Born In Secret

The dinner party was to be formal. Although Walker was most comfortable in the basic black worn for breaking and entering, he had packed a dark suit jacket and tie. He wore it now, as he lingered in a corner of the gathering room, observing the steady trickle of guests entering the prime minister’s home. Most of the them wore traditional Maloun garb—flowing white robes for the men and brightly colored caftans for the women.

The presence of the females at the dinner gave the appearance that this was purely a social event, but Walker knew differently. Where politicians were involved, socializing was business. Some of his most lucrative tips had been picked up at parties much like this one.

But it would be Jasmine’s job to elicit whatever interesting information was to be had tonight. After dinner, he had other matters requiring his attention.

Of its own volition, his gaze sought her out now, standing in the center of a small crowd, smiling brilliantly at a swarthy man who was bending over her hand.

The kick in the stomach he experienced at the sight was most easily blamed on the bitter tea he was drinking. In her brilliant blue caftan she resembled an exquisitely crafted Madonna he’d once stolen from the Boston home of a wealthy shipping magnate. The memory filled him with something close to nostalgia. The piece was one of the few fruits of his earlier career that he still owned. He knew he’d never look at it again without thinking of Jasmine.

She’d done something to her eyes before this trip to disguise their shape. The makeup made the upper lids look heavier, as though she’d recently climbed out of a man’s bed.

The thought brought him no pleasure. He, better than anyone, knew how deceptive her looks were. They were a tool, one she wielded with skill. Right now they seemed to be working quite effectively on the man who hadn’t yet released her hand as he rattled off a spate of Arabic.

Gripping his cup more tightly, he tore his gaze away. The women had gathered on one side of the room, leaving the men and Jasmine on the other. Voices, conversations mingled, broken by an occasional burst of laughter. Walker found he was able to interpret much of what was said. Jasmine had been following the script when she told El-Dabir he spoke only English. Although not fluent in Arabic, he was able to understand quite a bit of it. He’d spent a fair amount of time in one Middle Eastern trouble spot or another.

He strolled closer to the group surrounding Jasmine. Pausing in front of a rather bad portrait of the prime minister, he pretended to admire it until they were all seated for dinner. Mentally he sifted through the snippets of conversations flowing around him.

“…until he is weaned, and then I shall…”

“…perhaps we will have to let him go. He no longer…”

“…not depart from what we discussed.” Instinct had Walker’s inner radar honing in more closely on the last sentence. With a skill born of long practice he ignored the rest of the talk and focused on the dialogue that had caught his interest.

“I will do exactly as instructed. You will not be disappointed.”

Walker recognized El-Dabir’s ingratiating tones, but the other voice belonged to a stranger. Not daring to turn around at the moment, he contented himself with listening.

“There should be no problem. She is only a woman.”

Inwardly amused, he wondered what Jaz would have to say about the man’s assessment. There was no doubt in Walker’s mind that the conversation concerned her. People drifted by, making their way into the dining room, and he shifted closer to the pair of men, as if politely making room for the guests.

“…have a hand in his own destruction.” The noise from the people passing by them had covered all but the last of the sentence. Walker found himself wondering just what he’d missed. The room was clearing out and there was no longer any reason to linger. He made his way into the next room and turned, scanning the area for an empty seat. From the corner of his eye he watched the men he’d been eavesdropping on as they entered. As he’d suspected, one was the prime minister and the other a short man in his mid-sixties with a weather-beaten face. He made a mental note to ask Jasmine about him later.

Even as Walker slipped into a seat at the end of the table, El-Dabir’s companion made his way to the table head. Jasmine sat across and down the table from Walker, flanked by the prime minister and a sleekly polished man on her left. Keeping his attention trained on the dishes placed in front of him, he listened carefully as the stranger monopolized Jasmine’s attention.

“You are too young and beautiful to be a widow, Madame Mahrain. How long ago did your husband die?”

“Two years,” Jasmine answered with just the right amount of sorrow in her tone. “He was killed in a car accident.”

“Allow me to express my regret for your loss.” The stranger reached out, stroked the back of her hand for an instant. “Had you been married long?”

Walker held his breath, but he needn’t have worried. Jasmine had perfected her lines before they’d left Tamir. “We had been married for ten years, and engaged for two years before that.” Her smile was hauntingly sad. A man would have to be made of granite not to respond. The stranger by her side, Walker noted, did not appear to be made of stone. He stared at her with an expression all too easy for another man to recognize.

The man leaned toward her, lowered his voice. “I hope I will have the opportunity to banish some of the sorrow I see in your beautiful eyes. I would like to show you some of our country before you leave.”

“That is a kind offer, Mr. Abdul.”

“Please.” Again he touched her hand briefly, then reached for his tea, his gaze never leaving her. “You must feel free to call me Tariq.”

Jasmine hesitated, her gaze dropping to her plate. “Tariq. I do not know that I will have any free time. The business that brings me to Maloun is very serious.”

“In any business, madame, there must be time for pleasure.” The man showed his teeth in a brilliant display, clearly unwilling to give up. He appeared to be a man used to getting what he wanted, Walker thought narrowly. People acquired that kind of confidence from money, position or power. He didn’t know which fit Tariq Abdul, but he’d find out.

The voices from the guests were a distant hum. Walker paused outside the only door on the lower floor that he’d found locked. It was safe to presume it was the prime minister’s study.

Keeping a careful eye out for lost guests or inquisitive servants, he withdrew the pen from his pocket and checked for security devices. He exchanged the pen for a thin, flexible length of wire, which he fed into the lock. After a couple of quick twists, a click was heard. Faintly irritated, he turned the knob and slipped into the room. When people made it so easy, it took the thrill right out of it.

Gloves, he’d found, could be hard to explain if someone happened by. The container of spray he’d brought along applied a thin layer of wax to fingers and palms, while allowing for greater dexterity.

He closed the door behind him and took out a small compact machine resembling the size of a pocket organizer. A press of a button had the two halves springing open, revealing a screen on one side and command keys on the other. One of Walker’s newest acquisitions, it functioned as a combination scanner and computer. He switched it on and went to the desk.

The locks on the drawers were less of a challenge than the one on the door. Swiftly he withdrew the papers he found there, then dragged the screen over each, moving it left to right until the full sheet had been copied into the mini computer. Then he moved to the next. In less than five minutes he was done. Replacing the materials, he resecured the locks and surveyed the room.

Surprisingly, there was no computer in sight. Maloun wasn’t a particularly advanced country, but Walker hadn’t expected a complete lack of technology in the room where the prime minister conducted his business. He set his mini computer on the desk and reached for a pocket flashlight. Playing it along the walls and floor, he studied the area. A man like El-Dabir would have secrets. And a man with secrets must have a place to store them, if not in encrypted computer files, then in something a little more traditional.

He found what he was looking for a few minutes later when he moved a painting aside. The prime minister had made up for his lack of imagination by installing a very decent wall safe, with numbered tumblers. In his youth Walker would have simply drilled it or used a small amount of plastique. But his current career often called for a bit more finesse. He didn’t want El-Dabir to know that his security had been breached. From the pouch fastened around his waist, he withdrew another small bag and shook out four pieces of curved metal. The devices were fairly new; Dirk hadn’t even had a set, and Walker knew the man prided himself on having the best.

Carefully he arranged them to surround the dial. Magnetized, they clung to the metal face of the safe. But these were no ordinary magnets. The pull of the specially constructed devices would interfere with the tumbler action, scrambling the combination until the safe simply sprang open. He swung the dial completely around clockwise, then reversed the action. With only a few more manipulations, the door swung outward.

Reaching for his pocket flashlight again, Walker surveyed the contents. There were more papers inside, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that these would be of more interest than the ones he’d found in the prime minister’s desk. He copied each of them, then set them aside. There was a .357 Magnum, complete with holster and cartridges. His brows raised. El-Dabir believed in heavy firepower.

A small black notebook was in the back, so Walker withdrew it and copied each of its pages, then replaced it. A bundle of photos revealed that the prime minister had a penchant for porn. Those were the only objects in the safe, and all of them were perched atop some stacked bundles. Examining one of them, he gave a silent whistle. Each package was full of one hundred dollar bills, U.S. currency. And there were at least fifty packages.

It was late when Jasmine entered her room. Stripping off the caftan, she hung it on a hanger. Then with a sigh of relief, she unfastened the Velcro straps of the specially designed undergarment she wore.

It covered her from breasts to hips, and completely changed the shape of her body, flattening her chest and adding pounds to her middle. It was exceedingly hot and not very comfortable, but would effectively throw off any description of her. She slipped into a short silky nightgown and went to the adjoining bathroom to brush her teeth.

And nearly had a heart attack when a hand clapped over her mouth, pulling her hard against a solid masculine chest.

“Quiet.”

The word, breathed in her ear, was accompanied by a push to the door, shutting it. Only then was the hand removed from her mouth. Her elbow came out then, slamming into Walker’s ribs. She was annoyed enough with him to be pleased by his hiss of pain.

“What are you doing in my bathroom?” Her words were whispered, but didn’t lack vehemence.

“Getting the hell beat out of me, apparently. Turn on the shower. Cold water.”

She did so, waited until the water was beating a solid spray, then turned around. He must have found, as she had, that there was no listening device planted in the bathroom, which wasn’t surprising. The moisture in the air would have interfered with its functioning. The sound of the shower running was just a precaution. Walker was nothing if not careful.

He was still dressed as he’d been at dinner, and an unwelcome shiver chased down her spine. He had seemed to arouse no undue curiosity from the men at the dinner tonight, but he’d been the object of many surreptitious glances from the ladies. Being female herself, she could appreciate their interest. On a purely objective level, of course.

The solid black he’d chosen only accentuated the aura of sexuality he exuded. Other men wouldn’t pick up on such a thing, but it was certain that women did. It was something that couldn’t be disguised. She wondered if he was even aware of it, and then decided in the next instant that he was. He was entirely too confident around women for it to be otherwise.

“Here.” He unfolded a small handheld machine and pressed a button. Instantly a screen display on one side lit up. “I want you to skim through these, see if any of it’s important. It would take me all night to decipher the Arabic.”

She took the machine from him, turning it one way and then another to examine it. “What is this?” she asked, marveling at the technology. She’d never seen anything like it.

He explained how it could copy documents, storing them for later retrieval. She was impressed, and said so. Her method of taking pictures of records to be blown up for later reading was a more time-consuming process.