Zara Read online

  “You have one for regular use?” he asked.

  “Two, stashed in my apartment in Beirut.”

  The grins they exchanged were of mutual understanding. By the time Zara slid her weapons back into their sheaths and holsters, perfectly concealed yet easily accessible beneath her conservative clothing, the expression on the faces of the Navy SEALs had transformed from open suspicion to wary consideration.

  Her uncle ushered her toward the men. “Zara, SEAL Team Three. This is Lieutenant Bowden.”

  The African-American man inclined his head. “Ma’am.”

  “Lieutenant.” She matched his formality.

  “He’ll debrief you on the plane,” Admiral Falcón said.

  Zara nodded. “Lead the way.”

  The military transport plane, an older model Airbus, did not compare to the luxury of First Class on Emirates Airlines, but bypassing immigration and customs eliminated the need for tedious explanations of her firearms. She claimed a window seat near the front of the plane. For the first half of the flight, she enjoyed her solitude, but eventually, Lieutenant Bowden moved to stand beside her chair. “Permission to join you, ma’am?”

  “Only if you call me Zara instead of ma’am.” She gestured at the seat next to her.

  He sat down, his large frame filling the space beside her, and extended his hand to her. “Travis Bowden.” He was silent for a moment. “We have a lead on Nakob and the girls. We think they’re in Baalbek, Beqaa Valley.”

  “I know the town.”

  “Intel says they’re in a compound north of Baalbek, but we need to verify before going in.”

  “I can do that. What do you have for me?”

  Travis held out a tablet. “Satellite maps and local info on the area. Team profiles too.” He paused again. “Are you as good as the admiral insists?”

  Zara shrugged. “It would depend on what he’s said.”

  “The team’s uncomfortable, not because they don’t think you’re good. We’ve escorted people who couldn’t tell the business end of a gun from the other. It’s just because—”

  “I’m a woman, and big tough men possess an instinctive need to protect women?”

  “These big tough men do.”

  “And America is the better for it,” Zara said. She flicked her finger across the screen of the tablet. “Have you done any tours in the Middle East?”

  “We all have.” Travis gestured at his men with a nod of his head. “SEAL Team Three specializes in Middle East operations—desert and urban warfare.”

  Great, except that they were headed into Lebanon’s equivalent of Napa Valley. “Where have you been?”

  “Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Egypt.”

  “Not Lebanon?”

  “Lebanon is not typically a problem country.”

  “Does your team speak Arabic?”

  Travis nodded. “Some better than others, usually those with no hope of blending in physically with the population.” He pointed to a red-haired man with a thick dusting of freckles on his pale skin. “That’s our linguistic expert, Sergeant Chuck O’Malley. Speaks seven languages. Curses in twenty. We call him Annie.”

  Ah, the infamous SEAL call names, usually bestowed by teammates based on the most embarrassing incidents or traits they could think of. “What do they call you?” Zara asked.

  “Grass.”

  “May I ask why?”

  A sheepish grin curved Travis’s lips. “I’m allergic to grass.” He pointed to another man. “That’s Lieutenant Drew Rickard, my second-in-command.”

  Zara tilted her head to the side as she studied the brown skinned, fine-featured man. “Native American?”

  Travis nodded. “We call him Klah. It means ‘left-handed’ in Navajo.”

  “Looks like he lucked out with his call name.”

  “Then you should meet God.” Travis gestured to a third man. “Randy Jackson. Sniper. Good at answering prayers and getting us out of a tight spot.”

  “Well-deserved, then.” Zara smiled. “Tell your men not to be too concerned about me. I’m good at taking care of myself, though less so at following orders.”

  “Most women I know aren’t too good at that. All part of their charm.”

  She did not buy into his southern manners and charm. All Navy SEALS had a lethal edge. “What are your official orders, Lieutenant?”

  “To extract the girls.”

  Zara stared at him. Those orders left a great deal open to interpretation. “It would be difficult to extract fifty girls safely without getting noticed or while under fire.” She kept her tone casual.

  “Right,” he agreed. “That’s why you’re here.” He said nothing more.

  She met his eyes. Understanding passed between them.

  The Navy SEALs, official representatives of the U.S. government, had been sent to oversee the extraction of fifty innocent girls.

  She, on the other hand, had been sent to execute Nakob.

  6

  The slow rotation of the ceiling fan spread the late afternoon humidity of a Beirut summer through the large bedroom. Shadows cast by the wide blades of the fan danced in hypnotic patterns across the wooden blinds and cream-colored walls.

  A subtle break in the pattern flashed across Zara’s peripheral vision. She did not look over her shoulder; neither did she pause in her activity of sliding bullets into her extra clip. “What is it, lieutenant?”

  “Has anyone ever been able to sneak up on you?”

  “Not for several years now.” Zara turned around, a smile on her face.

  Travis “Grass” Bowden propped his shoulder against one of the pillars of the three stone arches separating the bedroom from the antechamber. His dark-eyed gaze swept across the room, made charming with its antique cedar furniture and authentic Lebanese chandelier. “Does this work for you?”

  Zara nodded. “I certainly didn’t expect to camp out in a 19th century villa, let alone have the pick of the rooms. Does the CIA own this place?”

  Travis shook his head. “No, but they set us up in it. I think it belongs to a friend, several times removed, of someone who apparently has no ties to the U.S. government.”

  “It’s not clear to me how taking residence in an upscale villa constitutes keeping a low profile. Why not just get a plane to skywrite ‘Nakob, we’re coming for you’?”

  “Didn’t think they’d notice us over the uproar.”

  “What uproar?”

  “Locals are saying that Allah has sent Malak al-maut—Azrael, the angel of death—to Lebanon once more.”

  Zara shrugged. “The locals say that once a year, on average.”

  “Incidentally coinciding with your visits to Lebanon?”

  “Mere chance.” Zara flipped her fingers in a dismissive gesture.

  “The language is quite poetic.” Travis went on in that same casual tone. “Lots of references to a scythe reaping a harvest of the wicked dead from Lebanon’s bloody fields.”

  Zara tried to picture herself with a scythe. The mental image made her lips twitch.

  The SEAL team lieutenant continued. “Funny how Azrael seems to prefer reaping crime lords and terrorists known for trampling over women’s rights.”

  “Angels, like men, have a thing for women.” Zara slipped the fully loaded clip into one of the many pockets on her robe. Her handgun went into another pocket. Two more daggers vanished into the layers of her voluminous robe. “I’m going to chat up my local contacts, see if I can get a lead on Nakob’s location.”

  “You won’t mind if I have Klah escort you.”

  Zara arched an eyebrow. “I don’t need a protector.”

  “Didn’t say you did. I was just thinking about all those men out there who may need protection from Azrael.”

  Ah, so she wasn’t supposed to hunt personal targets while tapping into the government’s expense account. Zara stifled a chuckle. “He can come along, as long as he knows I’m in charge.”

  Klah was the most unobtrusive escort she
could have selected from SEAL Team Three. He was quiet on his feet and fluent in Arabic, although not Lebanese. His deep brown skin tone allowed him to blend into the population as long as he kept his military haircut concealed beneath his labbade, the traditional Lebanese headdress.

  Like her, he probably carried a weapon or two, or three or four, tucked in his dark blue robes. Although many Lebanese wore western clothing, men and women in traditional Lebanese robes were common, even in Beirut’s most upscale neighborhoods. Consequently, no one paid Zara and Klah any attention as they walked through Tabaris.

  More than any other neighborhood in Beirut, Tabaris showcased the standing relics of Beirut’s past. Ornate homes built during the Ottoman- and French-eras lined quiet tree-shaded streets. Expensive boutiques and bakeries dotted the street corners, their sidewalks crowded with window shoppers.

  Despite the apparent foreignness of her surroundings, Tabaris was as much home to her as Georgetown. Aban Rafiq, the proprietor of the Al Mandaloun, the Lebanese-French bistro, waved as she walked past. A broad smile split his face. “Marhaba. Keef halik?”

  She stopped. “I am well, Rafiq. And you?”

  He waved a hand across the expanses of his café. Activity bustled behind the frosted glass windows; each table in the restaurant was full. Despite the humidity, all the outdoor tables were occupied too, and the line of people waiting for their turn at dinner curved around the corner.

  “Times of peace bring tourists and prosperity to Beirut,” Rafiq said. “You will come for dinner, yes, with your friend?” He looked at Klah and then back at Zara. “There will always be a choice table for you.”

  “Is lamb shank stew on the menu?”

  “For you, it will be.”

  “In about an hour?”

  Rafiq pressed his fingers to his lips and smacked them with a loud kiss. “Parfait.” He turned to one of his employees and barked out orders to send the kitchen boy to the marketplace for premium lamb shanks.

  Zara weaved past the crowd outside Al Mandaloun, made a right onto Maroun Naccache Avenue, and stopped in front of a four-story classical Ottoman-era building. She had purchased it eight years earlier and gutted the interior, transforming her home into a high-tech hideaway. Nothing about the building was original, except the charming façade. The whitewashed walls accentuated the dark brown window frames, and tall spires of red, pink, and purple hollyhock added color to the small garden patches in front of the building.

  Klah brushed a finger over a blossom.

  “Careful,” Zara cautioned. “Fatima will know if you so much as breathe on her precious flowers.” She pulled a key out of her pocket, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. “Come on in.”

  “This is your home?”

  Klah’s voice took her by surprise. Zara’s brow furrowed when she realized that it was the first time she had heard him speak. Deep and mellifluous, his voice had the calm and quiet quality of a man who knew his strength and did not need to prove it.

  Oddly, it reminded her of Danyael. To conceal her sudden discomfort, she nodded. “Mahmoud and Fatima live here with their family rent-free in exchange for caring for the place. The entire top floor is mine.” She stepped around a child’s tricycle, over a messy sprawl of sneakers, and jerked her head toward a closed door. “My private staircase to the fourth floor.”

  The granite staircase wound up the building and opened onto an expansive landing flanked by two ornate doors. One led to her bedroom and the other to an empty room, which doubled as her workout studio on her occasional visits to Beirut. The late evening sun spilled in through the open windows to pool on the glistening white tiles, and the fragrance of fresh cut lilacs filled the air. A powerful soprano sang along to Verdi’s La Traviata. Zara laughed and raised her voice to be heard over the opera. “Fatima!”

  The song cut off, and the patter of feet preceded the appearance of a short, stout woman. A bright red headscarf covered her head and neck, but left her face clear and dazzling smile evident. She wiped her hands on her denim jeans before scurrying forward. “Miss Zara, you are come.” Fatima threw her arms around Zara, hugged her tightly, and then pulled back with a frown. “Too thin, you.” She patted her own lush curves. “I make you dinner tonight. I send Sabah to the market, okay? Buy fresh fish and kaffir lime leaves.”

  “I promised Rafiq I’d eat at the café tonight. In fact, I leave for Beqaa Valley tomorrow, but when I return, I will join you and Mahmoud for dinner.”

  Fatima’s face fell. “I clean and clean. I think surely Miss Zara will hear the news and come, but you didn’t come. For weeks, we wait.”

  “You were expecting me?”

  “Yes, when Nakob took the girls, Mahmoud say to me, you clean the rooms; Miss Zara will come. Find the girls.”

  “Ah…” The single syllable escaped on a sigh. Her Lebanese friends—the people who knew who she was and what she did during her annual visits to Beirut—had been expecting her. Instead, she had wasted those precious two weeks attending ridiculous summer galas with Galahad where her most significant accomplishment for the evening had been avoiding getting wine spilled on her. Her shoulders tensed. Damn it.

  Galahad wasn’t the self-absorbed prick. She was.

  Fatima patted Zara’s hand. “Sit, sit. You rest. I bring sweet tea, the way you like it.”

  As the woman scurried away, Klah shot Zara a sideway glance. “Weren’t expecting people to count on you?”

  His quiet, even tone, like Danyael’s, was perfectly cued to trigger her temper. She spun around. “I don’t owe them anything.”

  “They obviously believe they owe you, but the funny thing about obligation is that it tends to cut both ways.”

  She glared at him. “Why are you here, lieutenant?”

  “To keep you safe, ma’am.”

  “I thought I made it perfectly clear to Grass that I didn’t need to be kept safe.”

  Klah shrugged.

  “You always do what you’re told?” she asked.

  “Often enough to catch Grass off-guard when I don’t.”

  The honesty of his answer startled her. She tilted her head and studied him. “When do you disobey orders?”

  “Usually to keep a situation from going to hell.”

  “Been in any of those, lieutenant?”

  “Not recently. I’d like to keep it that way.” He turned as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  A man, as tall and thin as Fatima was short and stout, hurried into the room. “Miss Zara. You are here at last.”

  “What news from Beqaa Valley?”

  Mahmoud shot Klah a sideway glance, looked back at Zara, and continued speaking. “Rumor has it the girls are in Baalbek.”

  “Baalbek is a tourist destination. How are they staying hidden?”

  “Probably among the ruins of the temple complex.” Mahmoud wrung his fingers. “The Lebanese Armed Forces won’t send their men in.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a World Heritage Site,” Mahmoud said, as if it explained everything.

  Zara dismissed the facts with a shrug. “Those Roman columns have been standing for two thousand years. A bit of redecoration is probably overdue. Is Imad still in Baalbek?”

  Mahmoud nodded. “He is expecting you.”

  Damn it! Had everyone been expecting her? She scowled. “Call him. Tell him I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “And your home in Baalbek?” Mahmoud asked. The pitch of his voice dropped as his brown eyes searched her face. “Should he hire the village women to clean it? Will you be staying there?”

  Zara sucked in a deep breath. “Might as well. Tell him to do it tonight and have him stock it with food and water for at least two months. Other necessities, too.”

  “Necessities made of nitrocellulose and nitroglycerin?” Mahmoud’s lips pressed into a smile.

  Ammunition. “Of course.”

  “I’ll call him.” Mahmoud glanced over his shoulder as his plump and cheerful wife bustled into the room, cups and
a teapot balanced on a tray. “And here is Fatima with your tea.”

  Accompanying Fatima were their three children—seventeen-year-old daughter, Adara, ten-year-old son, Yusri, and five-year-old daughter, Nadira. The three children stopped five feet away from Zara. With downcast eyes, they touched the fingertips of their right hand to their brow and then to their heart in a gesture of profound respect. “Welcome home, Miss Zara,” they murmured in Arabic.

  Her duty performed to the satisfaction of their parents, Nadira looked up. With a happy squeal, she hurled herself across the remaining distance, throwing herself into Zara’s arms. “Did you bring me a toy?”

  “Dresses for your dolls,” Zara spoke in Arabic as she removed a small package from her robe. “One for school and another for parties.”

  Nadira snatched the package from Zara’s hands and dashed off to fetch her doll.

  Zara straightened and looked at the other two children. “Yusri, you are well?”

  The boy had inherited both his mother’s round physique and the sweetness of her disposition. “Yes, Miss Zara.” He responded in halting but clear English. “I have been accepted by Khayal.”

  “The Cooperative Lebanese Association for Arts & Education,” Zara elaborated for Khal’s benefit.

  Yusri grinned. “I learn English, and the teachers will select me for more plays.”

  “And ultimately a career in theater, just like your mother.”

  “Yes.” Yusri flashed his mother a dazzling smile. Fatima’s smile was doting.

  Zara turned to Adara. “And are you ready for your trip to the U.S. this fall?”

  The teenager nodded. She had her father’s lean physique and her mother’s radiant complexion. Her long brown hair was gathered in a ponytail, and she looked like any other American teenager, just less surly. “I e-mailed my flight schedule to your father, like you told me to. Your father said that he will meet me at the airport and take me to the university.”

  “Great. Once you’ve settled down into the rhythm of things at Princeton, call me and I’ll take you up to New York City for the weekend. You’ll be ready for some real Lebanese food, then.”

  Adara glanced at her mother. “My mother is teaching me to cook.”