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When he put the glass down, Claire reached over and squeezed his hand. “Take it easy, Hamid. We’re going to help you. Mike’s...agency can bring you in.”
“Oh, no.” Hamid held up his hands. “I’m not going with anyone, not the CIA.”
“Mike’s not CIA, and you can’t be out here on your own.” She grabbed Mike’s hand so that she was forming a human chain with the two of them. “I’m not.”
With his other hand, Hamid snatched up his cocktail napkin and wiped his forehead. “When I saw that message from you, I really got spooked, Claire.” He licked his lips. “What’s going on?”
“We’re being set up. That’s all I can tell you.”
Mike broke Claire’s grip on his hand. Kumbaya time was over. He asked him in Punjabi, “What can you tell us, Hamid?”
Hamid’s eye twitched, and he spoke to him in English. “Are you CIA? Claire, is he CIA?”
Claire glared at him, her eyes pools of liquid violets. “He’s not. Why would I be with a CIA agent when I’m under suspicion myself?”
Hamid licked his lips. “Are you? Are you really? Because I haven’t seen your name and picture in the papers like mine.”
“Tell us what you know, Hamid. Did anyone contact you before the bombing? Did you hear anything from your uncle? Why did you tell Claire to zero in on that assassin’s eye? What do you know about him?”
A bead of sweat rolled down Hamid’s face and he rubbed his glassy eyes. Either the kid couldn’t handle his booze or he was coming down with something.
“That man,” he said, then coughed and continued, “they called that man the Oxford Don.”
Claire gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me that before, Hamid? You told me nobody knew who he was.”
Hamid took another gulp of his drink. “C-couldn’t tell you. They used him for propaganda, for high-profile executions.”
“Where is he?” Claire had curled her fingers around the edge of the table. “Where is he now?”
Hamid choked and a trace of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Mike started from his seat. “Do you need some water?”
Claire leaned in close to Hamid and whispered, “Where is he?”
Hamid pitched forward on the table and murmured something Mike couldn’t hear above the din coming from the stage, and then his hand jerked and his breath rattled.
“Hamid.” Claire nudged him and then turned to Mike. “Is he okay?”
Mike reached over and felt the young man’s pulse. “He’s dead.”
Chapter Eleven
Claire shook Hamid’s lifeless arm. “Hamid, wake up.”
Every fiber in Mike’s body quivered on high alert as his gaze darted around the dim, crowded club. She obviously hadn’t processed what he’d just said. “He’s not asleep, Claire. He’s dead.”
“What?” The face she turned to him was drained of all color, and the perfect oval stood out in stark relief against the murky backdrop. “How?”
“Poison would be my first guess.”
“What?” She patted Hamid’s black hair. “Who?”
“Claire, we need to get out of here—right now.”
Her head jerked up and her hair fell over one eye. “Here? Someone here killed him?”
“Shh.” He shifted his body in front of Hamid’s slack form as he glanced toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms. “I’m hoping there’s an exit that way.”
“W-we can’t leave him here.”
“Do you suggest we carry him out? Call 9-1-1?” He took a breath and trailed his fingers down her arm. “I’m sorry, Claire. We have to leave him here, and we have to leave now.”
As if on cue, the drummer launched into a solo. Mike stood up and slipped his hand beneath Claire’s arm. “Let’s go.”
She followed his order as if sleepwalking, throwing one backward glance at Hamid’s inert form.
Mike led her toward the hallway in the back of the club with his heart pounding. His step quickened when he spied the green exit sign above a metal door.
Nobody had followed them down the hallway, but Claire’s body was now trembling more and more with each step. He whispered in her ear, “It’s okay. We’re almost there.”
