"What if they have? Why should I care?" he burst out. "It's not my responsibility. You may have a king-size case of hero worship for the man, but he's nothing to me."
"He is your responsibility."
"You're talking as if I personally kidnappedthe bastard," he said sulkily. "You're not my conscience, Ronnie. I'd have thought you would have learned that by now. You can't change me and I won't march to your drummer."
She had learned that a long time ago, she thought wearily, but this time she couldn't let him wander away without his cleaning up his mess. "He's an extraordinary man. He deserves to live, Evan." His expression didn't change and she added in desperation, "I promise I won't ask your help again."
He gazed at her a moment and then a sudden boyish grin lit his heavy features. "The hell you won't. Whenever you decide you can use me to get a story, you'll be right there trailing behind me just like you did when you were a kid."
She smiled. "Well, maybe…" She pushed on quickly, heartened by the sign of softening. "But you've got to do this. There's practically no risk for you."
"Why are you being so damn stubborn? You don't even know the man." He tilted his head and gazed at her curiously. "Or do you?"
"What do you mean?" she asked warily. "I already told you I didn't."
"Falkner has a pretty hot reputation with the ladies," he said slyly. "I thought he might haveshown you sex is more fun than taking pictures."
"Maybe for you," she retorted, then went on quickly, "Gabe Falkner is a legend. I don't have to know him to know the news business would be a lot worse without him. What other boss would trade himself to a bunch of fanatical idiots like the Red December to free two of his reporters?"
He stared at her in astonishment. "Good God, I believe I was right about your case of hero worship. I thought I'd brought you up with more sense."
"No such thing," she countered. "That was just a comment. I'm only after the story. Any photojournalist in the world would risk their necks to film Falkner's escape."
"Film?" He snorted in disgust. "You never mentioned filming. I suppose I should have known. You'll be lucky to get away without being blown to bits, and you're thinking of taking pictures?"
"Only if it's convenient," she said.
"There's nothing convenient about this crazi-ness. Falkner's ankles will be chained so that he'll barely be able to shuffle. He's been beaten and starved, so that he'll scarcely be able to function much less react quickly enough to give you any help."
"You underestimate him. He's hard as nails."
Evan thought for a moment before acceding. "Maybe you're right. Mohammed says he's one tough bastard."
He was more than tough, Ronnie thought. He was larger than life in every sense of the word. After spending five years as a foreign correspondent, Gabe Falkner had taken a small Texas radio station he had inherited from his father and built it into a worldwide news network, comprised of newspapers, magazines, and a cable news network that was currently giving CNN a run for its money.
Though he strode ruthlessly over anyone who stood in his way, Falkner was known to be absolutely fair in his business practices and to battle tooth and nail to protect his employees. In a world where newsmen were evaluated and discarded by computer polls, Falkner exhibited an old-fashioned paternalism. He chose excellent people, paid them excellent money, and then gave them unlimited protection. In return he inspired a loyalty unprecedented among the media.
"Even if Falkner can help," Evan said, "even if everything goes right, it will be a miracle if you can get him away and into hiding. If you get in a jam, you can't rely on the Said Ababa government. They'll just look the other way. They give lip service to Washington, but they're too afraid of the Red December to interfere."
"I know that," Ronnie muttered impatiently. "Why are you rehashing old news? Nothing is going to go wrong; we've got everything covered."
"We could wait another day," Evan coaxed. "Maybe Washington will come through."
"And maybe those murderers will decide to shoot Falkner in the head tonight." She shook her head. "And if they didn't, you might not be able to find where they'll take him tomorrow night. They never keep him in any one place more than twenty-four hours." She stood up, jammed her hands into the pockets of her leather flight jacket, and said belligerently, "Now stop arguing with me. You agreed to do it and we're going to do it tonight. I'll be in that alcove on the Street of the Camels at eleven tonight. If you don't send the help you promised, they'll catch me and have two newspeople to execute." A sudden mischievous smile lit her face. "And then you'd have to go to my funeral and you know how you hate that kind of hoopla."
"What makes you think I'd go?"
"Because you know I'd haunt you if you didn't."
"You'd do it too." He scowled and with reluctance said, "All right. We'll go on with it, but don't expect anything else of me. I'll make die payment to Mohammed and Fatima and then I'm on my way."
Her relief was immeasurable. "That's all I ask." Then after a moment's hesitation, she added, "You're sure Mohammed is a good enough shot?"
Evan nodded. "It will be close range." He smiled crookedly. "I'm surprised you sanctioned shooting the guards. Isn't your heart bleeding for them?"
"I don't like it, but there's no other way." A shadow crossed her face. "And their hearts didn't bleed when they blew up that busload of schoolchildren last month." So much violence, so many tears in the world. No matter how often she was forced to face it, she never got used to it.
She impulsively bent down and brushed a light kiss on her father's forehead. "Thanks, Evan."
He stiffened at the gesture. "You must be more worried about this than I thought, if you're getting mushy on me."
"I'm never mushy. I just thought…" Sheturned on her heel and headed for the front door. "Oh, what the hell."
"Be careful."
She glanced over her shoulder in surprise. "That sounds a bit mushy too."
He shook his head. "Purely selfish. I just hate funerals."
Funerals, sentiment, and every other convention, including the responsibilities of fatherhood, she thought with a tiny pang. She quickly dismissed both the thought and the accompanying hurt. What was wrong with her today? She had no more need of a father now at twenty-four than she had when she was ten. She had been brought up to be completely independent of Evan and everyone else. That was how Evan liked it and that was the way she liked it too.
She saluted him jauntily. "I'll try not to inconvenience you. See you next time."
She didn't wait for an answer but quickly left the hotel room, cursing herself for the affectionate gesture that had embarrassed both Evan and herself. She couldn't remember the last time she had kissed her father. El Salvador? Probably not. Beneath that easygoing facade he was completely self-centered and found physical demonstrations unappealing.
Well, so did she. She didn't need any affection from anyone. She was just as self-centered and tough as Evan and she had reached out to him only because she was a little frightened about tonight.
Who was she kidding? She was terrified. Every argument Evan had used had hit dead center. If she was smart, she would abandon the plan, turn her back on Falkner, and get the hell out of Said Ababa.
The latest picture the Red December had released of Gabe Falkner rushed back to her. His broad face was thinner than before his capture, the flesh bruised, one eye blackened, his dark hair tousled. Yet despite the obvious mistreatment he conveyed the impression of boundless strength. He was staring into the camera with intimidating coldness and a recklessness that had caught her imagination. She had replayed the news tape dozens of times, and each time she saw it, maternal ferocity had surged through her. Blast it, a man like that didn't deserve to be used as a punching bag by those creeps. Even if Evan hadn't been involved, even if the opportunity for an Emmy hadn't beckoned, she would probably still be here.