Page 22 of Trapped With the Secret Agent

She nodded at him, but Peter noticed that she kept her eyes off his face and on the floor.

Good girl.

Looking around quickly, she orientated herself then walked to the wall left of the desk. She put her hand out and ran it across a square one row up from the floor. The square opened with a soft click and she went to work on the combination lock inside, her hands visibly shaking. On the third try, it opened.

In-Charge shoved her out of the way.

Georgia scrambled to her feet and inched back out to where Mitchell was sitting. A couple of terrorists looked like they were going to stop her, but she kept her face down and took small, slow steps and they let her by. When she reached Mitchell, she kneeled next to him again. Peter stared at her until she spared him a quick glance. He nodded once to tell her she’d done a good job.

In-Charge was reading Mitchell’s private papers while fingering a stack of American cash. Peter stared at him. Who was this guy? He was educated, could speak and read English, and had the wherewithal to get a nuke. Someone wealthy had to be backing him. But who? Something was going on here beyond the obvious. Who had the most to gain from the chaos the detonation of a nuke would cause?

Politically speaking, there were several that could be listed, namely, the leaders of nearly every other Middle Eastern country. Looking at it from a military point of view only made things less clear. All the anti-American terrorist groups had plenty to gain. The list was too long. He had to narrow the parameters somehow.

“Do you want a picture of this?” Peter asked.

In-Charge’s head came up fast enough that Peter caught his momentary expression of surprise.

“This is a pretty dramatic scene,” Peter continued, as if he witnessed embassy takeovers, hostage shootings, and confidential safes being raided all the time. “You with your men, the safe open in the background, stacks of paper and money in front of you.” He gestured with his hands, as if he were directing a commercial. Then he shrugged, with an air of unconcern.

In-Charge stared at him blankly for a couple seconds then grinned. “Yes. I want that picture.”

Peter listened as In-Charge told the man standing behind him to get Peter’s equipment bag and bring it in.

Peter took various shots of In-Charge in front of the safe with his men arranged behind him, looking over his shoulder at the papers, and fingering the money. He paused when In-Charge ordered him to take a couple of shots of Mitchell, but only for a second. When his memory card was full, he got a fresh one from his bag, removed the full one from his camera and handed it to one of the terrorists who had his hand out for it.

No one noticed him slip his hand into his pocket.

In-Charge skimmed through the stack of folders and paper, sorting it into two piles. When he was finished, he grabbed one pile, handed it to one of his men and strode out of the office to stand in front of Mitchell again.

“Now, I know what your government was up to,” In-Charge said with a sneer. “It’s a good thing we came when we did.” He grabbed Mitchell by the shirt and partially lifted him off the chair. “A new military base, Mr. Ambassador? When your ships patrol our waters, their missiles pointed at us. Don’t you think that’s enough? For more than a thousand years my people have defended their homeland.” He shook Mitchell hard, making his head whip back and forth. “Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“I don’t make those decisions,” Mitchell said when could catch his breath. “I simply—carry out—the will of my government.”

In-Charge dropped him onto the chair. “We are alike then. But we carry out the will of our people and God.”

Mitchell laughed weakly, his smile bordering on condescending. “You carry out no one’s will, but your own.”

In-Charge’s face twisted in anger and he pressed the tip of his rifle against the makeshift bandage, causing the ambassador to grunt in pain.

Peter watched the scene, tension twisting his gut. Things were going from bad to worse.

***

Georgia stared up atthe terrorist with wide eyes and had to force herself not to cry out in protest as he prodded Uncle Theo’s injured limb.

The leader’s gaze switched to her face and she hastily lowered her eyes to the floor. Not fast enough.

He grabbed her by the hair and forced her to her feet.

“You are a problem,” he said coldly. “My men are too easily distracted by your—” his gaze swept over her, distaste curling and twisting his features, “—Western coloring.”

“Don’t hurt her,” the ambassador rasped, trying to sit up farther in the chair.

The leader sneered at him. “You are a weak man, to be so ruled by a woman.” His fist closed in her hair, tightening the strands around his knuckles. Georgia struggled not give voice to her pain.

“Let her go.” Peter’s voice pulled the leader’s attention away from Mitchell and Georgia, and he visibly reined himself in. “Put her with the rest of the hostages.”

The terrorist narrowed his eyes. Georgia could almost hear the gears clanking in his head.

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