Tom gets out of bed, steps on the phone, swears again, and picks it up. Thinking Hey, it just might be Amy, he quickly answers it.

  “Cornwall.”

  A woman’s husky voice comes back at him. “Tom? It’s Victoria.”

  He sits down on the bed, scratches his left side. Victoria, one of the reporters who works for Criterion, and who always insists on working nights. She loves surfing chat rooms and overseas news agencies—“We arrogant folks in this part of the world think things happen only when we’re awake,” she once told Tom over the phone—and her work often leads to Criterion’s getting the jump on the competition during the early-morning hours on the East Coast.

  “Victoria, hey, what’s up?”

  “Sorry to wake you, but I thought you’d like to get a sniff of this before I file my own piece.”

  Something tingling starts along his feet and hands. Victoria—or Vicky the Vampire, as some call her in the newsroom, since she is never seen during the daytime—jealously guards her sources and her stories, and this phone call is out of place.

  “Go on,” he says.

  “The Washington Post moved a little blurb about an hour ago on their website,” she says. “Looks like a team of mercenaries got lost in the mountains of northern Lebanon. Three members supposedly out on a rogue mission, hunting terrorists.”

  “Oh,” Tom says, feeling like he’s sinking deeper into his bed.

  Victoria gives a raspy cough and says, “Sorry about that. Twenty years of Virginia Slims and Seven and Sevens will do that to you. Anyway, a nice little interesting story, so I dug around, and that’s why I called you. Tom, two sources confirm to me what the story says: the mercenary team is led by an ex-Army officer—a woman.”

  Tom closes his eyes, for the briefest moment imagining he can sense Amy’s scent next to him on the bed.

  He manages to say, “Anything more?”

  “Nope, that’s it.”

  “I…”

  Victoria says, “Look, I’ve never met you in person, or your wife, or your kid. But I like you, Tom, and I’ve poked into your office after hours and I’ve seen your photos.”

  “Ah…”

  “Hey, not that I’m being weird or anything, but I like to put faces to phone calls, right? So I know your wife was once Army—did some hard things and traveled to bad places—and I know she’s working now as a consultant. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And she’s gone now, right?”

  Tom’s mouth is drying out. “Right.”

  “So I put two and two together. Maybe I got four, maybe I got twenty-two, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. I’ll send you a link to the Post story, then mine will be up in about half an hour. Good luck to you and your girl, okay?”

  “Okay,” he says, and quickly disconnects the call.

  Tom is in his home office, careful not to bump or trip over anything that could wake up Denise. The office is smaller than the one he had in Virginia, but he’s made do, even with the constant drone of traffic outside their townhouse, the incessant horn blowing and distant sirens, the never-ending symphony of living in Manhattan. Only with Amy’s CIA housing allowance could they afford to live here, just north of Greenwich Village. Using another MacBook Pro on the cluttered desk, he goes right to his email and clicks on the link Victoria provided:

  A three-person mercenary team believed to be working for a military contractor has been reported missing after coming under attack in the Anti-Lebanon Mountains of northern Lebanon, near the Syrian border, government sources in the intelligence community revealed tonight.

  The mercenary team was in the area to kill al-Qaeda operatives believed to be traveling to Syria. It’s not known if this mission had been a success.

  While identifying details of the mercenaries and military contractor affiliation were not released, sources say the leader of this particular team is a woman, a former U.S. Army officer with experience in the field.

  Tom leans back, then quickly starts working the keyboard, seeing that the Post story has been picked up by the Associated Press, Reuters, Agence France-Presse, and his old employer, the New York Times. But none of them has any more information than the original Post squib.

  He rubs his forehead, knowing deep down, despite his reporter’s skepticism and cynicism, that this is Amy.

  What now?

  In a few deep and contentious conversations with his wife after she joined the CIA, she had warned him there would be times when she’d be out of contact for several days. She had also cautioned Tom that to help her and preserve her career, he should never try to contact her or anyone else at the Agency, no matter what.

  Still…

  One compromise.

  She had scribbled down a phone number on the back of one of his business cards, passed it over.

  “If there’s a time when either you or Denise are near death or something equally urgent comes up, you can call this number, and someone will reach out to me within twenty-four hours,” she had said. “And only then.”

  Hoping to lighten the mood back then, Tom had said, “What about a zombie apocalypse?”

  She had snapped the business card out of his hand and torn it in half, saying, “You’re not taking me seriously.”

  Oh, what a mistake that had been! Only after some serious pleading and apologizing had that been eventually resolved.

  Tom opens the center drawer of his desk, starts frantically going through paper clips, scribbled names and phone numbers on cocktail napkins and scraps of paper, expired MetroCards and dead pens, until he finds his business card, creased, stained, and held together by tape.

  Seeing Amy’s familiar handwriting makes his chest feel as thick as freshly poured concrete. He puts the card down on his desk, picks up a landline handset nearby, dials the number with the District of Columbia’s 202 area code.

  It rings once, twice, and then goes dead.

  Chapter 30

  IN THE semidarkness of his cluttered office, Tom shakes his head slowly and redials the number, carefully tapping in each numeral written in Amy’s clear handwriting.

  Rings once, twice, and then goes dead.

  No blew-bleep from a disconnected line, no frantic busy signal, no bored robotic voice telling you the line is no longer in service.

  He wipes at his eyes.

  Really stares at Amy’s handwriting, so much better than his own. Takes a deep breath, uses nearly thirty seconds to dial in the number again. Knowing Amy so well, he realizes there’s no chance the numbers are wrong.

  Same result.

  “Damn it!” as he punches the cordless phone back into the cradle.

  All right, then.

  Tom pushes his chair back, reaches to the floor, picks up his soft leather satchel, and digs through the side pockets with shaking hands until he pulls out a small spiral notebook with a red cover. Inside are scribbled addresses, email addresses, phone numbers. It’s his first-draft notebook where he records raw info before formalizing it in his online address book.

  On the inside cover is a phone number that took him a long time to get, involving lots of lunches and drinks he paid for himself, making sure there was no expense-account trail or any other record that could get him or his sources into trouble. After Amy had given him that earlier number, he wanted a backup. Just in case.

  He dials this number, and it rings once before it’s answered by a very alert and crisp male voice on the other end.

  “Four-two-four-six,” the man says, saying the last four digits of the phone number.

  Tom hesitates. “Is this…is this one of the night desks for the CIA? Is it?”

  “Four-two-four-six,” the man says again.

  “Ah, my name is Tom Cornwall,” he says. “I’m trying to get a message to my wife, Amy Cornwall. She…she works for you, and I think she’s in trouble.”

  “Four-two-four-six.”

  “Ah, hold on, hold on,” he says, and back into his desk he burrows, coming up with a yellowed piece of cardboard—which he hopes he will never lose—that has Amy’s dress size, bra size, shoe size, and Social Security number.

  He reads out her birth date and Social Security number, then says, “Look, I know this is the CIA, so don’t screw around with me, all right? My wife is Amy Cornwall, and this is her birth date and her Social Security number.” He repeats both sets of numbers. “She was previously in the Army, 297th Military Intelligence Battalion at Fort Belvoir, and she’s been working with you for the past year. Hell, I was there when she graduated at Langley, so stop screwing around with me!”

  There’s no reply on the other end.

  “Please,” Tom says, trying to ease the anger in his voice. “I just want to make sure she’s okay. That’s all. I don’t care where she is, or what she’s doing. I just want to know she’s fine.”

  “Hold, please,” and the line goes dead.

  He waits.

  Thinks he hears something out in the hallway.

  Waits.

  A click.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, that individual is not a government employee.”

  With anger, Tom says, “I know she doesn’t work for the goddamn government, she works for the Central Intelligence Agency!”

  “No, sir, she does not.”

  Then the man hangs up.

  Tom is about to toss the phone across his office when a voice behind him says, “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

  He whirls around. Denise, standing in the doorway to his office, wearing light-gray sweats and an oversize NY Giants T-shirt.

  “Daddy?”

  “Ah, I’m just working, that’s all. Something came up. You should go back to bed.”

  She stares at him, lower lip starting to tremble. “It’s Mommy, isn’t it? She’s in trouble. What’s going on?”

  Hating himself, he says, “No, it’s not Mom. Honest.”

  Denise stares at him, says, “Daddy…you’re lying.”

  Chapter 31

  AFTER JEAN-PAUL takes away our empty plates following a delicious early-morning breakfast of soft scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and croissants with strawberry jam—all washed down with cold orange juice and strong French coffee—Jeremy wipes his fingers with a white napkin and says, “I know some of your background, Amy, but tell me: where in the States did you grow up?”

  I wipe my fingers as well and say, “A little town called LA,” which makes him smile. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  With that smile I feel sorry—and perhaps a little envious—of any single woman in his vicinity. Jeremy has cleaned up well, and now he’s dressed in khaki trousers and a pressed blue cotton shirt. His earlier tangled mess of hair and beard have been washed and closely trimmed by Jean-Paul, the cheerful and talented steward.

  “And you?” I ask. “Your folks were pretty tight with information about you…”

  I was about to say “you and Ollie,” but thankfully I catch myself in time.

  Jeremy says, “Rather boring, I’m afraid. Knocked about some boarding schools when I was younger, quite a hellion, and then decided to try the Army. Family business and all that. Found it suited me and I suited it. A few dull years and then I decided to try something more challenging and tried out for the Regiment. Then they lent me to MI6…and what propelled you to work for the Agency from the Army?”

  I say, “After a life of crime on the road and facing serious prison time, a heavily tanned man offered me a chance to serve my country and stay out of jail.”

  Jeremy smiles. “Was this man’s name Roger?”

  “When I knew him, he called himself Paul.”

  “How long was your life of crime on the road?”

  “About three days,” I say, trying hard not to dwell on those bloody memories.

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Very much worth it,” I say. “I ended up saving my husband and daughter from a Mexican drug cartel. But I also pissed off the Army, which is why I’m now a civilian. Still, saving my family seemed a fair trade.”

  “Ask you another question?” he asks.

  “Still happily married, never stray. Does that answer your question?”

  He looks embarrassed and I enjoy putting him on the spot.

  Then he pulls it together and says, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re an outlier. A woman in the field…and a mother as well. Why? What pushes you to do that when you could do something as important and safer, riding a desk?”

  I delay my answer by taking another sip of orange juice, then say, “What makes you think I have a choice?”

  That seems to confuse him, so I take pity and say, “Ever hear of the expression tiger mom?”

  “Not that I can say.”

  “It’s a term for a mother who will go the extra mile to make her child a success—and, above all, protect him or her,” I explain. “They can be ruthless and pushy, and they spend a lot of money and effort. For me, earlier, I was satisfied being in Army intelligence, thinking my work was protecting my country and my family. And I don’t just mean my husband and daughter.”

  “I think I understand,” he says.

  “I’m sure you do. Over the years you and I have served with some talented, skilled, and dedicated men and women. We share rations, clean socks, spare ammo, and sometimes…our fears, our hopes. Then they transfer out, or you transfer out. But they’re still your family, even if years go by without seeing them.”

  Jeremy nods. At this moment, American and British, we are definitely speaking a common language. All this talking makes me thirsty, so I take one more sip of the cold juice. “About a year and a half ago…that’s when my husband and girl were kidnapped by drug-cartel members from Mexico. I got them free, but only after a lot of bullets and blood were expended.”

  Jeremy just stares at me, and I stare right back. “That’s when I knew I had to be in the field to protect my family. I was no longer the type to sit behind a desk, writing reports that might be ignored or misfiled. If I’m in the field, going up against a bad guy, it’s pretty damn clear and simple. Me and him. Or them.”

  “I see,” he says.

  “Now that you’ve mentioned New York as a target…that’s where my family lives. And others. So when you told me Rashad Hussain might be aiming for the Big Apple, you put a big target on his back. I’m gunning for him, Jeremy.”

  Now Jeremy nods, in what looks to be sympathetic understanding. “I see. A tiger mom, that’s what you are.”

  I shrug. “More like a werewolf mom.”

  A couple of minutes slide by and I ask, “Any chance there’s a telephone on this flying palace I can use? I need to check in and get my chubby ass chewed out before explaining what I’m up to.”

  Jeremy rises from his chair. “Certainly. What do you plan to tell them?”

  I get up as well. “I plan to plead for mercy—and tell them this op isn’t over.”

  “That sounds like one challenging phone call.”

  “Then don’t listen in.”

  He moves forward and in a minute comes back with a bulky phone that looks like it could reach the international space station, if need be. I take it to the rear of the aircraft and duck into a small conference room that has another wet bar and a bowl full of sweets in the center of a polished wood table.

  I take a seat in one of the four comfortable chairs and dial a memorized number, and it’s picked up on the first ring.

  “Identification,” comes the recorded voice.

  “Cornwall, Amy.” I rattle off my twelve-digit service number.

  There’s a hiss of static, and the recorded voice says again:

  “Identification.”

  Damn it, I think.

  I repeat the process, speaking louder and more slowly, and once again the automated electronic gatekeeper refuses me entry.

  “Identification.”

  One more time I go through the identification dance, and then the dance is over: the same mechanized voice says, “Identification process halted. Goodbye.”

  Disconnected.

  I dial the number again, and it goes dead.

  Damn it for the third time.

  We’re airborne somewhere over France, on our way to London, and this bulky phone has a nice display screen and a simple web-browser system, and in a couple of minutes I get the number of the American Embassy in Paris—33 1 43 12 22 22—and even at this early hour it’s picked up on the first ring.

  Another automated prompt, damn it, but I punch 0 and a young woman comes on the line.

  “U.S. Embassy, what is the nature of your call?”

  “This is an emergency,” I say. “I need to speak to Paul Pruitt.”

  “Hold, please.”

  There is no Paul Pruitt at the American Embassy. There will never be a Paul Pruitt. But someone working under that name is a fellow employee.

  The phone rings and is answered, “Pruitt.”

  I take a deep breath. “This is Amy Cornwall,” and once again, my service number. “I’ll be arriving in London in less than an hour. I need to contact someone in my division for a debrief and update.”

  The man says, “Repeat your name and service number, please.”

  I do that and he says, “Identification declined.”

  The words don’t make sense. “Excuse me—say again?”

  “Identification declined.”

  “What?” I nearly shout. “What kind of bullshit is this? I work for Ernest Hollister in the Special Activities Division, and I need to come in and talk to someone from my division or any other directorate. I’ve found out that—”

  The man hangs up.

  Fuming, I dial the American Embassy again and punch in 0 once more. This time the woman says, “I’m sorry, Miss, but I’ve been instructed to decline any phone call made from this number. Goodbye.”