Authors: Irene Hannon
Tags: #Mystery, #Romance, #Suspense, #Thriller, #Contemporary
Against All Odds (8 page)
But the accolades were unearned, he acknowledged. His willingness to stand up to terrorists reflected indifference, not courage. He just didn’t care about his own safety. He’d done everything he wanted to do professionally. He had no personal life. He was sixty-six years old. Bottom line, it didn’t much matter to him if the Lord took him next week or in ten years.
Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the back of his chair and let fatigue numb his mind.
“Sir? Are you all right?”
The sound of his aide’s voice roused David from his light doze. An hour had passed, he noted with a discreet glance at his watch. Neutralizing his expression, he swiveled his chair toward the door.
“Yes, Salam. Good morning.” He wasn’t surprised the man had come in on a Sunday. They’d all been working long hours since the abductions.
“Good morning, sir. Have you been here all night?”
The man’s quick perusal of his attire reminded David he had on the same clothes he’d worn yesterday. About two in the morning he’d returned to his utilitarian room in the low-rise barracks that honeycombed the embassy compound, but he’d simply stretched out on the narrow bed fully clothed. When sleep had eluded him, he’d given up and returned to his office.
“I went back to my quarters for a couple of hours. I’ll run over later to shower and change. Would you check on my daughter’s status as soon as you can?”
“Yes, sir. Can I get you some coffee?”
“That would be good. Thanks.”
Five minutes later, Salam returned, a steaming disposable cup in hand.
“I spoke with our contact at the FBI. Two men are with her now, and a second team will be dispatched later today. HRT security is being supplemented with field agents.”
“She’s still at home?” The news jolted him.
“Yes, sir. She refused to go to a safe house.”
Not good. He needed to convince her to disappear until this was over. But how?
In his professional life, dealing with hostage situations and terrorists and high-level government officials, he was confident in his abilities. In his personal life, with his own family, he was far less secure. Communicating what was in his head had always been easy; when it came to expressing what was in his heart, he’d been a dismal failure.
He could call Monica again, but she’d hung up on him yesterday before he could pick up the phone. Considering he’d thrown her life into chaos in the interim, he suspected she’d be even less inclined to talk with him today.
“Would you like me to try and ring your daughter again?” It was as if Salam had read his mind.
“No. She’s had a long day. It’s possible she’s already gone to bed.”
“Perhaps later?”
“Perhaps.”
With a slight bow, the man left the room.
For his own peace of mind, if nothing else, David knew he had to try again to reach Monica. And maybe she would be more receptive to his call now that she’d had a chance to think the situation through.
But somehow he doubted it.
The minutes were crawling by, and it took every ounce of Coop’s willpower to keep from nodding off. His late night and early morning were finally catching up with him.
He checked his watch. Almost midnight. Soon he could pass the baton to Mark and get some much-needed rest. In the meantime, however, he had to find something to do to keep himself awake. Listening to late-night talk radio wasn’t cutting it.
Flipping off the small radio tucked beside a sugar canister on the kitchen counter, Coop refilled his mug, almost wishing for a cup of Les’s high-octane brew.
Almost.
As he swallowed a scalding sip of caffeine, he ran a finger lightly down the worn cover on the Bible beside the coffeemaker. He’d noticed it earlier. In light of its presence, and Monica’s insistence that church tomorrow was a nonnegotiable commitment, it didn’t take FBI training to deduce that her faith was important to her. The “what” was clear.
He was more intrigued by the “why.”
Religion had never been more than a blip on Coop’s radar screen. Aside from obligatory church attendance on Christmas and Easter, it had played very little role in his growing-up years. And as an adult, he’d given it no more than an occasional passing thought. Few of his colleagues put much stock in it, either. Their jobs demanded that they base decisions on facts and empirical evidence. Lives often depended on it—including their own. As a result, Coop had a healthy respect for logic and deductive reasoning.
That’s why religion had never appealed to him. It seemed to be based more on feelings and blind faith than facts. Not the kind of thing he would expect to appeal to intelligent, well-educated people.
Yet Monica Callahan was both.
It didn’t make sense.
And he was too tired to try and figure it out tonight.
Turning away from the Bible, Coop wandered into the dim living room. Mark was sprawled on the couch, his breathing shallow and regular. The ability to sleep anywhere, under any conditions, was one of the skills HRT operators cultivated. But Coop knew that at the slightest sound, Mark would wake instantly and reach for his Glock. It was an instinctive reaction for all operators—on duty and off.
The floor-to-ceiling bookcases drew Coop, and he moved across the room, his shoes silent on the plush carpet. A quick skim of the titles suggested Monica’s reading taste was eclectic, ranging from biography to philosophy to literary fiction to cooking. There were even some romance novels in the mix.
On a shelf of communication-related books, one title stopped him.
Talk the Walk.
Her own book.
Tucked unobtrusively among the other volumes.
Interesting. And impressive. Most authors of bestselling books would display a copy in a prominent place in their homes. Monica had chosen to slip hers in among the rest of her collection. Modesty, it seemed, was among her virtues.
Easing the book off the shelf, he returned to the kitchen. As he sat at the table, he flipped the volume over to read the endorsement on the back from a well-known relationship expert, himself an author of a dozen books and host of a weekly radio program.
“Monica Callahan has taken a popular axiom and turned it on its ear. We’ve all heard about the importance of walking the talk—practicing what we preach. Ms. Callahan presents a compelling case that the opposite is also true. That buying your wife flowers, or giving an employee a raise, or attending your child’s ballet recital isn’t enough. While those things do communicate that you care, Ms. Callahan contends that people need to hear the words too—because words are the window to the heart. I concur, and I highly recommend this book. It will improve every relationship in your life.”
Intrigued, Coop opened the book and began to read. Less than twenty pages into it he’d already recognized his own behavior in two of the examples she’d used to illustrate her points.
But then, why should that surprise him? Words had never come easy for him. After all, he’d had no example to follow. He didn’t remember his mother, and his father’s expressions of affection had been few and far between.
The book covered that too, in a chapter devoted to reasons why people struggle with words. There was a whole list on page 102, and it included lack of role models.
But a different reason jumped out at him.
Fear.
Coop frowned. He could see how fear might cause a verbal communication problem for some people, but he didn’t think it applied in his case. He attributed his reticence to prudence, and considered it an asset, not a liability. A reflection of strength. Independence, self-reliance, and autonomy were good things.
But they can also be lonely.
That unbidden—and unwanted—thought took him by surprise. In general, he shied away from introspection. It reeked of self-indulgence and narcissism, and he considered it a waste of time.
Besides, it’s scary.
Where in the world was that annoying little voice coming from?
Irritated, Coop closed the book. Enough of this. He had too much on his mind to waste energy indulging in psychoanalysis, let alone try to deal with the double whammy of the “whys” behind Monica’s faith and his own reticence. He must be over-tired. That had to be the explanation for his uncharacteristic reflective mood.
“Hey . . . it’s way past midnight. Why didn’t you wake me?”
Startled, Coop glanced up. Mark was leaning against the door frame, stifling a huge yawn. His brown hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his shirt couldn’t be more wrinkled if it had spent the past two weeks crumpled into a ball in the corner of a suitcase.
“You look like you could use some coffee.” Coop rose and poured him a cup.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I wasn’t that tired.”
“Yeah?” Mark gave him a suspicious look as Coop handed him a mug of black coffee. “Why not? You were half comatose in Les’s office yesterday morning, and you haven’t had any sleep since then.”
“Second wind, I guess.”
Clearly unconvinced, Mark surveyed the table. His eyebrows rose when he spotted Monica’s book. “I see you’ve been doing some reading. Any good?”
“Interesting.”
“Must be, if it kept you going for”—Mark checked his watch—“forty-three hours, with only two hours of sleep.”
“Why don’t you read it?” Coop rinsed his cup and set it on the counter, deciding that offense was the best defense. “You might learn a few things.”
“Hey, I talk the walk. I know how to use words.”
“Too many, sometimes.”
“Very funny. Go get some rest. Maybe sleep will improve your mood.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my mood.”
“Uh-huh.” Mark picked up the book and shoved it against Coop’s chest with a smug look. “And take this with you. It might help spice up your social life. Remember: women like guys who talk. You’re the one who could learn a few things.”
Grasping the book, Coop turned his back and headed for the couch, dismissing the temptation to refute Mark’s assessment.
Because once again, his partner was right.
Six hours later, when the ringing phone brought Coop instantly awake, he felt a little more human. The restorative power of a few hours of sleep never failed to astound him.
Swinging his legs to the floor, he joined Mark in the kitchen as the answering machine kicked in.
“This is Salam Farah from the U.S. embassy in Kabul. I am trying to put a call through to Monica Callahan from her father.”
As the accented voice spoke, Coop strode forward and checked the caller ID, a feature that had been added to her phone yesterday. The number on the digital display matched the one he’d memorized in David Callahan’s file. He picked up the handset.
“Mr. Farah? Evan Cooper with the FBI. If you’ll hold a moment, I’ll see if Ms. Callahan is awake.”
Depressing the mute button, he turned to find Monica in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. She was dressed in a loose-fitting pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, her hair tangled, her face makeup free. It was apparent the ringing phone had roused her too.
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