Chapter 7
The U.S. embassy in Berzhaan seemed strangely like home. Its exquisite Sekha carpets crafted from native silkworm, old-world light fixtures, rich inlaid woodwork…wonderfully familiar. Even the smell of the place— strong coffee mixed with wood polish and a slightly dry smell of age, reminiscent of old attics everywhere—spoke to her. Selena took a moment to breath deeply of it, ignoring Dobry’s impatient hovering and the emerging soreness from her hard ride down the mountain. Then she turned to the marine on guard desk duty and said, “We’re here to see Dante Allori.”
The young man returned her an inscrutable look, as if the statement wasn’t the least bit outrageous. “Do you have an appointment?” He knew perfectly well that she didn’t.
“Call Bonita,” Selena suggested. “See if she wants Selena to come up for a quick visit.”
Doubt sneaked out. “Selena Jones?” Maybe a little respect, too.
“Selena Shaw Jones.” She pointed at the desk phone and smiled, a little too sweetly. “Give it a try. Or don’t, and see what happens when she learns I was here.”
That got through to him—as did the fact that she knew Bonita, the ambassador’s personal assistant, well enough to say it. He reached for the phone, eyeing her as it rang through, and spoke a few quick words.
Selena smiled as he stiffened and held the phone away from his ear slightly. When he hung up, she offered, “Bonita has a way with words, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the young marine said, putting some starch back in his shoulders as he nodded at the sleek, latest and greatest metal detector arch.
“New toys,” Selena observed. She pulled out her weapons, which had conveniently bypassed customs security checks as they slipped in through the States-occupied airfield west of Suwan—an airfield that provided operations support for the limited U.S. presence in Berzhaan and through which she and Dobry had entered the general population to reach the CIA station, emerging complete with a convincing set of papers. First her sturdy Beretta Cougar, meant for strong hands and long fingers. A variety of knives—the short tanto blade she’d had at the Farm, a lock blade Buck and a tiny stiletto she’d adopted after her previous Berzhaani adventures with the ice pick. She had a length of braided monofilament in her pocket, but left it there; the detector would ignore it.
Still, the young marine muttered something about “worse than a Klingon” as he secured her batch of goodies away in their own little lockbox. Even Dobry looked at her askance as he handed over his Smith & Wesson snub nose. “The point,” he said, “is to avoid conflict by avoiding detection. Or weren’t you paying attention to the classes we taught?” He certainly had. His new identification had included pictures in which he looked subtly but significantly different, and by the time they’d left the local CIA station, his appearance matched those photos—darker brows, colored contacts, a mole, a pair of distracting, trendy glasses with thick frames, and padding around his torso that turned his fit, burly frame into an entirely different shape. Five minutes to apply, two minutes to rip away.
But Selena had grown used to his barbs; over time she’d decided it was the only way he knew how to be. The marine had not, and bristled as he took the little revolver. Ah, youth. Selena felt old at twenty-seven, but she only smiled at Dobry. “Been there, done that,” she said, waiting for him on the other side of the detector. “A good backup plan or two never hurt anyone.”
The marine said, “I only wish I’d been here when you took down those terrorists last winter.”
“No,” Selena said gently, “you don’t.”
“Ma’am,” he said by way of apology, and made Dobry go through the detector three times.
“Selena! You look so much better without the blood. I’ve never considered it a suitable accessory.” Bonita actually rose from her chair, leaving her powerful domain—the phone lines, the scheduling tools, the customsized petite chair—to greet Selena. Her lips were stained their usual power-red, and today her nails matched. Such touches seemed out of place on a mature, gray-haired woman, and Selena knew darned well Bonita did it on purpose just to see who’d fail to take her seriously.
“Blood?” Dobry said, and eyed Selena as she drew back from the hug Bonita gave her. “From the hostage situation. Of course.” He already seemed tired of hearing about it. Poor Dobry. He didn’t look like the kind of man who took well to having his assumptions challenged, and his assumptions that Selena had arrived at the CIA overbilled, under-experienced and fading fast were taking a good hard hit.
“Goodness, no.” Bonita turned to him as if only then noticing him. “From the incident in Oguzka that morning.” She beamed at Selena. “I was so proud to hear you shot that one terrorist in the ass, my dear. Entirely appropriate. You didn’t mention on the phone that you’d brought a friend.”
Selena bit back a grin. Bonita in full keep ’em off balance mode. “This is Steven Dobry. We’re working together on this one.”
“This one what?” Bonita returned to her chair to survey Dobry over her neat desk. But Selena only waggled her eyebrows, and Bonita laughed. “Can’t blame me for trying,” she said. “The ambassador is waiting for you. Lucky you—you were the perfect excuse to delay a meeting he’s been grumbling about for days.”
“He’s doing well, then?” For Dante Allori had been shot during the hostage incident, and although it had seemed a minor wound at the time, a man of his age and physical condition didn’t always come back from the simple things.
“I’ve said as much in my e-mails, so I don’t see how repeating myself will do any good. You’ll just have to go see for your own eyes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Selena said, and led Dobry to Allori’s office, knocking gently even as she opened the door.
“Selena!” Allori rose from his desk—bigger than Bonita’s, and nowhere near as neat—and smiled hugely at her. “What, no blood today?”
Dobry muttered, “Good God.”
“He means the hostage thing, not the village thing,” Selena assured him. “Dante, you look well!” In fact, the man had lost a significant amount of weight, and although his face held more lines and his hair more gray, he exuded a new vigor where before he’d only exuded dignity.
“Let’s just say I recently had a life-changing experience,” he told her. “New priorities. New tailor, too.” He patted his sleek suit lapels and leaned forward to take her hand, drawing her around the desk into a fatherly hug. “You, too, look well. A little thin, perhaps. A little ragged around the edges. Could be we took different lessons from those days?”
“Could be I’m still learning mine,” Selena said, all too aware of Dobry’s presence. “Dante Allori, this is Steven Dobry. We’re working together. I wanted to drop by and let you know I was here…and that I’ve got my ears open.”
“What can you tell me?”
“Just that we’re missing some people.”
Allori sat in his massive leather chair and tipped it back to regard her, then Dobry. “Mr. Dobry,” he said, and nodded an acknowledgment of Dobry’s presence. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the interesting little incident
