thought they proved his mother was wrong, and he had become Hamas.

Now he was here, his mother's words in his head, Ehab's death in his heart.

This small boy's life in his hands. This small boy, who had never done anything to anyone.

27

“Can you tell me, please. Have you seen this man?” Talia asked the waitress in Arabic.

“Can you not see that I am busy?” She was very young and very pretty and
very
irritated, but she managed a tight smile.

“Only a moment,” Talia insisted, and held up the phone with the picture of Amir al-Attar for her to see.

The girl balanced her tray of empty drink glasses on her hip and, with an impatient scowl, looked at the photo. “No. I do not know this man.” Then she rushed off toward the bar to fill another order.

Talia slumped back in the booth, her strength and her optimism wavering.

She and Taggart had left the safe house a little before nine a.m., walked to the street where Sanju and his taxi waited for them, and, once again, started the long and tedious process of searching for a sighting of Amir.

Throughout the day, Taggart had been in contact with Rhonda, who had steered them to restaurants and tea shops, then on to the bars tonight. It was closing in on midnight now, and they had stopped in at least ten clubs. Still no sign of Amir. Still no sighting of a light blue VW Golf or a cream-colored Toyota Highlander with the license-plate numbers Rhonda had texted to them.

“Maybe we're not looking at the right kinds of clubs,” Taggart said into Talia's phone as they walked out of a bar in a lower-rent part of the city, where the blast of Arabic rock music followed them out the door. “Maybe Amir has a taste for more expensive booze and a higher class of working girl.”

Talia walked straight to the waiting taxi and collapsed into the backseat, while Taggart stayed outside, talking to Rhonda.

She'd held it together between six and seven p.m., the window of time when Meir had been taken by Hakeem. The twenty-four-hour mark. Now thirty-two hours had passed. And each hour drove her deeper into a despair that manifested as a numbing fog. Like she was sleepwalking but awake.

But she'd die before she gave up on finding her son.

She glanced out the window and watched Taggart, the lights from the bar and the darkness of night casting shadow and gold across his face. And for a moment, she let herself think about last night. Those moments in his arms were the one place she could go to escape the pain, hopelessness, and despair. In those moments, he had been his true self with her. He had hated her. He had loved her.

And she had hoped.

But in the stark sun of the brutally hot morning, it was clear that he couldn't give her the one thing she needed from him: forgiveness.

Everything about the way he acted told her she'd be foolish to think he ever would.

“Last night,” he'd said when they'd met in the living area after dressing for the day. “It shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry . . . if I hurt you.”

She'd nodded. “I understand.”

And just that quickly, he'd closed the door. All day, he'd been kind and polite and encouraging and relentless in his search. But the man who had held her, who had kissed her, who had filled her in the darkest part of need, was as gone from her as Meir.

She startled when the door opened on a hot rush of air and he slipped inside the air-conditioned taxi.

“We're going to try another section of town.” He leaned forward and gave Sanju an address.

Then he slumped back against the seat and closed his eyes. “Rhonda found another resource who says the chances are good there will be both ‘regular girls' and freelancers at the Muscat Holiday Inn.”

“The Holiday Inn?”

He shrugged. “So she said. Also Trader Vic's, a club called the Left Bank, and another one called Rock Bottom. The Golden Tulip supposedly also has ‘temporary companionship' hanging out at the bar. Apparently, prostitution is rampant in Muscat; there's even a high-end prostitution racket in the classy hotels. There are no Omani women in the business but a lot of foreign women willing to make money from the oil boom.”

She looked straight ahead and prayed he was right.

*   *   *

The woman sitting at the bar, smoking and looking watchful, was blond and slim and dressed for sex. She was on the north side of forty but still attractive enough to draw business—until she opened her mouth and the
attractive
wore off real quick.

Bobby introduced himself and Talia.

“Lauren. From London,” the woman said, tamping out her cigarette and giving them a long once-over. “Lookin' for a party, luv?”

Bobby glanced at Talia, and Lauren laughed. “No need to be shy. Three works for me. And I'll say this, the two of you, yer both crackin' good to look at, but it'll still cost double. I'll show ya a real bang of a good time, though.”

“Actually, we'd like you to take a look at something.” Bobby pulled up Amir's photo on Talia's phone.

Lauren looked a little disappointed but got over it quickly. “Give it over, then. Let's 'ave a look-see.”

She studied the picture so long Bobby decided they'd hit another dead end.

“Yeah . . . yeah. I know that arsehole.” She handed back the phone.

Talia clutched his arm, and he felt her excitement like electricity. At last, they'd hit pay dirt.

Adrenaline zipped through his blood. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Lauren lit another cigarette, then squinted against the smoke. “Information'll still cost ya double. Time's money, ya know.”

Bobby knew, and he wasn't about to blow this. He fished into his dishdasha and pulled out a stack of rial notes guaranteed to make her eyes pop and her jaw loosen.

She smiled and tucked the notes into her cleavage. “First time I seen 'im, 'e come in 'ere, 'e took a shine to Peggy.” Lauren took another drag on her cigarette. “I told 'er, 'e looks a bit dodgy to me. Had a mean look about 'is eyes, ya know? Just like in that picture.

“You sure you want to go with 'im, I ask 'er,” Lauren continued, apparently determined to give them their money's worth. “And oh, she was sure—Peggy's always so bloody sure—so she takes 'im up to 'er room.”

“When was this?” Talia demanded.

Bobby covered the hand that gripped his arm, squeezed, urging her to tamp down her impatience. But he could feel her shaking beside him. At least, he thought it was her.

“I'm gettin' there, luv. So Peg takes 'im up to 'er room, right? Three hours later, 'e comes waltzing outta the lift and 'eads out the door. I'm still worried about Peg, so I goes up to 'er room—I was 'avin' a slow night.”

Lauren lifted a highball glass to her lips, and Bobby gave Talia a warning look when she almost flew around him to get in the woman's face.

“Easy,” he whispered.

“Takes 'er a long time to answer,” Lauren said after a deep swallow. “And when she did, I almost 'ad a bloody 'eart attack. 'E'd bloodied 'er face. Split 'er lip wide open. And she said the bastard rogered 'er till she bled. When she told 'im to stop, 'e had another go at 'er till 'e'd done all the damage 'e wanted.”

“When was this?” Bobby repeated Talia's question.

“Two nights back. But 'e came back again the next night. Tonight, too.”

“He's here now?” It was all he could do to keep his adrenaline in check. He wanted this bastard. He wanted him now.

Lauren shook her head. “No. Come and gone. And good riddance.”

Bobby closed his eyes and swore.

“How long ago?” Talia's voice was taut with tension. “How long since he left?”

Lauren shrugged. “Fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe. Oh, no need for the mad face, now, luvs. 'E'll be back. A mean bugger like 'im? When a woman is willin' to take the snoggin' from the likes of 'im, they always come back fer more. Peggy's pretty, but she's young. And a fool. I told 'er, tell 'im to bugger off. But no. 'E's got money and heaps of it. 'E pays 'er triple 'er price.”

She leaned in close then. “Ain't no one's to know that but us,” she said in a warning voice. “No one deserves an extra cut of what Peg's worked for.”

“What time does he usually show up?” Bobby asked stiffly.

“'Round nine. Leaves a little after midnight. 'E's a bastard, but 'e's as regular as my nanna's prunes. I give up on Peggy. If she wants to let 'im bugger 'er up that way, I got no more to say about it.”

She lifted her hands, her story finished. “That's what I know. What do you need with 'im, anyway?”

“We just need to talk to him,” Bobby said.

Lauren laughed. “You want to 'urt 'im, don't ya? You'll get no squabble from me.”

“Tell you what.” Bobby reached back into his pocket, then offered her several more notes. “This is for your trouble and for not mentioning to anyone that we were looking for him, okay?”

Smiling, Lauren nipped the money out of his hand and tucked it into her cleavage with the rest. “I'da kept me mouth shut for free, luv, if it meant someone was going to 'urt 'im the way 'e 'urt poor Peg. So don't you worry. I ain't never seen nobody askin' about the bloody bastard, no matter who wants to know.

“Sure you don't want a little rumpy-pumpy just to take yer edge off?” she added with an inviting smile. “Might come up with a better rate, bein' as 'ow we're mates and all now, right?”

“Appreciate it,” Bobby said. “I really do. But we're in a bit of a time crunch.”

“Offer's open anytime, luv.”

*   *   *

“Fifteen minutes.” Talia's expression was tortured as they left the lounge and headed across the tiled hotel lobby. “We missed that monster by
fifteen
minutes
.”

Bobby hated the rotten timing, too, but he had to put things in perspective, or he'd end up pounding his fist through a wall. “It sucks, I agree, but glass half full, okay? We found Amir, and we know he's coming back. So tomorrow night, we'll be waiting. The team will be here, and we'll follow him to whatever rock he crawled out from under. And that's where we'll find Meir.”

“I know,” she said. “I know this is huge. But . . .”

“But it's another twenty-four hours. I get it. They're not going to hurt him,” Bobby assured her. “They don't only want you and me, now they want the money, too.”

“So why hasn't Hakeem called again?”

“Because he knows it makes you crazy with worry. He'll call. And you'll ask to speak with Meir again. And then you'll tell Hakeem that you must speak with him every hour prior to the exchange, or the deal is off. That's our guarantee that he's alive. And here's my promise,” he added. “We'll have Meir back long before the time they set for the exchange.”

“And if we don't?”

“We will,” he said firmly.

“But if we don't,” she repeated, just as resolute. She stopped in the middle of the large lobby and faced him. “I
will
exchange my life for his. Promise me, if it comes to that, you won't do anything to stop me.”

“It's not going to come to—”

“Promise me,” she demanded, her eyes dark and tortured.

“I promise,” he said, cupping her shoulders and looking her square in the eye.

She held his gaze for a searching moment, then nodded and started walking again.

And he found himself wondering if he really could honor his word. If he could let her sacrifice her life. He was still contemplating the thought as they maneuvered the large revolving door and stepped out of the air-conditioned coolness of the hotel and into the oppressive Omani night.

They hadn't taken two steps out from under the three-story portico when Talia stopped abruptly. Her hand dropped into the pocket that held her gun.

Instantly alert, Bobby reached for his Beretta. “What?”

“Someone's out there.”