Seduced by His Target (19 page)

Struggling against a tide of panic, she tried desperately to think this through. Sultan’s roommate had to be here for a reason. The timing was too suspect.

Her brother had met Kamil al Bitar their freshman year of college. They’d instantly hit it off, rooming together for all four years. Her brother had studied business and finance. His roommate had studied engineering, graduating near the top of his class.

“Leila, what did Kamil do after college?”

Leila paused to sip her water. “He went to graduate school at M.I.T. We visited him once in Boston after we were married. Then he went back to Jaziirastan.”

“So he’s an engineer?”

Leila started walking again. “I think so. I’m not sure where he works...maybe at a research group? I don’t really know.”

Her thoughts whirled. Maybe Kamil was the Rising Light’s bomb maker. With his engineering background, it made sense. Maybe he’d come here tonight to deliver an explosive device—assuming he could sneak it past the massive security presence swarming the grounds.

But then why had he been on the island? How did Leila’s forged file fit into all this? Or did it? Maybe she was trying too hard to connect a bunch of unrelated dots and missing a more obvious clue.

They made it to the main floor, then followed another hallway to the adjacent wing, the same route Nadine had taken before dawn. Leila slowed and continued to stagger, and Nadine took her arm, struggling to support her weight. Her sister-in-law was burning up. Whatever this infection was, it was gaining strength fast.

And that wasn’t a good sign. She had to get her to a hospital. She needed to put her on an antibiotic drip right away. And if the drugs didn’t kick in quickly, she had to do a culture to find out what they were dealing with.

Sultan was waiting for them at the ballroom door. He gave his wife a once-over, something that almost resembled approval in his eyes. Leila beamed.

“Leila isn’t well,” Nadine announced flatly. She hated to burst Leila’s bubble, but she had to consider her health. “She has a bad infection. She needs to get to a hospital right away.”

Sultan scowled. “She can’t. She has to attend the reception.”

“She’s feverish. She can hardly stand up.”

Leila swung around in alarm. “Nadira, no. I’m fine, really. I want to be here. I promise you, I’m all right.”

Sultan gave his wife a nod. “Good. I want you there.” He shifted his gaze to Nadine. “Stay right beside her. You can help her if she feels too weak.”

“But that’s ridiculous. She’s burning up. Feel her face. You can see yourself that she’s too sick. I can greet the people. She doesn’t have to—”

“You’ll do as I say. She needs to be here. This reception is important.”

“More important than your wife?”

Anger flared in Sultan’s eyes. “You’ll stand in the receiving line beside her and make sure she doesn’t make any mistakes. Once everyone has entered the reception, she can leave. But not before I give the word.”

Nadine stared at her brother, at a loss for words. What was so important about this reception that he’d risk his wife’s health?

“And, Nadira?”

“What?” she asked, still incredulous.

He held up a two-way radio. “If you try to contact anyone, or if you leave Leila’s side even for a second—your CIA friend will pay the price.”

Her blood went cold. Her head felt suddenly light. He’d just admitted that Rasheed was his prisoner.
He knew who he really was
.

And now Sultan would be keeping his eye on her, making sure she didn’t sneak off to rescue him. And if she disobeyed his order, if she slipped away during the reception to try to find him, Rasheed would die.

Sucking in a reedy breath, she struggled to form a plan, but any hope she had of rescuing Rasheed skittered away. For his safety, she had to stay at the reception. She couldn’t risk causing him any harm. But what if Sultan was toying with her? What if he intended to kill Rasheed regardless of what she did? Was it better to take the chance?

Her brother gave the guards a signal. They hustled Leila and her through the walkway connecting the wings. Feeling dazed, she glanced through the windows at the guests milling around outside, oblivious to the danger playing out before their eyes.

She followed Leila through a metal detector at the entrance to the ballroom. A stern-faced guard searched her purse. A bomb-sniffing dog checked her over while she stood there woodenly, too worried about Rasheed to make a peep.

Why had he come? Why couldn’t he have waited a day before taking such a terrible risk? Sick with worry, she trailed Leila into the lavish ballroom and took her place in the receiving line.

Chandeliers glittered overhead. A string quartet played in the background, its muted strains sounding far away. Waiters slipped through the gathering crowd, serving champagne and gourmet hors d’oeuvres.

She ignored it all, her mind in a total uproar, stray thoughts circling like an endless carousel.
The island. The surgery. The terrorists
.
Leila’s mysterious file
. She knew she was missing something. Something important. Something to do with Sultan’s roommate, the engineer who might have built a bomb.

“Biomedical engineering!” The thought sliced at her out of nowhere, the clue she’d been trying to recall.

Standing next to her, Leila gave her a funny look. “What?”

“Biomedical engineering. That’s what Sultan’s roommate studied.”

“Yes, that’s right. He interned in a hospital for a while.”

And biomedical engineers designed things— imaging equipment, replacement joints, prostheses.
Surgical implants.

Oh, good God. Horror congealed inside her as everything began to fall in place. Maybe that’s what he was doing on the island—delivering Leila’s implants. Sultan had brought the package to the clinic that night.

And if he was a bomb maker...could the implants contain a bomb?
A bomb that she installed?

Nausea roiled inside her. She clamped her hand to her mouth, the absolute horror of it making her want to retch. But she knew that it was possible. Drug cartels and prisoners had smuggled contraband via body cavities for years. And terrorists had tried to implant bombs before; they’d done it in Saudi Arabia not long ago. That plot had failed. They’d had problems with the detonation, a design flaw they’d needed to fix.

But Kamil was smart. He’d graduated at the top of his class, then done his grad work at M.I.T. And if he’d perfected the design...

She shuddered, convinced now that she was right. It explained Sultan’s insistence that Leila have surgery. It explained why they’d done it on the island, where they could escape scrutiny from the U.S. authorities. It even explained Leila’s infection. The explosive material inside the casings could be leaking out.

The plan was diabolical, yet brilliant. The bomb-sniffing dogs would never detect them. The scanner would have picked them up, but they wouldn’t have raised any concerns. Half the women in attendance probably sported implants of various sorts—breasts, buttocks, cheeks. Even the vice president had supposedly undergone surgery to enhance his chin. All her brother would need was a detonating device, probably a cell phone he could depress as soon as the target approached.

And they’d be dead.

Her hands began to shake. Her head whirled as unsuspecting guests greeted her warmly, then continued by. The target was probably the vice president. He was the most important dignitary here.

But
why
would her brother do it? It was too obvious. The reception was at his house. Why would he risk taking the blame?

He wouldn’t have to. She gasped as the final clue slid into place.
Leila’s forged documents.
They were making her look like a rogue agent, a suicide bomber working on behalf of Iran. No one outside the family knew her. No one knew how ludicrous that idea was. They’d only see that she came from Iran, that her marriage to Sultan was an unhappy one, and assume she wanted revenge.

And the forged documents would back up that claim. Knowing her father, he’d probably even hired someone who looked like Leila to make the trip. Witnesses in Iran would identify Leila as the one they’d seen, lending the story even more credibility.

The attack would be cataclysmic. The vice president would die. Her father and brother would play the shocked allies, horrified that someone they were close to had masterminded such an evil plan. The blame would shift to Iran, an enemy of both Jaziirastan and the United States.

The U.S. government would have to retaliate. They couldn’t let a brazen assassination go unpunished, especially one of this magnitude. They’d probably bomb Iran, Jaziirastan’s ancient enemy, sparking a war in the Middle East.

Jaziirastan had a lot to gain. As a U.S. ally, they’d receive money and arms to assist the fight, bolstering their power in the Middle East. And with the vice president dead, Jaziirastan’s closest political ally, Senator Riggs, would run for president—increasing their influence even more.

Horrified, she stared at Leila, the awful irony sinking in. She’d fled home to become a doctor. She’d risked her life repeatedly, going through years of hell to attain her dream. And then she’d dedicated her life to healing others, to helping battered women regain their dignity.

Now her family had used those very skills, turning them against her to carry out their warped plans.

No wonder Sultan had manipulated her into performing the surgery. How amused he must have been when she implanted the bomb. She would even cause her own death, avenging their honor! She’d played right into his twisted hands.

Shocked beyond reason, she closed her eyes.
She
was going to cause Leila’s death.
She
was going to assassinate the vice president.
She
would spark a conflagration that could turn into World War Three.

No.
She had to stop this. No matter what the obstacles, no matter how impossible the chance for victory now seemed, she could not let these evil men win. She snapped her gaze to the ballroom entrance. She caught Sultan watching her, a sick half smile on his handsome face.

If she bolted now, Rasheed would die. If she waited, Sultan would detonate the bomb.

And for the first time in her life, she couldn’t see a clear way out.

Chapter 14

R
asheed had always prided himself on his patience. He’d spent years working his way through the Rising Light’s training camps. He’d spent years forging the right connections and earning the terrorists’ trust. And he’d spent more years than he could remember sifting painstakingly through bank documents, tenaciously piecing together their financial network so he could destroy the bloodthirsty group. He’d persevered with cold calculation, tamping back his raging need for vengeance, biding his time as he worked single-mindedly toward the greater goal.

But now that patience was shot. Knowing Nadine was being held captive somewhere in the compound had done away with his self-control.

He closed his eyes and inhaled, reminding himself for the hundredth time that he had to wait. Then he trained his gaze on the guard yawning in his armchair near the pool house door. Sitting idly by while she was in danger was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But this wasn’t just a battle, it was a war. Giving away his hand too quickly would destroy any chance he had of getting her out alive.

He grimaced, the slight motion making his swollen eye throb. The endless hours he’d spent curbing his frustration had taught him one thing. He was no longer dead inside. Ever since he’d met Nadine, the emotions he’d thought he’d buried with Sarah’s death had come blazing back to life full force. She’d opened the lid and let them out, resurrecting needs and feelings he could no longer ignore.

He felt emotions, all right—fury, frustration.
And fear.
The gut-wrenching terror that he’d arrived too late to save her life.

Voices arose just outside the pool house. His pulse began to thud, but the voices faded away. The guard slumped lower in his seat, his head lolling forward, his eyes drooping closed. But then he jerked them open and pulled himself upright in an effort to stay awake.

Rasheed inhaled through his teeth. The reception was in full swing now. His chance to mount a rescue was nearly gone. While he sat huddled on the pool house floor, waiting for the damned guard to fall asleep, Nadine’s time was running out.

At least the long hours he’d spent twiddling his thumbs had done one good thing—they’d given him time to figure out where he’d gone wrong. He never should have let Amir live. He’d humiliated and enraged him, increasing his desire for revenge. To retaliate, Amir had undoubtedly gone to their leader, Manzoor, and reported his suspicions about him. And Manzoor wasn’t dumb. Already paranoid, and with a vital mission to carry off, he wouldn’t want to take a chance of having a traitor in their midst.

So they’d set him up. They’d checked in to a hotel. They’d separated him from Nadine to see if he’d make a move. And they’d alerted al Kahtani, who’d been watching for him—letting him sneak inside the compound while he set his trap.

Why al Kahtani hadn’t shot him outright, he didn’t know. Maybe he intended to interrogate him later. Maybe he didn’t want to risk a gunshot with the vice president’s security detail so close. Or maybe he wanted to torture him by forcing him to watch Nadine die—just as they’d done with his wife.

But al Kahtani had made a mistake. He should have executed him while he’d had the chance. Because now
he
was the one who would die.

The guard’s eyes closed again. Rasheed fingered the cord binding his wrists, preparing to break it loose. He’d spent the entire day sawing away, millimeter by excruciating millimeter on the edge of the metal air vent cover on the floor. It was like wearing down a stone with water, spending hours leaning at an awkward angle, the pressure chafing his wrists into bloody pulps. But it had worked. The tiny ripple in the metal had provided the edge he needed to weaken the cord. Now one strong jerk and he’d be free.

The guard’s mouth turned slack, his breathing slowing and growing deeper. Even more alert now, Rasheed leaned forward, his gaze fastened on the dozing man. The guards had rotated throughout the day, working in pairs. This guard’s partner was posted outside.

The guard began to snore. Seizing the opportunity, Rasheed gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the jolt of pain. Then in one swift move, he snapped the weakened cord.

Ignoring his stinging wrists, he untied his feet, and removed the ropes. Then he rose and crept behind the sleeping guard. Moving quickly, he slid one arm beneath his jaw, the other behind his head in a rear naked choke hold. Then he pulled his shoulders back, applying pressure to his throat, squeezing down hard on the arteries to cut off his blood supply. Seconds later, the guard passed out.

Rasheed lowered him to the floor. He removed his radio and sidearm and stripped him of his shirt. Taking an extension cord from the nearby lamp, he secured the guard’s hands behind his back, and used a towel to gag his mouth. Finally, he dragged him behind the couch, out of sight from anyone coming through the door.

Rising, he tugged the guard’s shirt on over his own. He strapped on his pistol and pocketed the radio, making sure he turned the volume down. Then he crossed the pool house to the window, inched aside the drape and glanced out.

The second guard leaned against the pillar supporting the overhang, just a few yards from the door. Frowning, Rasheed dropped the drape and scanned the room, needing a diversion to lure him inside.

He headed to the kitchenette. A quick search of the cupboards netted him a barbecue lighter and some magazines. He chose a spot on the floor kitty-corner to the entrance, out of the guard’s direct line of sight, then set the magazines on fire. Wisps of smoke curled up, the stench from the glossy pages filling the air. Slowly, the flames began swirling higher—not exactly creating a bonfire, but generating enough smoke to draw the guard.

Satisfied, he cracked open the door. “Hey!” he called to the guard. “Come here a minute. Help me put this out.”

“What happened?” The guard ran in. Rasheed kicked the door shut behind him, then sprang forward and took him down. Hurrying, he yanked off the cord from the blinds to secure him and confiscated his gun. Finally, he stomped out the fire, coughing as the smoke dispersed.

His heart racing, he inched open the door and glanced outside. No one was in the immediate vicinity. The activity was centered on the ballroom where the vice president was scheduled to appear. He set the lock on the door and closed it, doubting it would buy much time. But every second counted now. His head high, trying to exude the impression that he belonged in the compound, he started walking toward the wing where the reception was being held.

He had no idea where they were holding Nadine prisoner. The grounds were too extensive, the mansion itself at least twenty thousand square feet in size. He’d never be able to search it by himself—not with al Kahtani’s guards on watch. They’d only capture him again if he tried.

His only option was to get inside the reception. He could alert the CIA people embedded with the vice president’s security detail and get them to mount a search. He just hoped to hell they could find her before she died.

Catching the sound of approaching voices, he slowed, then ducked into the shadows of the main building, tensing as several guards strolled up. The replacement shift? Silently swearing, knowing they could sound the alarm at any moment, he waited as they went past.

Then he raced past the central hall to the wing that held the ballroom. Sticking to the shadows, he peered through the giant windows at the people inside. They were decked out in formal clothes, laughing as they drank champagne beneath the enormous chandeliers. Somewhere out of sight, musicians played.

He couldn’t go in the main entrance. He’d never get past all those guards without detection, especially with his swollen eye.

He’d have to sneak through the back, pretending to be a guest. Summoning what little remained of his fractured patience, he settled in the shadows to wait. The wind turned cold. The lights strung around the patio swayed.

Then a side door opened, and laughter spilled out—along with a lone guest. Heavyset and wearing a tuxedo, the man walked to the edge of the patio and lit a cigarette. He stood facing the fountains, his shoulders hunched against the cold—a Washington bigwig relegated to refugee status, smoking furtively in the dark.

Rasheed was about to ruin that bigwig’s night. But he couldn’t help that now. He had to rescue Nadine.

And this man was his ticket in.

* * *

Nadine stood in the reception line beside her sister-in-law, a macabre sense of unreality gripping her nerves. Any minute now, they were going to die—Leila, the vice president, all these unsuspecting people...even Rasheed, unless she found a way to thwart the attack right now.

But she still didn’t have a plan.

The newcomers kept strolling through the entrance. They joined the long line snaking toward her—women and men, diplomats and businessmen. They smiled and laughed, a myriad of languages filling the air— English, Spanish, Chinese.... Behind her, in the main part of the ballroom, people were sipping champagne and eating hors d’oeuvres as if at any normal Washington event. The quartet continued to play in the background, the sophisticated music jarring given the brutal savagery that was about to occur.

Anxiety built to a crescendo inside her. She gripped Leila’s arm with one hand to hold her up, using the other to greet the guests. Abu Jabril, her brother’s old roommate, stood across from her near the entrance, leaning against the wall, his studiously casual posture at odds with the alertness in his cold eyes.
So he was going to watch his handiwork.
But he was a coward, positioning himself clear of the blast.

She shifted her gaze to Sultan. He stood beside their father at the start of the receiving line, a short distance from Leila and her—which was clever. He’d effectively created two receiving lines, separated by a dozen yards. This way, he could keep her in his sights, making sure she didn’t try to rescue Rasheed. He could also guarantee that she would stay by Leila’s side until the bomb went off. And as soon as he greeted the vice president, he could quickly move away and avoid getting hurt by the bomb.

Her gaze went from her father’s cruel face to Sultan’s crafty smile, and fury edged out her fear. That they could plot something this sinister against their own family, that they could justify killing her because of some stone age code of honor disgusted her beyond belief. And worse, they intended to kill Rasheed, a man who had more
honor
than they would ever have.

Rasheed.
Her heart stumbled hard, a torrent of emotions ripping through her chest. He was brave, honorable, heroic. And she prayed that he would survive. She closed her eyes, battling back the panic clawing at her nerves at the thought that such an amazing man could die.

Beside her, Leila swayed. Nadine moved closer to hold her upright and shot her a worried glance. Her cheeks were flushed, her feverish face beaming as she greeted the guests by name.

And the dread inside her grew. She’d failed her sister-in-law badly. She’d never be able to save her now. The minute she tried, if she made even the slightest move, Sultan would detonate that bomb.

But she refused to abandon her. She’d installed that bomb, and now she would stick by her side. Even if she couldn’t save her, even if she couldn’t stop the attack, she could try to minimize the results. If all else failed, she would knock Leila down and cover her with her body, muffling the bomb’s impact. Leila and she would die, but maybe they could spare some lives.

But what about Rasheed? She studied the men crowding the entrance, distinguishing the secret service agents from her father’s guards by their black suits. Would they believe her if she asked for help? Could she convince them to look for him? And how could she do it without alerting Sultan?

Then a commotion drew her attention, and she glanced at the door again. All of a sudden the vice president strode inside, surrounded by dozens of massive men, their wary eyes roving the room.

Her throat squeezed shut. This was it. In minutes, the vice president would work his way through the line to her. And as soon as he got within range, the bomb would explode. But who held the detonator? Her brother? Abu Jabril? Her father? Or someone she didn’t even know? And how many unsuspecting people would die?

A Japanese couple went by in the line. She greeted them by rote, a smile pasted on her face, while inside, her senses screamed. She wanted to rail at them to leave, to beg them to help Rasheed, to plead with them to get everyone away
right now.
She darted a frantic glance at Sultan, but his eyes were glued on her, and her hopes for a rescue died. She’d never felt more vulnerable or helpless in her life.

Feeling nauseous, she cast another desperate gaze around the room. Then suddenly, her eyes stalled on a tall man standing beside a waiter, his black hair disheveled, his tuxedo tie hanging askew. She did a double take as he turned his head, and his gaze collided with hers. It was Rasheed.

For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She stared at him, completely staggered, taking in his grim, black eyes—one all puffy and discolored—the stark lines of his angry face. His jaw was bruised. He wore a poorly fitting tuxedo jacket, the sleeves too short, the shirt buttoned wrong, as if he’d thrown it on in the dark. And a barrage of emotions rushed through her with the force of a tsunami—relief that he was alive, terror that he’d try something risky, horror that he’d watch her die.

But at least he was still alive. And Sultan couldn’t make good on his threat to kill him—as long as she didn’t tip him off.

Her heart racing, she looked away. Every part of her body trembled, as if she’d just injected a massive dose of adrenaline. She struggled to keep her eyes from Rasheed, trying not to betray his presence to Sultan. If her brother spotted him, he’d set off the bomb at once.

The vice president approached the receiving line. Leila continued smiling and greeting the guests, her feverish eyes reflecting her delight. Unable to bear it, Nadine stole another glance at Rasheed, and spotted him weaving his way toward her through the crowd. Panic burgeoned inside her like a primal shriek.