Burn (Story of CI #3) (4 page)

Alejo tried to smile, one corner of his mouth turning up as he did his best to really look at her. She saw him turn sideways, saw that Rupert and Cail had shown up next to them. Alejo glanced back at Wara. "A surprise welcoming committee." The backpack lurched on his shoulders and Alejo inhaled sharply, still staring at Wara. "Wara. It's good to see you safe," he said.

And then he was hugging Rupert. And Cail. And turning away from Wara.

She felt her arms dangling at her sides, the Starbucks coffee almost slipping from her fingers.

Seriously?

Wara, it's good to see you safe?

He wouldn't even put his arms around her. Not even the usual Bolivian-style kiss on the cheek. They always said hello with that kiss on the cheek.

She was kind of in shock. They all started to walk out towards the Land Cruiser and Wara trailed behind, alone with the coffee.

She should have realized it, but distance could cover up a lot of things. Face to face was another ball game.

All those times the past few months, when they talked on skype and Alejo tried to tell her she shouldn't be so critical of the church after everything that happened in Iran…

I thought it was ok to be honest with him. That there was no way he would take it so seriously.

Every day since what happened last year, Wara had felt herself growing more annoyed with organized religion. She had seen how that big, famous church in the United States left Sami to die in prison in Iran.

And then there was the more personal stuff. Yeah, Lalo and Caspian had rescued Wara and Alejo from Iranian prison, but the price still gave Wara nightmares. She'd been sitting next to Hourmazd, the guard who was hardly more than a kid and had a really cute smile. He bled all over her when he was shot. So Wara could get out of Iran and live. And go home with shoulders that hurt, all the time.

Instead of really listening to how Alejo was doing in the oven of Timbuktu, Wara had been ranting about all the crap going on in her head. And Alejo had tried to tell her to not be so bitter.

In front of her in the airport entryway, Wara could hear Rupert in powwow with Alejo, talking about the school and Al-Qaeda and Timbuktu.

Alejo had to fly halfway around the world, leaving an important assignment right on the edge of armed fighting, to babysit Wara. To protect Wara from a guy who was only gonna make Alejo think about the past….Lázaro and Wara together.

Wara stifled a deep groan. The bridge of her nose was burning.

He wasn't happy to see her.

And there could be a million reasons why.

She should have told Rupert not to call him.

But it was too late now

THE LAND CRUSIER ZOOMED THROUGH the darkened cedar forest in relative silence. Wara stared out the window at the starlight, trying not to mope about Alejo’s disappointing reaction. Cail fiddled with the radio to fill the quiet with peppy Arabic pop music. Alejo slumped into the backseat next to Wara and hugged his backpack, barely awake.

Thanks to antiaircraft missiles around Timbuktu, Alejo hadn’t been able to get a flight to Bamako. He’d had to do the grueling 24-hour trip overland, across the sand in a rented Land Cruiser.

It made sense he was in a stupor.

But he had hugged Rupert and Cail.

Thank God, when they entered headquarters Silvia already had some coffee brewed. She was a sweet lady Rupert knew from Bolivia, forty-something, single, and definitely under five feet tall. Silvia helped Rupert out with office work and cooking around the huge cedar cabin in the Moroccan mountains that was CI headquarters.

When Alejo’s eyes fell on the coffee, he cracked the first real smile since they’d picked him up at the airport. Silvia got them all seated around the long wood table in the dining section of the Great Room. This part of the house had ceilings about three stories tall, sloped with a mosaic of wood in shades of red and golden white. The other side of the open room held a very cozy U-shaped couch. The tan fabric was worn clean through in some places, and they tried to cover it up with orange Moroccan pillows embroidered with little mirrors.

Wara slid in next to Cail at the table, and she had to admit that despite her awkward mood the food smelled amazing. Silvia had whipped up some Moroccan couscous, a national dish of tiny grain-like pasta you could make a ton of ways. Tonight it smelled like mint and cumin. And maybe dates with some spicy chicken.

Alejo was across the table from Wara, huddled around a mug of steaming coffee. Silvia beamed at him and kissed him on the cheek, welcoming him back.

He might have even smiled at Silvia with more gusto than he showed Wara at the airport.

Wara rolled her eyes and stifled a frustrated grunt, dumped some more coffee into her mug. They always drank coffee at night here, because CI headquarters was right in the middle of the Atlas Mountains. When the sun went down, the temperature plummeted.

Rupert and Silvia lived here, so they were used to the chilly temperatures. Wara and Cail had been living in steamy Rabat, and the few days Wara had been back here at headquarters hadn’t been enough to get used to the cold. She was glad she’d had her favorite gray and orange Roxy hoodie with her in the Land Cruiser.

Alejo was practically shaking with cold. Wara blinked at him as she realized that his hand was trembling against the clay of the coffee mug. Goosebumps ran across the tan skin of his hand and up into the sleeve of his flannel. His eyes met hers and Alejo tried to smile at her. He left his mug on the table and walked over to the grubby red backpack he must have hauled all through West Africa and pulled out a black sweater. He slid back onto his chair and gulped coffee, still looking very cold.

Well, it must have been hot there in Timbuktu. Wara felt her face soften, thinking about how Alejo had just come from a world she couldn’t imagine.

In Rabat, she and Cail lived in an apartment with running water and a silky floral sofa and only the occasional cucaracha. They had access to pizza and pretty decent croissants and coffee.

Alejo had been living in the desert, in the middle of an armed conflict.

“Well if no one else is hungry,” Cail said loudly, “I’ll start. I love Rupert’s couscous.”

“Silvia cooked with me tonight,” Rupert called from the kitchen just around the corner. “Her idea to add the slivered almonds.”

“Slivered almonds,” Cail grinned at Silvia. When Cail grinned, she always looked a little bit evil. “Sounds tasty.” She dumped a couple large spoonfuls of food on her plate, then passed the serving dish across the table to Alejo. “Oh. Sorry. I guess you’re kind of the guest.”

Alejo actually grinned at her. He grinned. Not at Wara, but at Silvia and Cail. “Thanks,” he said. “You have no idea how wonderful this smells.”

Despite Alejo’s big act to look all excited over the food, Wara noticed he didn’t serve himself that much at all. He chewed each bite about a million times, as if it was a colossal effort just to get the food down.

Once everyone was eating and sufficiently caffeinated, Rupert cleared his throat and crossed his fingers over his belly in that way that meant it was time to talk business. Since it was night time in the mountains and all, Rupert had pulled on a cream-colored old man cardigan over the red plaid flannel.

It was a good look on him.

Wara had really liked working in Rupert’s organization since she met him in Bolivia a year ago. Rupert Cole’s grandfather had run an export business here in Morocco, called Cole Incorporated. After leaving the CIA, Rupert inherited the business. He’d turned it into something else altogether: Cole Inc., or CI, an organization that employed people with different backgrounds and worked to help people being persecuted for their religious or political beliefs. Their cover was an educational NGO.

Everybody liked Rupert, even if he was sometimes way, way too nosy.

“Just a short briefing,” Rupert said, “because I know you’re all tired. Cail and Wara have been reading up on Mali and the political situation. This is the situation: Lalo and his team have been in Timbuktu for four months. They replaced Tabor’s team, who was sent to provide security for the kids after the bombing attempt last September.”

Nearly a year ago. The school building had gone up in flames, but all the kids had made it out in time. And now, the second attack on the Christian school in its new location had actually succeeded. Everyone looked pained.

“Al-Qaeda in the Maghreb, or AQIM, has seemed to be slowly retreating or losing power in the area,” Rupert continued. “We thought Lalo’s team would be able to leave Mali very soon and the danger for the kids was over. That plan all changed after the attack last week. Now we need to get the surviving kids out of there. Whoever wanted them dead is obviously not gonna rest until they succeed. But we can’t move the kids until they’re stable.” Rupert glowered. He was obviously outraged at what had happened to the kids at the school.

Wara felt herself slinking down in her chair, too. She stuffed her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, feeling like dirt. Because of her, the kids from the school had lost one of the people who protected them.

Alejo.

It was her fault he was here instead of there in Timbuktu.

Rupert’s icy blue eyes flickered to her. Sometimes it seemed the guy could read her mind. “Lalo and Caspian are managing fine at the moment,” he said, “but it will be even better when you all arrive. Reinforcements. We’ll need you to work in shifts of two teams, guarding the hospital until the kids are ready to be transported out of there. We’re working on getting them asylum in a European country, as soon as possible. Amadou is helping us with the kids’ paperwork.” Rupert glanced at Wara and Cail. “Amadou is from Timbuktu, a Christian, and the director of the school. Lalo’s team and Amadou have all gotten close during this time they’ve worked together.”

When Rupert made them all get out their phones and look at files he’d sent them of major terrorist players in the region’s fighting, Wara didn’t really feel any better.

Her assignment in Rabat suddenly was not seeming very challenging. She kind of wanted to go back to the moldy little apartment and friendly roaches.

Alejo was pointing out the photo of a guy named Alexei Tsarnev. “That’s definitely him,” he told Rupert. “He was there.”

Wara found the picture on her screen and squinted. The guy was scrawny and pasty with a mop of curly black hair and thick Middle Eastern eyebrows. He looked about nineteen. Way too nerdy-schoolboy to be a terrorist.

“Tsarnev appears to have a lot of weight in AQIM,” Rupert said. “We didn’t know he worked in the region until Alejo ID’d him from Timbuktu the day of the bombing.”

What? This guy helped kill the kids at the school?

Wara shivered and swallowed, hard. Appearances could be deceiving.

This was all feeling a little unreal. A few days ago, Lázaro Marquez showed up all scarred with wild hair and no memory. Then he tried to kill her. Now she was sitting in a briefing about terrorist players in Mali.

And soon she’d be going there.

Timbuktu must be a great place to hide. And obviously it was a very important assignment, keeping the kids safe.

Wara had to admit her mind was not really there, though.

What about Lázaro?

“Alejo,” Rupert was saying. “Give us your best guess as to what the motive is behind the attack on the kids.”

Alejo’s lashes lowered and it took him a minute to start talking. “We think it’s because of Amadou,” he said. “Besides his work at the school, he’s the curator of one of the largest manuscript collections in Timbuktu. The manuscripts are a really valuable source of African history, priceless. Amadou’s always valued education, and he was even in a BBC documentary because he risked his life to smuggle manuscripts out of Timbuktu in 2012 when Al-Qaeda in the Maghreb, AQIM, took over the city for a little while. The French troops kicked them out pretty quickly. AQIM has hated Amadou ever since. They hate him worse, now, because Amadou is also one of the last Christians left in Timbuktu. Most of them got out in 2012, afraid for their lives. Amadou started a Christian school along with the last family of missionaries left in the area. Most of the kids have converted to Christianity, along with some of their families. Obviously AQIM isn’t happy.”

Cail took a long slurp of coffee. She’d had about six cups already, in a tall black beer mug that said “The Godfather.”

“So,” she narrowed a green eye at Alejo, “the school was a target because it’s Christian. I assume they also educate girls?”

Before meeting Wara, Cail spent a year in Pakistan guarding a girls’ school from the Taliban. The Taliban believed that girls who wanted an education deserved a nice splash of acid across the face. Cail and another CI agent rode with the girls on the bus, armed, and had to stand outside the gate every day just so those girls could learn to read and write, hopefully without getting disfigured in the process.

Alejo nodded seriously. “Yeah, the school has girls. AQIM hates that.”

“And Amadou was a target because of his involvement with the school and the manuscripts?” Rupert asked.

“Look,” Alejo said. “The Islamists bring a spirit of legalism and death wherever they go. Amadou believes in knowledge and education. He takes care of those manuscripts just like his ancestors did for generations. He teaches little boys and little girls, as equals. He fights against the spirit of the law that makes life hell for people there in Timbuktu. And AQIM hates him for it.”

“Doesn’t Amadou have a wife?” Cail asked. Alejo flinched and Rupert exhaled long and slow.

“She was killed in the attack last Thursday,” Rupert said.

They all sat there in silence.

How horrible.

It was awful that Amadou, who seemed to be doing such great things there in Timbuktu, had lost his wife.

And then there were the children.

And they couldn’t forget about Lázaro.

This was getting to be too much for her.

“Well.” Wara’s voice sounded jagged. She felt her shoulders rise, then slump. The muscles still ached. “Rupert, you said we’d talk more about my…problem when Alejo got here.” She felt her cheeks start to burn ruby-red.

Rupert stroked his mustache. “Yes,” he said. “Marquez. This is what we know about him: he came from Puerto Rico to study in Bolivia in 2010. Double masters in Tourism and Economics. While in Bolivia he converted to Islam and was recruited into the Prism, an organization some people at the table are familiar with.” Rupert flashed his eyes over to Alejo, then Wara. “Lázaro worked under Alejo in the Prism for only a few months, then the local cell was disbanded. The last place we have Lázaro in is Europe, where he did work for the Eastern Star, a radical Muslim group out of Georgia.”

“And now he shows up claiming to not know who Wara is,” Cail scowled. “But saying someone’s sent him to kill her.”

This was so awkward. Wara was starting to feeling frustrated.

“I can see how Timbuktu is a good place to hide out,” she said, “but I obviously don’t have experience in this kind of situation. I’m not really any help. Everyone will basically be my babysitters there.” Embarrassing, but true. “When the kids are able to be moved, Lalo and the rest of us will move out. Right? And then what do I do? Find a new place to hide out?”

Alejo was watching her. He looked a little less cold now that he’d downed coffee. “Right,” he nodded. Something uncertain flashed across his hazel eyes. Alejo tried to cover it up with a reassuring smile. It came across rather lopsided. “Timbuktu is just until we can figure out what to do next.”

Wara felt herself making a face. “You mean, like, until we work out some kind of deal? Get him to stop coming after me? Oh, maybe we could Facebook him and ask him to please lay off. Do assassins even use social media?”

Cail was grimacing and tracing wood patterns on the ceiling with her eyes. Alejo looked very disturbed. “Someone will have to track him down and get him to stop,” he said gruffly, “if you’re going to come out of hiding.”