Hidden Steel (26 page)

And those behind it had a lot to lose.

She clapped her hand over her mouth, willing her stomach to stop heaving even as she pushed away from the desk and turned toward the hall.

“Naia?” Badra called to her. “Is everything well?”

Had she gasped? Made a sound of distress? She didn’t even know. She swallowed—or tried to. A second time she succeeded. She pretended she was Anna. Anna, who knew what she was doing, and who had somehow disappeared from Naia’s world … until that email. She knew—she
knew
—the email had something to do with Anna. She had to believe it, if she was going to make this move. “Everything’s fine,” she called. “I’m just finishing up on these notes.” Notes that weren’t about art history at all, but which detailed the conversation she’d overheard in Irhaddan. Not so very long ago, and yet …

Lifetimes.

But even if she didn’t find Anna this evening, she’d leave the notes in the dead drop. She should have done it earlier, but she’d been arrogant enough to think she could continue to bluff her way past Hisami’s people until she’d gotten advice from Anna.

No longer.

She made herself get up from the chair to stand in the doorway where Badra could see her. She wasn’t Naia at all … she was Anna’s courage, Anna’s confidence. “I’m just finishing up on these notes. I’d like to take a shower and have some dinner. You don’t think there would be a problem with ordering Chinese food, do you? There’s a place not far from here run by a nice family …”

Badra looked to Hisami, who looked away from the television long enough to give her his standard disapproval. “Order something appropriate,” he commanded her, reminding her of her faith’s dietary restrictions. As if she needed
him
to tell her how to make such choices. Annoyance reinforced her faltering resolve.

“Of course,” she told him, as respectful as she’d ever been. She put Anna’s courage into her legs and moved briskly for the bedroom, where she pulled out a casual long-sleeved lilac shirt and the matching wide-legged fleece pants. An evening lounge set, and one Badra had often seen her wear when she was in for the night. She spoke briefly to Badra with the clothing in her arms, and then she headed for the bathroom, where she closed and locked the door.

She rustled the shower curtain, turning the water on full. And then, under the cover of the flushing toilet, she pulled the screen from the window and poked her head out.

The fire escape from the bedroom wasn’t so very far away.

Or so she tried to tell herself.

* * * * *

“That didn’t take long.” Mickey climbed over the lip of the third floor, out the elevator shaft and the doors they’d jammed open. She dumped the colorful mountain climbing rope in a coil at her feet and unclipped it from the carabineer at the front of the Swiss seat she wore.

Elevator shaft. Perfect clandestine location for teaching someone how to rappel. And when Steve climbed out of the shaft behind her, his grin spread across a dirt-smudged face. Before she knew it, he’d wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her up, swinging her around once before letting her slide down his body—oh, my, yes—and stopping her when her toes barely touched the floor. “What—” she started to say, but he silenced her with a quick, hard kiss. When she could speak again, she laughed. “Had fun, did you?”

“If it’s legal to have fun when I’m practicing to escape the ultimate international thugs …” He grinned. “Yeah, I had fun. And I will
always
let you climb out ahead of me. The view is amazing.”

She gave him the slightest shove in an insincere suggestion to behave himself, but made no real attempt to pull away. “You did great. I don’t want to use our little escape route, but we’re in good shape in case we get trapped up here.” They’d also pried the second floor doors open enough to provide a crack of light; the elevator was stuck just below, and Mickey could just barely stand on the top of the car and see over the shelves that had been placed in front of the doors from the other side. Observation post Number One—except she wouldn’t use the rope this evening—she’d simply climb the wooden rungs snugged up against the side of the shaft for maintenance purposes.

But before then, she needed to rig the ropes off the tower roof—one floor up on a spiral staircase that led past the tower-only fourth floor, a tiny area that seemed to be there for the sole purpose of providing sheltered access to the elevator machinery.

She hoped Naia wasn’t afraid of heights.

She stopped next to the air mattresses, rifling their stash of food for protein bars and a toaster pastry—she’d always preferred them cold, anyway.

“Hey,” she said out loud. She held the toaster pastry out so Steve could behold its significance. “Check it out. I like them cold.”

“That’s nice,” he offered, expression crooked with doubt.

She laughed. “I mean, I
know
I like them cold. See? Haven’t taken a bite yet.”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “The mysteries of you, revealed.”

“Exactly.” She took a big bite, and found the lukewarm bottled water sitting crookedly on her mattress. “Leave that harness on. I know it’s a Village People kind of fashion statement, but if we’ve got to run for it, we’ll have enough trouble getting Naia harnessed up and ready to go.”

He looked down at himself. “Village People. That about sums it up. You gonna break into song any time soon?”

“You never know,” she told him primly, and jammed the power bar into her back pocket to eat along the way, grabbing the fingerless climbing gloves she’d dropped on the mattress. “I’m gonna get this stuff set up. Keep an eye on the stairs, will you? She said evening … it’s a little early, but I don’t want to chance missing her.”

He stopped with a power bar halfway to his mouth, face still smudged. “And if she shows?”

Maybe she’d tell him about that smudge; maybe she’d just enjoy the touch of ruffian it added to his unruly hair. “Don’t approach unless it looks like she’s leaving. But I shouldn’t be that long.” Just long enough to secure the ropes.
Please, let there be some nice convenient projections. Pipes, metal framing … I’ll take anything.

“Okay.” He shrugged, visibly deciding he could deal with Naia, and headed for the stairwell. The bounce, Mickey was glad to see, was back in his step. For the moment, he had put the afternoon—the killing—behind them. Like Mickey, focusing more on the future than the past.

She waited until she’d turned away before she let her smile fade. Steve, ever the hopeful … ever looking for that happy ending. In spite of her precautions and escape plans, it probably hadn’t truly sunk in that the evening could hold just as much violence as the afternoon. That she was preparing for more than just a sly departure.

For if Naia made it here, she wasn’t likely to come alone.

* * * * *

Good thing I’m
not
afraid of heights
. Mickey crouched on the steeply slanted tower roof, the ropes coiled neatly at her feet, the cluster of warehouses spread out before her. None of them had the character of this one; none of them rose as tall. This had been one of the first, and had gone on to a new purpose while the others still greeted big trucks and boldly colored delivery vehicles. The constant rumble of diesel engines had faded as evening came on; now she looked out over a quiet neighborhood.

The other direction held the Caltrain station, barely visible. Next to it, the park to which Steve had almost taken her. It looked like a nice place.
Some other time.
And down the block, nearly hidden by carefully tended urban trees, the bus stop she’d been using.

Not a bad view. And it came with a peaceful sense of distance from it all. “Bet I used to climb trees, too,” Mickey told the air around her.
Bet I used to climb trees with that slingshot …

But staying up here was a luxury, and she’d left Steve on his own, lurking in the stairwell in the spot they’d chosen as casting the fewest, faintest shadows—probably wishing he could call the hospital to ask about Mosquito, and knowing they wouldn’t tell him anything. So she returned to roof access—a quaint old trap door—surveyed the ropes one more time, and told them, “No offense, but I hope we don’t meet again.”

The ropes had no apparent opinion on the matter. But Mickey left the door open just in case—one less thing to do if the time came. She backed down the iron rungs that served for a ladder and into the tower’s fourth floor, a square little room filled with the impressive gears and motor of the elevator. Down the spiral metal stairs and into the vast third floor …she found herself looking at the space anew, falling into a mindset that seemed both fresh and familiar at the same time. Good cover over there behind that pillar, too much junk to trip over there, someone’s old half-finished wall over there. Their stuff was tucked away, as it had been from the start—she’d never left them exposed, but found a nook behind unused wallboard, buckets of spackling, tubs of nails …

This must be what Steve’s loft space looked like before he’d finished it. Once empty and echoing, now so obviously an apartment—a place he’d turned into home. A place the Irhaddanians had driven him from—

Just for now
, she told herself.

“You there?” she said to the stairwell.

He didn’t answer.

Had she been up there that long? Long enough for something to go down out here? She headed for the wall, skimming alongside it to approach the stairwell; the Glock found its way to her hand, and she wasn’t even sure how. She held it low, staying unobtrusive as she took a quick peek and retreat into the stairwell, leaning against the wall to process what she’d seen.

Nothing, that’s what. No one.

But she heard voices. Steve’s voice, a woman’s voice. And the woman was scared …desperate. Her voice was a beautiful liquid tone nonetheless and—

Tell me about Naia.

Beautiful almond eyes fringed with darkest lashes—eyes wide with fear in dark olive skin, long swoop of a refined nose, mouth dropped open and about to protest—

Tell me about Naia.

“Get a grip,” Mickey muttered to herself, but by then her heart was pounding, adrenaline flushing through her system and beyond her control. Because this was it. She’d found Naia … or Naia had found her. And Naia would have her answers. Naia would be safe—somehow, Mickey would keep her safe—and then they could unravel this mess.

Except Naia’s voice had risen—was heading for ultimatum.

Mickey abandoned her stealth mode and ran down the stairs, leaping the last three to skid along painted wood flooring before righting herself and grabbing the door frame into the classroom. There she froze, taking an instant to assess the situation—Steve with his arms out, a placating gesture, his gun stuffed into his back pocket at his most excellent posterior. Naia, as wild as a trapped deer in an incongruous lilac lounging outfit, her back to the project shelves near the dead drop. Steve hadn’t closed on her, hadn’t come within striking range. Too much training for that. But whatever he’d said to her, she hadn’t bought it. Her hands groped behind her, feeling for the nearest project, ready to fling and run.

Brave girl, brought up protected and isolated and demure, ready to fight for her life.

“Naia,” she said quietly, and her voice cut through Steve’s desperate words, cut through Naia’s rejection of him. “Naia, I’m here.”

Naia jerked around to face the doorway, not quite believing—not until she saw Mickey standing there. Steve faded back, taking himself out of the equation as far as he could. “Anna!” Naia took a step forward as if she couldn’t quite allow herself to believe it. “
Alhamdulillah
! Anna! Where have you been!” But even with that she abandoned her defensive posture and ran to Mickey, embracing her with a fervor that betrayed the depth of her fear. Mickey—startled, devoid of any true context for Naia’s relationship with her, returned the embrace. But not, apparently, as Naia expected, for she pulled back and gave Mickey a searching look. “Anna? What is wrong?”

Of course, then the absurdity of what she’d said hit her, and before Mickey could respond she said, “Oh, I know—all this is wrong. There is serious trouble for us. But I can tell … there’s something else …” And then she glanced at Steve. “You told him—?”

Mickey shook her head, suddenly weary. “It’s a long story.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” Steve muttered, not quite loudly enough to truly interrupt them, though Naia shot a look in his direction. She’d changed since Mickey had last seen her. Less trusting … less gentle. Up close, her clothes were hard used—otherwise lightly worn garments with tears and stains.

She broke away from Mickey and went to the dead drop, retrieving a tightly folded paper. “Here,” she said. “This is what it’s all about.”

Mickey took it, unfolding it to discover a double-sided printout, tiny font crammed to the margins, impossible to skim. She didn’t even try. Naia said, “A man in my father’s cabinet has been using him—using our people.”

“Mounir Farooqi,” Steve said abruptly. “He’s storing weapons of mass destruction, isn’t he?”

Mickey felt her jaw drop. Naia looked at Steve as though a speaking fungus would have surprised her less.

He shrugged. “Hey. I did some research this morning. I meant to tell you,” he added, looking at Mickey, “but then … I got distracted.”

Right. By the gunplay. By killing people. By having Mosquito die in his arms. But she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “You found that information
on the Web
?”

“I inferred it,” he said. “From what’s on the Web and what’s going on here. You have to have both pieces.”

“Still. That’s …” She shook her head. “I’m damned impressed.”

“Anna,” Naia all but wailed, “what’s going on? Who
is
this man? What happened to … your
hair
?”

Right back to the
long story
situation. “His name is Steve,” Mickey said, for the first time really hearing how Naia addressed her. Not Anna, as Steve had said it.
Ahna.
But it still brought no instant flash of memory; no sudden revelation of her past.