had surrounded the hotel, he’d knocked on her door looking thoroughly exhausted. He’d said little as she ushered him in, only that he’d visited Senada’s grave and run into Bilal, her youngest brother. “But that was all right,” he insisted before pouring himself, completely clothed, onto the twin bed; his long, lanky frame left his sandaled feet dangling over the rose-tinted bloodwood floor. In seconds, he fell asleep.
Jenna saw no reason to wake him now. After performing her morning routine before the mirror, with the added difficulty of a bandage on her right hand, she slipped out the door, eager to have breakfast in the Golden Crescent’s open-air, four-star restaurant. Turning a corner, she spotted a Malé policeman by the elevator, relieved that a tight cloak of security still clung to the building. Nobody believed that Al Qaeda’s presence in the Maldives had begun and ended with the young man who’d tried to blow up a hotel.
She nodded at the officer, and repeated the gesture when the elevator opened to reveal one of his colleagues at the control panel. More police and members of the National Defense Force were posted at the lobby’s entrances and exits. Jenna offered them all her best smile—nothing like a real crisis to make you thankful for law enforcement—and was about to take a table that offered an expansive view of the ocean when she heard a woman call her name. She turned to meet the imperious gaze of Alicia Gant and realized that she could not escape the news producer’s company, no matter how unappetizing she might make even the most enticing breakfast soufflé. But what stunned Jenna was when Alicia’s companion turned around—and Nicci smiled at her.
They both waved her over. With no concern for pleasantries, or so much as a brisk “Good morning,” Alicia said, “We’re going to need a live interview with you about last night’s attempt to bomb this place to hell and back. If nothing astounding happens with Birk, the network’s going back to normal programming and you’re the lead story, so we’ve got to get this done soon.”
“I had no idea that we’d have to move this fast,” Jenna said.
“Of course not, you’re not a journalist.”
“Were you going to call me about—”
“I was just about to,” Alicia interrupted, “when you waltzed in.”
Waltzed?
“Maybe we’ll even get lucky,” Alicia continued, “and Birk will hurry up and bleed to death. I’m so sick of looking at his face.”
Jenna spied a huge flat-screen TV on a lobby wall about forty feet away. “Where is he?” She hadn’t thought to check on Birk till now, and she wondered if she’d ever develop strong news instincts.
“He’s been off the air since one thirty this morning,” Nicci said.
Jenna noticed Alicia slide her hand over to Nicci’s. The two women entwined their fingers and Nicci gave Alicia such a warm smile that it shocked Jenna. Not because the producers apparently had spent the night together—though if Jenna could have picked a partner for Nicci it never would have been the acerbic Alicia Gant—but because Malé was Muslim, and only the densest or most naïve sensibility would have failed to read this kind of touching. Jenna looked around protectively; nobody seemed to be staring—yet.
“When should we do the interview?” Jenna asked.
Alicia checked her watch. “I gave the crew an early call so they’d be set up when we finished eating. They’re not happy, but tough shit, they’re doing it.” All spoken in a regal tone that Jenna found irritating; she could just imagine how the crew felt. “We’ll do a dry run in twenty minutes. We’re on for real in thirty.”
“I’ll grab a quick bite and run upstairs,” Jenna responded.
“No time, and I should probably brief you now. We need you to say—” Alicia stopped as Nicci gripped her hand tightly and shook her head. For a moment, Jenna sensed that Alicia was going to continue issuing edicts, but she said nothing, and the tropical air, thick with frangipani and sudden panic, seemed to settle at once.
* * *
Birk woke feeling sick. Just like he’d felt when he was going to sleep. Like he felt all the time now. And his shakes wouldn’t stop. A body could take only so much abuse.
His unsteady eyes landed on his bandaged hand, his index finger still sticking out like a chunk of bloody bait from the stained and crusty gauze. At least there were no wire cutters attached right now. Raggedy Ass had dispensed with them so Birk could actually