The Colonel's Widow? Page 14

  She was hustled out of the building and into a dusty, battered Jeep. She kept her eyes closed for the entire trip. She even dozed off a few times—thanks to all the sedatives she was sure were still in her body.

  When the Jeep came to a halt, she opened her eyes, and wanted to cry. They were parked in front of a tent, set against the side of a mountain and surrounded with armed guards.

  She was ordered out of the Jeep and manhandled through the flap. Inside was dark and heavily scented with incense.

  All Irina could see were flickering candle flames, and even those were pale and dim. A rifle barrel nudged her in the back again, causing her to stumble forward. She put her hands out, afraid of the dark, afraid she was going to walk into something. Around her she heard the rustle of clothes, the creak of leather, metal scraping against metal, people breathing. The same sounds she’d listened to while traveling in the Jeep with the two soldiers.

  The gunman behind her kept nudging her forward. She moved slowly, shuffling, still afraid she would trip and fall. Then the toe of one loafer slammed into something. It felt like rock.

  As her eyes adapted to the darkness, she saw the difference in the color of the ground beneath her feet. The road outside, and the floor of the tent, was dirt, but now she was stepping onto rock. Big rocks, smooth rocks.

  Then, from in front of her, a voice barked orders in the same language the soldiers had used, and the two soldiers backed away, leaving her standing alone.

  She was becoming more accustomed to the dim candlelight. It helped her to see, but the smell of tallow was making her queasy.

  The farther she went into what she could only guess was a cave, judging by the stone floor, the more candles lit her way and the hotter the air grew.

  Slowly, the outline of a man in light-colored robes came into focus. He was sitting above and in front of her, on some kind of raised platform. His face looked unnaturally pale in the candlelight.

  She blinked and looked around her. She could make out several soldiers standing or sitting in the darkness. She could see the candlelight glinting off their weapons and the belts of bullets.

  Turning back to the pale man, she spotted a woman in a glittering dress sitting on the floor at his feet. She looked from the woman’s sepia-toned face to the man’s.

  There was something strange about his face—she couldn’t see his features. Just his eyes and that pale…mask.

  Mask.

  The heat, the smell of many bodies in a hot close place and the weight of the burka on her head and shoulders made her head spin.

  The man barked another order. Someone grabbed the burka and yanked it off of her, almost knocking her off her feet. Then a blow to the backs of her calves sent her sprawling backward onto a cushioned surface. She’d landed on some kind of upholstered stool.

  “Take a load off, Mrs. Castle.”

  Alarm ripped through her like lightning. English? She cast about. Who was speaking in English—and American English at that?

  As quickly as her gaze snapped to his featureless face, her brain told her the answer.

  Novus Ordo. It had to be. The CGI image Rook had described popped into her head, followed by the photo of the dead Frank James.

  A pale mask. An American accent. A hidden cave in the farthest regions of the world. Of course it was Novus Ordo.

  And with the help of a once-trusted employee, he’d captured her to lure Rook here.

  And he would come. Not necessarily for her sake—although she had to believe that he cared enough to want to save her—but because finding her would mean finding Ordo. And she knew that would happen. Because Ordo had brought her here as bait to force Rook to come to him.

  “No, it’s not some man behind the curtain. It’s me.”

  “Am I supposed to know who you are?” she asked, doing her best to affect an attitude of disinterest.

  He laughed. “Supposed to? No. You do know who I am. Just as well as I know who you are. Can I get you some water?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, but you’re going to get awful thirsty. I might forget to ask you again.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “Now, come on, Mrs. Castle, you know that, too. You are here so you’d bring your nosy, arrogant husband to me.”

  Irina folded her hands in her lap and tried not to look as terrified as she felt. She knew the terrorist was ruthless. She’d seen what he’d already done and tried to do. She’d listened along with Rook to the news stories recounting Ordo’s terrorist attacks. The power plants, oil tankers and who knew what else?”

  The man she knew only as Novus Ordo looked at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Let’s go ahead and make that call. I’ve waited a long time to get my hands on him.”

  He snapped an order in that language she couldn’t understand, and a soldier stepped out of the darkness to hand him a satellite phone.

  Irina squeezed her hands together tightly. Maybe in the shadow of her lap, Ordo wouldn’t see her white knuckles and know how scared she was.

  He stood up. Immediately, all the people in the room stood. It was a sign of respect. Irina didn’t stand.

  One of the guards grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

  “Nyet,” she exclaimed, pulling her sleeve away from his grasp. Then she glared at Ordo. “What will you do if I refuse? Exile me to a worse place than this? To a life lonelier than mine has been for the past two years? Kill me?” She stood and crossed her arms.

  “I’ll do all of that, and more, if it helps me reach my goal. How do you think your husband would feel if I sent him one of your fingers? Or an ovary?”

  Irina felt the blood drain from her face. She shivered at the icy chill that ran down her spine. She looked into Novus Ordo’s eyes and remembered Jung’s words. If you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss stares back at you.

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried. “What has Rook, what has the United States, done to you?”

  Ordo smiled benignly. “Your husband saw my face. That’s enough to condemn him. But the U.S. What has the U.S. done? The U.S. continues to ignore the dangers to the environment that they are perpetrating, not just on home soil but all over the world.”

  Irina stared, astonished. She wasn’t sure what Ordo was talking about.

  “Do you know who I am? I graduated magna cum laude from MIT in environmental engineering. My IQ is over 180. If they would just listen to me, I could save the planet. Did you know that within the next decade we could see the demise of every species of insect?”

  “Insect?”

  Novus snorted. “You have no idea what I’m talking about. Let’s get back to what I’m going to do to your husband. You heard what I planned for you. Take that to the next level, and you’ll understand what I’ll do to Colonel Castle if you don’t cooperate. Because you know he’ll come. You know that. If you help me, I promise to execute Colonel Castle with dignity—by firing squad.”

  For a moment, Irina couldn’t tear her gaze away from his. He didn’t have to say the specific words for her to know what torture he implied. Her knees collapsed and she fell back onto the stool, gagging. She’d vomit if she had any food in her stomach.

  Distantly she heard Novus say something. A white cloth was thrust under her nose. She used it to wipe her mouth and eyes, then she looked up at Novus.

  “Ya sdyelayoo eto,” she rasped. “Vi gryaznaya svin’ya.”

  “You’re talking in Russian again.”

  Irina lifted her head and swallowed against the nausea. “I will do it,” she said as strongly as she could. “Whatever you say.” She left off the last bit of her Russian comment. You filthy pig.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rook drove the dusty, beat-up Jeep through the narrow streets of Mahjidastan, his stomach churning at the remembered smells of heat, sweat, dung and dust.

  He’d been through a lot in his career as a combat rescue officer. He’d seen and heard some awful things, but nothing he’d ever b
een through in his life had prepared him for the abject horror in Rina’s voice on the staticky satellite phone twenty-four hours before.

  Please, Rook, do what he says. You can’t imagine what he’ll do if you don’t follow his instructions to the letter.

  Sadly, he could imagine.

  But the next thing she’d said had baffled him. She’d spoken in Russian, and he hadn’t understood a syllable. Thank God he’d insisted that every call that came in from the moment Irina went missing be recorded.

  When he’d played the recording for Tanya, a friend of hers in Casper, Tanya had been baffled, as well.

  “The last bit says ‘I love you,’ of course. And the middle part essentially translates as “ecological technical degree.” But provyer’tye em ay’tye?” She sighed. “Check something. Check mit? Does that make sense?”

  He’d written it all down. He spoke it out loud, over and over and over.

  Check em ay’tye. Ecological technical degree. I love you.

  Check em ay’tye. Ecological technical degree. I love you.

  Finally, the answer had coalesced in his brain.

  They weren’t words, they were letters. MIT. Massachusetts Institute of Technology!

  A call to Dan to check MIT for graduates with the last name of Hill who’d majored in ecology hit pay dirt.

  Frank James’s fingerprints had traced him back to Laramie, Wyoming. His name was Franklin Hill, and he had a brother who’d attended Wyoming University and then graduated summa cum laude in environmental engineering from MIT.

  Frederick Hill had graduated with a brilliant future ahead of him. But as of eight years ago, he’d disappeared off the face of the earth—no tax returns, no driver’s license. Nothing.

  Novus Ordo. Frederick Hill.

  As soon as Rook hung up from talking to Dan, he went to see Deke and had a long, somber discussion with him. Then he caught a plane for Kabul—alone. He couldn’t take the chance that anyone would stop him.

  So now he was here, where Ordo wanted him. All he had to do was wait. Ordo would find him.

  At the door to the rooming house, he paused and looked around. Not to familiarize himself with the town—it was burned into his memory forever—but to ensure that everyone in town knew he was here.

  Ordo had ordered him here. He was here.

  The number of curious stares he attracted didn’t scare him. Rather, he scrutinized each one. Trouble was, all of the dark eyes had shadows in their depths. Any one of them could be Ordo’s spy.

  He sure as hell hoped so. It had been well over forty-eight hours since Aaron had abducted Irina. He had no time to waste.

  Turning on his heel, he headed inside. Ironically, the old woman who ran the inn had put him in the same room he’d been in before. A frisson of disgust spread through him. He’d hoped never to see these dingy walls again.

  Just like the last time he’d left his home with little hope of returning, he’d brought nothing of value with him, except his watch, his wedding ring and his Sig Sauer.

  He fingered the ring. This time was different. This time, the thing he valued most was here, in this desolate corner of the world.

  And nothing—not his inherited millions, not his accomplishments, not even his connections with people like the president of the United States—could save her. He had nothing but his wits. That and faith.

  He lay down on the narrow bed and closed his eyes. He had nothing to do now but wait. He thumbed the smooth surface of his wedding ring, and his thoughts turned backward, to his childhood.

  It seemed to him that everything he’d ever done had led him to this time and place.

  How would his life have been different if he and Matt and Deke, his oath brothers, had never gotten caught in that storm? If a good and honorable man hadn’t lost his own life that day to save four boys?

  He’d have probably taken over his father’s diverse and lucrative media conglomerates, instead of joining the Air Force. He’d likely have married a hometown girl and had a nice, safe, normal life.

  He’d have never rescued Leonid Tankien. Never met and fallen in love with Tankien’s daughter, Irina. He’d have never sat in the Oval Office and chatted with the president about covert missions to rescue innocent Americans. He’d certainly have never had to ask his friends to lay their lives on the line for him.

  He didn’t regret any of his choices except one. If he could live his life over again, he’d never lie to Rina. She deserved better. She always had.

  The banging on the door startled him out of his daydream. He rolled off the bed, gun in hand. “Who is it?” he yelled.

  The snarling answer was in Arabic.

  His breath whooshed out in cautious relief. Soon he’d be in front of Ordo. He’d be able to see for himself that Irina was all right.

  He called out one of the few phrases he’d learned in the local language. From what he’d been told, it translated loosely as “Hang on a minute.”

  Gripping his weapon, Rook unlocked the door. When he saw the soldiers in their desert camo with ammunition belts criss-crossing their chests and heavy guns cradled in their arms, he raised his hands, letting his gun dangle from his fingertips.

  The guy in charge stepped close and knocked the gun away.

  Interpreting what was expected of him, Rook spread his hands in surrender. One of the armed soldiers turned around and put his back to the door facing, obviously guarding the door. The other stepped inside and trained his rifle on Rook’s midsection.

  The leader gestured to Rook. His meaning was unmistakable. He wanted him to undress. Probably for a strip search.

  Rook stood without moving.

  The leader gestured a second time and snapped an order.

  Rook shrugged, affecting a puzzled expression. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. He hoped like hell that the man would give up if he played dumb.

  No such luck. The rifle barrel pushed painfully into Rook’s side.

  Fine. He gave in, praying that the men weren’t sadistic. They weren’t. The search was almost cursory and was over inside of two minutes.

  As soon as he got his shirt buttoned, the leader pulled a square of cloth from a pocket and gestured for Rook to turn around.

  He decided further delays would only hurt his own agenda, which was getting himself in front of Ordo as quickly as possible, so he obeyed.

  Within seconds, he was blindfolded and his hands were tethered behind his back. He had to quell his instinct to fight. This was not about him. Certainly not about being a hero, or getting revenge.

  He was a player in a much bigger undertaking. Sure, he was here to get Rina to safety. But as much as he wished he could just somehow grab her and go, she wasn’t his primary mission.

  He didn’t resist as the soldiers led him outside and pushed him into the backseat of an open vehicle—probably a Jeep.

  They were taking him to Novus Ordo. And everything—everything—depended on how he handled himself.

  If he were a desperate international terrorist whose true identity was in danger of being uncovered, and the one man in the world who could destroy him were brought before him, he’d execute him on sight. But he wasn’t Novus Ordo.

  And the plan depended on his expatriated American’s need to gloat.

  Because Rook was offering him exactly what he wanted—with one caveat.

  Let Irina live.

  The ride was a long one, and bumpy. Blindfolded, and with his hands behind his back, he was at the mercy of the dysfunctional shocks in the Jeep. His exhausted body took a battering by the time the vehicle finally stopped. Judging by how long it took, and the condition of the roads they’d ridden, he figured they’d driven up several hundred feet in elevation into the mountains.

  He was manhandled out of the Jeep and shoved forward. He shuffled and stumbled as he tried to stay upright. Every time he paused, feeling his way for his next step, a rifle barrel prodded him in the kidneys.

  Through the blindfold and his closed lids, he coul
d tell when they entered a dark shelter, probably a tent. The odors of too many bodies in too close a space, combined with sweetish incense and cigarette smoke, made his nose burn. The heat was oppressive, and it wasn’t helped by all the candles that flickered redly in front of his closed lids.

  The toes of his boots hit something solid. He fell forward. His knees landed on some sort of wooden riser, or step.

  The soldier growled in the language Rook had heard a lot here in Mahjidastan.

  From in front of him, he heard another voice. Same language, but sounding very different. Then the same voice greeted him, and he understood what the difference was.

  “Colonel Castle. Nice of you to drop by.”

  The voice belonged to an American.

  He was standing in front of Novus Ordo.

  Ordo barked a command. Someone yanked off Rook’s blindfold, although they left his hands tied. He raised his head, blinking, waiting for his eyes to finish adapting to the dark.

  Then he saw Ordo, his pale face illuminated by the wan light of the flickering candles. His face with no mask.

  It was the face from the sketch. Almost identical to the face from the autopsy photo of Frank James.

  “Ordo,” he breathed. He pushed himself backward, trying to get his feet under him so he could stand. He’d just about straightened when a staggering blow struck the back of his knees. He fell forward, banging his cheek on the hard wooden platform.

  Ordo snapped an order, and a hand in his hair jerked him upright.

  “Sorry, Colonel. My soldiers don’t like to see me disrespected.”

  The man who named himself Novus Ordo, or “New Order,” sat in a crudely built wooden chair draped with lengths of cloth in various tones. The candlelight rendered everything nearly monochromatic. Novus wore a plain white shirt and tan pants that had seen better days.

  His head was bare. His matted light brown hair completed his resemblance to Frank James—Franklin Hill, his younger brother.

  “Where’s Irina?”

  “I figured that would be your first question. Let’s just say she’s safe, for the moment. So what’s your second question?”