Page 97 of Wait for Me

She made a note to herself to update her will, just in case.

Chapter Forty-Five

Marie fanned herself with a manila folder under the ceiling fan that had stopped working an hour ago. Someone was supposed to bring in box fans to help circulate the air in the stuffy operational center, but until then, they had turned down the partially working air conditioner.

The crowd of Mendenhall Security support personnel all around Marie in the giant room made it worse, as their collective body heat rose and swirled and assaulted her sensitive nose every minute. If she hadn’t left her face mask in her hotel room, she’d be wearing it.

Sweat beaded on Marie’s forehead and neck. She could use a glass of ice-cold water, but nobody had the time to go get her something. The refrigerator in the break room was broken, and no one was allowed to come and go from this location until Operation Buchanan was over.

The city of Benghazi was just outside the building, and Marie was sure they sold ice-cold water somewhere out there in the market. That seemed to be all she dreamed of, even though it was supposed to be ninety-something degrees this afternoon.

Not hotter than in here.

She reached for her cotton shirt she had discarded. The soaked-through shirt was hanging over the empty seat back next to hers—a seat vacated by Esperanza Diaz-Mendenhall, who had inserted herself into the fray only moments before.

Marie wiped her face with the shirt. It smelled of her own sweat and perfume. A bad combination for such a hot July day. Her sleeveless blouse stuck to her bra and torso.

Her manila folder fanned only hot air on her face. She felt faint.

Maybe if I go to the hallway…

Slowly, Marie got up. She walked past a bank of windows that were shut and sealed like the seams of a casket. She felt no breeze at all. Somewhere north of this building, the Gulf of Sidra danced in the wind of the Mediterranean.

While we are dying in this tomb…

Her hand reached for the window latch, even as her mind knew it was forbidden. Cracking a window would let the entire region of Cyrenaica know that the Americans had arrived—albeit to excise their common enemy, that arms dealer extraordinaire, that had evaded authorities for five years and ran with global terrorists such as Molyneux, evil personified.

How could Buchanan have been so elusive?

His coat of many colors had given him nine lives. Originally from South Africa, his father was Scottish and his mother of unknown origins. How Buchanan ended up as a businessman in the Middle East, dining with sultans, princes, and heads of state, was anyone’s guess.

The love of money, maybe?

Soon, he moved on from state dinners to backroom breakfasts with Yemeni terrorists, bartering oil and gold for bullets and missile launches.

Then he wandered into the lair of one Molyneux—and that was how he ended up on the radar of the FBI and INTERPOL, inside their operation to capture the elusive terrorist before she blew up yet another city.

Assigned to translatein situ, Marie was caught up in that web of intrigue involving FBI agents in deep undercover, although her involvement resulted in new friends, among whom was Esperanza.

Thank God for Esperanza!

The widowed security specialist had done so much for her family, to keep them safe in Atlanta while Marie was busy at work and could not protect them herself. When all this was over, Marie could go home to protect her family herself.

Home?

Family?

Did I just hear myself say that?

She shut the door behind her and leaned on the plaster wall. It was cool to the touch. When she felt warm, she moved a foot to the right and leaned against the wall again, to siphon heat off the wall. She knew she looked weird, but she was feeling very hot right now.

She stared down the hallway.

Half the lights were out.

Why?

She turned her face the other way. No one was there.

---