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Time for a gamble.
“Noa,” he says. “That you?”
Her voice comes right back. “Sure is. I was wondering when you’d notice me.”
Liam says, “How long have you known I was over here?”
“Long enough,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” he says. “Sore. Eyes burning, getting better. You?”
“The same,” she says. “Liam, it was my fault. I should have taken the time to transfer those surveillance photos to another device. I was in a hurry. I made a mistake.”
Liam shifts and wiggles, but the damn Velcro straps won’t budge.
“Well, at some point I’ll send a memo to your supervisor, advising you go for some fieldcraft retraining.”
“My current supervisor is POTUS. I don’t think he’s in any mood to listen to either one of us.”
True,he thinks, trying to think ahead to what words he might speak or action he might take once their captors enter this room, no doubt working under the direction of President Barrett.
“Liam?”
“Still here,” he says, trying to move the chair.
No joy.
Fastened to the floor.
“I’ve been thinking of something,” she says.
“If it’s an escape plan, I’m all ears,” he says. “But make it quick. No doubt we’re under surveillance in here.”
She says, “The president used us, right from the beginning. He anticipated what we would do, how we would do it, until at some point, we were wounded, killed, or decided to rebel against hisactions. But he knew we would both sayyeswhen he asked us to set up the two teams, even if it was off the books.”
He jerks the chair back and forth. Very safely secured.
“Well, that was pretty apparent, right?”
Noa says, “No, I don’t think either one of us picked up on it. Remember what he said, when we were first interviewed? He said,You have the perfect backgrounds and history of heartbreak to do what must be done.Remember?”
“I do now,” Liam says.
“No, I don’t think you do,” she snaps back. “Because it stuck with me. ‘History of heartbreak.’ Your heartbreak was your older brother, right? Killed in Afghanistan?”
“Yeah,” Liam says. “My older brother Brian. A captain in the 10th Mountain Division. The Taliban did it. And you, it was a cousin, right?”
“Yes,” comes the voice through the dark room. “My cousin Rebecca. She was an executive with Magen David Adom, part of the International Red Cross. Becky was meeting secretly with her counterparts in the Red Crescent Society in Beirut, but her presence there was uncovered by the usual tribe of bad actors. Becky died from a car bomb.”
“Sorry,” Liam says.
“Do you see it now?” she asks. “He praised us for our skills, our backgrounds, which operations we successfully achieved. But he wanted more from us. He knew we had revenge in our souls, enough so we wouldn’t ask the tough questions, or turn down the tough assignments. He baited us and reeled us right in, even though deep down, we both knew we were operating illegally.”
Another tug of the straps.
No joy.
“Good call, Noa,” he says.