Hide and Seek (27 page)

“I don’t know. It shouldn’t be too long. I assume they have transportation. I can’t imagine them searching on foot. They would have been deployed from Manas. There’s a good number of miles between here and there. I haven’t heard a helicopter overhead. You know, that’s odd. Why isn’t there a chopper up there looking for you?”

“The riots. We don’t even know if my father knows about all of this.”

“I imagine he has his hands full.”

Jildiz rolled on her back. Her breathing seemed to have eased. “There’s a chance he’s had to flee. Last few times riots broke out, the government buildings were breached. Security is better, but untested.”

“You mean, your father may be somewhere other than the Kyrgyzstan White House?”

“It’s possible. It was a riot that caused President Kurmanbek Bakiyev to flee the country for Kazakhstan and then on to Belarus.”

“I see. Can I ask a question?”

“Well, I was going to get my nails done but I can spare a few minutes.”

Amelia smiled. “Humor’s a good sign. Would he leave without you?”

“Yes.” Jildiz’s answer came without hesitation. “We discussed the possibility. I don’t live with my parents. I have a home outside the city. Since our country has a history of violent protests, I thought it best to insist he and Mother flee should it ever come to that.” She rolled back to her side again, taking deeper breaths. “I never thought the day would come. My father has been the most progressive president in the last fifty years. He communicates well with voters. I always felt he was loved. It appears I was wrong.”

“No head of state is loved by everyone. In my country, criticizing and making jokes about the sitting president is a national pastime.”

“I thought baseball was the national pastime.”

“It used to be. It’s football and NASCAR these days.”

Jildiz closed her eyes. The conversation seemed to be taxing her lung’s limited ability. Amelia decided to risk another question. “Do you know of anyone who might have the power to initiate the protests?”

“My father has few enemies.”

“You only need one.”

Jildiz opened her eyes again. “I suppose that is true. Yes, there are several political opponents and elections are not far off.”

“But would they have the kind of influence to plan a set of protests that would bring out thousands and knock out phones, but leave radio and television stations operating?”

“I don’t know who could do that. Well, maybe Prime Minister Dootkasy. He has fingers in every pie.”

“Would he do such a thing? Would he try to have you abducted?”

“I do not like the man,” Jildiz said. “I don’t trust him, but he already has great power, what would he gain?”

Amelia gave that a moment’s thought. “Does he have the same power as your father?”

“No, but my father appointed him. Why would he turn against someone who has shown so much trust?”

“Et tu, Brute.”

“Shakespeare . . . you think Dootkasy might be the Brutus to my father’s Caesar?”

“Not Dootkasy necessarily, it’s just that most revolts start at the hand of someone close. Of course, it might be coincidence. Somehow though, I don’t think so.”

“I’m sorry, Amelia.”

“For what?”

“For being such a weight. You could be home with the doors locked, not hiding in an old truck—”

Amelia’s hand over Jildiz’s mouth muffled the last word. Jildiz’s eyes widened. Amelia raised a finger to her lip with one hand and retrieved the 9mm with the other.

She tilted her head to point an ear to the front of the vehicle.

Silence.

She was sure she heard something.

TESS WAS ALONE NOW.
All alone.

Chaplain Bartley was the last to leave and only after he asked a dozen times if she would be okay. Moyer and Rich left five minutes earlier. The three were going to make the rounds, visiting the wives and families of the other team members. Colonel Mac and Chaplain Rubin had a head start on the grueling, mind-melting duty. That was as it should be. Tess told Bartley he should go home and deal with his own grief, but he refused. “I have to see the others. It’s my duty as a minister and as their friend.”

Tess didn’t argue.

The apartment seemed emptier than ever before, even emptier than when the landlord showed her and J. J. the place. It had no furniture then and smelled of fresh paint and carpet shampoo. It didn’t take them long to settle in and start calling the place home.

She selected the furniture. “There’s no way I’m letting a guy who considers travel in a troop carrier First Class pick out furniture.”

“You are a wise woman.” His eyes twinkled when he said it. She wasn’t sure eyes could really do that, but it was how she remembered the event. “Babe, all I need is a place to put my fanny, something to put my feet on, and a sixty-five-inch high-def, flat-screen television.”

“Did you say, ‘sixty-five-inch’?” She remembered putting a hand on her hip.

“Of course not. Sixty-five inch? Really, I said, sixty-inch.”

“Sixty.”

“Don’t be silly, I said a fifty-five-inch television. I’m not greedy.”

“You know there’s only 900 square feet in this apartment, right?”

“Not to worry, Babe. I’ll pick it out. You won’t have to do a thing.”

Tess tried to look stern but was sure she failed. “It is my wifely duty to say that we can use the money for more important things.”

“You could watch all those cooking shows on cable.” He offered a cheesy grin.

“You know I’m a lousy cook. I don’t watch shows like that.”

“I know—I mean, you’re being too hard on yourself. Okay, how about this? Think about how good the History Channel and the Military Channel will look. That’s right up your academic avenue. In fact, I bet we can even write the expense off our taxes, you being a professor at a military college and all.”

She lifted her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, you win.”

“Great. Thanks, Babe. You’re gonna love the sixty-five-inch set . . .”

His voice faded, replaced by the sound of her sniffling.

His voice would never return. Gone forever were the quips. Gone forever the stupid jokes. Forever lost were the gentle words of endearment and the small voice he used when they prayed together.

Gone.

Forever.

Killed by a mob on the other side of the world.

Did they understand what they took from her? Would they ever know they stole her love, her heart, her longing, and the only man she ever loved? Would they? Would there be justice? Would the perpetrators be made to pay for their crimes? Or would they, like so many, escape justice?

Anger welled in her. Anger became fury. Fury became hatred.

Hatred? Was she allowed to hate? Did her Christian faith grant her at least a few moments of seething spite? Would God hold it against her if she detested those who not only killed her husband but burned his corpse? Or would He allow her to voice her bitterness like the psalmists who wrote scorching, bile-laced, imprecatory psalms?

Tess recalled the first time she read one of the harsh psalms. She had assumed all the ancient lyrics were of the same nature: joyful, full of praise, words of godly praise. Some were far from the realm of soft and cuddly. She picked up the Bible resting on the coffee table and found Psalm 69:24. She read aloud, “‘Pour out Your rage on them, and let Your burning anger overtake them.’” Another two verses down: “‘Add guilt to their guilt; do not let them share in Your righteousness. Let them be erased from the book of life and not be recorded with the righteous.’”

Hard words.

Harsh words.

Accurate to her feelings. She wished that very thing. “God, You know who they are; You know what they did; You know where they are. Pour out Your judgment upon them. Make them pay. Make it hurt. Make their pain lasting and intense. Punish them, Father. Hurt them. Destroy them slowly . . .”

She drew a hand beneath her runny nose. “I want them dead.”

Hollow words.

“I want them to burn in the fires of hell.”

Empty words.

“God, please make them suffer. Do what I cannot: inflict them with the greatest pain.”

She didn’t believe herself.

She tried to continue but couldn’t muster the hatred. Why wasn’t she furious? Why wasn’t she ranting and calling down fire from heaven? Why? She had every right to wish the killers a painful demise. It was even in the Bible. The words she just read were recorded in the Bible and have been read for three thousand years.

Tess was too smart to keep lying to herself. She knew imprecatory psalms were not examples of how to pray, but illustrations of the pain and fear people—even people of faith—endured. God was the Judge, not her. Still, she had a right to her hatred, except hatred never came. Just emptiness. Perhaps she was too emotionally taxed to juggle more emotions than the dominant sorrow.

Setting the Bible down, Tess slipped to her knees, rested her elbows on the sofa seat, and folded her hands in prayer.

“Heavenly Father . . .” It was a two-word prayer, the rest of the petition was delivered in unspoken emotion.

Tess knew two things: prayer didn’t require words; prayer spoken into the cushion of a sofa in an apartment in Columbia, South Carolina, by a crushed, pregnant woman was heard in heaven.

CHAPLAIN PAUL BARTLEY PULLED
to the side of the road on his way to Lucy Medina’s home. Odd, he always thought of it as Jose’s home. He pulled to the side because he could no longer see the road ahead of him. He found a side street in front of an elementary school empty for the evening and leaned his head on the steering wheel.

At first he feared someone would see him.

When the tears came, he ceased to care.

J. J. TURNED TO
see Crispin set what looked like a basketball in the middle of the roof. He crawled on hands and knees to reach the center. J. J. had seen everything in Crispin’s bag o’ tricks so he knew he wasn’t looking at a piece of sports equipment. Although difficult to see in the dim light, he had seen it in full illumination and it was the craziest device he ever viewed. At a distance the “ball” looked solid, but up close it proved to be a sphere made of horizontal and vertical plastic ribs. Inside were the brains and senses of the surveillance device. Also inside were a pair of counter-spinning propellers driven by a small electric motor. The thing was not fast but it was agile. The original design came from a Japanese research company, but several military contractors were hard at work on something similar.

“Binkster,” as Crispin liked to call the device—J. J. failed to fathom the man’s need to name his equipment—rose slowly, straight up then at an altitude of 500 feet eased to the northeast. By plan, Crispin programmed the device to move slowly so it didn’t catch the eyes of the growing mob below.

One of the benefits of Binkster was its ability to operate without a human controller. Crispin could input a GPS location and the drone would fly there. It could even sense solid objects in its path and steer around them. It had its greatest usefulness searching inside a building while soldiers remained safely outside avoiding hidden combatants or booby traps.

Crispin watched the small video monitor. J. J. turned his attention to the crowd in the alley. Their numbers were thinning. He saw several walk down the alley and around to the street to join their pyromaniac pals. He already received word the alley side of Aliki’s building was clear.

J. J. glanced back at Crispin and saw the man staring back, motioning him over. J. J. scampered to the middle of the roof. “What’s ya got, Hawkeye?”

“Nothing good, Boss.” He held the remote with the embedded video monitor so J. J. could see it.

The sight of a small group of men moving down an empty street. It wasn’t the sight of the group that bothered J. J.—there were six of them—it was the way they moved. Each man was armed with an automatic weapon although they wore no uniforms. Three moved down the east side of the street; three down the west. They moved like a military unit, clearly searching for something. They peered in shop windows and tested doors to see if any were open. If they were looters, they would be breaking windows. These men were not looters, they were a search team. Good guys? Bad guys? In the chaos that was Bishkek, J. J. couldn’t tell.