The Defiant Hero (8 page)
Meg had heard that at one point, Abdelaziz had requested several K-stani officials be brought into the dialogue—which soon turned into a shouting match that caused the meeting to end and Abdelaziz to be escorted back to her office.
Where his Navy SEAL companions were no longer waiting for him, having left K-stan without him.
Or had they . . . ?
All of a sudden it all made sense. All of a sudden, Meg knew.
She stood up, nearly knocking her chair over backward. “Laney, finish this for me.”
“But—”
She was out of the room before her assistant could complain. She ran down the hall, down the stairs, toward her office.
Two guards were still posted in the hall. They didn’t try to stop her, didn’t even blink as she breezed past them and opened the door.
And there he was.
“Abdelaziz, my ass,” Meg said. “You’re really—”
He moved so quickly, she didn’t have time to let out more than a very undignified squeak as he grabbed her arm, pulled her inside the room, shut the door behind her, deftly covering her mouth with his hand.
Her computer’s CD player was on, she realized, and he pulled her toward it, cranking the speaker volume so that Shania Twain thundered throughout the room. If the office were bugged—and it probably was—whoever was listening wasn’t going to hear more than that music.
Meg could hardly breathe, he was holding her so tightly, one arm wrapped around her, pinning both of her hands. When he spoke, his voice was practically inaudible, his lips brushing her ear. “Don’t you dare do or say anything that will put my men in danger.”
His accent was completely gone.
She’d guessed correctly. The SEALs hadn’t left Abdelaziz behind. They’d walked him out of the embassy right under the Kazbekistanis’ noses, while this man had been distracting both the American diplomats and the K-stani government. They’d carried Abdelaziz onto the waiting chopper and flown him out of the country, pretending he was Ensign John Nilsson, injured in the line of duty.
While in truth, she was standing pressed uncomfortably close to the real Ensign John Nilsson, the very solid and healthy Ensign John Nilsson, his hand clamped hard over her mouth.
“The helo won’t be safely on board the carrier for another twenty minutes,” he breathed into her ear. “If you give me away, the K-stani Air Guard could try to force it down.”
And was his plan to stand here, with his hand over her mouth, for that entire twenty minutes?
Meg made a writing motion with the one of her hands that could still move an inch or two, and somehow he understood. He shifted her over to her desk and gave her a piece of paper and another few inches of mobility to her right hand so she could pick up a pen.
Meg wrote quickly, in clear block letters, “Promise me I’m not helping a terrorist escape to the United States.”
She felt more than heard Nilsson laugh over Shania’s rich voice. “I promise,” he breathed into her ear. “He’s not a terrorist, Meg. He’s CIA. But if you tell anyone I told you that, I’ll deny it.”
Meg picked up her pen again. “What are they going to do to you?” she wrote.
He laughed again. “What can they do? I’m not the man they’re after.”
“We better make sure they believe that. Let me go,” she wrote.
“If I do, will you scream?”
“About what?” she wrote.
Again, she felt the warm vibration of his laughter. “Well, good,” he said into her ear. “Just watch what you say—the room is bugged—we found the mikes.”
Meg stepped away from him, turned down the music, turned to face him. “Do you have identification saying that you’re . . . who you are,” she said to him. In Welsh. Because the two people in Kazbekistan who spoke that language were both here in this room. Nothing they said in Welsh would be understood by anyone listening in. And it would take the K-stani government weeks—if not months—to find a translator.
He grinned at her. “You’re brilliant,” he said, also in Welsh.
She should have known he was American yesterday, from the first moment he’d smiled. His was definitely an all-American smile.
“No ID,” he added. “Not on a covert op like this. We go in completely sanitized.”
“How was it possible you pulled this off?” she asked. He’d actually asked to meet with the K-stani officials this afternoon. How gutsy was that? “Weren’t you afraid someone would know you weren’t Abdelaziz?”
“We’re about the same height and build,” he told her, “and about the same age. Same general description—brown hair and eyes. I took a gamble there were no detailed photos of old Abdel lying around, and won big time.”
Meg shook her head. “Still . . .”
“I used an old con,” he explained. “We came running in here with the K-stani Army pointing at us and shouting about Abdelaziz, right? The U.S. ambassador comes to see us and everyone points to me when he asks who’s Abdelaziz. And why would we lie, right? So when the K-stani officials were invited to join our little discussion this afternoon, I’m officially introduced as Abdelaziz by the U.S. ambassador. Now both sides are convinced I’m their man.
“Believe me, the members of the K-stani government were the ones who thought they were getting away with some kind of con. By shipping out all three of the SEALs who’d been sent to protect me while I was in that meeting . . . ?” He laughed. “They’re probably still congratulating themselves on their deviousness.”
He was amazing. But if the K-stani government believed him to be Abdelaziz . . . Forget about the fact that they were wrong. He was in danger.
For starters, they had to change his appearance. Right now, with the exception of his perfect smile, he looked like someone named Abdelaziz. For his own safety, he had to transform back into Ens. John Nilsson as quickly as possible.
“We’ll give you a haircut,” she decided. “A buzz cut. Something really GI Joe. And I’ll see if I can find a uniform.”
His smile faded. “I don’t want you to get into trouble for helping me.”
“I won’t.” She moved toward the door. “Do you trust me enough to let me start looking for something a little more military for you to wear?”
He held out his hands, palms up, in a gesture that might have been interpreted as surrender. But combined with his words and that warmth in his eyes, it became part of the nicest compliment she’d ever received. “I trust you completely, Meg.”
Meg managed to scare up a Marine uniform. That and the haircut she gave him made him look far more like an American.
The next few days were crazy. Kazbekistan nearly declared war when they found out that Abdelaziz had been spirited out of the country. And the foreign service staff at the embassy was furious, too. It took a solid week of frantic explanations and apologies to convince the K-stani government that they had been duped as well. And even then the ambassador and his staff were left looking and feeling extremely foolish.
Meanwhile John Nilsson was kept locked in Meg’s office, under guard.
It was entirely possible that if Meg hadn’t kept bringing him food, he wouldn’t have been fed. She brought him books and newspapers and often stayed to keep him company. She brought Amy to visit with him, too, mostly to remind him—and herself—that she was married and much older than he was. Anything other than friendship would be completely inappropriate.
It was one evening that he was sitting beside her daughter, coloring in her Anastasia coloring book while Meg pulled more files off her computer, that he looked over Amy’s head and spoke to Meg in French.
He was a languages specialist, and out of all the languages they’d found they both spoke with proficiency, French was the one for which they shared a similar high level of understanding.
“I had a meeting today with the ambassador.”
Meg looked up at him, waiting for him to continue.
He set down the blue crayon he’d used to color in Anastasia’s ballgown. “Your husband was there.”
Meg glanced at Amy. They’d lived in Paris for several years. “Was he?” she replied—in German.
“Ja.” He smiled his understanding. “I don’t mean to pry,” he said in German, too, “and at first I thought I shouldn’t say anything, that this is probably none of my business, but I have to tell you that I overheard something another man asked him, something about, well, his estrangement from his wife. His estrangement from you.”
“You’re right,” she said, focusing her attention back on the computer screen. “That’s not your business.”
“Are you sure, Meg?” he said quietly. “Because if my being here has caused a problem—if your helping me has made him that angry with you . . . I mean, it’s obvious he’s still really pissed at me. He actually suggested turning me over to the Kazbekistanis in place of Abdelaziz.”
Meg looked up at him then. “They can’t seriously be considering—”
He smiled fleetingly at her concern. “No. It’s just . . .” He sighed and started over. “Your husband’s taking this personally, and as much I enjoy your visits, if it’s making things bad for you at home . . .” He shook his head. “I’m never going to be able to thank you for everything you’ve done. The thought that I’m causing you problems is making me crazy.”
“On Christmas, I found out that Daniel had an affair.” There it was. The truth. She hadn’t told anyone, hadn’t even said the words aloud before now. Meg’s eyes filled with tears that she desperately tried to blink back. She stood up. “It’s almost Amy’s bedtime.”
John stood up, too. “Are you and Daniel . . . separating?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, still speaking in German so that Amy couldn’t understand. “I kicked him out on Christmas. I give him another day or two before he comes to negotiate his return.
“And will I take him back?” she added, anticipating his next question. “I don’t know.” Yes, she did, and yes, she probably would. For Amy’s sake. “The affair happened a while ago—he says he hasn’t even spoken to this woman in over a year and a half. But . . . it’s not the first time he’s cheated on me.”
Why was she telling him this?
They were friends, she realized. She trusted John Nilsson as much as he trusted her.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” he said quietly.
Meg managed a smile as she gently tugged on one of her daughter’s ponytails. “Come on, Ames,” she said in English. “Time to go.”
Later that night, long after Amy was in bed, there was a knock on the door to her apartment.
Meg opened the door expecting Daniel.
But it was John.
He was flanked by guards and wearing the greatcoat and clothing he’d had on the day they’d first met.
“I’m going home,” he told her.
Meg had suspected the SEAL was going to be allowed to leave soon, but . . . “Tonight?”
He nodded, looking past her to the small living room, taking in the fact that she was alone. “May I come in for a minute?”
She stepped back and he came inside, closing the door behind him, leaving the guards outside.
Before she could speak, before she could even think, he pulled her into his arms and held her close. “Christ, Meg, I’m going to miss you.”
She resisted for all of a half a second, and then held him just as tightly. She was going to miss him, too. God, when was the last time she’d had a friendship like this one? When had she ever had a friendship like this, with someone she could confide in completely, without fear of her darkest secrets becoming public knowledge?
And yes, the man was pleasant to be around for other reasons, too. He was attractive. It was hard not to think about how incredibly gorgeous John was, particularly when she was wrapped in his arms. He had a great body and a smile to die for. He was smart and funny and extremely sweet in a twenty-five-year-old kind of way.
He was the little brother she’d always wanted.
Wasn’t he?
It didn’t help that his embrace wasn’t at all brotherly. It didn’t help that he ran his hands through her hair and down her back, fitting her exquisitely, perfectly, intimately against him.
And it didn’t help at all when he pulled back to look at her, and she saw something in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in a good long time when Daniel looked at her.
He pressed a piece of paper into her hand. “That’s my phone number,” he told her. God, his eyes were hypnotizing. “Both home and work.” He smiled fleetingly. “Of course, I’m away a lot. But if you’re ever back in the States, call me, and I’ll get leave.”
Meg nodded, unable to speak. Who was he kidding? She wasn’t going to call him. She was married. Her husband hated his guts. They both knew damn well that unless it was by accident, they were never going to meet again. She felt her eyes fill with tears, but still she couldn’t look away.
“Ah, shit,” John Nilsson swore. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to do this. . . .”
He kissed her.
It wasn’t a brotherly kiss.
It wasn’t even close.
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