Secret Agent Sam Page 7

  “Most people will be in hiding if al-Rami’s men are in the area,” Sam said, pausing to wipe sweat from her forehead with her shirtsleeve before putting on her baseball cap. “The villagers around here are scared to death of them. I doubt we’ll have long to wait, though…” Her eyes smiled briefly at him before disappearing behind her sunglasses. “That was their lookout you saw running for the jungle as we landed. I imagine he’s reporting the news of our arrival as we speak.”

  “You seem to know these people pretty well,” Cory remarked.

  She shrugged. “Al-Rami’s methods are well-known in these islands. Believe me. Anyway, they’ll probably wait until nightfall to contact us, just to make sure we didn’t come with an escort. In the meantime we can hang out here with the plane, if you want to, or we can check out the village. Maybe find somebody willing to sell us some food.” She hefted the knapsack at her feet. “That way, we can save the provisions we brought for later-you never know when it might come in handy, since we don’t know how long we’ll be trekking through that jungle.”

  “By all means,” Cory said, then raised his voice to reach Tony, who had wandered off into the rice paddies to take pictures. “What about it-want to see what the village has to offer?”

  “Yeah, cool.” Tony’s teeth flashed white as he grinned. His broad face wore a sheen of sweat that glistened like polish on old mahogany. “Oh, man, feel that humidity,” he said as he rejoined them, pausing to tie a bandana around his head.

  “Building toward rainy season,” Cory said. “Feels like it’s going to break any minute now.”

  “I just hope we’re out of here when it does.” Sam jerked her head toward the plane, parked at its characteristic slant on the elevated strip of grassy ground they’d been calling the “runway.”

  She didn’t have to say more. Cory didn’t know what the composition of the soil was underneath that grass, but he’d spent enough time in the tropics to know what a monsoon rain could do to previously firm ground. He didn’t care to think about what it might be like, trying to take off in a hurry on a sloppy runway with a planeload of hostages on board.

  He slung the strap of his laptop carrier over one shoulder and picked up his tote bag. Sam hitched herself into the backpack-Tony already had cameras and equipment bags hanging from every available part of his body-and they set out along the grass-and-dirt track toward the village.

  Although they’d flown over the cluster of buildings nestled at the foot of the mountains on the way to the landing strip, and knew approximately where it was and that it was nearby, the heat and humidity they carried like an added burden made it seem much farther than it actually was. They were grateful for the spotty shade of banana and bamboo groves along the road and between patches where the jungle growth had been cleared for farming.

  Houses made of bamboo roofed with scraps of wood and tin sat on the borders between plots of unknown vegetables, or clung precariously to tree-covered slopes farther up the hillsides. Gradually the houses came closer together, until the vegetable plots disappeared and there was only the dusty track where chickens pecked and wandered, oblivious to human fears, threats or omens. Nothing else moved. Except for their footsteps and the contented chuckling of the chickens, there were no sounds…no signs of life.

  “Creepy,” said Tony.

  A cold trickle of sweat chose that moment to meander down Cory’s spine.

  Sam paused to take off her cap and wipe her face with her T-shirt sleeve as she looked around. “I saw a bigger building when we were coming in. I think it was over that way-at the far end of town. My guess is, if anybody’s around, that’s where they’ll be.”

  “A church?”

  Sam shook her head. “These people practice a local religion-a form of animism-you know, where everything, even rocks and trees, has its own spirit? It might be a community meeting place, though. Or a marketplace.”

  It turned out to be both those things-and more.

  They came upon it a little farther on around a gentle bend, where the dusty track widened out before a large lanai covered over with bamboo. In the shade of the bamboo roof were stalls, bins, tables and mats where, in less troubled times, homegrown vegetables, fruits, poultry, eggs and perhaps some wild game would be displayed and bartered. Now, flies floated and hummed above empty tables as they passed, birds screeched and twittered in the bamboo roof above their heads, and here and there they caught the flash of a lizard scurrying for cover.

  Behind the lanai was the large building they’d seen from the air. It was rather more sturdily built than most of the houses, Cory noted, of boards rather than bamboo. Separating it from the lanai was a screened porch, or cabana, and as they approached it, a narrow screen door creaked open. A man stood in the doorway, holding it wide for them to enter. He appeared to be somewhere around middle-aged, and wore the loose cotton pants and shirt and flip-flops nearly all rural Filipinos wear. His expression, Cory noted, seemed neither hostile nor welcoming, but merely resigned.

  While Tony lingered in the lanai, still snapping pictures, Sam spoke to the man in a language Cory didn’t know. He replied with a fatalistic shrug and a nod and gestured for them to follow him inside.

  “Since when do you speak Tagalog?” Cory asked Sam in a mild undertone as they trooped through the cabana.

  “Helps to know the language of the people you work among,” she replied with a cryptic half smile.

  Just then another of those sweat runnels trickled down his back. He didn’t know why, in spite of the heat, it should make him feel cold.

  The smell of disinfectant hit him as soon as the door opened, so it came as no surprise when Sam, who’d gone in first and was still talking to their escort, turned as he entered to explain that the building housed a small regional hospital.

  “More of an infirmary, or clinic, I suppose. Anyway, they’re very proud of it-it even has screens on all the windows, see? A doctor comes every couple of weeks by plane. This man is one of the caretakers-caregivers?-sort of a combination nurse-custodian. I’m guessing he drew the short straw today-he gets to stay behind to look after the patients. And us. He says we must wait here. We are to stay inside, out of sight.”

  Tony, as he joined them, quipped dryly, “They gonna supply us with bedpans, too?”

  “He’s afraid,” Sam said in an undertone. “Can’t blame him. If he doesn’t do exactly as he’s been told, he and his family may be killed.”

  Cory swore softly.

  “Or worse,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “he’s afraid if government forces find out al-Rami’s men are in the area, they may attack and destroy the village in order to kill the rebels.” A sardonic smile flickered. “What they call collateral damage.”

  Tony shifted the strap of his camera bag and swiped at the sweat on his face with a forearm. “So, what do we do now, man?”

  “What the man said,” Cory replied on an exhalation as he lowered his laptop to the floor. “We stay inside, out of sight. And we wait.”

  Sam was uneasy, though she felt confident no one would have guessed that to look at her. She lay on her back on a wooden bench in what would be, if the clinic were open for business and the doctor in residence, a preliminary-exam-or triage-room. Her knees were drawn up and her arms folded to make a pillow for her head. To a casual observer she’d appear to be napping, but nothing could have been farther from the truth. In fact, her eyes were not quite closed; every nerve and sense was on full alert, her ears were straining to hear the slightest stirring in the vegetation outside…her skin prickled with awareness. Beneath lowered lashes, her gaze was fixed on the main source of her unease, the man sitting on an exam table on the other side of the room.

  He was only a shape-though an achingly familiar one-dimly lit by the lantern hanging from a rafter overhead. Night had fallen at last. Out in the cabana, which would serve as a waiting room during infirmary hours, Tony lay stretched out on another wooden bench. Not much doubt about whether he was asleep; she could hear
his raspy snores from in here. From other rooms in the hospital came the quiet sounds of restless people…sick people: coughing…a baby fussing…someone calling out in his sleep. Outside, beyond the screens, the night was full of insect noise, but nothing more.

  Cory wasn’t even pretending to sleep. He sat upright, facing her, with his hands braced on the edge of the table, rocking himself slightly and glancing at her from time to time, evidently deep in thought.

  Sam didn’t know what to make of his attitude since they’d arrived at the village. Something had changed. He seemed…watchful. Thoughtful. Nothing new there; Cory was always watching…thinking…observing and evaluating. But tonight there was something-a new element. He seemed…not exactly suspicious, but…well, maybe. She didn’t know what name to call it; she only knew it made her uneasy as hell.

  Same old story, she thought, with a flare of unprofessional resentment. Can’t ever tell what he’s thinking…don’t have a clue what makes him tick. No wonder it didn’t work out between us.

  She tensed as the object of her frustration slid off the exam table and began quietly to pace. She watched him for a few minutes, annoyed to find her heartbeat quickening, then called softly to him.

  “Hey, Pearse, pacing won’t make them come any quicker. Maybe you should try and get some sleep.”

  His reply was a grunt. “Yeah, right.”

  “Your friend doesn’t seem to be having any problems.”

  This time the grunt was more of a chuckle. “Tony’s a battlefield photographer. He can sleep through artillery fire.”

  She tilted her head back in order to follow him with her eyes. “Why not you? You’ve seen your share of battlefields.”

  He paused in his pacing to turn his head toward her, and though she couldn’t see it in the shadows, she could hear the smile…the wryness in it. “This is hardly the same.”

  “No? Why not?” And her breath caught as he prowled slowly toward her.

  “For starters, you’re here.”

  An oddly enjoyable tension gripped her chest. “Ah,” she said softly, “do I disturb you that much?”

  He was standing over her now, looking down at her. “You worry me,” he said thoughtfully.

  A little thrill of warning shook her-not, she told herself, of fear. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “I worry you? Why?”

  Taking her move as an invitation, he sat on the bench beside her. Instead of answering directly, he gazed at her for a moment, then said quietly, “This is a dangerous mission we’re on, Sam.”

  His voice was stern, almost parental. She felt a chilly wash of disappointment. Same old, same old…

  She said stiffly, “You don’t have to worry, Pearse. I can take care of myself, you know.”

  He turned his face toward her and after a long pause replied, “Maybe that’s what worries me.”

  She gave an involuntary hoot of laughter. “What’s that supposed to mean?” And heard the sigh of his exhalation as he looked away.

  “I don’t know what I mean.” He hitched in a breath, then contradicted himself. “This is a dangerous mission, and yet you don’t seem to be concerned. Not even a little bit…you know, keyed up. Apprehensive. Nervous. Any of the things any sane, intelligent person should be in this situation. Since I know you to be both sane and intelligent, I can’t figure out whether you’re simply clueless, don’t fully understand the situation…”

  “Well, that’s flattering,” Sam said dryly. “I’m hoping there’s an or coming.”

  “Or, you know a whole lot more about what’s going on than you’re letting on-maybe more than I do.”

  She hitched herself around to face him. It was a defensive move; he’d managed to jolt her in spite of all her preparation, all her training. She fought to keep the anger out of her voice. “Did it occur to you maybe I’m not worried because I have confidence in myself, that I understand worrying isn’t going to help anything, and I have the self-discipline to keep myself calm-in short, that I’m a mature adult, capable of reason and self-control?”

  “Jeez, Sam.” He drew a hand over his face and shook his head in a weary, long-suffering way that only stoked her anger. “You don’t ever forget or forgive, do you?”

  “Maybe,” she snapped back at him, “I’d be more willing to forgive if I could see some evidence you’ve changed. As far as I can see, nothing’s changed between us.”

  “You’re right. Nothing has.” His voice, as he gazed at her, suddenly had a different quality. A huskiness that should have warned her, but didn’t. Before she had any idea he was going to, he caught her by the arms and at the same time rose to his feet, taking her with him.

  Once again her breath caught, this time with an audible gasp. “You promised-”

  “Are you kidding me?” His voice seemed to grind through his chest. “After what you put me through last night, all bets are off.”

  She felt the rush and heat of his body coming against hers, and his head coming down for the taking. The breath left her lungs and her chest filled instead with the fierce ache of joy. Yes, her heart cried, Oh, yes. Finally.

  His mouth claimed hers with the passion, the roughness she remembered he could reveal, at times, that had been so much the more thrilling to her for being unexpected, so at odds with the gentle and compassionate man he was. And she thought, This is why. Not just the sex, not only that. For the fire and passion she knew were inside him and that he worked so hard to hide-from her, from the world, from everyone.

  From the world, she could understand. But why does he keep this from me? Except at times like this…times when he lets himself go, and it’s so good…could have been…

  But sex isn’t enough. It could never have worked between us. I know it…have to accept it.

  The desire welling up inside her shattered suddenly, like a glass bubble bursting. She felt the loss like pain, and pulled away from him with a sharp and bitter cry.

  But his hands still held her head prisoner, gentle again now, fingers splayed wide, burrowing through her hair in a way she remembered with a sweet and terrible ache.

  “Sam,” he said-just that, in a voice too raw for more.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, trying to swallow. Hurting too much to swallow or speak.

  His fingertips scraped over her scalp, touching her nerves with his particular brand of electricity. And found the tender spot beneath its freshly healed scar.

  She winced; she couldn’t help it. She heard the sharp hiss of his breath and jerked free of his grasp, a reply to the question she could see forming in his eyes and on his lips already balanced on the tip of her tongue.

  But the sound that came next was neither his voice nor hers. It was a cough, a polite, almost comical little “Ahem,” followed, as they both whirled toward the sound, by a gruff but somewhat feeble, “Uh…guys?”

  Tony stood in the doorway to the cabana with his hands behind his head. As he stepped into the room, several dark shapes separated themselves from the shadows and followed him. In the dim lantern light the shadows became men dressed in camouflage clothing. They weren’t wearing masks or hoods, and their expressions were stoic, their eyes dark and hard. They all carried automatic weapons.

  Chapter 5

  Still reeling, his senses glutted with the taste, the smell, the feel of Samantha, Cory watched the men slip into the room, seeming to fill it with their silent menace and the threat of violence in their weapons and their hard, cold eyes. His eyes leaped from one impassive face to the next, looking for the one he’d come so far to meet. He wasn’t there, of course. These were the messengers, he realized; the retrieval squad, nothing more.

  One of them, the designated “spokesman,” apparently, motioned with his weapon. Come.

  Cory nodded. So far, so good, he thought as he picked up his laptop and tote bag.

  But as he stepped toward the waiting cadre of armed men, the leader again motioned with his weapon, this time holding it up to bar his way, and his hard black stare had gone
shooting past Cory to something behind him. Turning, Cory saw Sam, waiting to follow him, her face calm, body relaxed, one hip canted and the straps of the backpack slung over one shoulder.

  The terrorists’ leader spoke, his voice sharp and unexpected in the stillness. “Who is this?” The rifle in his hands jerked toward Sam.

  “She’s the pilot,” Cory explained, and it took all the self-control he had to say it calmly with every nerve twanging and his heart thumping. When the man’s face remained blank, he hooked his thumbs together and made flapping motions with his hands, and for good measure added, “She flies the airplane.”

  The man jerked half around, and several of his companions leaned closer to confer with him in unintelligible mutters while Cory waited in silent agony, cursing the fates that had conspired to bring Sam into harm’s way. This harm he’d created. If anything happens to her, he thought…

  The spokesman turned back, and with yet more jerking motions of his rifle to emphasize his words, said sharply, “She stay here. I am told to bring only you-” the gun barrel pointed toward Cory “-and you-” now toward Tony. “Come, now.”

  Fear flooded Cory’s body and prickled his skin like frost. His heartbeat was a distant booming in his ears. Horrifying images, reports of extraneous captives being beheaded flashed through his mind. He could feel himself screaming, “No!” inside his head in the silent, chest-burning, throat-tearing way of nightmares, and again it was a shock to hear his own voice, sounding calm and in command. “No. She’s needed. She’s also my interpreter. She comes with us.”

  The gunman thrust his chin upward in a manner that was both arrogant and dismissive. “I speak English. No need for interpreter.”

  “She goes,” Cory said flatly, “or I don’t.” To demonstrate the conviction of his declaration he lowered his laptop and tote bag to the floor and folded his arms on his chest. “Tell your leader there will be no interview.”