his jaw, and then she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. They were so close, inches apart, his look penetrating her much more deeply than even his most eager, aroused exertions. These were the most intensely loving moments that she’d ever known.
She finally had to pry herself away for a fast shower. She dried and dressed quickly, and packed in record time. Jenna was as efficient with her getaways as she was with her weather forecasts.
Together, they headed down to the elevator. Before the doors opened, she gave him one more passionate kiss, knowing it would have to last.
She almost let slip three little words that she hadn’t spoken in years. But she feared that “I love you” would only burden such sweet beginnings, though she felt certain that what they shared went well beyond basic chemistry.
So instead of “I love you,” she said, “I’ll miss you,” but she spoke with an unguarded honesty that was as new to her as the power of real intimacy. Even so, in the next instant Jenna wondered whether she should have gone further and stated her feelings with the same robust abandonment that her body had revealed upstairs—with the same intense longing that her heart had felt so palpably when they lay close to each other.
What if you never get a chance to say it?
Dafoe escorted her to the Ford Fusion. The driver took Jenna’s bag and she slid into the backseat.
Don’t be silly. You’ll have plenty of chances. Why wouldn’t you?
“Hey.” Dafoe motioned for her to lower her window. “Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”
“No telling. Could be over before we get there. Could be weeks.”
“Do you know where you’ll be staying?”
“The Golden Crescent Hotel.”
Dafoe bent toward the car window, and Jenna knew he was going to kiss her again, but the driver pulled out and the moment was lost. She waved at her dairy farmer just before she startled at the sight of her own face; it took a second to realize she was looking at a banner ad for The Morning Show on the side of a bus.
She sat back, smiling, thrilled by Dafoe, her assignment, and the life she felt privileged to have found.
CHAPTER 15
Parvez snapped his cell phone shut and gave thanks to Allah, the one true God. He walked along the shore, beaming. He had been blessed by Allah with insight and understanding, and with the courage to use both.
Warm surf rushed over his feet, washing away the tracks he left behind. In a moment he would be no more present on the beach than he had been on the phone. In the coded language of Al Qaeda, he’d told them of his plan. And in a reply that both surprised and honored him, his commander had ordered Parvez to return to the café across from the Golden Crescent Hotel at 7:00 P.M. tonight for a rendezvous. They had additional jihadists already in place.
But why should I be surprised by their eagerness? Parvez chided himself gently. This is the greatest prize since 9/11, and I recognized that. I have great insight and understanding, he reminded himself. And courage.
He looked up and saw another jumbo jet heading for Malé International Airport, and had no doubt that many of the seats were taken by men and women who, upon landing, would soon head to their place of death. With each hour, more of the most powerful media personalities were arriving on the island—and getting whisked straight to its most exclusive hotel.
He cursed the name of the Golden Crescent Hotel as he hurried to his motor launch. Such a blasphemy to use the word “crescent,” much less to display crescents and stars like cheap ornaments all over a hotel where liquor is served and women flaunt their sex—where the impious pretend they are important.
We will show them, and they will never forget. They had not forgotten 9/11, had they?
He looked at his watch as he boarded his motor launch and started the outboard motor. Ample time. He headed across the turquoise channel, thinking about the one-two punch that he had in store for the Western world. He knew all about this from his studies in Waziristan. The Koran, yes, he had pored over its sacred words every day. But he had studied the strategies and techniques of jihad just as diligently, and no strategy was more basic or brutal—or deeply blessed—than the one-two punch. The hard fist of Allah for the ugly faces of infidels.
A hotel