CHAPTER 16
The knobs of her spine slid down the wall as soon as she closed the door to her suite, a boneless crumple into a heap. Laura allowed herself the quivering in her stomach and a sniffle, replaying the conversation in her head. 'Rumor mill says the older boy is dead.'
Not Frank. A jumble of images of her firstborn played over again, the wide curious eyes the first time she held him, a tottering step clasping Fenton's fingers, clutching a backpack the first day of school, tapping a bat against his sneaker-clad toes at little league practice. Funny how the recollections of a much younger Frank came more easily. Maybe it was simply that none of those hinted she might lose him someday.
The rest of the overheard phone call had done nothing to reassure her. They didn't know where Fenton was? That could certainly go either way; was he hurt in the renewed fighting or he had he managed to slip away from the rebel soldiers? And they had meant to have Joe here to force information from her – just what had these men planned on doing to her son?
She sat up, pulling her knees tight under her chin and swiping the back of a finger at her eyelashes. They said rumor. Rumor wasn't fact, and she hadn't seen any proof. As for whatever they had been planning for Joe, she had enough problems to thwart without starting in on the 'what if' list. Two things seemed clear. She'd indulged as long in self pity as she could afford, and while Elias Dahl might be an unpleasant, manipulative jerk, mousey little Nicolas Shuman was the real threat.
Feeling marginally better, she stood and crossed the room to the porcelain tea service. A bit cooler than she liked after her foray into hallway eaves dropping, the tea was still a welcome attempt at steadying her nerves. The pounding on the door half an hour later sorely tested that.
"Mrs. Hardy, you looked rested. I thought you might like some more tea." Nicolas tugged at the hem of his sport coat, half tripping in the process of leaning against the opulently carved mahogany desk that dominated the formal room.
"No, no thank you." Laura inched to the edge of her striped damask chair, taut with the effort of small talk.
"Very well, but dinner's going to be rather late. There's an embassy reception this evening and Mr. Dahl would like for you to accompany him."
"A dinner reception? Isn't that a bit odd when you won't even allow me a phone call?"
Shuman smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in his shirt and folded his arms over his chest. "It might seem that way, I guess, but Mr. Dahl has only been trying to protect sensitive information. Now that the press is arriving to cover the coup, there isn't much need."
"That doesn't make any sense. Every other deportee from the island was allowed to go home, and I'm sure they've told everyone down to their third cousin what happened to them."
"We asked them not to do that."
"So they're on the honor system and I'm under house arrest? I'm not going to some reception until I get to call home." Laura waited, wondering how important her attendance at this function might be. The whole invitation really didn't make any sense. After his behavior the last several days, she couldn't imagine Elias was eager to put her in a room with reporters.
"Mrs. Hardy, I'd ask you to reconsider that." He poured himself a cup of the tea, promptly sloshing half of it onto his tie. "I don't want to have to tell Mr. Dahl you said no. I thought you'd like the fresh air."
"I would love some fresh air, which I can easily get as soon as you let me leave here."
He nervously loosened the soiled tie, then tightened it again. "Look, don't get me in trouble with my boss, ok? You have to eat dinner anyway, what difference does it make where? And maybe you will get a chance to talk to the press after all. The staff sent up a dress for you; it's on your bed."
Laura doubted there was much chance of talking to someone privately and she was beginning to doubt there was a reception at all. She'd give Mr. Shuman some credit, though. He had this timid assistant act down pat. "My husband and sons are in a terrible situation; so forgive me if I'm not in the mood for a party, especially when you say Frank may be dead."
She realized what she'd done as soon as the words slipped through her lips, but it made little difference by then.
"What gives you the idea your son is dead? What did you hear!?" He stalked across the room, yanking her to her feet by her elbow. The nervous flunky persona vanished. "Well?"
"N-nothing. It's just that I'm his mother, that's all. I'm w-worried about him." She flinched a bit as his fingers dug in, his breath hot against her neck.
He hesitated several seconds, then loosened his grip, appraising the blonde before him. "Well, Laura, seems this game is over. Mr. Dahl is going to be disappointed when you miss that dinner reception, but tell you what? Go ahead and get ready for it anyway, we'll blend in with the lobby crowd better. I'll be back in an hour, be in your dress."
"And if I'm not?" Laura put every effort into sounding angry rather than petrified.
"Oh, let's not go down that path. I think we can both agree it will be awkward if I have to put you in it."
Laura collapsed back into the cranberry and cream upholstery the instant the door closed, the quivering undeniably back. Eventually she stood and retreated to the bedroom, opening the ivory box to stare at the floor length gown within.
She certainly had no intention of going anywhere with Nicolas Shuman, not after the phone conversation she'd heard, but maybe if she put on the dress she'd have an excuse to leave this hallway. From there, she'd have to find some way to give him the slip, although how to accomplish that was a bit fuzzy.
Laura had finished changing into the gown, a full skirted, strapless affair of periwinkle silk, and twisting her hair into sleek knot when another idea popped in her mind. It might even work.
Placing the sapphire choker around her neck and sliding on silver sandals, she went back through the living room, opening the door to the corridor. The deep red carpeting again cushioned her footfalls, but no one lurked in the alcove making calls this time around. The cream jacquard wall covering above the wainscoting reflected light from a trio of cut crystal chandeliers and a thin foyer table held an arrangement of tropical flowers in reds and whites. None of that held much interest for her. Turning the corner of the hallway, she found what she wanted.
"Corporal, good evening." She smiled at the young man, hoping she appeared more comfortable than she felt.
"Evening, ma'am."
"Are you going to the reception tonight?" So far he was expressionless, but she didn't think he'd let her simply walk past into the stairwell.
"No, ma'am."
"That's a shame. Not going to be too interesting guarding an empty hallway, is it?" She waited, but wasn't surprised when he didn't say anything. "You really aren't supposed to be talking to me, are you?"
"No, ma'am." She thought she saw the first hint of his earlier smile.
"I'm sorry. I'm just tired of being here and worried about my boys. They're almost your age. So, how's embassy duty work? Are you considered an embassy employee, or still primarily attached to the army?"
He shrugged ever so slightly, apparently deciding the conversation was harmless. Either that or deciding no one was here to catch him. "To the army, ma'am. I'll be here a year and then return to Ft. Bragg."
"Ft. Bragg, that's the 82nd Airborne, right?"
He seemed surprised she knew. "Yes, ma'am."
"I'd wondered if political postings were separate from all that somehow. What about the embassy itself? I've heard they're actually considered part of the represented country rather than wherever they're physically located. That would make this part of the United States rather than Indonesia, then?"
"The legality's a bit more complicated than that, but essentially yes, ma'am."
"There's no US police presence here, though. US laws apply here on the embassy grounds, don't they?"
"Ma'am?" The direct question caught him off guard. "American law would apply here, but I can't say that it's come up often."
"And if it did? You know I don't want to stay here."
He looked completely uncomfortable. "Yes, ma'am, I do know. I don't see how I can help you with that."
"I'm not trying to put you in the middle, corporal, but if the army is the law enforcement presence here, can't you turn my case over to your commanding officer or something? Someone that would have the authority to challenge Mr. Dahl or Mr. Shuman?"
He seemed to think about it. "I'll speak to him, but other than for actual crimes, I think Mr. Dahl is still going to have priority."
Laura saw an opening there. "Actual crimes? You can arrest criminals?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Then you can arrest Shuman in about fifteen minutes. I do not intend to go to this dinner except under duress."
"Uh, I don't think that's such a good idea, ma'am. Intelligence and security have pretty wide guidelines in what they can do. Besides, they'd send someone else to escort you to the reception."
Laura didn't have the time to convince him that someone else, heck, anyone else, would be an improvement. It was Shuman that was in league with someone on Ranei.
"I could arrest you, though, ma'am."
"What? I haven't done anything!" Laura glared at him.
"No ma'am, not yet."
Then it dawned on her. He was offering his help the only way he could. "And if you did, would I be staying here?"
"No ma'am. We have a small detention facility in the auxiliary embassy building. You'd need to call your attorney from there."
"I see." Laura considered for a moment, and then snatched the slim brass lamp from the table beside the stairs. "And if I steal this lamp?"
"That's a problem, ma'am. You'd have to leave the building with it to steal it, and I have firm instructions not to let you pass."
"You have a point." She replaced the lamp and then very deliberately stepped closer to the young man. Through the whole conversation, he hadn't moved an inch, back ramrod straight, eyes front. Taking a deep breath, she smacked him. "That work?"
His gaze finally flicked to her face, a faint smile beneath the handprint. "Yes ma'am, yes it does. If you'll come with me..."
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Fenton scanned the road from his vantage behind a burned out truck. Nothing moved, the last jeep he'd seen pass through was a good thirty minutes ago now, but there was no telling when they'd be back. He'd gone about a block from the building where they'd held him at a stumbling run, but the only clear space to move that fast was a very vulnerable middle of the street. Since then he'd been creeping from one bit of cover to the next, edging toward the prior capitol building. If any vestige of the free government existed, it seemed likely it was there. The gilded dome rose above the surrounding destruction, too far away yet to tell if it was damaged.
Another block to the west and he heard the renewed sounds of fighting. Although there was more distant gunfire, most of noise reaching him suggested a riot in the street. He certainly couldn't blame the populace for that, but it was going to make it very hard to tell who was on what side. Assuming there were only two sides at this point.
Fenton skirted the edge of the crowd, twice hitting at someone with the butt of his gun simply to keep from being trampled. Further to the left, soldiers were in the throng, firing somewhat indiscriminately. A pair of tanks herded the citizens away, little caring if a few were crushed in the process. He cringed at the number of children in the fleeing horde, armed with stones against the Bradleys. Reliable electricity Ranei couldn't provide, but tanks it had. Naturally.
As he neared the capitol complex, his hopes plummeted. Little remained of the seven hundred year old structure. He crouched behind the remnants of an interior wall, the injured leg aching too much to go any further at the present. The white marble floor he sat on was relatively intact, but the curved wall ended in open sky. Drifting smoke added a choking haze.
The main portion of the crowd flowed further away and Fenton felt himself relax a smidge, still unnaturally tired and dizzy from whatever he'd been given yesterday. A minute's rest couldn't hurt.
A shot clipping a chunk of marble loose over his head snapped him back to alertness. The smoky sky was now darkened with heavy clouds as well, the rumble of thunder joining the cacophony of warfare. He rolled left, scrambling under a slight over hang even as he drew his gun from the waistband of his shorts. A hasty observation convinced him he wasn't the intended target. Two groups of soldiers clashed in the partially collapsed hallways, the larger contingent in the pale khaki uniforms of the government guard.
Neither bunch faired very well, their numbers reduced by about half before the smaller rebel contingent began to give ground. The government troop took the opportunity to split up, five soldiers leaving the main faction to circle behind, unwittingly placing Fenton in their cross fire. He had wanted to seek out government personnel, but this wasn't precisely what he had in mind. Thirty feet away a granite slab had fallen, the angled surface now forming a perfect tent with the floor. He pulled back on his toes, stretching the cramped calf and hoping it would make the dash before any of the soldiers approached closely enough to spot him. Once the bullets stopped flying, then he could decide about making his whereabouts known. Sort of depended on who won.
That plan almost succeeded. He darted from against the wall, half standing to pitch forward in a drunken run across rain slicked tiles, then diving into a home plate slide he hadn't tried in years. His shoulders cleared the entrance to his improvised haven as his calf seared in pain.
It's just the stitches…I popped the stitches… it's just the stitches… Fenton knew that wasn't the case, but tentatively traced a finger down his leg, cringing at the slick wet streak that met his hand. It's not the stitches…
"Saya mendengar seseorang cara ini!"
Fenton grasped the glock more tightly, leveling it as a soldier approached his hiding place. The rain worked at erasing the red trail staining the floor, but the yelp he'd failed to stifle had given him away. The more important question was to whom. Generic black boots came into view first, not resolving the issue.
"Ada siapa?"
The figure knelt, stopping abruptly at the sight of the gun. He repeated the question, his own firearm grasped in both hands, the barrels inches apart.
"Anda adalah siapa?" When he didn't get an answer, he tried again. "English?"
Fenton wasn't entirely sure if he meant language or nationality, and was less sure that it mattered. The uniform's distinctive khaki with the deep green shoulder patch of the government troops was far more relevant. His casual spotting of a few soldiers on their capitol tour had proven more than a happy coincidence; otherwise he might not have been able to discern the man's loyalties. "Yes. American."
The man nodded. "You shouldn't be here."
"Kinda guessed that already. I'm willing to be somewhere else." Fenton grunted the words out, his gun hand wavering as he lowered the weapon, other hand clamped tightly around the pumping hole in his leg.
The soldier bit his lip, uncertain what to do with the foreigner. The bleeding man before him certainly didn't look like a supporter of the insular rebel faction, and he couldn't very well leave him here. "Give me your gun."
Fenton would have asked for the same under the circumstances, and he was going to have assistance to get out of this. The squatting soldier reached for the weapon, his head ducking slightly below the rock slab. He had no chance of seeing the militia member emerging from the rubble behind them.
Fenton did though. The automatic weapon turning their direction peeled away years for the detective, landing him squarely in another overheated war zone, with a different gun in his hand. He wished he could claim to have made a decision to trust the young man before him and eliminate the threat to them both. In truth there was nothing so organized or noble about it. The young militia soldier dropped before he ever had the opportunity to fire, Fenton's reflex driven shot threading between the sloped stone over him and his companion's shoulder.
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to be continued...