“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Cause terrorists are dicks.”
Mischa burst out laughing, so hard she dropped her beer mug. Tal chuckled and took it away from her.
“How do you know all this?” she asked, fanning her hand in front of her face.
“I have some friends who keep me well informed,” he replied in a casual voice.
“Friends who are aware of imminent terrorist attacks, and they just call you up and randomly let you know?” she tried to clarify. He sighed and moved up so he was leaning against the pillows next to her.
“Look … I can't explain it all to you right now, okay? I know some people, who know some things. I knew that a terrorist attack, in the area of your workplace, was a possibility. And this morning, I got a call that it had gone from a possibility to a fact.”
“You knew this was a possibility, and you let me come here!?”
“Hey, I tried to talk you out of coming here. Lots of times.”
“Yeah, but never once was 'hey, you might get fucking shot' said! I might have been easier to convince if that had been mentioned!” she snapped at him.
“I couldn't say that, babe,” he sighed.
“Why not!?”
“I can't explain it.”
Mischa felt herself getting worked into a fluster. She scrambled to get off his bed, grumbling to herself as she went.
“I'm getting really fucking sick and tired of that response,” she informed him.
“I know. And I promise, I'll -,”
“And that one. I've heard it too much. When is it gonna be the right time, Tal!? Jesus, are you a terrorist!?” she suddenly gasped, staring down at him. He burst out laughing.
“No, I'm not a terrorist. Calm down,” he snorted at her as he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back onto the mattress.
“Why can't you tell me anything? I thought we were in this together,” she switched tactics, softening her voice and blinking her eyes at him. He frowned.
“We are. Look, it's been a rough day. You look exhausted. Why don't you relax, take a nap. I'll make some phone calls. When you wake up, I promise – promise – I will tell you anything you want to know,” he offered.
Hmmm. Mischa was so wired up, had so much adrenaline pumping through her, that she felt like she could run a marathon. Sleeping was not an option. But she also really wanted to ask a lot of questions, and it was clear he needed some time to wrap his brain around answering them. She sighed.
“Can I take a shower?”
“Huh?”
She wanted to give him space, and to get the shattered glass out of her hair, so he showed her into his bathroom. She took her time in the shower, letting the hot water soak into her tense muscles. When it was time to rinse off, she was only able to shampoo her hair because that was all he had; stupid boy. There went any worries about a Mrs. Canaan – a woman needs conditioner. She wrapped a large, rough feeling towel around her body before heading out into the open area.
“Where are you?” she called out, rubbing a smaller towel over her head.
“In here!”
She went to his bedroom. It was a small space, more like a large nook, and the bed took up most of the room. There were little bookshelves along the walls on either side, and Tal was standing in front of one, holding a large scrapbook.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Just looking at some old pictures.”
She went and stood next to him, looked down at the book. Then she laughed. He had the page opened to a bunch of pictures of when he'd been in the army.
“You're adorable!” she cooed. He grunted.
“Shut up.”
Adorable probably wasn't the right thing to say, but “sexy as fuck” would have been appropriate. He was young in the picture, probably eighteen or nineteen. He still had his tan skin, even had dark stubble on his jaw. He had a bandana or a flag or something wrapped around his forehead, pushing his hair back, and he had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth while he gave a cocky, sly smirk to the camera.
The picture got slightly less adorable as she looked down, though. He was dressed in full military gear, camouflage pants and a matching jacket, with a flak jacket over it. He had a scary looking rifle in his arms – M16? Is that what they were called? – and other weapons strapped to his belt.
“Where were you?” Mischa asked, smoothing her fingers over the picture.
“A military base. Biranit, near Galilee,” he said, and he wrapped a thick accent around the words, something she'd never heard him do before. He spoke Italian with an American accent so obvious, even she'd been able to hear it – and she didn't even speak Italian.
“Do you know how to speak …,” she searched her brain to think of what was spoken in Israel. “Hebrew?”
“Yeah, grew up speaking it, and Arabic, and English. Learned Italian when we moved to America,” he replied.
“You don't speak Turkish?” she questioned.
“Not really.”
Mischa glanced back down at the picture. She kept honing in on the gun. Such a small part of the picture, such a big bang. She tried to picture Tal shooting a gun, with his easy manner and big smile. But then again, he'd looked pretty scary when he'd confronted Ruiz, in Rome. He'd probably look pretty scary holding a weapon, too. She wished he'd had one earlier, when they'd been getting shot at, but then that thought made her realize something else.