Hidden Steel (17 page)

Then he retreated back into the bathroom. He combed his hair, dutifully patient with the tangled curls, and he gave it a part that would hold for about five minutes. Then he fumbled loudly with the doorknob, and emerged to find Mickey sitting in the chair in the corner, slightly flushed but completely relaxed, swinging her foot. “Hey,” she said, and turned the television off with a click of the remote. “Guilty pleasure movie.
Bring It On.
You know it?”

He gave a single, baffled shake of his head, and moved to his backpack—stuffing what little he’d taken out right back in. Mickey reached for the thick phone book she’d left on the table and began flipping through yellow pages. By the time Steve made it over there to look over her shoulder, she’d found the pottery listings. She glanced back at him, smiled, and said, “Wherever it is … there’s a
lot
of pottery.”

“Not someone’s basement?”

“Not unless they live in the Batcave.
Huge.
Reminds me more of your place than anything.”

“Pottery Co-Op,” he said instantly, not even thinking about the words. She was already flipping to the suggested alternate listing of
Ceramic Arts
, and there it was, big as life—under the
Schools
subheading. Pottery Co-Op. Not San Jose, but Palo Alto. “They get a lot of students there.”

“You dated someone,” she guessed, stretching to reach for the hotel guest information book.

Steve nudged it closer. “I did,” he said. “Once upon a time. Looking for breakfast?”

“Gonna grab breakfast on the way. Looking for public transportation. VTA mean anything to you? How about Caltrain?” She shook her head at herself. “I guess I really do live around here. God, I hope someone’s feeding that cat.”

He ignored the last, not having any words of comfort or wisdom to offer even if he assumed she’d remembered something about a cat. “VTA does connect with Caltrain to reach Palo Alto. But wouldn’t you rather hitch a ride?”

She snorted. “That’s all I need, get myself into a bad situation hitching along the freeway. Then I’d—” She looked up at him, quite suddenly. “You have a car?”

He only smiled.

* * * * *

Mickey liked motorcycles, she discovered. It didn’t feel familiar, hugged up behind Steve with a helmet encasing her head and occasionally knocking up against his. But she liked it. She wrapped her arms around his stomach and enjoyed the play of muscles as he maneuvered them through the streets and onto the Bayshore Freeway.

She tried to avoid the bruises.

The bike was a practical street bike, a lightweight Suzuki that took neat turns; Steve maneuvered it with casual skill. He’d had it stashed at a friend’s near the gym, and a quick taxi ride got them there. They stopped by Mickey’s fleabag hotel of choice and grabbed her modest grocery-bag luggage now stashed in the bike’s saddlebags; she wore Steve’s backpack.

All neat and tidy, packed together on the bike. Tooling north on the Bayshore Freeway, heading for Palo Alto.

Why not San Francisco beyond? Why not south, to Yuma and Arizona, and into the dramatic geography of northern Arizona and Utah?

Why not
anywhere
?

It would be so easy.

It would solve so many problems.

At least until the day when she finally remembered everything, and understood anew the consequences of her flight.

A man had already died. Naia, daughter of Irhaddan’s president, stood in harm’s way.

So no, there’d be no riding right past Palo Alto; no turning around to head south. Not even if Steve would have done it.

He wouldn’t have.

“Hey,” he said, turning to look at her as they idled at a stop light at the end of their exit. His body twisted under her hands. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she told him, wondering
how did he—?
And then she realized how tightly she’d been gripping him—over those bruises no less—and forced herself to relax. “Sorry.”

But she didn’t stay relaxed. As they headed down the Oregon Expressway and then on Alma Street toward the Caltrain station, her anxiety only became more intense. Inexplicable, but not to be rationalized away—or ignored. Finally Steve pulled over to the curb, putting his foot down to balance them. “Mickey,” he said. “I can’t drive this way.” But when he turned to her, his faint annoyance dropped away, replaced by concern. “You’re as pale as a ghost! Look, Bowden Park is right here—we can take a minute—Mickey?”

But Mickey found herself swamped in sensation. Dread sat uneasily in her stomach; anticipation skittered along her spine and made her skin tingle. The same fear that made her fingers clench around Steve’s sore ribs turned her knees into Jello. And just as he looked at her even more sharply, as he turned the handlebars to take them to the park, she made herself say, “No. We’re in the right place. That’s what all this means.” Inexplicably breathless, she forced every bit of strength into her voice to say, “Let’s go.”

* * * * *

Naia met her opposition at the door of her apartment: Badra, and the often-present Fadil Hisami.

This time, the often-present Fadil Hisami looked somewhat battered; he walked with a limp. But he was no less imposing for it.

In fact, Naia took one look at his face, at Badra’s face, and knew that something had changed. She felt it as a certainty deep within, as though there wasn’t actually anything to think about at all. No decisions to make, because they were already made.

So very similar to the evening she’d realized she’d truly made her choice to work with Anna.

She’d been in Irhaddan for spring break … surrounded by the welcoming familiarities of home. The arid climate honed scents into whisper-thin blades of sensation, bringing out the spice oils, the fragrance of the gardens both inside and outside their home. A veritable palace of a home it was, with airy hallways and dark, rounded shadows. Mosaics ran along the top of the walls and down the corners, work that had much influence on her own pottery. Cunningly concealed fans kept the air moving, fresh against her face.

The evening’s reception had been held in Naia’s honor—a celebration of her visit, and an invitation for all those heads of state, sons of the long-wealthy, and male cousins of politicos to express their interest in and admiration of the president’s daughter.

Of course, circumstances required that she go veiled, even here in her own home. They required that she stare modestly at the hands folded in her lap while her educational accomplishments were feted. She’d had to compose a poem—her father read it, considering himself quite the orator—and she’d stuck to safe subjects, as instructed. Devotion to family, love of country, desire to please.

It had been easier than expected, to write such a poem. She forced herself to look deeply, to write from the heart. To write true.

She discovered that all the things Anna had seen in her, had admired in her, were truly there. She relearned how she loved this place; she understood how much she wanted to support her father. And she understood all over again that her opportunities to do so publicly were limited in the extreme.

She’d been glad when the reception divided, sending the women to the room set aside for them while the men stuffed pipes with their rankest tobacco and puffed themselves into a nicotine haze. It hadn’t been hard to wander away from the women. She could hear the musicians strike up light background music—the jingle of the daff, the reedy tones of the mizwiz, and the nimbly plucked strings of the qanun.

She went the other way. Into the darker, closer hallways, where offices and studies sprouted. It was a man’s domain, to be sure …but not off limits to the women who lived here, especially on this night when the men were otherwise occupied.

It was a good place to think of loyalty to one’s country … and exactly what that might mean.

Anna said that a woman had to work how she could. If she didn’t have a man to work through—and she lived in a culture where that was the norm—then she had to find other ways. Ways that felt right even though they might seem to obscure motivation.

She’d said that if Naia’s father wouldn’t listen to her, then perhaps the enemies of her father’s enemies would. That such a route of action would weaken her father’s enemies just the same.

She entered her father’s study. This wasn’t his public study, the place where papers were signed and visiting dignitaries were greeted. This was his private place. It held his beloved maps—tubes and sheaves and wall-hangings everywhere—and it held the most discreet of advisory meetings. Here he scribbled out his forming thoughts; here he kept his secrets. It smelled of his favorite spice and had wood furnishings, wood wainscoting—all rich southern hardwoods that gleamed in a deep shade just shy of purple.

Since her conversations with Anna, Naia had become more interested in this room—in the manner of thoughts that passed through her father’s head while he worked here. She’d gone ahead with the dead-drop dry run only the week before, but she still wasn’t sure she’d ever fill that space with anything of significance—with anything she learned here at home.

She trailed her fingers over the edge of the desk, unhooking her veil to drop to one side. She would, she thought, replenish the spice oils while she was here. In that way, her father would know she was thinking of him.

And so it was that she was in the closet when she heard a hand upon the doorknob. And so it was that her recent thoughts led her to stay there, instead of coming out to greet the new arrivals as would have been perfectly appropriate.

And so it was that she heard her father’s most trusted advisor discussing treasonous matters with a man purported to be an imports expert from a nearby country. She heard them laugh, scorning her father, and she listened closely when their voices dropped … and that’s when she learned that the most trusted advisor was also feeding false information to the United States.

If the States wanted illicit weapons of mass destruction, they need look no further than this man. He was providing nearby countries with the opportunity to store such things here in these less scrutinized lands.

And so it was that Naia made the decision to spy on those within her own country. The feeling of it—the certainty in her chest mixed with flutter everywhere else—had surprised her.

Just as it surprised her now, looking at Badra and Fadil Hisami and knowing something had changed. She was no longer flirting with playing the game; things had gone deadly earnest. She might well not get a second chance if she played poorly … and she hardly knew enough to play well.

She pretended she was Anna. She stepped aside for Badra and Hisami, looking them each in the eye, failing to greet them as she should. “What’s wrong?”

Neither tried to pretend there was nothing. Badra’s lips thinned in disapproval before she said, “We have concerns that someone inappropriate might try to contact you. Such a person would lie to you and upset you … and might well be a danger to you.”

Naia didn’t need to pretend her distress. She stepped back again, letting her briefcase thump to the floor. “Here? Does my father know?”

The man would have lied; he was halfway through a nod when Badra said, “Not yet. We don’t want him to worry. If you’re sent back home, it would reflect badly on your father’s image. It would seem as though he couldn’t control his own daughter. Unfortunately, that is very close to what has happened. Had you not been so free with your friendships and behavior here, you would not be in this position.”

Naia should have been shamed by those words. Instead she blinked at the audacity of them, at just how many ways Badra had tried to manipulate her in one short speech.
It’s a good thing I
was
free with my friendships. Anna is the one who taught me to look past your ways.

And still, she didn’t think Badra knew precisely what was happening. She thought the woman had simply fallen back on her old methods of control when faced with the uncertainty of the orders she’d been given.

Hisami, however …

Hisami was another story. He gave her the coldest of looks as he said, “It is necessary to tighten your security. For the next few days, you will not attend classes; lectures will be taped for you. Your instructors have been informed of the situation.”

“This decision is already made?” Naia couldn’t hide her surprise. Even her father wouldn’t treat her so.

But her father didn’t know.

She thought perhaps her father would never know.

Unless she could break out of the prison of her apartment to contact Anna.

* * * * *

“You’re sure,” Steve said. He’d seen Mickey exhausted, drugged, flying into action with a tank top on her head, and dancing on the bed. He’d never seen this shocky look on her face.

She looked blankly at him, as though surprised they would even have this conversation. “I’m certain. This is the place.”

Her surprise made him think twice. “What are we talking about here? We’re looking for your connection with Naia, right?”

She laughed, small and wry, and there was something on her face that made him think of those first vulnerable moments he’d seen her. “Oh. Right. We were, weren’t we?”

“Mickey.” It was as much a warning as a question, and he left the handlebars to fend for themselves even as he put a second foot to the pavement to stabilize the bike. They weren’t going anywhere until he understood what was happening with her.

“I don’t know yet if we found the connection with Naia, but I think so. What I know is … this area is where it happened. Where they took me.” She shuddered, and then gave him a smile as wry as her laugh. “I can’t imagine wanting anything more than to succumb to the animal urge to flee. Good thing I’ve got a brain, I guess.”

“It’s not such a bad thing to listen to your gut,” Steve said, suppressing the need to cradle her face in his hand. Wouldn’t work anyway, not with the motorcycle helmet.

“Going in there is the only way we’re going to find answers,” Mickey said, and it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Or as if she already knew, and just had to find a way to face it.