To think those students, probably working on Saturday to catch up on their lab assignments, had died in her stead. Just like the tribe in Ecuador or the plane passengers in France last year. So many dead because she lived.
Brandt and the MI-5 officer didn't seem to notice her distress as they went on to discuss who might have launched such an attack. Her research was controversial. Searching for the "smart" or "God" gene had gotten her kicked out of nearly every research facility in America. Hence why she had come to London. Where there would be dozens of British funerals because they happened to be working in a laboratory labeled as Dr. Monroe's.
A touch on the shoulder came from an unexpected source. Davidson. Or was it so unexpected? If one person in this room knew what it felt like to have death upon your shoulders it was this young man.
"It wasn't your fault," he whispered.
Rebecca wiped away a tear that clung to the edge of her eye. "Okay, now I know how lame that sounds from this side," she whispered back.
The tiny corner of Davidson's lip that wasn't damaged, tugged upward. "But that doesn't make it any less true."
God, she hoped so.
Out of the corner of his eye, Brandt watched Rebecca and Davidson's whispered exchange. The two had become close during their last mission, but now? Damn. They were over there making a dozen pinkie-promises or something.
"We've checked the chatter from the usual ultraconservative suspects that would take issue with Dr. Monroe's subject matter," Walt said, bringing Brandt back to the matter at hand. Like who the hell was trying to kill them.
"Maybe we are looking at this backward," Talli suggested. "Maybe they knew our team was headed to London and guessed where we would be headed after Amed. Maybe we were the targets and the Institute was just collateral damage."
That was Talli for you. Coming to the party a little late and with only half the food you asked him to pick up.
Walt looked to Brandt. "Clearly something about Amed triggered the attack, but Rebecca holds some key knowledge, so they struck at us all at the Institute."
"The classic two birds, one stone solution," Walt said. "MI-5 will be following up on this act of terrorism."
"Of course." Brandt not arguing to take part in the investigation. Why would he? Even though MI-5 and even Scotland Yard would be all over the bombsite, if the organizers of that attack were as slick as they seemed, they wouldn't have left behind any evidence. Brandt's team had their own leads to follow up.
The MI-5 officer raised an eyebrow at Brandt's easy capitulation. "So you aren't going to argue that we should get you off British soil as quickly as possible?"
"Not at all," Brandt stated with a fierce grin.
Walt cocked his head, scanning Brandt's features, clearing trying to figure out his angle. "Well with such eager anticipation, we will escort you to one of our RAF bases and get you winging home."
"Actually," Brandt stated, "we're going to be heading east rather than west."
Now Walt full-on squinted at Brandt. "East? Following a clue from Amed?"
"Let's just say I'm in the mood to hit the docks."
"You are planning on boating to Europe?" Walt asked, the surprise clear in his voice.
"Actually I was thinking of something a little more under the radar," Brandt said, relishing just a little bit the confused look on his old friend's face.
The female agent took a step forward. "And exactly why would we help you do anything? You brought terror to the heart of London. And given all evidence, Amed's bioweapon is not a British concern."
Brandt was about to speak up, however Walt beat him to it. "We have a very special relationship with our American counterparts," he hurried on over his partner, "that I believe predates your tenure."
The woman hardly seemed satisfied with Walt's answer, however she did not seem quite so brave enough to speak out in front of this crowd. Which was just as well. Beyond their two country's bonds, Walt and Brandt had forged a friendship during one of those missions that "never happened." Once you scrounge the countryside eating bugs and nasty tasting fish with someone for nearly two weeks on the Tumen River, desperately trying to keep out from the under eye of the Chinese and North Korean border patrols, you kind of developed a fondness for them.
A fondness that allowed Walt to take Brandt on his word.
"Where to then?" Walt asked.
As a honk came from curb, Brandt grabbed his belongings. "We've got transportation, so we just need-"
"We didn't arrange any car." The female agent moved a curtain aside to look out at the street.
However, Walt smiled. "Lopez?"
Brandt nodded, urging his group toward the door. "I just need you to put in all the paperwork as if we were being transferred to an RAF base for transport to the States."
"Thrown them off your tracks, chap?" Walt said, heading to the door. "Done."
However, the female agent blocked their exit. "Before you go, I must ask who is in attendance with you. In particular the man standing next to Dr. Monroe."
Brandt could feel Rebecca tense behind him.
"Obviously I can't run facial recognition on him," the agent continued.
Rebecca stepped forward, trying by sheer force of will to drain her face of the magenta that had risen to her cheeks. She did not want to sound desperate, even if she was.
"He is my research assistant."
The agent went back to her tablet. "We don't have anyone on the Institute's payroll matching his general description."
Okay, Rebecca usually tried to have solidarity with her gender, but this chick was making it hard. Rebecca tried to keep her tone firm yet still respectful. She wasn't sure she accomplished either. "That is because I pay him from my own research funds."
"And why would you do that?" the agent asked, studying Davidson like he was a lab rat rather than Rebecca's assistant.
"That is a valid question," Walt said. "We do need to know if he is a person of interest in this case."
Rebecca stifled a gulp. The two British agents were trained to smell deception, and panic must be wafting off of her like sweat on a hot Ecuadorian night. She looked to Brandt, begging, truly begging with her eyes for him to intervene. Davidson wasn't just wanted by the US government. Even presumed dead he had been flagged by Interpol, Mossad, and of course MI-6, Walt's sister agency. It had only been through Davidson's horrible disfigurement that he hadn't been found out...until now.
Brandt sighed heavily. "Fine."
Whatever happened from here Rebecca swore to hold it together. To not act rashly or shrill or all the other things she wanted to act right about now.
"The kid's an off-the-books CI," Brandt said. "And he's coming with us."
Walt scanned everyone's face, especially hers. Rebecca didn't have to act relieved that their "secret" was out in the open. She was relieved. Enough her knees threatened to stop holding her legs up. If Brandt wanted Davidson dead, he could have easily turned the man in to MI-5 and been able to say his hands were clean of Davidson's blood.
"You are sure he had nothing to do with the bombing?" Walt pressed Brandt.
"Again, if he was, he probably would have bombed the correct lab." A honk came from outside. "And you know Lopez."
"He'll head on to Dover without you?" Walt asked with a grin.
"Nice try," Brandt replied, putting his hand out to shake. "Our exit strategy to the east is 'need to know.'"
Again the Brit pulled Brandt into a bro-hug, patting him on the back. When did Brandt approve of so much PDA?
"I'll make sure all eyes are on the north."
Walt urged his partner out of their way and opened the front door. Brandt stood on the stoop as everyone filed out of the house. As Rebecca passed he whispered none too kindly, "This isn't over."
Rebecca knew that tone. It was the tone he'd used when he told her he had fathered a child before meeting her. The tone he used when he said he had to break off the engagement. The tone he'd used when he told her he had to marry Maria.
She could only hope Davidson fared better with that tone than her heart had.
Aunush entered the dark chamber unafraid. If the sniper had not killed her on the roof, this summons did not mean her death. Only an accounting of her failure. Perhaps there would be pain. Perhaps flogging, but afterward...life. Precious time to correct her error. Time to find the whore and her men and wipe them from her sight.
The marble felt cold against her bare feet as Aunush made her way across the large chamber to a figure outlined in torchlight. A figure who sat upon a simple stone bench in the fashion of Moshe. Just as Moshe was no king, neither was her leader. But who needed a throne when one held such power? Even though her master's figure was obscured in black cloak, the strength of the rod shone from dark eyes. A single word from the master and the world would shake.
Aunush came to the edge of the dais and knelt down. Her fingertips reached out tentatively to the leather boot tips peeking out from the edge of her master's robe. When she was not whipped for such impertinence, Aunush brushed her fingers along the worn leather appreciating the tough yet supple nature of the boot. She felt the tight stitches anchoring the leather to the sole. Aunush felt toes curl within the boot as she stroked along the sides and then swept her fingers up and over the arch.
A moan arose from the figure.
Any fear of recrimination slithered away as Aunush lowered her torso so that her mouth was just inches from the boot. She breathed out across the leather, dampening the surface with the moisture from her exhale. Many complained she had risen so quickly and so high in the ranks not from her devotion to Moshe's legacy or her skill in the field but for her attention to the boot.
Could they not see all and one were the same? God had made her this way. Immune to shame or guilt. A perfect vehicle in which to carry out His wishes. Was it her fault she had been born with a taste for exquisite Italian leather?
Her tongue curled around the tip of one boot, while her hand caressed the instep of the other. While Aunush wished to be on Monroe's heel as quickly as possible, she also would not mind some time here. Reestablishing her presence. Rooting her importance in the mind of the master.
And who knew. Given enough time perhaps they would get to the heel.
CHAPTER 4.
International Waters, North Sea 11:52 p.m. GMT If Rebecca had thought the beater SUV was bad, she was not prepared for their transportation to Europe. Davidson, just trying to get his elbow out from Lopez's back, jostled Rebecca, nearly dumping her laptop on the floor.
"We wouldn't be this cramped," Lopez said, "if they'd just let me on the bridge."
"It's a submarine," Harvish replied, rolling his eyes. "Like they're going to let you drive a sub."
Lopez jostled them all as he turned to face the person sullying his reputation. "I will have you know that I am certified as both a throttleman and a planesman, who steers the sub, not drives the sub." The corporal sat back with a sad sigh. "They're going what, twenty? Twenty-five knots? I so could have gotten at least thirty out of this Los Angeles class, baby."
Rebecca didn't doubt it, however the captain of the sub had been pretty clear that he wanted Lopez to stay put down here with them. Which meant the six of them were crammed inside one of the forward torpedo shoots, sitting on a jumble of crates. She wasn't claustrophobic, but come on. Rebecca had to keep reminding herself that oxygen was being pumped to them every second. That a computer was tasked with keeping the oxygen level at a steady 22 percent and the carbon dioxide scrubbed out.
Listening to the air whistle through the steel grate above their heads, Rebecca closed her eyes, trying to imagine they were on some tropical beach listening to the island breezes. Far from danger. Far from any submarine. However, the distinctly metallic smell in the air kind of took away from the vacation vibe she was hoping for. And the occasional clang of a seaman's steps above them forced her eyes open again.
She went to reposition herself and got a splinter for her troubles. Between sucking on the wound, Rebecca grumbled, "What are all these crates doing here anyway?"
"They must have been headed for a long, silent mission," Davidson said, indicating the label on the crates. "A sub needs to pack on enough food for the duration of the trip, which can be months."
Again, seeing that they were sitting on a whole bunch of canned green beans and Spam, Rebecca was glad they were only catching a ride on the sub across the North Sea.
She wasn't the only one unsettled.
"I probably passed the Valsalva maneuver better than anyone on board," Lopez lamented. "SEIE suit test? Flying colors. I'm certified on fast-attack subs, submersibles, even the 688i subs."
"Oh, and what?" Harvish harangued. "Bet you've got the code to launch the nuclear missiles too?"
Lopez snorted. "Dude, that is a ballistic-class submarine that holds the Trident missiles. This is a fast-attack sub. Jesus, learn the difference."
Before Harvish could respond, Brandt weighed in. "Lopez, why don't you put your earbuds in and chill until we arrive? It's going to be a long night."
"But the midrats are supposed to be pizza and meatloaf."
"Midnight rations," Brandt clarified as Rebecca raised an eyebrow at Lopez's statement. So he was keeping an eye on her from the front of the torpedo tube.
"Leftovers basically," Davidson confirmed.
Even though meatloaf and pizza together did not sound at all appetizing, Rebecca's stomach rumbled. Food of any stripe would be appreciated. Clearly they hadn't had time to stop for dinner on their mad rush from London to the sleepy town of Southend-on-Sea. At least not the way Lopez drove. Then the sailing out on a CIA-fronted fishing boat with rough seas to meet the submarine twelve miles out in international waters.
It wasn't until moments like this, long after the rush and panic of the escape, that Rebecca's hands tremored a bit and her stomach complained.
"I could use some food too," Rebecca added.
"The XO should be coming by to check in soon," Brandt stated flatly. "We'll see what they can scrounge for us. No guarantees though."
With that he turned his shoulder away from her, hunkering down like a giant in a human's bed. If only she could shed her fear, hunger, and longing as easily as Brandt.
Brandt tried to push the world around him to the deep, dark recesses of his mind. He had a mission to plan. Details to resolve. Strategies to develop.
How was it then with six people crammed into this space he could hear each and every one of Rebecca's breaths? Her soft groan as she tried to find a more comfortable position. Even her stomach growling was as clear as if his head lay upon her belly. Not that he would ever be doing that in the future.
He never should have involved Rebecca in this damned mission. Brandt could have sought out some other expert in ancient Jewish, Christian, and Islamic faiths with intense field experience fighting extremists. Oh wait, there weren't any others. Or was that just what he convinced himself, giving him permission to go to London?
No. For all his faults, seeking Rebecca's counsel in this case was not one of them. The single biggest lesson they had learned after battling the Knot was...once religious mysteries were opened, they did not close on their own. Blood had to be spilt into the maw to close it again.
His other faults though? Those did damn Rebecca.
A single stupid night, months and months before the paleo-DNA-archeologist had burst on the scene, Brandt had made the biggest damned error of his life. It hadn't felt like it at the time. After surviving a mission that had gone ten ways bad, ending up in arms of a beautiful woman had felt pretty good. How many other soldiers had a one-night stand with nothing but pleasant memories to show for it?