tingle of fear climbed its way up Jack’s back and he clenched his muscles to ward it off. “Who are they, Yasir? What am I? What am I doing here? Where’s here?”
The kid held up his callused hands. “Okey-dokey, Mr. Jack. We go to your place. I bring you food.”
Jack tensed. Could this be a trap? Did he really have a home in this teeming village of goat herders and traders and farmers?
He looked into the boy’s earnest brown eyes. Did he have a choice right now?
“Okey-dokey, Yasir. I’ll follow you.”
Keeping his head bowed, Jack trailed after Yasir, weaving his way through the press of people. Except for a few nods directed at Yasir, nobody halted their progress through the streets of the village. Nobody attacked him.
Glancing both ways, Yasir darted into an alley and Jack slipped in behind him. A few doorways into the pungent, narrow space, Yasir ducked into a small room, pulling Jack in behind him.
Jack blinked, adjusting his eyes to the gloom. An old man dozed in a chair, and Yasir tiptoed past him. He flicked aside a coarse blanket hanging from the ceiling and waved Jack through with one hand.
Licking his dry lips, Jack sidled through the opening and crept into a room even smaller than the adjoining one. His gaze flicked across the cot in the corner, a low table with a guttered candle on top of it and a few makeshift shelves holding books—lots of books.
A flicker of recognition flitted across his brain, and he dropped to his knees on the dirt floor to squint at the titles. Yasir nudged him in the back, and Jack spun around with his hands clenched.
“Jumpy, Mr. Jack.” With two steps, Yasir crossed the small space and kicked a black duffel bag at the foot of the cot. “This is yours. You take everywhere.”
Crawling to the cot, Jack snagged the strap of the duffel bag and dragged it between his legs as he perched on the edge of the crude bed. He yanked at the zipper and the sides of the bag gaped open.
Yasir scraped a match against the earthen wall of the room. Jack’s nostrils twitched at the smell of sulfur. Yasir lit the candle on the table and a soft yellow glow illuminated the small, dank space.
Grabbing the edges of the bag, Jack peeled it open. His brows shot up as his fingers traced the bundles of cash neatly stashed in the bag. Dozens of passports littered the top of the money stacks, and a gun was tucked in the corner of the bag.
His gaze darted toward Yasir’s face, waxy in the candlelight, but displaying no surprise at the contents of the bag. Jack dug his hands into the pile of passports and let them slide through his fingers. “Why is this here? Why didn’t you steal the money when I disappeared?”
A crooked smile played across the boy’s face. “What I do with all that money in my Afghan village, Mr. Jack? And if I take—” he shrugged his narrow shoulders “—you hunt me down and kill me.”
Jack coughed, a sour knot forming in his belly. Is that what he was? Would he kill a boy for stealing money?
“I doubt that, Yasir.” He grabbed one of the passports and flipped it open—John Coughlin, citizen of the U.K. He scooped up another: Jacques Durand, citizen of France. He nabbed the American passport: Jack Wilson. Was he Jack Wilson? He studied the picture of the man with the long blond hair, a moustache and glasses.
He knew he didn’t wear glasses and he didn’t have a moustache…at least not yet. “Yasir, is there a mirror in here?”
“That is not you, Mr. Jack. You Mr. Jack Coburn and you American spy.” Yasir groped beneath the cot and dragged out a bin filled with shaving supplies, including a dingy mirror.
A spy, huh? Jack held the mirror in front of him and slid the headdress from his head. Long hair, but black. No glasses. No moustache. Dark eyes, hard eyes.
He peered at the passport photo again, detecting blue eyes behind the glasses. How the hell was he going to get out of this country? Because he’d decided that’s exactly what he had to do.
And then Yasir read his mind, his much damaged mind.
“Disguises, Mr. Jack.” Yasir patted the side pockets of the duffel bag.
Jack unzipped one side and dipped his hand inside the compartment. He pulled out wigs, facial hair, containers of contact lenses. Poking around the pocket on the other side, he found more of the same. All of these costume pieces most likely matched the photos on the myriad passports spilling out of the duffel bag.
Now he had the means to get out of here and away from the people who’d left him on that mountainside. Then what? Should he seek an American embassy? Get back to the States and turn himself in to some agency there?
Leaving the money in the bag, Jack dumped the remaining contents on the floor and sifted through it. Between two fingers, he pinched a white sheet of paper folded in two. He shook the dirt from it and unfolded it, flattening the paper on his knee. It was a brief note: Thank you for your help, Mr. Coburn, and thank you for your discretion. If you bring Gabriel home safely, I’ll have another million waiting for you. Warm regards and Godspeed, Lola Famosa.
An address in Miami followed the flowery signature.
Jack narrowed his eyes as the candle sputtered. He didn’t know the identity of Gabriel or the condition of his safety, but he now knew where to start to figure out his own identity.
He was going to pay a visit to Ms. Lola Famosa of Miami.
Chapter One
Raven Pierre eyed the small girl clutching the baby doll in one grubby hand and growled in the back of her throat. It figured her supervisor, Walter, would give her kid duty just because she happened to be the only female translator on this job.
She didn’t even like kids.
Why did the president of the newly formed African nation Burumanda bring his daughter to the United Nations for his first address anyway? The General Assembly was no place for kids. Even Raven knew that.
Raven’s gaze shifted back to the little girl whose liquid brown eyes wandered between the closed-circuit TV screen and the impassive Secret Service agent parked in the chair across from her, sipping a soda. The girl’s small tongue darted from her mouth and swept across her lips.
Was the kid allowed to drink soda?
Raven pointed to the can clutched in the agent’s hand and said in the girl’s native dialect, “Do you want one?”
The girl nodded, her pigtails bobbing vigorously. “My name is Malika. What is your name?”
Raven raised her brows. Sounded like pretty good English to her. Maybe Malika, who looked maybe eight, didn’t even need a translator. “My name is Raven. Your English is good.”
Malika snapped her fingers. “English is easy language. Official language of Burumanda now. Your Chichewa—” she wrinkled her nose “—is fine.” Just fine? Raven narrowed her eyes. Maybe Malika was eighteen instead of eight. Raven never could guess kids’ ages anyway. “Do you want a soda? I can ask one of your guards out front to bring us a couple.”
As
