Kathleen Creighton - Secret Agent Sam

It seemed to her the room behind her had gone utterly still-though for all she could have heard above the storm within her, an army might have been marching through it. Her heartbeat was thunder in her ears, her breath like fitful gusts of wind. Tension seemed to crackle all around her as she braced herself, expecting, half dreading, half hoping for, the gentle weight of his hands on her shoulders.

But it didn’t come. Instead, when he spoke his voice seemed to drift from far away. “What happened to us, Sam? How did we lose this? How did we let this get away?”

She turned slowly, carefully, keeping her arms wrapped protectively around herself. Cory was leaning, half sitting, on the windowsill, the way she’d been doing herself not so long ago. He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were closed, and he’d taken off his glasses and was scrubbing his face with both hands. For the first time she noticed how exhausted he looked, his eye sockets more shadowed than ever, cheeks gaunt, with sharp grooves etched from his nose to the corners of his mouth. She caught a breath and ruthlessly quelled a fierce and terrible yearning to go to him and smooth those hollows away with her hands.

“‘This’…has never been our problem, Pearse,” she said bitterly.

He lifted his head. This time the silence was all too real…the tension profound. Breathing and even heartbeats seemed to wait while he looked at her a long suspenseful time. And then he said softly, “No.”

Sam let out a slow and weary breath. So, she thought. We’ve finally done it. Both of us. Admitted we have “a problem.” Wow.

But she felt a small surge of hope, too, because wasn’t recognizing the existence of a problem supposed to be the first step in solving it?

Then just as quickly she deflated, because she seriously doubted the “problem” she and Cory had in mind was the same one. He’d be thinking about her job, of course-her career. As far as he was concerned, that had always been the big thing between them, and according to Tony it was what had driven him to marry someone else. Okay, so fine. Just as well, she thought. At least reminding her of that fact had brought her mind back on course.

“What are we going to do about this, Sam?” It was his normal, quiet voice, and he was smiling at her now, his usual gentle smile.

She shrugged and unwrapped her arms from around her body, forcing rigid muscles to relax. She gave an offhand, one-shoulder shrug. “Nothing we can do, is there? Not right now. For sure not here. You-” and dear Lord, she’d almost said “we” “-have a job to do. Right?” Her lips twisted into something she hoped would resemble a smile. “How’s that going, by the way? The interview?”

He let out a gusty breath and pushed himself away from the window. “We start this afternoon-after lunch-or dinner, or whatever. I have some prep work to do first, since all my questions-my research notes-were on my laptop. I’ve asked for some writing materials-I’m going to have to cobble something up in a hurry. That’s where I’m going now, actually.” He offered her a rueful smile, though his eyes remained shadowed and troubled. “I just stopped by to see how you were.”

“So,” said Sam, carefully ignoring the look in his eyes as she settled into the spot against the windowsill he’d just vacated, “I guess this means I’m going to be stuck here in this room for the rest of the day?”

He gave her an uncomfortable, almost embarrassed look, and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll see what I can do about that.” A smile flickered briefly as he paused with one hand on the door latch. “Maybe I can tell al-Rami you’re my secretary.”

“Yeah,” Sam said dryly, “that’s just what I’ve always wanted to be. Somebody’s secretary. Wahoo.”

His smile steadied and grew tender. “That’s the Sam I know,” he said softly.

After he’d gone, she went on sitting at the windowsill for a long time, arms crisscrossing her body, one hand covering her mouth, eyes closed…rocking herself a little…too emotionally exhausted to cry, hurting too much to laugh.

“Mr. al-Rami, I have only a few more questions…” Cory leaned forward into the pool of light.

It was late afternoon, but here, deep in the ravine, twilight had already fallen. Lamps had been lit, lending a degree of warmth and conviviality to the setting that made it hard to remember, sometimes, that the man sitting across from him in the role of gracious host was the same one responsible for the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands, of people, and whose professed objective was the destruction of almost everything Cory loved and believed in.

“Of course,” al-Rami said, with a magnanimous wave of a long, graceful hand.

Cory cleared his throat. On his left, he could hear the quiet click and whir of Tony’s camera. He had to fight the urge to glance over at Sam, who’d been sitting silently on his right, every now and then taking a sip of tea or reaching to pluck a piece of fruit from the bowl in front of her. She hadn’t said a word throughout the meal and the subsequent question-and-answer session, except to murmur an occasional “Thank you” when some new dish was placed in front of her, and al-Rami had treated her with the same courtesy he’d shown to Tony. Cory suspected the earlier display had been only a case of the terrorist leader demonstrating his absolute power and control, over both them and the situation. This is my game, and you will play by my rules.

Knowing how important it was at this juncture that he not waver or show weakness, he kept his eyes fixed on Fahad al-Rami’s. “Sir, it is known that you are currently holding two hostages. A Canadian couple-” he made a point of glancing down at his notes, although the names were etched in his memory “-Esther and Harold Lundquist.” He looked up, once more locking eyes with al-Rami. “Missionaries.” He waited.

Al-Rami nodded, his expression unperturbed, even aloof. “That is true, yes. They are in my custody. I can assure you they have not been harmed, and are being well treated.”

“Might I be allowed to see for myself that that is the case? A firsthand report from me would go a long way toward changing the perception most people have of you and your organization.”

Al-Rami gave a slight shrug, picked up his teacup and sipped delicately before answering. “I wish I could accommodate your request, Mr. Pearson. Unfortunately, the Lundquists are not here at the present time. They are being kept at another location-as I said, safe and unharmed.”

“These people are missionaries, Mr. al-Rami. They mean you and your followers no harm. What purpose-”

“On the contrary. They mean us great harm. They have attempted to corrupt the most sacred beliefs of our people.” Al-Rami replaced the cup in its saucer with a sharp click.

Cory took a breath and tried a new tack. “Can you tell me when they will be released?”

“They will be released when the time is right, and under circumstances of our choosing.” Al-Rami’s tone was cold.

“Might I suggest,” Cory said softly, leaning forward once more, “that now might be an advantageous time for you and your cause? Coupled with this interview, such a magnanimous gesture-”

He broke off, his breath catching as a series of sharp, rapid pops came from somewhere outside, not too far distant. Beside him he felt Sam jerk upright and go rigid, as if someone had jabbed her in the back with a poker.

Tony said, “Holy momma, what was that?”

Before Cory had a chance to reply, the room filled with men in camouflage. In an instant, it seemed, a phalanx of them had surrounded Fahad al-Rami and were helping him to rise. Others, with less consideration, grabbed Tony and Sam and jerked them to their feet; Cory heard Tony’s protests as he tried frantically to snatch up his cameras. Then he, too, was being jerked upright. He just did manage to scoop up the tape recorder and stuff it into the front of his shirt before they were all hustled out onto the deck, down the swaying rattan stairway and into the depths of the ravine.

All hell was breaking loose behind them. Shouts, small explosions and the crackle of gunfire chased them as they zigzagged through the jungle growth, stumbling and tripping over vines and rotting logs, trying to dodge the stinging slap of ferns and fronds and branches. Then came a flash, and almost immediately after that the thump of an explosion-and then quickly two more. From the indescribable but unmistakable sounds of destruction that followed the blasts, Cory felt certain the unique bamboo house in the ravine was no more.

In the confusion he’d lost track of Fahad al-Rami, though he assumed the terrorist leader must be somewhere in the tangle ahead of them, no doubt surrounded and protected by his special cadre of security forces. Only three or four of the guards had been left behind to shepherd the three “guests,” and it was obvious the selected ones weren’t happy about it. Every time Cory tried to pause to see where Sam and Tony were, he felt the impatient thump of a rifle barrel against his back, and heard the same guttural command repeated harshly over and over. He didn’t have to understand Tagalog-or whatever dialect these people were speaking-to recognize “Go, go, go!” when he heard it. And go he did, with his head down, heart pumping, adrenaline squirting through his veins and his mind in useless turmoil.

He had no idea how long that headlong flight went on or how much territory they’d covered before he was ordered, with pushes and shoves and barked commands, to halt and crouch down in the dense undergrowth. Moments later, to his intense relief, Sam and Tony came crashing through the brush and dropped-or were pushed-down beside him. Tony’s face was glistening with a mixture of sweat and blood from a scratch over one eye. Sam’s face was unmarred but stony. The guards, meanwhile, had gone darting and leaping back the way they’d come and were hunkered down in cover a short distance away, rifles at the ready, avidly scanning the jungle for signs of pursuit.