“Marty. Martha. The girl I met at the bar when you were here last. The one who shot me down. We’ve been . . . kind of seeing each other.”
That was putting it mildly. He’d seen all of her, many times over that weekend she spent in his bed before she’d left for Greece. And he was hoping to see much more of her, now and for the next oh fifty years or so, God willing.
“She’s been in Greece for the past week,” Peter continued. “She was flying out of Athens today, with a connection to Paris.”
“Jesus.” That being the only thing Tim said didn’t bode well.
Peter swallowed, afraid to ask the question uppermost on his mind. Afraid Tim wouldn’t be able to answer it. Even more afraid that he would.
Finally, he forced out the words. “That’s where you’re going, isn’t it? To rescue the hostages because there are Americans on board.”
Tim drew in an audible breath. “I’ll see what I can find out about Marty and call you back. Where will you be?”
His friend hadn’t answered the question directly, which was an answer in itself. Peter’s heart thundered as he said, “I’m in my office.”
“Okay. I’ll do my best.” Tim hung up, but his non-answer was the only answer Peter needed.
There was no doubt in his mind that SEAL Team Two had been called in because of the hostage crisis. Whether Tim was just on stand-by or they’d be flying out to mount a take-down of the hijackers, Peter didn’t know, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.
He laid the receiver in the cradle and ran his finger over the stuffed Rolodex containing the senator’s contacts, flipping the tiny cards one by one as he reasoned out who among them would be able to get him what he wanted—that list of passenger names. Possibly even this country’s plans for a rescue.
Would it cost him his position there if he used the senator’s name to gain information without his permission? At the moment, Peter didn’t care.
One pass through all the contacts didn’t prove very promising. There were a few weak relationships that might offer maybe a slight chance of gleaning him the flight manifest of the hijacked plane. But nothing strong.
At this rate, he might be better off sitting in front of a television and waiting for the list of passengers to be released to the public.
That—waiting, helpless—might just kill him. It would at least give him an ulcer.
He was about to go through the contacts again when the phone on his desk rang. He dove for the receiver, nearly dropping it when the twisted cord fought him.
Finally, he untangled the cord and said, “Hello?”
“It’s me.” Tim’s voice would have been a welcome sound, if not for the tone of those two words.
“Tell me,” Peter said, knowing Tim had more to say and there was a good chance he wouldn’t like it.
“Is your Marty’s full name Martha Vanderbilt?”
His heart started to pound. “Yes.”
“She live in DuPont Circle?” he asked.
“Yes.” He swallowed and considered there was a good chance he was about to vomit.
“She’s on the flight.” Tim let out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” Peter asked cautiously. “Are they . . .” He swallowed and began again. “Is she . . .”
Dancing around the question wasn’t going to get him answers. Tim was good, he’d gotten this information some way, possibly through less than legal channels and his connections in the Navy, but he was not a mind reader.
Peter braced himself and asked, “Have the hijackers killed any hostages?”
“We don’t believe so. No.”
The air whooshed out of his lungs. “Thank God.”
If she was alive there was still hope. But for how long?
“The radio said they’re in Libya. Are you being sent there?”
“Pete, you know I can’t say.”
Peter clenched his jaw. “I know.”
He couldn’t be angry at his friend. Tim had already given him more information than he should have, at great risk to his career. But he could be angry at the situation. At the hijackers. At the whole damn universe for giving him Marty and then taking her away.
“Will you be able to call again if you learn more?” he asked.
“I doubt it, but I’ll try. If I can, I will.”
That was all he could ask of his friend. All he could expect. That he’d try.
Peter drew in a breath. “Okay. Thank you.”
Tim might not be able to do more for him, but Peter wasn’t without resources of his own.
He said goodbye to Tim and returned to the senator’s contacts. There had to be someone in there who had the power to help and Peter wasn’t above lying to get him to do it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“On behalf of our crew, I’d like to welcome you to Air France Flight 139. Our flight time from Athens to Paris is . . .”
Marty only half listened to the stewardess’s speech.
The same words had already been delivered in French, which Marty spoke and understood fluently. Since she hadn’t been all that interested in what the woman had to say the first time, she instead stared out the window.
Her final glimpses of Greece grew slowly smaller as the plane climbed higher. She couldn’t be too sad to leave such a beautiful place because she was ready to be home.
She had her story to write. And being with her cousins was great for a week. But for a month? She’d lose her mind. A person could only wake to a day of drinking champagne and lounging in the sun so many times before it started to get old.
And then there was Peter. She ignored the small yearning feeling inside when she thought about him. And for some reason she had thought about him, often, while she was in Greece.
She refused to say she missed him, but she was willing to admit to herself she was looking forward to seeing him again.
Just this flight, a night in Paris, then tomorrow night, she’d be back home in the States.
Until then, she could make good use of her time in the air. Marty reached for the notebook and pen she’d stashed in the pocket of the seat in front of her prior to take-off. She could probably draft the bulk of her article before they landed.
Commotion drew her attention away from her notes as two men stood, rising from their seats, one on each side of the aisle a couple of rows in front of Marty.
The stewardess glanced from one man to the other. “I’m sorry. The pilot hasn’t turned off the seat belt sign.”
When two more people began walking up the aisle from somewhere behind Marty, one man and one woman, the stewardess repeated her warning.
Marty wouldn’t have normally thought all that much about it. Travelers broke airline rules all the time. Standing when they should sit. Leaving seat belts unbuckled. Smoking in the non-smoking section of the plane. But to see four of them at once, accompanied by the stewardess’s visibly rising agitation, sent warning bells ringing in the back of Marty’s brain.
Marty wasn’t the only one who noticed something was wrong. The flight buzzed with murmurs in various languages.
An elder passenger in a suit stood and questioned what was happening.
One of the men spat loud, angry sounding orders at the gentleman in German, who, after a concerned look at the stewardess, backed off and returned to his seat.