She sucked, pulling the sack hood into her mouth, and started to bite. Before long, she had a small hole. Using her tongue and teeth and then her nose, she slowly made it wider, until she could almost see. There were footsteps. Quietly she flung herself down so she was lying on her face, hiding the hole. The footsteps came into the room, inches from her, and then retreated.
I’ve got to get into my bra, she thought. I’ve got to get into the bra.She carried on chewing at the sack, spitting out string and straw. She lowered her head and pushed the hole upwards until it was opposite her eyes. Bingo! She could see! She had to stop herself shouting, “Yessss! Yessssss!”
She was in a passageway, hewn out of rock and lit by fluorescent strips. There were posters on the wall covered in Arabic writing and a Western calendar with, for some reason, a picture of a tractor on it. There was a date circled in red. She heard voices; they were coming from behind a curtain which hung over an archway to her left. Something was digging into her back. She twisted round. A valve protruded from a thin metal pipe running down the cave wall. She looked down inside the robe at her Wonderbra—it was a front fastener, which could be useful.
Very slowly, silently, she shifted herself round to face the valve and ripped at the sack, exposing more of her face. Then she shifted position, pushed the valve against the Wonderbra catch and pressed. Nothing. She tried again, and again, then tried to squeeze her shoulders and boobs together to loosen the pressure and leaned forward again. The Wonderbra sprang undone. It was such a relief not to have all the paraphernalia digging into her from the booster-pad pockets. She eased one cup against the valve to push it upwards and, after only three attempts, she caught the edge of the black lace in her teeth.
Olivia was unbelievably pleased with herself, so pleased she almost allowed herself to grin and drop the bra. She turned around too quickly so that her sandal scraped on the floor. The voices stopped in the next room. She was frozen with one half of a black Wonderbra in her mouth, like a dog holding a newspaper. Heavy footsteps started to move towards her. She shook the sack back over her face and lay down. The footsteps came very close. A foot poked her in the ribs. She shuddered and turned her head slightly, which she thought was a realistic touch. The footsteps retreated. She didn’t move until the voices started again.
The Wonderbra cup was inside out, still held in her teeth. Slowly, she pulled it out from her djellaba and, still using her teeth, twisted round to hook it over the valve. It was awfully uncomfortable, but she managed to twist back and push the rope binding her hands against the saw. It was wretched, slow work. There was a horrible moment when the bra came away from the valve, and she had to go through the whole process of hooking it up there again. But, eventually, the little saw cut through enough fibers for her to break her hands free and untie her ankles.
Glancing anxiously towards the curtain, she opened the lip salve she had stashed in her bra. She set the timer to three seconds, replaced the cap and, aiming carefully, rolled it under the gap between the curtain and the floor. Then she curled up, eyes tightly closed, squeezing her face between her knees and her arms. Even so, the flash was almost blinding. There were shouts, screams and crashing noises from behind the curtain.
She leapt to her feet, ran to the curtain and yanked it open. In that split second, she took in an astonishing scene. Twelve men were clutching their eyes, blinded, blundering in panic. There were photographs and diagrams on the walls. Bridges—the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, Tower Bridge, another bridge spanning a wide harbor with skyscrapers in the background. There were seven pictures in all. On a table in the center of the room, there was what looked like the bottom of a round plinth facing towards her, and beside it a jagged piece of metal, gold on the outside, hollow inside, like a piece broken off a chocolate Santa. She thought about grabbing it to use as a weapon. Then, behind the table, sitting cross-legged on a carpet, she saw an unmistakable, tall, bearded figure. He was sitting perfectly still, eyes closed, blinded by the flash like everyone else, but totally calm and totally terrifying. It was only a split second’s sighting. But she could have sworn it was Osama bin Laden.
She had seconds. She photographed the bridges first—realizing halfway through that the flash wasn’t working. Then she tried for a group shot. And then bin Laden. The camera was so tiny you couldn’t see what you were doing—you had to guess. And it was hard to see anything after the flash. Could it possibly be him?
The man closest to her reacted to the sound of the shutter and turned towards her. She lit the fuse on the tiny gas ball and rolled it into the center of the room, retreated through the curtain and ran. They would be able to see again in a couple of minutes, but the gas would knock them out for five.
* * *
Once she was out of the anteroom and round the corner, she stopped, leaned panting against the wall and listened. The corridor was white-painted rock, stretching as far as she could see in both directions. It was hard to hear above the air-pressure system, but the sound to her left seemed to have a different quality. Was that the sound of the sea or of machinery?
She decided to go for it. As she ran up the slight incline, it began to seem familiar and, yes, there was the shower room and, in the distance, the metal door. As she grew closer, she realized it was wedged open by a body, like a suitcase stuck between elevator doors. It was an injured, semiconscious Feramo. He looked as though he had been trying to escape. She stepped over him, then hesitated. She put her face close to his. His eyes were slightly open. He was breathing with difficulty.
“Help me,” he whispered. “Habitibi, help.”
She pulled the dagger underwiring from her Wonderbra and pointed it at his throat, as she had been taught, straight at the carotid artery.
“The code,” she hissed, jabbing him. “Tell me the code for the door.”
“Will you take me with you?”
She blinked at him for a moment. “If you’re good.”
He could barely speak. She couldn’t work out what they had done to him. What had he been thinking, bringing her here?
“The code,” she said. “Come on, or you die.” It sounded silly when she said it.
“Two four six eight.” He could barely whisper.
“Two four six eight?” she said indignantly. “Isn’t that a bit obvious? Are both doors the same code?”
He shook his head and croaked, “Zero nine eleven.”
She rolled her eyes: Unbelievable.
“Take me with you, saqr, please. Or kill me now. I cannot take the pain and indignity of what they will do.”
She thought for a second, reached into her bra and pulled out the tranquilizer syringe which formed the other cup’s underwiring.
“It’s all right, it’s only temporary,” she said, seeing Feramo’s frightened eyes. She whipped up the djellaba he was wearing and expelled the air from the syringe. “There we go!” she said, matron-like, sinking the needle into his buttock.
Wow, it worked fast. She punched in 2468 and pulled him out from between the doors. Just before they closed, she had a brain wave, whipped off his sandals and shoved them between the doors, leaving a six-inch gap, too narrow to get through but wide enough to let water in. Dragging a prone Feramo behind her with her good arm, she tapped in 0911 at the next set of doors, feeling a great lightness of spirit as they opened to reveal the brightly lit entry room, the scuba gear and the square of seawater. This time she wedged a pair of fins between the doors.
She pulled off her djellaba and hovered for a second on the brink of the Land of Indecision. Should she just plunge into the water as she was, swim to the surface and wing it, or scuba? She reached for the BCD, weight belt and tanks, and put the whole kit together.
She was just stepping into the water when she glanced back at Feramo. He looked pitiful, crumpled and sleeping like a sad little child. She found herself imagining all the bossy men who try to organize the world—the Americans, the British, the Arabs—as fucked-up little kids: the America
ns brassy and bullying, wanting to be stars of the baseball pitch; the British from their public schools priggishly determined to be righteous; and the Arabs, frustrated, repressed by their parents, blustering incoherently because there is nothing worse than losing face.
“He’ll be more use alive than dead,” she told herself, banishing her feelings of tenderness. Listening out for the sound of anyone approaching, she ripped off his robe, pausing for an essential second to admire the sublime, olive-skinned body, checked him for shark-luring cuts and found him clear, weighted and buoyed him, shoved him in a full head mask and rolled him into the water, leaving him bobbing in the square of the entrance. There was a pressure gauge on the wall. She grabbed a tank and rammed it at the gauge, breaking the glass, then took a piece of glass to pierce the pipe. Immediately there was a change in the hum. She looked down at the square of water where Feramo was floating. It was starting unmistakably to rise. Eventually it would hit the lights and short the electrics, and with all that pressurized oxygen it might even blow the place to pieces. And if that didn’t happen, the water would rush in and they would all drown.
She lowered herself into the water, letting air out of Feramo’s BCD to make him sink, then, taking hold of the tranquilized floating terrorist, she started to swim, heading out from under the pedestal rock, dragging him behind her with her good hand in a gratifying reversal of roles.
I’m quite clever, really, she said to herself.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t occurred to her that it would be dark. Diving at night, especially without a light and with a rather flimsy dagger instead of a harpoon, was not a great idea. She didn’t want to break the surface too near the shore in case al-Qaeda had scouts. She didn’t want to break the surface too far out because of sharks. She didn’t want to use up her air in case she needed to go down again.
She swam directly away from the shore at a depth of ten feet for about thirty minutes, then surfaced and settled for letting air out of Feramo’s jacket so that he was neutrally buoyant two feet down. Then she pulled her legs in tight and sat on him. If the sharks came to feed, they could eat him first. All she could see was blackness: no lights, no boats. If the sharks stayed away, she could float here safely until dawn, but then what? She deliberated over whether to cut Feramo loose and swim back to shore, or further out to sea. She was so terribly tired. She felt herself beginning to drift off to sleep, when suddenly the force of a massive, living object burst to the surface from beneath her.
54
“There’s something down there.”
Scott Rich was in the navigator’s seat of the Black Hawk watching the heat-seeking monitor. The electronic chatter filling the cockpit was crazy-making, but Rich was entirely composed, leaning forward, focused, intent, listening to simultaneous feeds from the ground forces, four separate air patrols and Hackford Litvak’s Navy Seals.
“Sir, the ground patrol have found Agent Joules’s clothing at the end of the tunnel. No sign of the agent herself.”
“Anything else?” said Scott. “Signs of a struggle?”
“The clothing was torn and bloodstained, sir.”
Scott Rich flinched. “And your position now?”
“At the coastline, sir, a ten-foot drop to the Red Sea.”
“Anything else you can see there?”
“No. Only scuba equipment, sir.”
“Did you say scuba equipment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then goddammit, get it on and get in the water.” He clicked off his microphone and turned to the pilot, pointing at the screen in front of them. “There. You see it? Let’s get down there. Now.”
* * *
Olivia screamed as Feramo burst up out of the water, forcing the dagger out of her grip with one hand, grabbing her round the throat with the other. She brought up her leg and kneed him hard in the balls, wriggling free the second he released her throat, swimming away and thinking fast. He had been under longer than she. He should be out of air—she had a good ten minutes’ worth left. She could drop thirty feet and lose him.
She started to descend, pulling on the mask, clearing the regulator as she went down, but Feramo lashed out and caught hold of her wrist. She screamed in agony as he twisted the joint. She felt herself blacking out, drifting into welcome unconsciousness. The air was escaping from her buoyancy jacket, the weights were pulling her down, the regulator was yanked out of her mouth. Then, suddenly, there was an almighty clattering and roaring overhead, and bright lights shone into the water. A figure plunged towards her, silhouetted through the ghostly green water. It took hold of her, releasing the weight belt, and pulled her up towards the light.
“Falcon, indeed,” Scott Rich whispered in her ear as they broke the surface, strong hands around her waist. “You look more like a baby frog.”
Then suddenly Feramo reared up again like a whale in a BBC special, lunging at them with the flimsy dagger.
“Float for a second, baby,” said Scott, as he grabbed Feramo’s wrist and knocked him out with a single blow.
* * *
Olivia leaned nervously out of the Black Hawk. Scott Rich was still in the water, trying to tie up Feramo, who was slumped in the winch basket, but the rotor wash kept flinging him away.
“Leave him,” Olivia yelled over the radio. “Come back up. He’s unconscious.”
“That’s what you thought last time,” came Scott’s reply.
Olivia gripped the edge of the open hatch, scanning the circle of light on the water for predators.
“Here, ma’am,” yelled Dan, the pilot, handing her a pistol. “If you see a shark, shoot it, but try to avoid Special Officer Rich.”
“Thanks for the tip,” she muttered into the radio.
Suddenly, there was a dull boom back towards the shore and almost immediately a siren started blaring on the instrument panel.
“Jesus! Let’s get him up, get him up, up!” yelled Dan as a missile lit up the sky around them.
“Scott!” Olivia yelled, as the sea ahead seemed to explode into a huge fireball, throwing out a blast of air which sent the chopper reeling.
Olivia could hardly breathe, but seconds later Scott’s scowling face appeared over the edge of the hatch and the Black Hawk swung upwards, out of reach of the burning sea.
* * *
They were heading back to the aircraft carrier. It was steamily hot. Both Scott and Olivia were dripping wet. Neither of them looked at the other. Olivia was wearing only her underwear and a US Navy–issue T-shirt which the pilot had flung at her. She knew that if she leaned her cheek into the warm skin of Scott’s neck, or felt his rough, capable hand brush the soft skin of her thigh, she wouldn’t be able to control herself.
There was a burst of fire and a series of violent bangs against the airframe. “Hold on, baby,” said Scott. “We’ve taken a hit. Hold on tight.” The stricken helicopter shuddered and seemed to stop in its tracks. Then it lurched horrifyingly and plummeted straight down, throwing them onto the floor. There was a loud metallic bang and a jolt. Scott scrambled towards her, grabbing hold of her as the engine screamed and the pilot struggled to bring the aircraft under control. Ahead, Olivia saw dark water rushing towards them, then the lighter color of the sky, and then water again. The pilot was cursing and yelling, “We gotta eject, we gotta eject!” Scott held her tight, pressing her head into his chest, trying to get them back towards a seat, yelling into his radio above the din, “Okay there Dan, hold steady. We’re all right, bring her up, we’re going to be fine.” Then, to Olivia, above the roaring and clattering, “Hold onto me, baby. Whatever happens, just keep holding on as tight as you can.”
Yards from the water, suddenly, miraculously, Dan regained control. They hovered precariously for a few moments, stabilized, then swung upwards again.
“Phew, sorry about that, folks,” said Dan.
In the rush of adrenaline and relief, Olivia raised her head to see Scott Rich’s gray eyes looking down at her with immense tenderness. For an astonishing
second she thought she saw a tear, then he pulled her to him passionately, his mouth searching for hers, gentle hands sliding up beneath the US Navy T-shirt.
“USS Condor at five hundred meters ahead, sir,” said Dan. “Shall we make the descent?”
“Give her another once around the block, will you?” murmured Scott into the radio.
* * *
As Olivia stood on the vast deck of the aircraft carrier, debriefed, showered and fed, taking a last look at the calm water and the star-filled night, Scott Rich appeared through the shadows.
“They found part of Feramo’s leg,” he said. “The sharks got him.”
Olivia said nothing, looking back towards the Suakin shore.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said gruffly, allowing her the confusion of her feelings. After a few moments, he added, “Not as sorry as the administration are, though. And nowhere near as sorry as I am that I didn’t get to do the job myself, with my bare hands, or perhaps my teeth, after I’d extracted every last morsel of information from that smooth bastard in the most painful manner possible.”
“Scott!” said Olivia. “He was a human being too.”
“One day, I’ll tell you exactly what sort of human being he was. And what he might have done to you if—”
“Done to me? What do you mean? I wouldn’t have let him.”
Scott shook his head. “They want you to go back to LA, you know that? They need you to help look into his entourage.”
She nodded.
“You going to go or have you had enough?”
“Of course I’m going to go,” she said, adding, as if it were an afterthought, “are you?”
55 CIA SAFE HOUSE,
LOS ANGELES
A solitary hawk gliding silently over Hollywood—above the Kodak Theater, ringed by cables and TV vans; the blaring horns of Sunset; the pre-Oscar parties thronging the turquoise-lit pools of the Standard, the Mondrian and the Château Marmont—towards the darkness and coyote cries of the hills, might have spotted a single lighted window high on a promontory. Behind the glass wall, a slight, fair-haired girl and a man with close-cropped hair were lying in each other’s arms among rumpled sheets, lit by the flicker of firelight and CNN.