A Dangerous Year Page 2
She thrust out her hand to my dad, gripping his in an efficient greeting. “Mr. Ambassador, I’m Natalie Abramowitz with the Washington bureau. I apologize for turning up uninvited.”
“Natalie, please call me Joe.” Eliminating titles was a negotiating tactic meant to bring both sides together quickly, and my dad did it unconsciously.
“And you must be Riley,” she said, sizing me up in much the same way Nadira did when buying a leg of lamb from the butcher.
“And I’m Special Agent Benson.” He stepped protectively between Natalie and me, having also picked up our visitor’s unusual scrutiny.
My dad gestured for everyone to be seated. “It must be something important to bring you all this way,” he said.
“Yes.” She hesitated. “Perhaps you’d like to have this discussion in private?”
He waved away her concern. “These two will know everything we discuss before you’ve even checked into your hotel. We might as well save everyone time and trouble.”
“I see,” she said. “Your daughter’s file landed on my boss’s desk and I must say, it’s quite impressive.” She turned to me, resting her folded arms on the table. “I was also interested to learn you’ve been part of the political life at all the embassies your father has been posted to.”
I’d been a baby when my mother was killed fighting for her purse in a Beirut alley. When I got to the age when most other diplomat’s kids were shipped off to boarding school, Dad made token noises about sending me, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d fought in combat, stared down rebels, and done a ton of other scary things I’d never know about, but he said losing me was more than he could handle.
“She’s been a great asset, which is one of the many reasons I’ve kept her with me,” my dad said, feeling out the situation. “She’s fluent in Arabic and is often included in conversations among the wives at embassy parties. They tend to reveal things their husbands never would.”
“Don’t forget to mention she’s a crack shot, and she took down Martinez last week in hand-to-hand,” Benson cheerfully volunteered, only to be met with my dad’s withering stare. “Well, she did,” he added, not letting Dad have the last word.
“I see,” Natalie murmured with quiet amusement.
I risked a peek at my dad. This woman was way too friendly for someone planning to transfer us to Timbuktu, but something was definitely going down here.
“Riley,” she said, “do you know who Stephen Frasier is?”
Probably the better question was: who didn’t?
My dad answered for me. “What does a tech billionaire have to do with my daughter?”
“Stephen Frasier is developing software with the potential to revolutionize intelligence gathering,” she said. In other words, more efficient ways to spy on each other. “He has agreed to sell it to the U.S. and our allies, and no one else.”
“I’m not sure I understand why you’re telling us this, ma’am,” I said.
“Stephen Frasier has a daughter, Hayden, who’s the same age as you.” She reached for the pretty china teapot Mrs. Parks always set out for guests. “She’s a student at The Harrington Academy.”
Whoa, even I’d heard of that school. It was a swaggy place somewhere in Connecticut catering to children of the rich and fabulous. We’d spent Christmas in Washington a few years back where I’d met some senator’s kid at a holiday party. He thought he was all that and bragged about going to Harrington.
A shadow of concern passed over Natalie’s features as she sipped her tea. “The girl’s safety has been called into question. They’ve recently implemented new security protocols at Harrington, but if the young lady had someone on the inside, who could perhaps accompany her where traditional bodyguards could not, it would add an extra layer of security.”
“Let me guess,” Dad said in a tight voice. “Our government must guarantee his family’s safety from less-ethical competitors, or the deal’s off.”
She leaned back in her chair and shrugged; she was just the messenger, after all. “In a nutshell, yes.”
The subtle shift in my dad’s pose signaled it was time to get down to business. “I assume you’re telling us this because your superiors are interested in Riley?”
Natalie set down her cup, recognizing her opening. “Your report regarding her encounter with the three militants in the marketplace was factual and correct?”
He gave her a sharp nod.
“Then yes, we would like to offer her a place at Harrington.”
ou can’t send me away!” I frantically paced the carpet. Natalie had tactfully withdrawn, leaving the three of us alone to hash over her offer.
“I know it’s earlier than we planned, but you’ll be leaving for college next year anyway,” my dad pointed out, still seated at the table with Benson. “There are people who would kill to get into that school.”
I halted in my tracks. “My tutors say my grades are good enough to get me into a really good college… next year.”
“Grades aren’t always enough,” he said. “Right now, the only extra-curriculars you can list on a college application are street fighting and instigating international incidents. Don’t you think you could use the clout being a Harrington graduate will give you?”
“But look what I’d have to do for it! Those people aren’t like us. The minute I don’t know which fork to use, they’ll skin me alive!” I flailed about for excuses, and from the looks on their faces, they both knew it.
“I think you would really benefit from a year spent with your peers,” Dad said, overriding my protests.
He looked at Benson, and though no words were exchanged, they did that thing where they packed an entire conversation into a single glance. Sometimes it made me want to scream.
Benson picked up his cue. “What your dad is trying to say is maybe what we’ve been teaching you isn’t the most useful of skills for a teenage girl. You need to spend time with girls your own age who are interested in… whatever they’re interested in.” He loved and respected women, but made no secret of the fact he considered us a separate species.
Being raised in hostile foreign lands by a diplomat and his commando sidekick wasn’t exactly normal, but I was turning out okay. Thanks to years of tagging around after Benson I might know more than the average girl about combat sports like jiu-jitsu and kickboxing, or be able to assemble an AR-15 assault rifle blindfolded, but there was nothing wrong with that. And I chose my clothes more for modesty and freedom of movement than to adhere to the latest trends because you never knew when you’d have to fight your way out of a popular uprising or a military coup. I’d like to see Hayden Frasier do that while tottering around in stilettos or lugging a purse the size of carry-on luggage.
“The timing couldn’t be better,” my dad said, warming to the idea. “The school year is just about to start, and you’d be going in as a senior. Sounds pretty good to me.”
“Then you go to Harrington,” I huffed. “I’m staying here.” Pakistan was my home, and these two men were my family. I wanted the extra year I’d been promised.
Once again they did the silent mind meld thing, and some sort of decision must have been reached because Benson nodded.
“There’s something else you should know,” Benson said, facing me squarely. “The cost of your fight in the marketplace has just been named. One of our friendlies tells us you’re now on a list of approved targets.”
I propped a supporting hand on the back of his chair to keep my knees from buckling. “I’ve been marked for death?”
“It’s not as dramatic as all that,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s not like they’ll be popping up in the loo. But you can be sure there’s some bloody Terry out there hoping to make his bones by slitting your throat.”
I’d lost count of how many times I’d attended receptions just like the one we were hosting for a local artist, but this night held a measure of desperation as I clung tightly to every detail. The insistent thrum of guitars, the high-pitch
ed laughter of people determined to forget their troubles, and the hearty clink of crystal as if a toast to happiness guaranteed a bright future. The country was changing, and once I stepped into my new life in America, I would be changed, too.
I retreated to a corner facing a colorful painting of three Arab women in traditional dress, barely noticing how the artist daringly made his subjects look like runway models. I’d spent the last three days coming to grips with how quickly my fate had been sealed, and how fast the time had slipped away until there were mere hours to go before it would be time to say goodbye.
Benson, in a black suit and tie that made him look like the world’s largest undertaker, appeared at my elbow. “I don’t know much about art, but even I know that would look better painted on velvet.” When I didn’t needle him back about his taste being all in his mouth, he said, “Cheer up, darlin’ girl, or you’ll have me weepin’ in my beer.”
He might weep, but there were no tears left in me. If I cried one more time, I would shrivel up and blow away.
“I’m afraid,” I admitted for the first time, even to myself.
“What?” he roared. “Of a princess with an unlimited credit card?”
“No,” I said, though that wasn’t completely true.
As the daughter of an American diplomat, my life in Karachi had value and meaning, but who would I be in Connecticut, a place as foreign to me as the moon? I would be abandoning voiceless girls like Farida, and for what? To obsess over whether I had the same jeans as the latest celebrity? Here I worked at bridging the gap of two unlikely allies, even if it was simply having a casual conversation with a local student over a cup of tea. There I would be forced to bow to the culture of conformity because fighting it would bring more loneliness and isolation.
“I’m afraid,” I said at last, “of forgetting who I am.”
“Who you are,” he said, after contemplating the painting in front of us for several more moments, “is someone who will always choose to do what is right rather than what is easy. I should know. There wasn’t a gray hair on my head before I met you.” He grinned, rubbing his hand over his prickly scalp for emphasis.
I sighed. “But am I ready?”
Benson put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder.
“How many recruits do you reckon I’ve trained as your dad’s security chief? Two hundred? Three hundred? And I’ll tell you what: no matter what I do, no matter how well prepared they are to go into the field, when the bullets start flying they either duck and run for cover, or they stand and fight. There’s nothing I can do to change who they are.”
I squinted up at him in confusion. “And…?”
“And nothing,” he said. “You’ve already been tested by those men in the marketplace. You know who you are, and nobody is going to change that—least of all some snot-nosed ankle biters barely out of nappies. Are we clear?”
He thought that settled matters, so he led me to the next painting, where he insisted the addition of a few dogs playing poker would be the only thing that could save it from the garbage heap.
“How much am I worth anyway?” I asked. At his raised brow, I added, “The marked for death list. What’s the price on my head?”
He cleared his throat and tugged at his tie. “Er, two goats and a chicken.”
“That’s it?” I was worth at least two camels and a mule.
It appeared my options had been whittled down to one of two choices: go to one of the most elite schools in America, or stay in Karachi where my life could be traded for a large family meal.
My dad eased himself away from a nearby group and joined us. “Up for a game?” he asked me.
There were at least fifty guests still milling about the embassy. “What about the party?”
He smiled. “For once I’m going to pull rank and do what I want to do. Right now, I’d like to play chess with my daughter.”
Benson squeezed my hand in farewell. He knew I couldn’t say no to a match with my dad.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” he said to my dad. “I’ll toss these freeloading blighters out soon enough.”
“Guests, Benson, they are our guests,” my dad said with an exasperated sigh.
“To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Benson mumbled as he strolled away.
A few minutes later, Dad and I met in the family room of our private quarters, both of us having changed into T-shirts and shorts. The alabaster chess set had been my mom’s wedding gift to her new husband, and sat ever ready on a small, round table with two leather armchairs stationed nearby.
He’d been a minor chess champ back in the day and still played a wicked game. We’d been playing together since I was old enough to understand the rules, but I didn’t win my first match until I was twelve. After that, my record of wins steadily grew to the point where now we were evenly matched. It wasn’t really the competition that drew us back to the board week after week, year after year. Here was where we talked. Sometimes I was pissed at him for being so preoccupied I needed an appointment to get his attention. Other times he was annoyed because I happened to bend a few unimportant embassy rules. Occasionally we were happily in sync, and he would tell stories about my mother that kept me hanging on his every word, trying to imagine the black and white photo on his desk coming to life.
In one of Benson’s more brilliant moments, he dubbed it chess therapy. And we were both painfully aware tonight was our final session.
“Natalie Abramowitz called me today,” my dad said, opening the game and the conversation. He was playing white tonight.
After we’d accepted her offer, Natalie hadn’t even bothered to spend the night before hopping the next plane back to Washington. I countered the move and waited for him to continue.
“I’m afraid it’s gotten a bit more complicated than we expected,” he said, putting a second pawn into play.
“Doesn’t it always,” I muttered, sending one of my own pawns into battle.
He pretended not to hear me. “Hayden Frasier has a history of slipping away from her bodyguards.” He tapped a finger on one of his knights, deliberating. “Natalie said it would be best if Hayden didn’t know why you were there.” He committed to his charger and sent it into the field.
“Won’t she wonder why I’m following her around?” The word “stalker” came to mind, but Dad hated sarcasm. It came from years of having to watch every word and nuance so a sarcastic retort didn’t result in World War III.
“Not if you two are friends.” He frowned as I marched a rook toward his front lines.
“Yeah, ‘cause we have so much in common,” I said, unable to resist.
He looked up from the board. “Why do you think I reach out to all the local players when we arrive at a new posting? Think about it.”
I scowled, and decided he deserved an all-out attack. I unleashed my bishop. “You make it sound so easy.”
“Easy?” He let out a laugh. “No. But it’s time to decide what kind of life you want. Do you want it to be big and exciting and worthwhile? Here’s your chance.”
“And you think Harrington’s going to do that for me?” I took down one of his pawns.
“No, you’re going to do that for you. You’re my smart, strong-willed daughter who understands that sometimes the best opportunities are the ones you never see coming.” He moved his bishop into an offensive position.
We played in silence for a while as I pondered his words. Finally I asked, “You don’t really think Hayden Frasier is in any danger, do you?”
His hand hovered over the board as he considered my question. “I wouldn’t let you go if I thought you’d come to harm.” He set his queen down in front of my king. “Check.”
“You didn’t exactly answer my question,” I pointed out, slipping out of the trap.
“I’m an ambassador. I don’t have to directly answer any questions,” he smiled, feigning a superior air.
I almost fumbled the rook in my hand. “Dad, are you being sarcastic?”
“Fine,” I said. “Checkmate.”
he scent of rotting garbage and jet fuel clung to the stagnant air. Benson fussed like I was a shiny five-year-old heading off for her first day of kindergarten, while my dad retreated behind a stoic façade.
“Now if there’s anything you need,” Benson said, straightening my collar for the third time, “call me, day or night. That includes dumping the bodies of any randy blokes who even think of laying a paw on you.”
I gave him a watery smile. “Yes, Mom.”
Dad grabbed me into a hug that would have gone on forever if my military escort hadn’t impatiently cleared his throat. The transport to Germany would leave with or without me, so with a final nervous glance at the two men who were my unlikely parents, I dashed across the hot tarmac to a C-27 Spartan revving its engines.
Twenty-two hours later we touched down at Wheeler-Sack Army Airfield in upstate New York. I’d caught a ride with a 10th Mountain Division platoon at the end of their tour, playing chess with a handful of guys all the way across the Atlantic. We’d played for pocket change, and I happily swept the winning pot into my purse as we taxied to a stop.
“Are you sure you’re only seventeen?” The good-natured staff sergeant with a Tennessee twang had lost five bucks to me.
With a lot of fist bumping and calls of good luck, the soldiers filed off the transport and into the arms of excited families waiting with new babies and homemade signs of welcome. Shouldering my travel-weary duffle bag, I trudged down the ramp and into my future.
It took only a moment to find my ride; she was impossible to miss. The woman impatiently waiting next to a black town car looked like she could wrestle alligators and win. Standing almost six feet tall, she was a solid mass of muscle with a square jaw, copper skin, and tight black curls sculpted into a helmet rising a good four inches above her scalp. Her dark eyes swept over me, and by her sour expression, it was apparent she’d pulled the short straw for this assignment. Now I knew how new recruits must feel when meeting Benson for the first time.