“That’s not how this is supposed to work. You provide the data, and we do the assessment.”
“So, now I’m guilty in some way because I dated Brenda? Does that mean that anyone who’s had a past relationship with a suspect is guilty by association?”
Before Christine could answer, he asked, “What about you and Mixell? You, Harrison, and Mixell are childhood chums. Best buddies. Given your previous relationship with Mixell, why aren’t you under suspicion every time he pops onto our radar?”
Rolow had a point. Her close friendship with Mixell was a delicate issue, considering current events. But she decided to ignore Rolow’s question.
“What happened between you?”
Rolow smiled, recognizing Christine’s deflection of his question. “I found her to be a bit too… conniving.”
Christine laughed. “Too conniving for the CIA’s deputy director for operations?”
“Brenda is a brilliant woman, her intellect overshadowed only by her ambition. She’s bent on climbing the rungs of power, always working on one scheme or another. To Brenda, relationships are merely a means to an end. She was more interested in what I could do for her professionally than what I had to offer as a boyfriend or husband. Regarding our relationship, there’s nothing noteworthy that I can recall. But if you must know the details, her favorite color is pink and she loves strawberry ice cream. She’s really good in bed, and her favorite position is — ”
“Okay, you can stop,” Christine interjected.
There was a tense moment between them before Christine asked, “Is there anything noteworthy that you recall about Brenda?”
“Not at the moment.”
“If you do, let us know.”
“Of course. That was always the plan.” Rolow smiled again. “Is there anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” Christine replied.
40
SALMIYA, KUWAIT
Harrison stepped from the bathroom into the small bedroom, his hair still damp from his shower. It was warm in the room — it was still over a hundred degrees in the city even though night had fallen — and he wore only a pair of shorts. Khalila was likewise skimpily dressed after her shower, wearing a thin white spaghetti-strap shirt that contrasted with her olive skin, plus a matching pair of cotton gym shorts. She was sitting on a wide window ledge, her long legs drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around her shins, staring at the nightlife traversing the busy street below.
Khalila had been unusually quiet after her confrontation with Rolow during their VTC with Langley. As she stared at the city lights, she seemed lost in her thoughts.
“You should move away from the window,” Harrison said.
“I’m fine,” Khalila said. “It’s bullet-resistant glass.”
They were in a flat on the sixth floor of the safe house. Tonight, the facility was packed with every paramilitary operations officer that Ashour could get his hands on, and Khalila and Harrison had agreed to share a room, as they typically did while traveling. Things appeared calm at the moment, with both intelligence organizations — the CIA and Kuwait Security Service — taking a pause from the previous night’s bloodshed, assessing how best to proceed. Not taking any chances, Ashour had reinforced the safe house, in case the KSS had discovered its location and decided to take retribution.
Harrison sat opposite her on the window ledge, checking out the scene below before focusing on Khalila. He had to admit, as his eyes followed her long black hair falling across her shoulders and chest to the thin cotton shirt and shorts clinging to her body, that she was quite attractive. If only her personality were as pleasant as her physique.
Before he turned in for the night, he wanted to thank Khalila for what she had done. Even though he didn’t fully trust her, she had come through for him — twice. In the warehouse in Alexandria a few months ago, Mixell had him pinned down, preparing for the kill shot. Khalila had moved into the open, drawing Mixell’s fire while Harrison regrouped, and she had taken two bullets. The previous night, she had helped him again. As Iqbal had stated, she could have walked away, leaving Harrison to his fate. But she had engaged instead, taking on five armed men.
Khalila must have felt his eyes on her because she shifted her gaze to him.
“I want to thank you for what you did at the Seif,” he said. “You didn’t have to.”
“Actually,” she replied, “I did. Once it became clear that Rashidi had the information we needed, you became indispensable. There was no way Rolow was going to authorize an operation involving Rashidi and assign additional personnel, so you were all I had.”
Harrison suddenly realized that Khalila had planned to kill Rashidi all along. Gaining an audience with him had been easy, as she had predicted. But after slashing his throat, there was no way she could have fought her way out. That’s where he had come in, clearing the path for her.
“Well, I’m glad you clarified that. For a moment, I thought you were a genuinely caring person looking out for your partner.”
“Not really,” she said as she turned away, staring out the window again.
Harrison wasn’t sure what to make of the situation or of Khalila — whether she had simply used him or they made a great team. Either way, her ruthless nature left him uneasy.
Fatigue was setting in — they’d been up most of the previous night and all day — and Khalila must have been exhausted as well, but something was keeping her up.
“You should get some sleep,” he said.
“It’s difficult for me,” she said as she stared out the window, “especially in places and times like this.” She turned back to Harrison. “I envy you. Sometimes I watch you while you sleep. You don’t wrestle with demons. You go to sleep each night knowing you have done the right thing: fighting to protect your country.”
Demons. Khalila had provided an opening. An opportunity to learn more about her — how she ended up working for the CIA, or even a clue to who she really was.
“Tell me about your demons.”
“They do not concern you.”
“You’re my partner, so I’d say they do concern me.”
She stared at him for a long moment, and he saw the same glint in her eyes that he had noticed in Sochi, when they had struck their original deal to work together — that she wouldn’t kill him if he learned too much about her, as long as he kept it to himself.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I don’t know if it’s revenge I seek or atonement.”
Harrison often wondered what motivated Khalila. She was a driven woman — that was clear. But for what purpose?
“Did you lose someone important, and that’s the reason you work for the CIA?”
“You could say that.”
Harrison examined her hands. She wore no rings, no medallion around her neck, no token from a loved one she had lost.
Before he had a chance to inquire further, she said, “This conversation ends now.”
41
SALMIYA, KUWAIT
Jake Harrison returned to the safe house room after having breakfast with Marzouq Ashour in the common area, expecting to find Khalila still asleep. Instead, she was almost fully dressed, wearing a purple blouse — short-sleeved again, since knives were strapped to both forearms — and a dark gray business suit, with the jacket lying on the bed beside a coordinating gray-and-purple headscarf.
“Where are we going today?” Harrison asked.
“We aren’t going anywhere. I have a meeting today with individuals who would not take kindly to your presence.”
“Is that because I’m American, Caucasian, or a former Navy SEAL?”