Page 3 of Afraid to Hope

Guatemala. Those last days had worn her to the bone. Scared the shit out of her. Shaken her spiritual foundation—something she was not aware she had or relied upon until then. Sleep continued to be broken, and she often woke from the recurring nightmare, gasping for air when her throat had closed, muffling her screams.

It was early September. Cape Town was transitioning out of the damp winter into spring, a shock for her after months spent in the hot humidity of Guatemala. The director had not indicated where Natasha would be working while on assignment in Morocco or in what capacity. The country was more temperate, and modesty was expected. She would need options—layers of clothing and a few shawls. If she traveled south, the temperature could be hot, but not muggy like Guatemala.

The check, notepad, phone, and keys went into her purse. While she was thinking of it, she searched her kitchen drawer for the key to her grandparents’riad—the grand, traditional Moroccan home that was now hers—and secured it within an inside pocket of her travel tote.

Screw finishing the laundry. Time was at a premium. Smiling to herself, Natasha closed the door, deciding that shopping at her favorite local boutique was in order. It might just take the sting out of this trip, and she would get herself a few extra niceties too for the inconvenience.

Morocco…

The hair on the back of Natasha’s neck stood up. She continued her pace through Casablanca’s bustling airport, her eyes sweeping the people and activity in her periphery and to the front of her, the feeling of being watched growing more pronounced. Whoever was surveilling her was behind her. She had felt the presence of someone after she handed over her landing card and had her passport stamped in Customs.

Natasha stopped abruptly and was bumped from behind. She held her ground, turning with an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes scanned behind the tiny elderly woman swathed in a hijab and wearing a djellaba, catching the retreat of a large man, a baseball cap obscuring his face and hair. His stealthy movement as he faded into the crowd indicated he was military, paramilitary, or former military.

Already on heightened alert, her system went on full red.Why am I being watched?She closed her eyes briefly, checking in with her senses. They had quieted. Natasha was no longer being observed, but her mind continued to be unsettled as she continued with her baggage.

“Dr. Jordaan?”

Turning around, Natasha released the bag she was in the process of claiming from the carousel. Irritable from over twenty hours of traveling, Natasha groaned inwardly. She’d have to wait for it to come around again. “Yes?”

A dark-headed man bowed slightly. “How was your flight?”

Access into airports was restricted to passengers with travel documents. Despite the fact that he had to have special clearance to be here, Natasha took in her surroundings, particularly the exits, then assessed him. She was tall and had him by at least two inches. Like her, he was slender, wiry, and probably deadly if the need arose. He wore an earpiece. Dark sunglasses were tucked into his jacket pocket. Her driver, as mentioned in the letter. Natasha cocked her head, looking down into light brown eyes, challenging him, not responding.

He cleared his throat and shifted, his suit jacket moving enough that it revealed a holstered piece. The man displayed his ID covertly. “Specialist Geoffrey Malcolm. Welcome to Morocco, Doctor. The director wishes to see you immediately. I have a car waiting outside.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows. “I’m waiting to retrieve my bag.”

“Right. I interrupted you.” He inclined his head, a dusting of pink flaring under his fair skin. “Your luggage is coming around again.”

She had dressed casually for her long trip from Cape Town to Casablanca—a long, flowing brown skirt; low, closed-toed sandals; a pale yellow tee; and a muted, patterned linen wrap. No makeup other than her favorite lipstick, and most of her shoulder-length, tousled hair was hidden under a colorful Mayan scarf. Despite having gotten some sleep, her eyes burned, and jet lag nagged at her. She only wanted to sleep. For days. And forget.

She remained mum, hoping to appear composed even though she felt otherwise. Natasha turned away from Malcolm and grabbed the handle of her oversized red luggage, hefting it from the conveyor belt and standing it on its wheels, snapping up the pull bar. She pushed it toward him. “Thank you.”

Confusion showed on his face before she stepped in front of him and headed toward the exits. Natasha pulled her smaller red carry-on and called back over her shoulder, “Come, Malcolm. Let’s get moving. I’m bone tired.” She strode in front of him, headed for the final baggage security point.

Natasha smiled wryly and shook her head. Men.

Natasha stretched her arms over her head and inhaled deeply. Apparently Specialist Malcolm had not been briefed or he would have known she had spent a good portion of her younger years growing up in Casablanca. He droned on and on during the drive from the airport, reciting this and that about Moroccan culture. Natasha might have nodded off more than once, lulled by the rocking car and Malcolm’s dry as a witch’s tit delivery, jolting awake when he slammed on the brakes in Rabat’s heavy traffic. She was only too glad when he departed after bringing her through security and into INTERPOL’s offices.

She checked her watch, noting thirty minutes had passed. The large desk just off of the director’s door reminded her of a sentry and remained vacated. Natasha was the only occupant in the enormous space, aside from an occasional person passing through the common area or into another room. No one approached her as she waited, although they glanced her way. Natasha rose from one of the carved benches, her impatience growing. She could have been sleeping in her grandparents’ home. Her home.

She positioned her carry-on on top of the larger bag and pulled them to the huge desk in the open room, where she drummed her fingers on the neatly organized desktop.Come on. I’m tired as hell.

As if summoned, the heavy doors opened. A distinguished and slender older woman appeared and paused, her bright blue eyes alighting on and assessing Natasha. She clasped her hands together in front of her hips. A soft burr coated her words. “Hello, Dr. Jordaan. I am Matilda Bradley, Executive Director Cantrell’s administrative assistant. He will see you now,” she said firmly. “Leave your luggage with me.”

“Thank you.”

“Come with me, please.”

Natasha followed Mrs. Bradley into the inner sanctum.

“Director, Dr. Jordaan has arrived,” Mrs. Bradley said and left Natasha, the doors closing with a soft click behind her.

Rays of late-afternoon sun poured in through the window opposite Natasha, temporarily blinding her. She blinked rapidly as the director moved from behind his massive desk and extended his hand in greeting.

“Dr. Jordaan. Thank you for coming. I understand the flight was long and we gave you insufficient time to recover from your successful deployment in Guatemala.”

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