Ian had known the potential for illicit purposes when she first described ancient tunnels, but the proximity to an international border changed everything. The fact that it could be a route into a NATO country from volatile Syria—and vice versa—well, the implications were huge. And horrifying if the knowledge got into the wrong hands.
“My plan for this trip was a scouting mission,” Cressida said. “To see if Lidar could be effective for survey. The Gadara Aqueduct was built by digging a series of well-like vertical shafts—called qanats—every twenty to two hundred meters, then workers tunneled between the shafts. The shafts were later filled in, but archaeologists have found over three hundred entrances so far. Lawrence marked two qanat entrances on the map, but there must be more. He indicated the tunnel was several miles long.”
“What does Todros know?” Ian refused to call the sonofabitch Todd. Todd was Cressida’s boyfriend. A man she’d been in love with. Whereas Todros Ganem was a traitor with Jordanian ties who might have given terrorists the coordinates to a smugglers’ tunnel. “Does he have the map?”
“If he found Lawrence’s map on my computer, he won’t have everything he needs. I cut the key from the jpeg file and buried it on my hard disk. Just the map wouldn’t tell him a thing. My guess is he found my composite map—one I’d drawn as I was trying to narrow down the location.”
“Where is your composite map?” He looked at her bag. “Do you have it?”
She pointed to her temple. “It’s in here. I created it. I know every contour line. So I didn’t bring it. I didn’t trust the other grad students. After the fallout with Todd, some of them turned on me. And they all wanted to know what my lead was. So I left the map behind in Tallahassee.”
“So Todros knows the general area of where to look, but not the exact coordinates?”
“I don’t even know the exact coordinates. I calculated the accuracy of my map to be within five kilometers. That isn’t a huge area for a pedestrian survey if you know what you’re doing.”
“And Todros knows what he’s doing.”
“Yes. He teaches survey courses to the undergrads.” She paused. “Taught. He taught survey courses.” Her gaze dropped, preventing Ian from seeing her pain at Todros’s actions.
Todros had lived with Cressida. She’d loved him, yet the motherfucker had betrayed her. For what? Academic glory? Revenge? Or was there a political ideology behind it all? Had he seen the potential of the tunnel and wanted to exploit it? What drove a man to betray a woman like Cressida? To betray his country? Because sure as hell the moment Ganem popped the lock on the anthropology department door, he’d made his choice.
Why had he shown up in Antalya when he did? And where was he now?
Ian wished he could see Cressida’s composite map. “Why didn’t you bring a computer?”
“I was warned traveling to Eastern Anatolia with sophisticated mapping software and data would be a bad idea.”
She took a step toward him, then stopped. “Ian, I know you’re mad I didn’t tell you, but you need to understand, this has been my secret, and mine alone, for months. I had no idea anyone had seen my composite map. I honestly didn’t think it was relevant to what was going on. I’m sorry—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I haven’t told anyone. Not my best friend. Not my mother. Not my advisor. I didn’t even tell the man I lived with. It never even occurred to me it was something you needed to know.”
Put that way, it was hard for Ian to hold it against her. But he tried. He was developing feelings for her—which was flat out forbidden in his world—while in Cressida’s world, Ian was just another mistake on a long list of them.
She’d kissed Ian once. Not that he was counting…except apparently he was…
All he really knew was his life was forever changed thanks to this screwed-up mission, and Cressida Porter had managed to steal a piece of him he hadn’t known was up for grabs. “You can find an entrance to the tunnel?”
She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe. But I doubt we’ll be able to open it, not without tools and a team of workers. My goal for this trip was just to locate it. Then use Lidar next year to map the length.”
As a poker player, Ian didn’t like the odds. But at this point, he had no other hand to play. “We’re ditching the bike. We’ll rest during the heat of the day and start walking in the late afternoon. For lack of a better plan, we’ll head to your tunnel.” He patted the ground next to him. “We may as well rest in the shade while we can.” He refused to acknowledge the reason he urged her to his side was because he wanted to be next to her.
He had a feeling he’d never recover from meeting Cressida. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to.
* * *
Walking south was far more pleasant than the bumpy motorcycle ride, except Ian missed the press of Cressida’s thighs and the feel of her hands on his hips. When they rode, every bump and bounce was a reminder that she was with him. That they were alive.
And in spite of everything, he was pretty damn grateful to be alive.
The burn had ached less on the motorcycle, as his pack had been tucked in a saddlebag, but walking forced him to wear the forty-pound pack crammed with weapons and survival gear, and even though Cressida had tripled the layers of gauze, there was no avoiding the rub of pack on wound.
But the pain was yet another sign he was alive, so he accepted it without complaint.
It was half-past dark, and they’d covered at least ten rugged miles when Ian saw a campfire lit in the distance. They finally drew close enough for him to discern the camp configuration. He stopped and held a hand out to halt Cressida.
“What…?”
“Sweetheart, would you like something other than trail mix for dinner tonight?”
Her brows drew together. “That depends. Is that a friend of yours?”
“Nope. Never met them before in my life. They’re Kurdish nomads. Shepherds. You’ll never meet kinder, more giving people. Best of all, they won’t have phones, TV, radio, or computers. They won’t have seen our pictures on the news. Given we’ve got about forty miles of walking ahead of us and need to refresh our supplies, I think we’d be wise to accept any charity they offer.”
She smiled, and her shoulders relaxed a bit. “So what’s our story?”
“It’s doubtful they speak English, so you don’t have to worry about memorizing a role. Odds are they’re Sunni Muslims. We’ll say we’re married and on vacation.” He cut a glance her way. “We’ll go with the honeymoon cover again. Everyone’s a sap for newlyweds.”
As they walked, he took her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. “This is how they would expect American newlyweds to walk.”
Her fingers tightened around his. “They wouldn’t be bothered by the public display of affection?”
“Hand-holding is common in the Arab world. Men hold men’s hands here as a sign of friendship. While a man holding a woman’s hand isn’t as common, we’re Americans, and even Kurdish nomads are familiar with Americans and our relaxed social mores. If we want to sell them on the fact that we’re married, we need to look like what they’d expect to see.”
She halted midstride, their entwined fingers forcing him to stop too. “So, you mean I can do this in front of our potential Kurdish hosts?” Cressida released his hand and slid her arms around his neck, then planted her lips on his. Her tongue invaded his mouth. Sweet, hot, and sexy as hell.
He cradled her face between his hands and slid his tongue over hers. This. He needed this. She gave him a taste of everything he’d given up for his career. Everything he could never have.
He ended the kiss before he completely forgot himself. If all went well with the nomads, not only would they have all night, they’d even have a bed.
“So is that a yes?” Cressida asked.
He shook his head, trying to remember what the hell they were talking about. Oh yeah, PDAs in the nomad camp. He cleared his throat. “Um. No. That would be a bad idea. In fact, you’ll probably be expected to hang out with the women and keep your hair covered.”
There’d been no need for her to wear her headscarf so far, but she’d kept it with her and pulled it out of the pack now and draped it over her hair. Ian arranged it into the proper drape.
Her wide mocha eyes caught the moonlight, and he held in a breath to even out the gut-clenching awareness that this was no ordinary attraction.
He took her hand and continued toward the campfire that beckoned. “I’ll tell them we’re here to visit my motherland—my mom was an ethnic Kurd. We ran out of gas when I got it in my head that it would be fun to go off road and explore. You’ll pout and show you’re annoyed with me for insisting on the dangerous adventure.”
They walked in companionable silence, the light of the fire growing brighter with each step. “So my handsome new husband led me astray on our rental bike. We were on our way to meet your cousins on our honeymoon to fulfill your granny’s dying wish.”
“I like that. Nice attention to detail, without being too elaborate.”
“Why did I agree to fulfill your granny’s wish on my one and only honeymoon?”
“I promised you a five-star hotel in Istanbul. And a Turkish bath. And to satisfy you in every way.”
Her breath hitched. “That would do it.” She squeezed his hand as they drew nearer the camp. “So. Am I mad at you for our predicament, or too infatuated to care?”
“With me as your husband? Infatuated. Obviously.”
He glanced sideways and caught her eye roll.
“I’m pretty sure it’s your fault,” he added. “You wanted to go off-road.”
“Please. A woman who wants a five-star hotel and sex isn’t going to beg to ride off-road on terrain likely to make you a soprano.”
“Sweetheart, there’s no need to worry in that department.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“I can’t wait.”
Her throaty chuckle sent a jolt of desire straight to his groin. In the midst of the most messed-up op ever, he was…enjoying himself. Huh. That was a first.
They approached the camp. Ian cradled her hand in both of his as he hailed the nomadic shepherds in their language and said a silent prayer that these people were exactly who they appeared to be.
He was sick to death of surprises and betrayal.