Chapter Seven
Elizabeth
A pot of coffee sat on the side in the break room, too cold to infuse the air with anything other than the ghost of its aroma, whilst pastries dotted the table—the choicest picks already plucked from the cardboard trays. The hostage taker, the one who had met Elizabeth in the lobby, scoured the room. He yanked open each drawer in turn and rifled through, a clatter of cutlery. One by one, he tossed the knives into the bin—though who would bring a butter knife to a gunfight?—and then hauled the bin over to the doorway and stood guard whilst Elizabeth and Blake ventured inside.
Elizabeth motioned to the pastries. "Gather those together, will you?"
"Of course, ma'am," Blake said. "Is there anything else I can do?"
Elizabeth tipped the cold coffee down the sink, placed the pot back in the machine and then frowned at the array of buttons. "Why do they have to make these things so complicated?"
"Elizabeth," Henry's voice spoke in her ear, "we have their names. The one with you is Oliver King, born Omar Khan. His brother is Harry King, born Hamza Khan. And the one operating the laptop is their cousin, Alex Good, born Akeem Hussain."
Elizabeth frowned. She played the names over and over. Omar Khan, Hamza Khan, Akeem Hussain; Omar Khan, Hamza Khan, Akeem Hussain…With each repetition, a thread in her mind thickened, until there was enough that she could grasp. She pulled, and her mind lurched back to 2000. Ahmed Khan. Her stomach dropped. It couldn't be.
She glanced over her shoulder to where Omar hovered, staring along the corridor, his fingers twitching against the gun. And oh God, it was. She bit back the curse that leapt to her tongue, and palms sweating, she turned back to the coffee machine. "Blake," she said, and she smoothed the wrinkle from her voice.
"Here, let me." Blake stepped up beside her and pressed one of the buttons on top of the machine before offering her the glimpse of a smile. "There."
The coffee machine whirred into life, and the noise filled the room. Elizabeth tilted her chin towards her collar and whispered, "Ahmed Khan." She closed her eyes. Please let Conrad hear. Please.
Henry
"Ahmed Khan." Elizabeth's voice shivered through the microphone, and given the way that Conrad froze, perhaps Henry wasn't the only one struck by the undercurrent of fear.
"Ephraim," Conrad said, "pull up the files on Ahmed Khan."
"Certainly, sir." Ephraim stooped over his laptop as he tapped at the keys, and the glare of the screen reflected blue and white in his glasses.
Conrad leant forward over the desk and pressed the button at the base of the microphone. "I hear you, Bess. Keep them talking, find out what it is that they want." He paused and then added, "We're going to get you out of there, you hear me?"
Elizabeth's breath shook. Then she said, "Is it clean or does it need to be sanitised?"
In the footage from her camera, Blake peered down at the coffee mug in hand, his brow furrowed. But a chill prickled through the Situation Room, and all those versed in the language of the IC stopped and turned to Conrad. Clean or sanitised? Clean or sanitised?
Time slowed. Henry's heart pounded, and the thud, thud, thud beat out that endless pause.
Conrad surveyed his colleagues. "Does anyone here have any reason to believe that these men may have accessed classified documents?"
The silence stretched, like a piece of thread drawn out and out and out. Until—"Well?" Russell snapped. "The president asked a question."
"The code they're currently using is limited to the State Department system," Oliver said. His gaze shifted around the room, as if unsure who to address, or maybe in search of support. "Without having installed backdoors elsewhere, I can't see how they would have accessed any files."
"And there haven't been any recent threats or breaches," Ephraim said. "Certainly not within the time frame we're looking at."
"And what about Khan's file itself?" Conrad said. "Does it list any agents or sources?"
Ephraim scrolled down the laptop screen. His brow furrowed as his eyes flitted back and forth over the text. "We have an operation codename…QuickStitch…but no…no agents or sources."
A rush of relief swept through the room.
"Thank God for that," Conrad said, and then he spoke into the microphone again. "Bess, the file's clean."
"Thank you." Elizabeth made a show of taking the mug from Blake.
"This is the report in question." Ephraim pointed up at the sidewall screen. The mugshot of a man in his late forties had appeared, along with a dense ream of text. "Ahmed Khan. Father of Omar and Hamza Khan. He was Saudi born but was working in the US as an IT consultant." Ephraim scrolled further down the screen. "He was a person of interest in the late '90s and was arrested in 2000 after operation QuickStitch uncovered that he was stealing sensitive information and leaking it to terrorist organisations in the Middle East."
"How was he accessing the information?" Ellen Hill asked.
"Hacking—" Ephraim gave a wry smile. "—using backdoors hidden in routine software."
Russell gave a bitter chuckle and shook his head to himself. "Like father, like sons."
Ephraim continued. "He was charged for providing material support to terrorists and for illegally obtaining and distributing classified information, and he received a life sentence. However, after an altercation in prison led to the death of a warden—" The police report of the incident opened on screen. "—he received a death sentence and is now waiting on death row."
"So—" Russell stood up from his chair. "—we have a known murderer and terrorist sympathiser—" He motioned to the picture of Ahmed Khan. "—and two sons and a nephew—" He pointed at the screen opposite, where the images of the hostage takers were now pinned. "—who want to see him freed." His hands found his hips. "Not to mention the three State Department employees and the Secretary of State who stand to get shot if we refuse." He hung his head, but then glanced across to Henry. "You don't happen to know where your wife stockpiles her crazy-but-might-just-work schemes, do you?"
Henry shook his head. "She doesn't even trust me with the grocery list."
A low chuckle spread through the room, a moment of buoyancy, but it did nothing to relieve the weight that burdened Henry's chest.
Elizabeth
Hamza had dragged an armchair into the office doorway and sat facing the corridor. His gaze darted towards the main hall every few seconds, as if half-expecting a SWAT team to materialise. When Blake, Elizabeth and Omar approached, he eased up from the chair and hauled it aside. He followed the group as they entered the room, but stopped just inside the doorway, gun clutched in front of him, lowered to the floor.
Blake carried the tray over to the table. He perched next to Jay on the sofa and poured the coffee. The steam spiralled up from the cups and the aroma diffused into the room. Matt had ventured towards the desk where Akeem still monitored the laptop, but as the group entered, he glanced around, caught Elizabeth's eye and said, "I didn't know you were into birds, ma'am."
Elizabeth frowned. "What?" She motioned for Omar to take a seat in one of the armchairs. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastry?…Water?"
Omar shook his head, but lowered himself into the seat. His gaze clung to Elizabeth, like a wrestler sizing up his opponent, searching for any weakness to exploit, any attacks to beware.
"This," Matt said, and he held up the bird figurine that usually balanced atop the trinket box on Elizabeth's desk. The silver glinted in the office lights, and even Akeem and Omar looked up to see what Matt was talking about.
"Oh, that?" Elizabeth took the cup of coffee that Blake proffered her. "Dalton gave it to me—" She sat down in the chair next to Omar and then sent Matt a pointed look. "—and it's not really a priority right now." She tilted her head towards the couch. "Go sit down."
Matt pursed his lips—stung—but he placed the bird back on the desk and retreated to the sofa. As he went, he murmured, "Looks like a snipe."
Blake crunched into a croissant and then spoke through his mouthful. "I think you'll find it's a sandpiper."
The cup slipped in Elizabeth's hand, but she steadied it before the coffee could slosh over the side.
Matt shrugged. "Same difference." He reached over Blake and grabbed a pain au chocolat from the tray, then tore off the end and folded it into his mouth.
Jay massaged his brow. "Are you kidding me? We're in a room with three armed-men and the two of you are seriously bickering about birds?"
Elizabeth turned back to Omar. She forced a smile. "I bet you're wishing you picked a different department now."
But he met her with as much warmth as the arctic tundra.
She sipped on her coffee and then clinked the cup down against the saucer in her lap. "So, what can I do for you? How can we resolve this situation?"
"Aren't you meant to start with small talk?" He sneered. "Win me over with chat about the weather or sports?"
Elizabeth shrugged. "We can if you like, but you're clearly an intelligent man. I thought you might prefer me to respect that intelligence and get straight to the point."
The corners of his mouth curled upwards. "You're not what I was expecting, Madam Secretary."
She raised the cup to her lips and peered at him over the rim. "No?"
"But whatever game you're playing, it won't work."
"Game? What game?"
He leant forward in his seat, his presence looming over her like the shelf cloud that precedes the storm. "You think you can use your words and trick us into backing down."
"I'm not here to trick anyone." She shook her head, and the ends of her hair flicked around her shoulders. "I came here to negotiate in good faith. So why don't you tell me what it is that you want?"
Omar's eyes glinted. He paused, mouth open. Then—"There's a man on death row. Ahmed Khan."
Elizabeth's pulse quickened. She crossed one leg over the other and then leant back in her chair, the jut of her stiletto heel pointed towards Omar as she studied his expression. "And in return for our safe release, you want him freed?"
Omar's lips warped into a smile so twisted that made a wave of nausea ripple out from the pit of her stomach. "No." The word tolled through the room.
No? She held his gaze. "Then what would you like?"
"You're not going to free him. You're going to execute him."
Silence.
Elizabeth paused. Her brow pinched. What the…?
Before she could reply, Matt said, "Well, he's on death row, so isn't that kinda the idea?"
Elizabeth shot Matt a look over her shoulder. His smile wavered, and then he pressed his lips into a line and sank back against the cushions of the couch. She turned back to Omar. "If Ahmed Khan is already scheduled to be executed—"
Omar held up one hand. "Perhaps I should clarify. You're going to execute him within the next twenty-four hours, and it'll be broadcast for the world to see."
Elizabeth took a sip of coffee. She placed the cup and saucer down on her desk, swallowed and then shook her head. "That's not going to happen."
Omar shifted closer, bringing himself right to the edge of his seat. He jabbed a finger at her chest. "You're going to make it happen, unless you want us to start shooting. One hostage every two hours until you meet our demand." And there was that smile again, as dark and viscous as molasses. "But don't worry, we'll save you until last."
He reached out to cup her face, and the tide of nausea burned through her throat. Being a woman had always given her a certain power over men, but now—
"Don't touch her," Akeem said in Arabic, and Omar froze. He turned to his cousin who stared at him from behind the laptop. Akeem's throat bobbed, and his olive eyes were bloodshot, making the green all the more vivid in contrast. "Don't touch her," he said it again.
Omar sat perfectly still, gaze unflinching as he eyed his cousin. "Just watch the screen." He returned to Elizabeth and leant in so close that his breath streamed hot against her cheek.
She gritted her teeth. Stay calm, just breathe.
His voice unwound in her ear, serpentine curves that shuddered down her spine. "I think you were bluffing when you said your government would risk your life. I think that they'll do anything to keep you safe. That's why I invited you here, Madam Secretary." His lips quirked, and his gaze slithered over her. "You know what we want. Now, you have twenty-four hours." He grabbed the phone from the desk and dragged it towards Elizabeth. Then in Arabic: "Tell your government that."
He stood up so sharply that the chair scraped across the floor, and then he strode out of the office. He and his brother pulled up the two armchairs and sat outside, guns in their laps, blocking the door.
Elizabeth snatched up her coffee cup and took a large swig. She grimaced as she forced the gulp down. If only she had something a bit stronger.
Henry
"You're not going to free him. You're going to execute him," Omar said.
Russell choked on his coffee. "Sorry, what?" He pointed up at the footage as he pivoted his seat towards Conrad and Henry. "Did he just say he wants his own father to be killed?"
Conrad arched his eyebrows. "So much for the family reunion."
"Perhaps I should clarify. You're going to execute him within the next twenty-four hours, and it'll be broadcast for the world to see."
"That's not going to happen."
"Damn right it's not going to happen," Russell said. "Why can't they just be patient, or watch boxsets like everybody else?"
"You're going to make it happen, unless you want us to start shooting. One hostage every two hours until you meet our demand. But don't worry, we'll save you until last."
Omar reached out to touch Elizabeth, and that sickening snarl spread across his face. Henry clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms. Elizabeth. His wife. Ellen Hill was right. They should never have sent a woman into a situation like that, no matter how competent she was. It was dangerous…reckless. They didn't know who these men were, what they were capable of.
Henry surged up from his seat, and pacing towards the back of the room, he ran one hand over his head and then gripped hold of his neck. "She's not safe." He spun round to face Conrad. "We need to get her out."
Everyone in the room stared at him, their gazes drenching him in pity. Conrad stood up. With his hands rested against the desk, he addressed the room. "Find out why they're in such a rush to see Khan executed. Something must've prompted them to act now. Whatever or whoever it is, I want to know." Then he turned to Henry and guided him out through the door.
The corridor outside was cool after the fug of the Situation Room, and through the windows, the afternoon light was fading, the sky painted with the soft apricot glow. Henry strode along the hall towards the brown leather couch. He sank down onto it, head in hands. He should have said no. Why didn't he just tell her no? I couldn't live with myself if I did nothing now and they died. You have to understand that, after everything that happened with Dmitri…
The cushion dipped as Conrad joined him. The silence spun out between them, like thread frittered from a reel. Only the faint trills of telephones and muffled strings of chatter broke through, a jarring reminder that elsewhere it was just another day.
Henry leant back in his seat and rubbed at his jaw. "I'm her husband. It's my job to support her, to keep her safe, but how am I meant to keep her safe when supporting her means letting her go into situations like that?" He waved one hand towards the Situation Room.
Conrad let out a deep sigh. "This job's never easy; not for the one who goes in, and especially not for the ones they leave behind." His lips tugged into an attempt at a smile, though it remained empty, like the promise of a dawn that never comes. "But Bess has been in tight spots before; she knows how to cope."
Tight spots: the ones he didn't know about. If I join the CIA, I'll have to keep secrets from you; there'll be things that I can't talk about. / So long as you're honest in the ways that matter, that's all that counts. And how many agents had he sent into the field, all perfectly capable, yet for whatever reason didn't return? Knowing how to cope didn't guarantee you would survive.
"Did Elizabeth ever tell you that I was the reason she left the CIA?" Henry watched Conrad, his gaze raking over his expression. "That it was my need to protect our family—our marriage—that led her to quit?"
Conrad returned his gaze. Something in his eyes changed, like the flicker of a candle going out. His shoulders sagged, and his lips tightened. Then he gave the slightest shake of the head. "She never said anything, no."
Henry hunched forward. He propped his elbows atop his knees, his hands folded and rested against his lips. No. Of course she didn't. Why speak of it at all when silence holds a language of its own? "We never really talked about it afterwards; she didn't want to, and I thought that if I pushed her, I'd just make the situation worse. But I know that she resented me for it…" And maybe a trace of that resentment still lingered, a drop of blood in the milk. After all, he had joined the IC and all but demanded her support; he had entered into these forays of espionage, the very thing that he had denied her and that she had loved. "I hated myself too for ever putting her in that position, and I swore that I'd never do that to her again."
"We all have our regrets when it comes to protecting the ones we love," Conrad said. "Sometimes the best intentions cause the worst pain."
"I promised myself that the next time it would be different—that I would support her." Henry twisted round to look at Conrad. "So when you asked her to be Secretary of State, I said yes. And even though she keeps taking these risks, putting herself in danger, I still say yes. Because I don't want to be the one to hold her back, I don't want her to resent me like that again. But at what point should I say no? At what point do I say that she's crossing the line?"
The questions diffused through the corridor. Sentences slackened, words separated, letters split until they spilled out into the dying light.
Henry scratched the back of his head and then let his hand fall to his lap. "You know, her brother's the same. The pair of them…they just can't let things go. They get something in their heads—some plan, some desire to save the world—and it's like they become blind to everything else, to all the risks that they're taking to achieve it."
You have an addiction, she'd told Will. But was she any better? Or was she still chasing that buzz she got from running covert ops?
"But maybe if I'd just supported her back then, let her go to Baghdad, then she would've reached the point that she was ready to quit for herself. Maybe she would've had enough, and maybe she wouldn't still be putting herself at risk now…" They could be living on the horse farm, having picnics in the quad at UVA, spending weekends with the kids. His breath escaped in a torrent, and his shoulders slumped. "Or maybe she'd just be another star on the wall."
History is composed of turning points. And so is life. Baghdad. How much pivoted on that?
Henry massaged his forehead. "She said that she couldn't live with herself if something happened to her staff, but how am I meant to live with myself if something happens to her?"
Conrad's brow furrowed, a shadow over his eyes. "Henry, we all want to keep her safe. I promise you that sending her in is not a decision that I took lightly, and if I had any doubt about her ability, I would have refused—" His gaze lowered, and he shook his head to himself. "—even if it meant that she hated me for it."
And perhaps, in his own way, Conrad cared for Elizabeth as much as he did. That that fear of resentment governed his actions, that it stopped him from telling Elizabeth 'no'. But it wasn't the same; Conrad hadn't built his life around this woman. So what if she hated Conrad? She could hate him—Henry—too, and he would bear it, so long as it meant that she was alive and safe.
"Regardless of the 'what ifs', she's inside now," Conrad said, and as he stared Henry in the eye, something in his expression hardened, like the moment water droplets crystallise on an aircraft canopy. "She's doing her job, and she's depending on us to do ours." He nodded towards the Situation Room door. "We need your input in there, Henry, and Bess needs to hear your voice on the end of that line. You want to keep her safe? Then that's what we need to do."
His gaze lingered on Henry a moment, and then he stood up, took one step away and then stopped. He spoke over his shoulder. "Omar didn't touch her. His cousin told him not to." His lips pulled into a taut, somewhat grim smile. "Bess can work with that."
