The Ambassador's Wife by Jennifer Steil Page A

twenty-four hours are the most vital in a kidnap, as he knows all too well. If the victim—
god
, can he really think of Miranda as a victim? She just isn’t the victim type—isn’t found in the first twenty-four hours, the chances of finding her diminish rapidly. He’s been working all evening, pulled constantly between the urgency of finding Miranda and his desire to comfort his daughter. But even the frenetic activity hasn’t been able to stifle the intrusive thought that somehow this is fitting punishment. Doesn’t he deserve this? Hasn’t he been waiting for seven years for this particular darkness to catch up with him? He had been careful—painfully, lonesomely careful—for so long. Until he met Miranda. Still, if he deserves this, surely Miranda doesn’t. Some people might call—and no doubt have called—her past checkered, but he would call it honest. She loved fiercely and freely, without thought of consequence. And she fit an awful lot of people into that tough little heart of hers. “I don’t understand this societal obsession with one true love,” she said. “How can we be so small-minded? Don’t we have things to learn from many loves?” She hadn’t tried to hide anything from him. She refused to live a lie. This is what he loves most, and what frightens him the most.
    But it never occurred to him he could lose her like this. It was supposed to have been him. This is why he has ten bodyguards; he is the target. The FCO hadn’t even been sure that Miranda needed close protection at all. What were they thinking? If an ambassador was a target, surely his wife was at an equal risk? Why has this not occurred to anyone? He cannot stop hearing that shot. It was all he heard. He doesn’t know who dialed the phone that second time, Miranda or Mukhtar or someone else. He had answered and heard only the blast of a rifle and some muffled noise before the phone had been shut off. It could have been a warning shot, he constantly reminds himself. The shot itself does not necessarily mean that someone is dead. Hecannot contemplate that. Cannot begin to contemplate anything so final.
    â€”
    T HE ENTIRE EMBASSY has been mobilized. Tucker and the team set out with both armored cars as soon as the call came in, driving to the area where the cars were parked and fanning out from there along the route the women had taken. Finn had demanded to go with them, but Tucker was unmoving on the topic. “With all due respect, sir, the last thing we need is the distraction of looking after you while we’re trying to find her. Not to mention the fact that I cannot knowingly drive you into danger.” Tucker could not forgive himself. If only he hadn’t allowed Miranda to go. If only he had personally gone with her. He and the men had walked for hours without finding a trace of the women. None of the locals they questioned had seen them. How was that possible? Someone must have seen them. A group of Western women was not inconspicuous, no matter how modestly they were dressed. Mukhtar’s radio seems to be working, but no one answers it.
    Finn had spent part of the evening meeting with ministers and local police officers, while Leo, his defense attaché, worked with the local military. None of these meetings has filled him with confidence. But he hasn’t stopped moving, hasn’t stopped calling and organizing and brainstorming strategies. He has not broken down, has not wept, has not delegated any of his duties. It occurs to him that Alastair and the others have only just landed back in the UK. Will they now return? He isn’t sure. Sometimes they send different men. Or women. There are women officers these days, though Finn hasn’t met too many of them.
    Cressie rolls onto her stomach, her right arm curling around Corduroy and dragging him underneath her body. Her right cheek presses against her cot mattress, her bottom in