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“Was she hit?” Dave asked.
“No, sir,” Addison said. “She’s been out cold since before we even left the palace. I ain’t seen her move a muscle or heard a peep out of her.”
“It shouldn’t be much longer. When I contacted them, they’d already launched a couple of F/A-18s from a carrier in the Mediterranean.”
Dave had no sooner uttered the words when two low-flying jets screamed past, the red glare of their backburners welcome fiery beacons overhead. Dave flashed the signal to identify their position and the jets circled and flew past again.
“What if they start firing at us?” Manning said. “You hear about friendly fire all the time.”
If the bastard didn’t shut up, it sure as hell wouldn’t be friendly fire that killed him.
“Don’t sweat it, Manning. They’ve got a GPS fix on us now.”
“What’s that?” Manning asked.
“A global positioning satellite,” Kurt Bolen said quickly to shut Manning up. “Those pilots know exactly where we are now.”
Infrared sights exposed the position of the attackers and the pilots opened up with their guns, spraying the ground ahead of them with a warning hail of bullets.
It was enough to rout the pursuers. Before the jets could circle again, the roar of the retreating car engines signaled the battle’s end.
Dave had just gotten the all-clear sign on the phone when the sudden whir of rotors announced the arrival of a helicopter.
Within minutes they were airborne, and Dave contacted Mike Bishop.
“The mission was a bust, Mike. The target escaped.”
“Did you all make it out okay?”
“Yeah. No casualties.”
“Why in hell did you kill bin Muzzar?” Mike asked. “He wasn’t your target.”
“He’s dead? It wasn’t intentional. We were taking heavy fire from RPGs and AK-47s. All we were doing was holding them off.”
“According to our sources the sheik died at the palace. His throat had been cut.”
“Then it wasn’t one of us.”
“Maybe McDermott killed him. Figured it was a double cross.”
“Could be. Bin Muzzar accused Manning of one before the sheik disappeared. That’s why we had to bring out Manning and his wife. We did bring McDermott’s pack with us. Maybe it will turn up something.”
“Glad you’re all safe. See you when you get back.”
“Right. Roger and out.”
Dave hung up the phone and shifted back to join the others. A couple of the men had already fallen asleep. Manning was sitting with his back against the wall chewing on his lip. He’d have a lot to explain when they got back to the States. He’d been consorting with a known terrorist. He was certain to pull some jail time for that. Dave hoped the government would lock Manning away and lose the key.
He wiped the greasepaint off his face and shifted over to Addison’s side. The kid had done good. Followed orders and kept his cool under fire. But he looked so damn young. Right now Dave felt as old as Methuselah—or at least ancient enough to join the Rolling Stones.
“How’s the lady doing?”
“She’s been sleeping peacefully, sir.”
“Through the whole thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Manning said she’d been drinking heavily and passed out.”
“That’s what he said, sir. But it sure doesn’t seem right to me. She never moved a muscle even on the run.” Addison glanced down at the woman. “She’s the hottest woman I’ve seen in a long time. I’d have thought she could do better than that jerk she’s married to.”
“Birds of a feather, kid. You saw what we walked in on. Let this be a good lesson. Looks can fool you.”
“Sir, please don’t call me ‘kid.’”
“It’s a deal providing you quit calling me ‘sir.’”
Addison grinned. “Clear, sir…ah, Dave.”
“Now why don’t you grab some shuteye? It’s been a long day.”
“Guess I will.” Addison looked down again at the sleeping woman. “But she sure is hot, sir. ’Bout the prettiest I’ve ever seen.” He shifted over, leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Other than a quick glance in her direction when he’d entered the bedroom, Dave had not had a close look at Patricia Manning.
Curious, he leaned over to see if Addison had exaggerated. He sucked in his breath from the sudden punch to his gut when he recognized the face that had haunted him for the past six years.
Bombarded by memories, Dave stared transfixed at the woman. How often had he gazed down at that sleeping face? Caressed the softness of it. Breathed the intoxicating essence of her or tasted the sweetness of her lips?
Gradually, reasoning pierced the barrier of shock. He glanced around guiltily, thankful that no one appeared to be watching him. He knew he should move away, but he couldn’t resist the tempting draw.
His gaze clung to her face. She looked ethereal in the dim light of the cabin. His fingers itched to brush aside several strands of jet-black hair that clung in silky tendrils to her forehead and cheeks.
Six years had not marred the patrician perfection of those same high cheekbones, delicate jaw and full lips. And he knew that beneath those thickly tipped lashes lay the most incredible blue eyes he’d ever looked into. Eyes that could mesmerize a man’s soul as much as they haunted his mind, pierced his heart.
But this no longer was the woman he had worshipped from the moment they met. The woman who had lain in his arms as they planned their future together—pledged their love to one another with their words and bodies. The woman whose memory he’d fought unsuccessfully to exorcise from his mind and heart.
Trish Hunter no longer existed.
Now only this pathetic facade of that woman remained.
This woman was the wife of a loathsome cad. This woman consorted with terrorists. Indulged in sex orgies. Drank herself into oblivion.
This Patricia Manning was a stranger to him.
A faint roar slowly penetrated the dark void that swaddled her. The sound heightened as blackness slowly faded into a grayish haze and Trish struggled through it to regain consciousness.
With this slow return of her sensibilities came a feeling of uneasiness. Fright. Why? She strove to remember. Then the horror of it swept through her as leering images of Robert and Ali bin Muzzar swirled around in the muddled confusion of her thoughts like demonic specters.
The need to scream rose within her and a responsive spasm racked her spine. Overwhelmed with panic she opened her eyes. The scream froze in her throat, but this time it wasn’t drugs that prevented the outburst; it was stunned recognition. She stared into the eyes fixed on her. Those beautiful, compelling brown eyes she remembered so well, had imagined before she passed out.
“Dave,” she murmured softly.
There was shocked recognition in his eyes as he stared back at her. Was he all part of the same hideous nightmare?
“Manning, your wife’s awake,” he said, and moved away.
She’d know that voice anywhere—and that same hard tone he’d used the last time they’d spoken six years ago.
Trish closed her eyes and felt the salty sting of hot tears on her cheeks.
When Trish next awoke, the effects of the drug had worn off fully, and she became aware that she was in a helicopter about to land. For several minutes she remained lying still, trying to distinguish in her mind what had been real and what had been part of the nightmare.
She jerked up to a sitting position and looked around when she recognized Dave’s voice. But what was happening? What was he doing issuing orders to a huddled group of men preparing to disembark. Could she still be dreaming?
She closed her eyes and pinched herself hard. It hurt and she opened her eyes. He was still here. She hadn’t imagined it. It was true. Dave was here. Close enough to touch.
Shifting to her knees, she felt a thousand needle-pricks in her arms and legs. Now there was no doubt. She wasn’t still dreaming, that was for sure. The pain was too intense to be imagined. She started to get up to shake it off.
“Ma’am, it’s best you remain seated until we touch down,” the man who sat beside her said.
“Where are we?”
“Rheinmein Air Base, ma’am, in Frankfurt, Germany.”
“Germany!”
Their voices attracted Dave’s attention and he glanced over to them. “Trouble, Addison?”
“No, sir. Mrs. Manning is awake and wanted to know what was happening.”
Outside the plane, crewman swung the door open, and several of the men jumped out. The revolving red light of an emergency vehicle flashed through the opening and someone outside handed a stretcher into the helicopter.
“If you lie down, ma’am, we’ll get you out of here.”
“I don’t need a stretcher,” Trish said. “I’m fine, now.”
She moved to the door, and as she tried to step down, her knees buckled. She fell forward into Dave’s outstretched arms.
For a hushed moment they stared into each other’s eyes, and she fought the urge to fling her arms around his neck and never let go.
“Mrs. Manning, there would be less chance of your getting injured if you would lie down on the stretcher,” he said.
“I’ll be fine. I just have to shake off the numbness.”
Dave released her, and joined the squad who were piling into a military vehicle. Addison led her to a sedan, assisted her in and then joined his squad. Robert and two other men climbed in after her.
The car pulled out and the military vehicle followed behind. They drove to a building located right on the base.
Once inside, Trish was taken to an office where two men and a woman were waiting.
“How do you do, Mrs. Manning,” one of the men said. “Please sit down.” He nodded to the woman and she turned on a machine.
The woman identified herself, announced the date, time and location, and then said, “The following is an interrogation of Patricia Diane Manning. Present are Agent Roger Reteva, Agent William Moore, and Mrs. Patricia Manning.”
To Trish’s further surprise, the woman followed it with her father’s Georgetown address. Why would these people know her father’s address?
“Mrs. Manning, I’m Agent Reteva,” one of the men said. “And this is my associate William Moore. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”
“Who do you represent, Mr. Reteva?” Trish asked.
“I don’t think that’s germane to the issue, Mrs. Manning.”
“I’m afraid I do. If you expect me to answer any of your questions you will have to answer mine first.”
The two men at the table exchanged meaningful glances. “We’re with the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States, madam.”
Trish gasped in surprise. “The CIA? What is this all about?”
Reteva’s lips curled in a slight smile. “That’s what we are trying to find out, Mrs. Manning. Your name is Patricia Diane Manning?”
“Yes.”
“Your maiden name was Patricia Hunter, and you’re a citizen of the United States?”
“Yes, I am,” Trish replied. “Will you kindly tell me why I’m being interrogated?”
“It is our understanding you were a house guest for the past two days at the home of Sheik Ali bin Muzzar. Is that correct, Mrs. Manning?”
“Yes.”
“Was this a business or personal visit, Mrs. Manning?”
“I was told it was a business trip,” Trish said. “Although, the sheik and my husband were classmates at Harvard University. It has been my impression that they have maintained a friendship since then.”
“Were there any other guests present at the time?”
“Yes, a Mr. Colin McDermott.”
“Had you met Mr. McDermott previously to that time?”
“No,” Trish said.
“Was Mr. McDermott also a Harvard classmate of your husband?”
“I have no idea.”
