Surgeon Sheik's Rescue Page 16

  *

  Seventeen minutes later, Aban Ghaffar’s encrypted satellite phone rang in his Manhattan penthouse. He was lying naked on his massage table, a nice view of the skyline through his tinted, floor-to-ceiling windows. His masseuse worked a muscle in his buttock that had been troubling him after his last ski trip—she had good fingers, strong fingers. He lifted his head slightly and reached for the phone on the table at his side.

  “Yes?” he said.

  He listened carefully, killed the call then hit the number for his son in Paris. As the phone rang, Aban felt a familiar spark of resentment—once again Amal had not managed to live up to expectations. He had not found out what financial interests the Al Arif corporation held on the coast of France, nor had he managed to zero in on a location for Tariq Al Arif. But his team in D.C. had come through. Aban now had another chance to test his son. A male heir was imperative to his culture. Someone would have to carry this legacy forward one day. He hoped his boy was going to rise to the job.

  Amal answered in Paris.

  “Ile-en-Mer,” Aban said quietly. “It’s an island off the Brittany coast. He is in the Mont Noir Abbey on the west cliffs. She is working as a maid for a woman named Estelle Dubois who lives on the village side of the island. DiCaprio is staying in maid’s quarters on the Dubois property.”

  He hung up, closed his eyes, feeling the masseuse’s hands work higher, the oil warm as it was rubbed into his skin. He took some measure of comfort in the fact Amal and his men would be on the move within minutes, a private chopper and pilot at their disposal. It would be a mere matter of hours before DiCaprio was silenced, and Tariq properly, and finally, disposed of.

  Omair was already gone. Princess Dalilah would be taken care of during the coup. She was not in line to inherit the throne, so not a pressing problem, but she was a dynamic young woman with powerful connections in New York and around the world. She had the power to rouse resistance to him. She, too, would eventually need to be silenced.

  When the time was right.

  *

  Like a caged animal, Bella paced in front of the dark pool room windows. She’d changed into her clothes and she’d been through the gym, the showers, the sauna, the locker room—the entire place, rattling doors, looking for vents, trying to find a way out.

  Panic clawed through her.

  You’re never going to tell this story, Bella…

  What, exactly, did that mean?

  Sam tried to kill Nikki, and if he finds she’s alive, he will try again. And that, Bella, is why you’re not going anywhere, and you’re not going to break this story…

  That was exactly why she had to break this story.

  She needed to get to a phone, tell Hurley and the others that her alias was blown, that she was in danger. The world needed to hear this about Etherington. She had a duty to get it out there, tell what she knew.

  Anxiety mounted in her. It was still raining outside, still windy. Still dark.

  She didn’t have a watch on—no idea of the time.

  Ripples, soft, suddenly flowed over the interior surface of the pool as outside a sharp blast of wind hit the windows. She spun round as it dawned on her—the wind on the water outside was causing the ripples inside. She went to the edge of the pool where the water flowed under glass. The air coming beneath the glass was cool. She put her hands into the water. Her fingertips touched a metal security grid under the surface. She glanced up. This was an indoor-outdoor pool—there had to be a way of operating that grid, moving it aside so swimmers could move through from this end of the pool to the outside water.

  Bella lurched to her feet, whirled round, scanning the room. Then she saw it—a small metal cabinet set into the far wall. She hurried over, tried to yank the cabinet door open.

  Locked.

  Frustration bit into her. She ran into the gym, pulled one of the pins out of a stack of weights, and rushed back. Using the pin, Bella rammed and pried open the cabinet door.

  She flicked the switch.

  Slowly the grate moved aside. She had a way out of the pool room. But then what?

  Eight-foot-high spiked walls surrounded the estate. There were security cameras watching the gates. She’d never get out without tripping some alarm. She dragged her hands over her hair in frustration, her brain racing. She recalled suddenly the sedan she’d seen in the converted stables when she’d gone looking for Kiki who’d escaped from the kitchen garden. One of Tariq’s men had been polishing the sedan, another vacuuming the interior, doors open. Bella remembered there’d been a remote resting on the dash. And on the garage wall nearby there was a board with keys.

  Perhaps the keys for the car would be on that board.

  Or maybe, if she could access the remote, she could use it to open the main gates without triggering an alarm.

  Bella thought of Tariq’s men, their flat, dark eyes, their weapons. Her heart hammered and fear twisted through her as she glanced at the black water flowing through to the outdoors.

  It was almost freezing outside, more snow in the forecast. Even if she did get out of the main gates without alerting anyone, she’d have wet clothes, and she’d still need to get down the mountain to the village. Hypothermia would set in before that happened.

  Bella went back into the gym and found what she was looking for—a garbage bag inside an empty trash can. Quickly, she undressed and stuffed her clothes and boots into the bag. Pressing her knees into the bag to squash the air out and vacuum-pack her clothes as best she could, she tied double knots. If she was quick going under, her clothes would stay dry.

  She wrapped a towel around her body, ran out to the water.

  Bella shot a glance at the door. It was now or never. She dropped the towel, slid into the pool, dragging her garbage bag of clothes with her and thanked the Lord the water was heated. Taking a deep breath, Bella dived under, pulling the buoyant bag with her as she held her breath and swam beneath the windows.

  She broke the surface on the other side. Cold wind slammed her face. The sky was pitch black and low with clouds, rain driving down, the infinity pool giving the impression of nothing but a fall of water disappearing over cliffs to the smashing waves below. Bella swam to the closest edge, pulled herself out and ducked behind rocks out of sight from the windows. Fingers going numb, she tore open the trash bag. Her hair felt like ice against her cheeks.

  She wriggled into her clothes and pulled on her boots. Her next goal was to get to Madame’s house and her laptop, or to a phone—Tariq had taken her prepaid cell with her bag.

  Pushing wet hair back from her face, she ran round the side of the abbey, accessing the converted stable area from the back.

  It was dead silent, no one in sight.

  Bella moved in the shadows toward the sedan, peered in the windows. The remote was still there, on the dash. And hanging on the board she found a set of keys that matched the sedan model. Bella said a silent prayer of thanks before carefully, quietly, pushing open the massive wooden stable doors. One of the doors groaned, and she stilled, heart jackhammering, but the wind and rain were drowning out sound.

  Climbing into the driver’s seat, Bella tried to catch her breath and think straight. Once she opened those gates and drove through, they’d see her on camera. She’d have to drive fast once she was clear of those gates.

  Filling her lungs with a deep breath, she started the ignition. Then she put the car in gear, and slowly she drove through the stable doors, heading for the gates.

  The man in the security room watching the camera footage glanced up.

  The sedan was leaving the abbey grounds. He noted the time and returned his attention to his newspaper. It was not unusual for the car to leave at odd hours, with the staff running errands for the boss.

  *

  Tariq leaned back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his neck where damaged muscles were beginning to ache. It was almost 2:00 a.m. and the strain of reading was giving him a headache.

  His chef had long ago t
aken Bella’s burned roast from the oven, tossed it in the garbage, and staff had cleared away table settings for two. Tariq had kept two guards stationed outside the pool room door.

  Bella’s image sifted into his mind—her naked skin, pale against his, her eyes luminous as she’d straddled him, rocked against him. His pulse quickened as he thought of how he’d found her in the kitchen. She’d seemed so vital. There’d been something so basic and invigorating about the kitchen, too, the scents, the warmth, the steam—the center of hearth and home. And she’d been at the core of it all.

  He recalled the way her eyes had locked on to his when she’d seen him standing silent in the doorway.

  At that moment Tariq had wanted nothing more than Amelie. To take her in that kitchen, right in that cauldron of warmth and sustenance, to be someone he’d stopped being a long, long time ago.

  But then, just when he’d been lured to that tipping point between past, present and future, just when he was beginning to think that not only had he found himself again, but maybe he’d found something better…he’d found it was all a lie.

  Tariq breathed in deep, returned to reading online the stories Bella had written about him, about his family, his country, its politics. Her stories on Sam Etherington. The senator’s campaign promises.

  The more Tariq read, the more he saw the lines between Amelie and Bella blurring. He was beginning to see them as one, the same person.

  She did care about him, his family—it was evident in her prose. This was not a hack, not a sensationalist. She was a strong writer who questioned everything. And he doubted she earned a penny from the blog, yet she continued to put full effort into her posts.

  I’m not a muckraker…I gambled everything on this story because I am a damn good reporter!

  He sat back again, thinking of how intimately she must have come to know him through these features, and now, through reading her words, he was getting to know her on a deeper level in turn. This went far beyond lust—the sex they’d shared. This was a powerful emotional connectivity that Tariq could feel, and he was now even more convinced that Bella would come around when she learned what it would mean to his family, what price Nikki would have to pay to be dragged through the media again.

  Help me tell this story. We can work together…

  He clicked on the image of himself fleeing the wreckage with Julie in his arms, and he winced as it all started to loop afresh through his head. Clenching his jaw, Tariq read the photographer’s credit.

  Derek Jones.

  I was there, at the airport when it happened…with Derek.

  The creep who’d hurt her. Tariq believed what Bella had told him about Derek, about her habitually destructive relationships.

  Now that his adrenaline had ebbed, he believed that her emotions around her feelings of abandonment, her adoptive parents were genuine, too. He could understand her drive to prove herself.

  Glancing at his watch, he got to his feet. Omair would have left Sao Diogo via military jet almost as soon as he’d hung up. He’d be landing in Paris shortly. From Paris he could be on Ile-en-Mer in an hour via chopper, weather permitting.

  Tariq needed to get through to Bella before his brother and his F.D.S. colleagues arrived. He could not be responsible for Omair’s interrogation techniques. He could not let his brother near this woman who, despite everything, Tariq cared for deeply.

  He was going to heal, mend this rift, like the surgeon he was. No violence—not this time. That whole cycle had to end.

  Tariq pushed open his study door, moved through the library and made for the pool room. It was almost 3:00 a.m. When he got to the pool room door he asked his men to unlock it and step aside.

  He entered, but immediately sensed the place was empty. The lights were on inside the gym, everything was eerily quiet.

  “Bella?”

  His men entered behind him. “Search the area,” he commanded.

  But she was gone.

  One of the men pointed to the underwater security grid. It had been moved aside. A towel had been dropped at the side of the pool near the windows.

  Tariq spun around—the metal door of the control panel had been pried open, a weight pin lying on the floor below it. “Search the grounds!” he barked as he ran toward his security room. He bust through the door and the man monitoring the bank of screens jerked his head up in surprise.

  “Sir?” the man said, lurching to his feet.

  “Any breach of perimeter?” demanded Tariq. “She got out through the pool room—I need to know if she’s still on the estate.”

  “No, sir, no perimeter breach.”

  Tariq swiveled around to face the men who’d followed him. “Then she’s still here somewhere. Find her!”

  Someone flicked a switch on the control bank and the external perimeter lights blazed on, illuminating the abbey grounds in white light.

  The man monitoring the screens said suddenly, “Wait, what if it wasn’t a breach? I saw the sedan leave at—” he glanced at his log “—at 1:38 a.m.”

  “Sedan?” said Tariq.

  “I thought you’d ordered it, sir.”

  He turned to his men. “Let’s go!”

  *

  Meanwhile, a dark sedan drove off the private ferry ramp with a clunk on the southeast side of Ile-en-Mer. The estates on this side of the island were dark, deserted for the winter.

  Amal was at the wheel. Beside him one of his men fiddled with his GPS. The other two men sat in the back. The pilot Amal had contracted was flying a chopper over from the mainland at this very moment, and would be waiting for them to make a quick getaway when they were done—but for now they needed a vehicle to get around the island.

  “Turn right at the top of this road,” the man with the GPS said.

  Their first order of business was find the reporter—Bella DiCaprio. Kill her and her story before Aban lost control over the senator.

  Then they would deal with the prince.

  *

  Bella slammed on the brakes, put the car in Park. Leaving the door open and engine running, she raced up the pathway, sliding in slush. Using the key Estelle Dubois had left under a mat for her, she let herself into Madame’s house. Quieting the dogs she went to the safe, worked the lock, removed her flash drive.

  In her room, she opened her computer, booted it up. Hands shaking, terrified Tariq’s security men would arrive at any second, she hit the video-call icon for Hurley.

  Pick up, pick up, please.

  No response.

  She tried again, three times, perspiration beading her brow. Still no answer. She bit her lip. Bella quickly retrieved her ID documents, credit card and cash from under the floorboard, dragged her suitcase out from under the bed, began to throw clothes into it, mentally running through the steps to get off the island, into a cab and to Charles de Gaulle airport.

  All her clothes in the case, she tried Hurley again.

  Still no answer.

  But as she closed her suitcase her Skype beeped—incoming call.

  Bella swung around. It wasn’t Hurley. It was an unknown video caller. She hesitated, then bit the bullet, hit Accept.

  Scoob’s face filled the screen. The sight of his white, gaunt features, red-rimmed eyes, hair stringier than usual, stopped the breath in Bella’s throat as a horrible foreboding feeling sunk through her.

  “Scoob?”

  “They took him—Hurley. And Agnes. Broke in—”

  “Who? When!”

  “Yesterday. Bella, I can’t talk long. They’re looking for me now. I arrived seconds after it happened, blood everywhere, computer stuff wrecked. They took them in a van. It—It’s bad.”

  “Did you go to the police?”

  “I don’t trust anyone right now. Listen to me carefully. I managed to clean up the surveillance audio from last summer. I now have copies of Etherington clearly talking to Isaiah Gold about colluding with The Moor, and using a STRIKE operative—Faith Sinclair—to take out Omair Al Arif. Once Etherington
is elected he will militarily back a coup in Al Na’Jar. In exchange, The Moor’s promise is to have Sam’s ex, now the queen of Al Na’Jar, killed. He will also deliver oil and Middle East allies to Sam. If Sam does not do these things, The Moor’s threat is to reveal the existence of his ex-wife, along with evidence he tried to have her murdered. This guy is as sick as they come.”

  “You have this all on tape?”

  “Digital audio file on an external storage device. I put a copy in a safe-deposit box in the Union Bank on Cedar Avenue in Ladysmith, Virginia. Deposit box number is 643. Do not, I repeat, do not write this down. I managed to get the bank manager to hold the key for you and no one else. You’ll need ID. I’ve got another copy on me. I’m going to keep moving, heading west. Go get them, Bella—get the tape, break the story. The audio is the proof you need.”

  “What about Hurley, Agnes?” Her voice came out a hoarse whisper.

  “You can’t do anything about them right now. If they got to them, if they made them talk, they’re coming after you as we speak, so you better clear the hell out of there, and fast. And…” He closed his eyes, clearly beyond exhausted. “If something happens to me, you’re all that’s left of Watchdog. Promise me—just promise you’ll break this on the blog. For Hurley. For Agnes.”

  “I swear it.”

  The icon faded as Scoob logged out.

  With shaking hands Bella stuffed her laptop, passport and other documents into a bag and slung it across her chest. Threading her flash drive onto a piece of string, she tied it around her neck and slipped it under her sweater. She grabbed her suitcase and ran out to the idling car.

  There was no time for a note for Madame. She threw her suitcase into the back. Foot on the gas, Bella skidded out onto the road and headed for the steep road that switchbacked down to the old harbor. Windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the rain. The dawn was still black, fog thickening the closer she got to the sea.

  As she rounded a hairpin bend, Bella swung the wheel too hard and the car fishtailed across wet tarmac, sliding to where the edge of the road dropped off into mountain. She hit the brakes, screeching to a stop. She paused for a moment, heart thumping in her throat.