The Equalisers. Debra Webb
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Anders?” She looked from the passports to him. “How did you get these pictures?”
The underlying suspicion in her voice wasn’t unexpected. “You left a copy of your driver’s license and the most recent photo you had of your son for your file.” The guy who’d made the new passports was a true artist. The absolute best Spencer had seen. Not that he’d associated with that many forgers in the past, but a man couldn’t work covert operations without rubbing shoulders with the underbelly from time to time. “The pictures were altered subtly, that’s why you didn’t immediately recognize them.”
She stared at the passports and new driver’s license for a moment or two longer. “They look authentic.”
“I don’t think we’ll have a problem getting through the checkpoints.”
Her continued hesitation had just about convinced him that she would balk at crossing this particular legal line, but then she surprised him.
“I’m glad you had the foresight to take this step.” She placed the passports and license back on his desk. “You’re right. He probably has me on some sort of watch list to ensure he gets a call if I show up in his country again. I should have thought of that.”
He contemplated explaining to her that it was his job to weigh all the possibilities, that he’d been trained for that very purpose, but that wasn’t necessary. When she’d had time to think about it, she would realize that rationale without him having to tell her. Right now he very much needed her to believe he regarded her as capable. Destroying her self-confidence any further would not be conducive to a good working relationship, a relationship he hoped wouldn’t prove to be a fatal mistake for one or both of them.
“We’ll be traveling on business,” he went on, laying out the rest of the plan for her. “Real estate. We have a client who hired us to scout out office space in Kuwait. I’ve booked a hotel already. I opted for something outside the main tourist areas in order to keep our profile as low as possible.”
“How soon can we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning. There’s a short layover in Amsterdam, but that’s actually going to tie in nicely with our cover profile. I’ve arranged an appointment in Amsterdam to view a commercial property. We’ll need all the credibility we can manage since we don’t have time to set the profiles as fully as I’d prefer.”
Willow wasn’t sure she understood exactly what he meant when he said “set” the profiles, but since he was the expert on this kind of thing, she’d let him make the rules. The idea of pretending to be his wife had initially put her off, then she’d realized he was right. Definitely. That he was thinking two or more steps ahead inspired her confidence. Since this might very well be her last hope, at least until she could save up more money, she wanted the effort to be worthy.
No, what she wanted was for the effort to be successful. She wanted to escape Kuwait with her son. Once they were back in this country her attorney would take the appropriate measures to protect her and Ata from her ex-husband. Unfortunately, no matter that the American courts had ruled in her favor from the beginning, if she didn’t have Ata in her custody there was nothing she could do. Extradition didn’t apply to stolen children. This was the only way.
“Do you have any packing instructions?” She knew how to dress for life in Kuwait, but she didn’t have any idea the fashion essentials for covert maneuvers.
“You’ll need rubber-soled shoes. Sneakers will do. Dark clothing for night wear and something along the lines of khakis for daytime. Modest attire, as I’m sure you know. Our main objective is to blend in wherever we are, whatever the hour.”
She got it. And he was right about the modesty thing, not that the concept would ever be a problem for her, she’d been raised far too strictly even to consider otherwise. Still, a woman in Kuwait was expected to be covered. The less skin revealed the better. Long sleeves, long hemlines, high necklines. Even though the western influence had changed the way some women opted to dress, many, especially the male hierarchy, did not approve of this choice. The only way to ensure she drew no unnecessary attention was to follow the old-school rules.
What she really wanted to know more about was this man’s plan for stealing her son away from her ex and his obsessed mother. “What’s your game plan once we’ve arrived? I mean…” She didn’t want to sound dumb or impatient. The investigators she’d hired previously had kept their methods to themselves. Not asking enough questions might or might not have been a mistake, either way she didn’t intend to take the risk this time. She needed to stay on top of every move. “Do you already have an idea of how you want to approach my son?”
Those gray eyes studied her for what felt like half a lifetime before he spoke. She couldn’t decide if he was weighing just how much to tell her or if he simply wanted to gauge her readiness for moving forward.
“The first day we’ll acclimate and do the tourist gig to make ourselves look legit. Then we’ll set up surveillance and wait for the right opportunity.” He lifted those massive shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Or we’ll create an opportunity of our own.”
He sounded so confident, so casual, as if he did this sort of thing every day. She wanted desperately to believe it would be so easy. But a part of her was scared to death that she would gamble on this last-ditch effort and fail, leaving her with nothing.
Not even hope.
This was the moment. Dread knotted in her chest. She’d wrestled all night with the question of whether she should tell him about the last P.I.’s investigator. She’d intended to tell Jim Colby on their first meeting and she’d actually hinted at it, but she hadn’t come right out with what she knew. Part of her was scared to death this man would opt not to go through with his plan if he understood the full risk. He might see this as information he had needed before agreeing to move forward with her case and use her omission as grounds to pull out.
Anxiety tightened like a noose around her throat.
No matter how she weighed it, justified it or pretended the truth away, he deserved to know that truth. As desperately as she wanted her son home with her, she could not bring herself to allow him to go forward blind.
“There’s one other thing I should probably tell you.” She drew in a much-needed breath and reminded herself that she had no choice. “The last P.I. I hired, Mr. Davenport, sent a man to find my son and bring him back home to me.” Willow moistened her lips and prayed that she wasn’t about to make a major mistake. “He got very close. Close enough to take pictures of my baby in a number of settings and situations. I can’t believe just how close he managed to get.”
Those gray eyes continued to peer right through hers, as if he could see into her deepest, darkest thoughts. He asked, “Did this man learn anything that might be useful to our operation? I was under the impression none of the other investigators had accomplished anything of real value.”
The realization that his deep voice contained an edge that hadn’t been there before filled her with dread. If he changed his mind or decided he couldn’t trust her… she just didn’t know what she would do then.
“None of the others were able even to get close… except for the last one. If he discovered anything useful, Mr. Davenport didn’t pass the information along to me.” Don’t stop now. Just do it. Say what had to be said. “Davenport did say that he had lost contact with the man he sent in—the one who got the pictures. He believes the man may have been taken prisoner or murdered by my ex-husband or a member of his personal security.”
There, she’d said it.
She waited for Anders’s response, her heart flailing behind her sternum so she could scarcely draw in enough air. Please don’t let him back out now. Not now. They had to do this. She had to get to her baby, had to bring him home.
“This operation comes with major risks, Ms. Harris. Risks are a part of my job. But what you’ve just told me is all the more reason for you to stay right here while I go do what has to be done.”
Relief