Hidden Peril Page 15

  “A person can never have too many friends.” Her reply came out muffled but clear.

  “You still want me to pick you up tomorrow morning, if the trip is a go?” Colin transferred his attention back to her.

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Never.”

  “I’ll call you later to confirm. I need to talk to Luke first.”

  “Understood.” Colin directed his next comment to him. “See you at the office.”

  Luke nodded.

  Rick offered a mock salute and followed Colin out the door.

  “Sorry you walked in on my meltdown.” Kristin closed the door and pivoted toward him. “That doesn’t happen often.”

  “After all you’ve had to deal with in the past two months, I’d say you were overdue.”

  “No.” Her chin rose a notch. “It’s self-indulgent to cry—and it doesn’t fix problems. When bad things happen, you have to pick yourself up and carry on.”

  That was true.

  But she didn’t have to carry on alone through this latest ordeal. Not with Colin and Rick—and now him—in her corner.

  “How can I help?”

  The flicker of a smile dispelled a tiny bit of the distress from her face. “Your presence has already done that. I’m surprised to see you, though.”

  “A detour here wasn’t on my original agenda, but I’m glad I came.”

  “Me too.”

  Nice to know.

  “Sorry about chasing your friends away.” Sort of. Her buddies deserved a lot of credit for dropping everything to come and offer their support—but he much preferred having her to himself.

  “They have places to go. I interrupted their day as it was.”

  “I don’t think friends mind those kinds of interruptions.” He held out his hand. “Want to tell me the whole story?”

  In answer, she closed the space between them and linked her fingers with his. “Why don’t we sit on the patio? I’d rather be in the sunlight.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “You want a soda? I have some in the fridge.”

  “Maybe later.” He led her toward the patio doors, slid one open, and guided her toward a cushioned chair under a striped umbrella. He claimed the one next to her, angling it to better see her. “When did all this happen?”

  “Noonish, East Coast time. Dad called about two hours ago. He said he waited because he didn’t want to disrupt my day and he hadn’t talked to the doctor yet.”

  The hurt in her voice was almost palpable—confirming what he’d concluded the night she’d told him about her growing-up years.

  She might think she’d made her peace with the status quo, but deep inside she still yearned for a closer relationship with her parents.

  “What do you know so far?”

  He listened without interrupting as she recounted the conversation she’d had with her father.

  “Bottom line, I didn’t commit to anything. I wanted to talk to you first, see if your theory about the candles panned out and whether you need me for anything.”

  “My theory did turn out to be sound.” He brought her up to speed on all that had transpired since he and Nick picked up the candles yesterday from WorldCraft. “Nick and I are meeting early tomorrow afternoon, after we both do some additional research, to work out specifics. Everything will move full speed ahead as soon as you put the candles on display. We expect your part in this will be over fast.”

  “So going East now isn’t the best idea.” She chewed on her lower lip.

  “It’s the best idea for you and your parents. How long do you plan to stay?”

  “Through the weekend, unless my mom . . .” She swallowed. “Unless there’s a change in her condition.”

  “Let me grab that soda you offered, and while I’m in there I’ll call Nick, get his take on this. Would you like one?” He rose.

  “No thanks.”

  “Sit tight for a few minutes, okay?”

  “Sure. I have a couple of calls to make, anyway.” She pulled her cell out of her pocket.

  He gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze and retreated to the condo.

  Inside, he retrieved a soda from her fridge and tapped in Nick’s cell number.

  The agent answered on the first ring.

  In the space of a few sentences, Luke briefed him on Kristin’s situation and her tentative travel plans.

  “I don’t think a weekend trip should be a concern, but I wanted you to weigh in.” He sipped his soda, watching her out the window as she talked on her own phone. If necessary, he’d press Nick to find a way to accommodate her. Kristin needed to be with her parents.

  “It’s not the best timing, but if she only intends to stay through the weekend, it won’t affect our operation. We need a few days to get all the pieces in place on our end.”

  The tautness in his shoulders eased. “That’s what I figured. I’ll let her know—and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got the conference room booked. By the way, I’ve already begun running background on Bishara. Comparing notes should be productive.”

  Right. He had some digging to do before their meeting too.

  But he could worry about that later.

  At the moment, Kristin was his top priority.

  After ending the call, he rejoined her on the patio. “Nick agrees that a weekend trip is fine.” He retook his seat.

  Relief smoothed some of the strain from her features. “Good. Alexa’s willing to cover for me at the shop for the next three days, and I have airline reservations on hold. But I didn’t want to pull the trigger until you cleared the travel.”

  “When’s your flight?”

  “Six in the morning tomorrow, with a return on Sunday night at eight.”

  “Is Colin taking you to the airport?” That must be what their parting exchange had been about.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m also available.”

  “I appreciate that . . . but imposing on an old friend is one thing. You and I are just getting acquainted—and it would require a very early wake-up call. I don’t want to infringe on your sleep.”

  He took another swig of his soda. She was already playing havoc with his shut-eye—but this might not be the appropriate time to share that.

  “I don’t mind . . . but if you want to stick with Colin, why don’t you let me pick you up on Sunday? Unless Rick has volunteered for chauffeur duty that night?”

  “We didn’t get that far in our discussion. I know he would have—but since you offered first, I accept. I can email you flight information after I confirm the reservation.”

  “That works.” He finished the soda. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”

  “No. I need to pack and finalize my arrangements, and I’m going to turn in early. That three thirty wake-up call is going to roll around much too fast. Even if I manage to get to bed by nine, I’ll be short of my usual eight hours.”

  His cue to leave.

  “I won’t hold you up, then.” He stood.

  She rose more slowly. “You don’t have to go yet.”

  He hesitated, temptation warring with his nobler virtues. He’d like nothing better than to spend the rest of the evening here—but if he did, he’d be cutting into Kristin’s sleep and she’d be a basket case by tomorrow.

  Nobility won—by a hair.

  “You need to rest up for that early flight, but I’ll tell you what . . . why don’t you call me later and give me the flight information by phone? And if you need to talk to me while you’re gone—or want to hear a friendly voice—call my cell. Night or day.”

  “Thanks.” She shoved her fingers into the pockets of her jeans, letting a few beats pass before she continued. “I’ll, uh, walk you out.”

  He followed her to the door, waiting as she twisted the knob and pulled it open.

  When she turned, his pulse stumbled. The strength, independence, and confidence he’d come to associate with her were gone. Tonight, th
is woman who’d started a humanitarian business, donated a portion of her life to the Peace Corps—and who was fast making inroads on his heart—seemed lost and vulnerable.

  “I wish I could do more to help, Kristin.”

  “Prayer would be much appreciated.” She gripped the edge of the door.

  “Already in progress—for your mom and for you.”

  “Thank you.” Her irises began to shimmer, and her knuckles whitened. “A visit with my parents is awkward under the best circumstances, given our history. My mom tries to keep the conversational ball in play, but my dad’s not a big talker. I can’t imagine what the next few days will be like.”

  He could.

  Uncomfortable, difficult, and stressful—at the very least.

  “Call me if you need to vent, okay? But sometimes in crisis situations like this, relationships change. People rethink priorities, reevaluate their lives. I don’t want to give you false hope, but it’s possible.”

  She offered him a sad, resigned smile. “I wish that was true—but you haven’t met my parents.”

  No great loss, based on everything she’d shared.

  He moved toward the threshold, and she backed up to give him room to exit.

  Instead of leaving, however, he stopped in front of her. “I greeted you with a hug. I’d like to say good-bye with one too. Any objections?”

  Wordlessly she shook her head.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close. This might be pushing the bounds of professionalism—but her mother was in a coma, her shop was in the thick of a terrorist plot, and her father wasn’t likely to provide much moral support during her visit. She needed to know he was there for her in spirit if not in body during the days ahead.

  Short of a kiss . . . a definite no-no at this stage . . . a hug was the best he could offer.

  Kristin didn’t say anything, just rested her forehead against the curve of his neck, splayed her hands on his chest, and sighed a soft, endearing whisper of warmth against his skin.

  He closed his eyes and dipped his chin, inhaling her sweet, fresh fragrance.

  She felt so right in his arms. Like she belonged there—for always.

  And he didn’t want to let her go.

  But as the minutes ticked by and she made no attempt to end the embrace, he forced himself to take the initiative—before escalating temptation overpowered his good intentions and he did something he might regret. “I should leave.” The words scratched past his throat as he gently extricated himself.

  “I-I guess so.” She tugged her hands from his chest and clasped them in front of her.

  “Call me later.”

  “I will.” Her irises began to glisten again.

  Get out, Carter, or you’re going to cave.

  Backing up, he felt for the frame . . . hung on for a few seconds until his legs steadied . . . then walked out the door.

  Half a minute later, safely behind the wheel of his Taurus, he looked back. Kristin was standing in the doorway, as she’d been on his previous visit.

  Making it even harder for him to drive away.

  But she needed sleep—and he had research to do. The latter could wait until tomorrow . . . yet with every nerve ending in his body tingling, it would be senseless to go home. He might as well return to the office and stay until he was so tired he’d have no trouble falling asleep whenever he did collapse into bed.

  There was just one little problem with that plan.

  If he stayed at his desk until the potent buzz from their embrace dissipated, he might be there until dawn peeked over the horizon.

  15

  As the first streaks of light illuminated the Thursday morning sky, Yusef gave up on sleep. At best he’d clocked three hours of fitful slumber during the night—and he wasn’t likely to get any more.

  Pushing back the covers, he swung his feet to the floor, scrubbed his hands down his face, and sat on the side of the bed. He was as tired as if he’d pulled an all-nighter on a dig, as he used to do in the old days when the team was on the cusp of an important discovery.

  At least that tiredness had produced results.

  Not so today.

  He was as directionless now as he’d been last night, the hoped-for divine guidance as elusive as ever.

  Rising, he took a moment to steady himself on the bedpost, then padded over to the window. From his eighth-floor Central West End condo, a tiny section of the museum roof, high on Art Hill, was visible. At a brisk pace, he could walk the just-over-two-mile route to work in thirty minutes. It was excellent exercise on a warm day.

  But despite the cloudless sky on this June morning, he barely had the energy to trudge to his car—let alone trek to the museum.

  He wandered into the compact kitchen and started the coffeemaker. What he wouldn’t give for a few sips of the thick, strong, heavily sugared brew of his homeland—but after all these years in St. Louis, he’d grown accustomed to the weak, watery American-style coffee.

  Considering his turbulent state of mind this morning, however, a cup of soothing zhourat tea would be much better. The wildflower/herb blend always calmed his stomach.

  Too bad he didn’t have any on hand.

  He dropped a piece of bread in the toaster, sat at the kitchen counter, and stared at his cell phone in the charger.

  Soon, Amir would call. Their conversation, as always, would be brief. A time, a place. Nothing more. He knew the stomach-churning routine by rote.

  And after he had the materials in hand, he would begin the process of finding buyers, using his standard spiel to get big bucks for the items.

  Or as big as was possible with clandestine transactions.

  The toast popped up, but he grimaced at the singed bread, sick to his stomach. Sick at heart. Sick of the lies and deception that plagued his days.

  You want this to end, Yusef. So end it.

  He stiffened as the words echoed in his mind, clear as if they’d been spoken aloud.

  Could that be the direction he’d been praying for—or was it his subconscious speaking?

  No matter. There was no big revelation here. Of course he wanted the whole horrible charade to end. That proactive directive at the end, telling him to take matters into his own hands, might be new—but it was impossible to follow.

  He couldn’t end this mess without risking Touma’s life.

  Are you certain of that?

  He frowned at the annoying follow-up question.

  Yes. He was certain. If there’d been a way to escape his plight without endangering Touma, he’d have done so long ago. Nothing had changed.

  Or . . . had it?

  His brain began to hum as the seed of a bold idea sent down a few tentative roots.

  Was it possible the nerve-racking visit from law enforcement hadn’t been a threat but an opportunity?

  Pulse pounding, Yusef rose and began to pace, the audacious idea blooming as fast as a flower in time-lapse photography, the pieces falling into place with dizzying speed.

  It might actually work.

  But there was risk.

  Big risk.

  Yet there was also risk in what he was doing for Amir—and it would increase as the FBI investigation intensified. If Amir suspected his scheme was under scrutiny, he might fold his tent and disappear.

  And if that happened, he would have no more use for a museum curator—or his son.

  Touma’s life would be worth nothing to him.

  Hands quivering, Yusef picked up his coffee and took a sip of the caffeine-laced beverage. He couldn’t dally if he wanted to implement his idea. Once the FBI agent and that detective dived into the case, his bargaining power would diminish.

  But whether law enforcement accepted or refused his offer, there would be serious consequences.

  For him.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back a choking fear. If he took this step, he would be deprived of the work he loved . . . and could spend the rest of his days behind bars.

  The me
re thought turned his stomach.

  Yet such a sacrifice would be bearable if it guaranteed his son’s safety.

  The problem was, he couldn’t be certain it would. In fact, the plan might backfire and put Touma in worse jeopardy.

  If he did nothing, however, Amir’s operation would fall apart and Touma would surely die.

  The coffee sloshed over the rim of the mug, the hot liquid searing his fingers. The same way it had the day the first photo arrived from Syria, two long years ago, when the nightmare had begun.

  Mug cradled in both hands, he trudged back to the kitchen and set it on the counter. His nerves were already too jittery. He didn’t need to agitate them further with more stimulant.

  Bypassing the charred bread in the toaster, he returned to his bedroom to dress for his workday and continue his morning routine as if everything was normal.

  Except nothing about this day was routine . . . or normal.

  And before it ended, his life could change forever—if he found the courage to follow through on the daring proposition that might give his son a fighting chance to survive.

  Clenching the handle of her overnight bag as the elevator whisked her to the Massachusetts General neuro ICU, Kristin leaned against the wall, a wave of weariness sweeping over her.

  It had been thoughtful of her father to send a car service to meet her at the airport . . . but she wasn’t going to read anything personal into it. That was the sort of courtesy he extended to professional colleagues every day. Standard operating procedure in the business world.

  Nevertheless, the gesture had been welcome.

  But after rising at three thirty with only a few hours of fitful sleep to sustain her, jolting through an obstacle course of air pockets for twelve hundred miles, and arriving in the middle of a deluge that could rival the great flood, a comforting hug from her father would be even more welcome.

  Like the kind Luke had given her yesterday.

  The door whooshed open—dispelling that fantasy.

  Her dad wasn’t there.

  Tamping down her disappointment, she stepped out. He might have said during their brief conversation on her ride from the airport that he’d wait for her by the elevator . . . but how many times had her parents promised to do their best to be there for some important event in her life, only to have a work priority infringe?