For once she missed the stifling robes that had been mandatory garb for women in her country. Western clothing might be more flattering to the figure, but it definitely did not help fight a chilly breeze against the back.
Cooking rated low on her list of preferences, as well, but hacking up a beheaded goat carcass proved a small sacrifice in exchange for keeping herself alive.
Stars, sand and rock stretched for miles with a reminder she could not survive on her own. Yasmine scraped the blade of the butcher knife against the block, swiping entrails into a bin on the ground, then the remaining roasts into an industrial-size bucket. Hefting up the meat, she made her way back toward the kitchen door leading into the converted airport soon to be overflowing with American soldiers.
A small team had already arrived, military personnel sent in as—what did they call it?—an advance element. People to ready the cooking facilities. Set up security. All of which offered her time to ease into her role as a local girl hired as a mess hall cook, the perfect task to bring her into contact with the American contingent so she could select the best target.
Her arms straining, she shuffled up the cement steps toward the light slanting through an open door. The weight competed with the grit in her sandals to rub blisters and irritation. She did not doubt her ability to pick wisely. She had spent the first seventeen years of her life covered in public, often having to gauge other females as friend or foe by only their eyes.
The cultural customs might have loosened, but even six years later, her skills stayed honed. Good and evil scripted across the eyes if only a person looked. Not many looked, always too busy running or dreaming.
She had no dreams. Just a goal. Survival.
Her sandals slapped the tile floor inside, echoing with the mingled languages and bustle of activity in the cavernous kitchen. She stifled a rebellious smile over the pleasure of making noise with her shoes. Of course she could still move with stealth if she chose, a hard-learned legacy, especially during the past year.
Yasmine slung the goat roasts onto the counter beside a steaming pot of boiling water. One by one, she pitched the clammy meat hanks into the roiling cauldron. She had her orders from her uncle. She knew the price if she failed. She shivered even as the steam popped sweat along her brow.
Jamming a long-handled spoon into the water, she stirred, her gaze skipping from worker to worker until it landed on a lone serviceman with his head stuck in the pantry. Military. Air Force. She would have to establish a connection with someone. Certainly she could not be lucky enough to settle the issue with her first try.
Women made their own luck.
Wearing a wrinkled desert-tan flight suit, the man backed out of the pantry empty-handed and frowning. Her mind categorized him.
Messy. Careless even? But no, sharp intelligence lurked beneath his uncombed hair. As if he sensed her evaluation, he shoved a hand along his head. His wedding ring flashed. Ah, a safer male to approach, perhaps.
Except not all men honored vows.
And she most definitely did not want to fend off questing hands. So she tested him. With just a shy smile.
Not interested, his eyes broadcast.
The wedding ring seemed to glow brighter. She sighed her relief. Maybe he would be a safe contact after all, even if he was a man. And the fact that she did not find his boyish looks attractive only added to his appeal as a potential target.
No formal name scrolled across the name tag on his flight suit, just one of those irreverent call signs Americans seemed to enjoy so. Crusty.
Crusty? Yasmine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. His poor wife.
He stepped closer. Close enough for her to look past the easy smile, deeper into his eyes to find...anger. Hatred. The desire for vengeance.
She backed against the stove. Steam soaked her dress, but she did not dare move.
He reached past to select a sugared fig off the counter beside her. "Do you speak English?"
Not that she would be admitting just yet. Why should she make it easier for him to trap her?
She frowned, feigning dim-witted confusion.
"All right, we can speak this way, then." He switched to Arabic with too much ease.
This one would bear watching. She discounted him as an option for contact. But who? Already her mind scanned for possibilities while time trickled away.
She spun to stir her pot and gave him her back.
The man, Crusty, eased into her line of sight for another fig. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about this place." His tone left no room for negotiation.
"May I ask for what reason, sir?" she answered in her native tongue. Dim-witted humility did not sit well with her. But she had learned to curb her temper and mouth in the year since her parents' deaths in a flu epidemic had thrust her from pampered protection into a nightmare. Selecting a peppermill from the shelf above, she speckled the sheen of fat bubbling to the top of the pot.
"It's standard procedure for a representative from military intelligence to interface with locals during a deployment."