Puzzle by Nora Phoenix

2

“Ithought we were meeting at nine?”

Branson looked up from his screen, where he’d been studying the latest report from their agents on the Arabic Peninsula. They were tracing every possible lead on Hamza Bashir, and while it was slow going, they were making progress. “We were.”

Ryder frowned as he pushed his thick-rimmed glasses back up his nose. His hair was sticking up in every direction, a sign that he’d been playing with it habitually. He did that when he was mulling something over, Branson had noticed. It was adorably cute and contributed to Ryder’s high geek factor, which Branson found surprisingly attractive. Ryder’s regular outfit of dark blue slacks with either a light blue, a white, or a blue-white-striped dress shirt shouldn’t evmen be remotely sexy, but Branson thought it endearing.

“But it’s past noon now. I don’t understand.”

“I stopped by at nine, but you were working and didn’t seem inclined to allow interruptions.”

Ryder at work was a sight to behold. I get sucked into whatever I do. That was what he’d told Branson when he had started working with him. Understatement of the decade. He had hyperfocus, the ability to sink into his job so completely that everything around him disappeared. Branson had stood there for minutes without Ryder ever noticing him, clacking away on his keyboard, hunched over while occasionally remembering to drink his cold coffee. How Branson knew his coffee was cold? Because Ryder winced every time he took a sip yet never got up to get himself a fresh cup.

“Oh.” Ryder’s frown intensified. “You stopped by? In my office?”

Branson grinned. “Stood right in front of your desk for a minute or two, then decided that I could wait, since whatever you were doing had your full attention.”

A faint blush stained Ryder’s cheeks. “Sorry? Corey sent me the first financial data from Kingmakers, and I found some interesting things.”

“It’s all good. We can talk now. Why don’t we grab some lunch and eat while we talk?” He noticed a smudge of chocolate in the corner of Ryder’s mouth. “Or did you only just eat your donut?”

Ryder looked sheepishly. “It was yummy. But I could eat lunch.”

“Awesome, let’s go.”

He’d been working with Ryder for a month now, and he’d discovered a lot about the man in that time. Like the fact that he often forgot to eat, getting too immersed in his work. Branson had made it a habit to combine work meetings with meals so he could at least make sure Ryder ate. He wasn’t that hungry for lunch himself yet, but he’d save some for later.

They talked little as they joined the line in the cafeteria, then each ordered their food. Ryder was a man of habits, usually choosing a club turkey sandwich with oven-baked chips and a small house salad with Italian dressing on the side, accompanied by a carton of milk. Branson picked whatever he was in the mood for, and the lasagna looked especially appetizing today. He grabbed a to-go box to take half of it back and put it in the tiny fridge he had in his office.

Ryder walked to a table in the back—as always—opting to face the wall and sit with his back toward the room. Funny how he always chose the exact opposite of what Branson would do. He always, always sat with his back against the wall so he could see what was happening. Ryder’s position would make him hella nervous.

For the first few minutes, they ate in silence, Branson watching with amusement as Ryder wolfed down his sandwich. He might often forget to eat, but when he did, he could stow away a crap ton of food for someone as slender as him. He wasn’t skinny, his body naturally slim and sleek.

“I guess I was hungrier than I realized,” he mumbled with his mouth full when he caught Branson’s eyes.

Branson smiled. “Knock yourself out, dude. It beats throwing half of it out. I hate wasting food.”

Ryder cocked his head. “Did you grow up poor?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Many people who are or were poor have issues with throwing out food.”

Ryder didn’t have much of a filter between his brain and his mouth, which was unusual for an introvert like him. He often said things others might consider rude or too direct, though it never bothered Branson. With Ryder, he always knew where he stood, and he could appreciate that. “No, I didn’t grow up poor, but my mom was pretty strict about wasting food. We had an example to set.”

“An example?”

Branson nodded. “My father is a US ambassador. I was born in the US, but I spent my whole life in different countries.”

Ryder’s eyes lit up. “That’s why you speak Arabic so well.”

“Yeah, we lived in Jordan and Morocco for a few years.”

“What other languages do you speak?”

“French. We stayed in Paris for six years, and I went to a French school there. My parents often chose native private schools, not American ones, so I’d be exposed to the local culture and language. My Spanish is decent, and I speak enough German to get by.”

Ryder wiped his hands off on a napkin, then cleaned his mouth. A small glob of mayo stained his cheek, and Branson suppressed a smile. He’d point that out before they were done if Ryder didn’t catch it himself.

“I tried to learn French, but I’m not good with languages,” Ryder said. “As is often the case with people who excel in math and numbers.”

Branson gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I’d say your brilliance with numbers more than makes up for your supposed lack of language skills.”

Ryder pulled his salad toward him. “I suppose so. I thought it would be cool to speak French, though.”

“Why French? Wouldn’t Spanish make more sense, as it is the second language here in the US?”

“I like how French sounds. It’s so…romantic. Everything sounds so melodious and gentle in French.”

Branson chuckled. “Have you ever watched one of those videos where they compare the sounds of several languages?”

Ryder shook his head, his mouth full.

“They’ll say a word in English and then repeat it in Spanish, French, Portuguese or something, and then in German. Everything sounds harsh in German. I mean, it’s also the way they pronounce it, but to foreigners, German sounds angry.”

“Say something in German.”

“Hmm, let me think. Oh, right, this was a cool example. A helicopter. In French, it’s hélicoptère. In Spanish, it’s helicóptero. In German, it’s Hubschrauber.”

He made the r a rolling, harsh one and extented the long au sound in the second part of the word, and Ryder giggled. “Do another one.”

“Butterfly is another famous example. It’s mariposa in Spanish, papillon in French…and Schmetterling in German.”

Ryder laughed again. “I see what they mean about it sounding angry. That’s funny. What’s a butterfly in Arabic?”

“Farasha, so another melodious sound.”

“I admire you can speak all those languages. Here I am with my poor English, and I struggle with grammar even in that one.”

“I’d think grammar would be the easy part for you. It’s about rules and systems, and that should appeal to you, since you’re such a systematic person.”

Something flashed over Ryder’s face. Anger? Hurt? Branson wasn’t sure, but he’d struck a nerve somehow.

“Let’s talk about work,” Ryder said, cold and aloof.

What had happened? Something Branson had said had hit a sour note with Ryder, and he wanted to know what. Hmm, he’d have to analyze it later, try to find out where he’d gotten it wrong. “Sure. Tell me about what you discovered in the financial data,” Branson said after making sure no one was in hearing distance. Everyone who worked here would have clearance, but one could never be careful enough.

Switching into work mode was like flipping a switch with Ryder. His entire body language changed from his posture to his expression and tone. “I’ve identified two time periods when one or both of the owners of Kingmakers were on the Arabic Peninsula and went dark for a specific time.”

Branson’s heart skipped a beat. “Tell me more.”

“In September 2014, they both stayed in Dubai but spent one night in Oman. Then in December 2014, Basil King disappeared from Qatar for three days after withdrawing a sizeable amount of cash. I’ve sent you the dates.”

One thing he loved about Ryder was his way of delivering information. No beating around the bush, no long-winded story, just the facts. “Oman? Do you know where they crossed the border?”

“Yes. They paid for a visa at the Mezyad Border Post. I looked it up, and it’s close to Al Ain.”

Branson pictured the map. Al Ain was pretty far to the south of Dubai and not the most logical choice if they’d been heading for the coastline of Oman, where touristic destinations like Muscat were located. To Sohar, maybe, since it was the most northern bigger city on the coast, but even then, they could’ve picked a more northern border crossing. No, from Al Ain, there was only one major tourist destination: Nizwa.

Nizwa was a beautiful and characterful old city with a stunning fort that had been built in the seventeenth century to defend the city’s position on a major trade route. It sat surrounded by palm plantations that produced the dates the region was known for and, even to this day, held a large souk, an open-air market where they sold all kinds of animals—dead and alive—fruits, vegetables, handicrafts, and more. A few years before, Branson had spent a morning there, fascinated by all the sounds and smells of that male-dominated environment.

But was it a place that the owners of Kingmakers would seek out for purely tourist purposes? Hell no. If they’d driven to Nizwa, they’d done so for a meeting. A smart choice, since Oman was a safe destination for tourists, and while it wasn’t overrun by them, it had enough foreigners visit that two Americans wouldn’t really stand out. And if Hamza Bashir was indeed an Emirati, he wouldn’t need a visa for Oman and would be able to travel there without getting flagged.

“That’s really interesting.” Branson added that information to the puzzle in his head. He put half of the lasagna in the box he’d grabbed, meanwhile mulling over what Ryder had said. “How much cash did he take in Qatar?”

“Fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Local currency?”

“No, US dollars.”

“Meaning he had to pay something in cash. Transportation, maybe. I’m assuming Bashir wanted all meetings to happen outside the UAE to avoid drawing attention to himself. Oman is a logical choice, but would they have met there again? That could be too conspicuous, especially since King would need a new visa at the border, which would’ve been registered. No, he would’ve wanted to fly under the radar, so where would Bashir have King go from Qatar?”

“Saudi Arabia?” Ryder asked.

“That side of the country is pure desert. Not a single paved road. It would be madness for King to travel there, aside from the risk of getting caught. You said three days, right?"

Ryder nodded.

Branson closed the box, then tapped on it with his fingers. “He could’ve left Qatar by boat, but where would he go? The Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman are both heavily patrolled because of all the oil platforms. No, he wouldn’t get far by boat, not unless he was meeting on the water, but even then. Too many eyes. It would have to be a private plane, but to where?” He snapped his fingers. “Yemen. If Bashir wanted to establish a base in Yemen, he would’ve had King fly there on a private flight. Great work, Ry. That gives me more things to look into.”

Ryder had finished his lunch as well, and Branson got up, eager to start exploring this new information.

Ryder pushed his chair back with so much force it almost toppled over. “My name is Ryder, not Ry.”

Branson bit back a smile as they walked over to the area where they’d throw out their trash and return the trays, plates, and utensils. “I know, but you don’t mind when I call you Ry, do you?”

“I do mind, as I’ve repeatedly told you…and I know you’re not obtuse, so why is that so hard for you to remember?” Ryder grumbled.

This time, Branson did laugh. God, he loved pushing Ryder’s buttons. One thing was for certain. Life had gotten a lot more exciting since Ryder had joined his team. Despite being intrigued by him, he’d never ask him on a date, even though Branson strongly suspected Ryder was gay. His gaydar went off loudly every time he saw him.

But it didn’t matter because he didn’t do coworkers, and besides, Ryder didn’t give off even the slightest vibe he was interested. Maybe he had a boyfriend? Branson would have to find out. Purely to satisfy his curiosity, of course.