They’d ordered a family-style meal. Platters of meat and vegetables, breads and sauces filled the long table. Rick noticed a dish that looked similar to the one Cynthia had eaten last night and added that to his plate. He enjoyed the flavor as much as he thought he would.

McBride reached across Peña and grabbed a piece of bread from the basket. “Did anybody read about the Super Bowl today?”

“I did,” Fisher said. “Can’t believe they made it.”

As the conversation moved to sports, Rick’s mind floated back to Cynthia. He did not like that anyone had taken the liberty to enter her room without her permission. It had taken true restraint not to go in himself, to search for bugs or cameras or any kind of hidden threat.

Suddenly, it occurred to him how much she had dominated his mind, and he wondered why. Maybe because of the way she’d looked in that dress, the way it made his mouth go dry? Or maybe the way she moved in the heels that gave her a little bit of height? Or the way she smelled, like a lavender field after a summer rain . . .

“Hey, Captain,” Peña said, interrupting his thoughts. “Do you still have the van? The rec room at the embassy is really nice. Thought we might want to go shoot some pool.”

He patted his pocket and felt the keys. “Yep. Let’s get out of here.”

By orders from Colonel Jenkins, they could go only to the hotel or the embassy. His team desperately needed some decompression. Better the rec room at the embassy than the hotel bar on the next level. Rick would gladly drive them.

They paid their bill and went out to the parking lot. The heat from the day still clung to the pavement. For the first time since they had come into the country, it hadn’t rained once today. The air felt heavier, hotter.

It didn’t take long to get back to the embassy. Soon, both pool tables had tournaments going, and Rick sat back in an easy chair with yesterday’s newspaper. He skimmed headlines, read a couple of articles, and contemplated going up to medical to check on Ozzy and Bill when his phone rang.

It took a couple of seconds for him to dig it out of his pocket. It wasn’t a US number. Expecting it to be a wrong number, he answered in French. “Allô?”

“Rick?” Cynthia’s voice came through in a frantic whisper. “You have to help us.”

Chapter
Sixteen