With no real hope of escape, she went back to studying what could optimistically be referred to as her operating environment. A pink bicycle with colorful streamers coming from the handlebars immediately captured her attention because it seemed so out of place. After a moment’s thought, though, she realized that it was Anna’s. This was the outbuilding next to Claudia Gould’s house.
With nothing else to see, Cyrah closed her eyes. When she was a child, she’d had a similar, if somewhat more dilapidated, bicycle her uncle had bought her. She’d loved the sense of freedom it had given her and remembered how resentful she’d been when her father had finally taken it from her. When she’d finally become old enough that such freedoms were forbidden.
No matter what happened in the coming days—or even weeks—she had few regrets. She’d risen above what the men in her country had imposed on her. She’d freely chosen this path and the responsibility was hers and hers alone.
Cyrah didn’t know how long she lay there, but by the time the door opened and the overhead lights came on, her teeth were on the verge of chattering. She felt the warmth flow in with the sun, focusing on how it felt against her skin and glowed beyond her closed eyelids. A memory to turn to while she was enduring what was to come.
“I know you’re awake.” A male voice. Two sets of footfalls, though. She listened to what sounded like him pulling a chair up next to her. Something was placed on her stomach just below her navel, but she didn’t know what. Small. Light. Maybe plastic. Some kind of torture device? She’d soon find out.
“Open your eyes.”
With no compelling reason not to, she obeyed. Mitch Burhan was leaning over her, perched in a folding chair that had been leaned against the wall. Work jeans and an old T-shirt emblazoned with the word Specialized instead of the expected leather apron and rubber gloves. He looked up and down her body with a somewhat enigmatic frown. Not angry or sadistic. If she had to describe it, she’d say it carried a deep sense of irritation.
Claudia was visible over his shoulder. She was leaning against the workbench twirling a screwdriver deftly in her left hand. Her expression was even more enigmatic and unexpected. Dead, but with a gleam in her eye that suggested… lust. For what? Her? Blood? Both? It was then that she realized something else. Claudia Gould was right-handed.
Cyrah returned her gaze to the ceiling, now blazing with LED light. The man hovering over her seemed to read her mind and answered the question consuming it.
“She’s in Uganda with Anna.”
He leaned back and crossed his legs, bringing a black cowboy boot into Cyrah’s field of vision. “Now, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
She’d been taught to remain silent during questioning. Anything she said would be used against her by the people on the other side. The ones still capable of coherent thought. The ones who weren’t suffering.
“I don’t like interrogations,” he said when she didn’t answer. “Don’t make me turn this into one.”
The woman at the back suddenly raised a hand as though she were a schoolgirl trying to get her teacher’s attention. “I’ll work on her.”
The accent was British, not French.
Burhan twisted around and glared at her. She lowered her hand and went back to twirling the tool. When he faced forward again, his irritation had deepened and Cyrah’s calm had started to crack. If they were playing good cop/bad cop, they were doing an excellent job of it. After hearing only a few words, she was entirely focused on not being left alone with that woman.
“My name is Cyrah Jafari.”
There was no reason not to speak, she reminded herself. This wasn’t for God or country. It wasn’t even for her sisters, who were in no danger from anything she could say. Her silence was nothing but a vestige of her training. And pride.
“Iranian?”
“Yes. I was part of a special unit that trained women to infiltrate Israel.”
“But you decided to bug out and go private.”
“The program was shut down by the new administration. My commander, after teaching me one last lesson, decided my place was in the typing pool.”
“I’ll bet the typing pool sounds pretty good right now.”
“No,” she said after a few seconds’ thought. “It still doesn’t.”
He folded his arms and stared down at her for probably thirty seconds. “I have to hand it to you. If there was a magazine called Leafy Greens Monthly, that head of lettuce would be a centerfold.”