Bile is filling his throat and mouth, and once again he looks at that calm line of kids ready to depart, and he has to say something—has to go to one of the teachers or chaperones and say, Excuse me, my little girl isn’t here, do you know where she is?

  And he hates himself with a dark fury that nearly knocks him back, thinking, You had to go be the brave reporter, had to go confront one of your watchers, leaving your daughter vulnerable.

  What were you thinking!

  What happened?

  One of the crew keeping an eye on him?

  A random snatch?

  Jesus, someone from a Mexican cartel, looking for revenge for what he and Amy did in Florida and—

  How in God’s name will he be able to tell Amy?

  “Dad?”

  He whirls around, nearly shudders from relief—a wave of love and anger flowing right through him as Denise stands there looking bored.

  “Denise,” he says, wanting to yell at her but trying to keep his voice low. Sweet Mother Mary, he’s never once struck his little girl, but the anger in him prompts him to think of giving her a good swat on the butt.

  He takes a very deep breath, trying to control his temper. “I told you to stay still! You scared the life out of me!”

  Denise shrugs, like he has just told her she forgot to help dry the dishes. “I wasn’t gone long.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be gone at all!”

  The lead teacher over there—Mrs. Millett—calls out, “Okay, folks, let’s get moving now. Don’t forget, we travel as one…and Tom, Tom Cornwall, since you’re over there, would you mind bringing up the rear with Denise?”

  He turns and calls out, “No, not at all.” Then he returns to Denise, standing there by the black iron fence, and says, “When we get home, young lady, we’re going to have—”

  “Dad, I know you told me to stand there, but the police officer said he had to talk to me. In private.”

  He snaps right to. “What police officer?”

  Denise turns and looks down Broadway. “I dunno. I guess he left. We just went around the corner of the building for a sec, that’s all.”

  “Why did he want to talk to you?”

  “He said it was important.”

  “Denise…how many times have we told you, no talking to strangers?”

  She rolls her eyes. “He wasn’t a stranger. He was a police officer. And you and Mom always said if I ever got lost or got into trouble, find a man or woman police officer. Or somebody else in uniform.”

  The line of students starts moving through the open gate. He puts his hand on her shoulder just above her backpack and says, “You weren’t in trouble.”

  “But he wanted to talk to me.”

  He stops as the line ahead keeps moving. “What did he say?”

  Denise says, “Dad, the line is moving. We’ve got to keep up.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “What did the police officer say?”

  Denise says, “He told me to give you this. He said it was very important.”

  His daughter hands over a folded piece of white paper, which Tom unfolds. In clear, hand-printed capital letters—it appears to have been traced with a pen and ruler to mask the handwriting—the note says:

  TOM—YOU WERE LUCKY THIS TIME. DON’T EVER LEAVE YOUR GIRL ALONE LIKE THAT, EVER AGAIN.

  He crumples the note and Denise says, “Dad, we’re gonna be late.”

  Tom grabs her hand and they catch up to the students, teachers, and chaperones. His unknown watchers are talented indeed, now pretending to be NYPD.

  “No, we won’t,” he says.

  Chapter 49

  THE SUN is starting to come up in this alleged bucolic corner of France, and my mood has improved a bit since I found my missing shoe a few hours earlier. But not by much.

  The runway is pretty busy this morning for a place that is an abandoned afterthought, and I’m sticking by Jeremy as the place gets crowded with additional DGSE personnel, medical responders, and red-and-yellow fire trucks from the local sapeurs-pompiers. Earlier Jeremy and I had received a severe dressing-down from a well-dressed older woman who I gather was Victor’s boss, but her angry Parisian French overwhelmed my translating abilities, so all I got from her was that she was one very angry woman.

  Now Jeremy and I are observing a preliminary forensic examination of the destroyed van. We stand in front of what’s left of the cab, containing two charred lumps of what were once human beings, but the flesh has turned to dark charcoal and the fused arms have folded back, almost fetus-like, as if in their last few moments of agony in life they were trying to return to the safety of the womb.

  Jeremy says, “I doubt any one of those two are Rashad.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “Easy to hire two unemployed migrants or local men to act as passenger and driver.” I walk closer and a forensics tech in a white jumpsuit barks at me, but I ignore him. I pick up a charred piece of honeycombed plastic, rotate it in my hand, show it to Jeremy.

  “Thermal protective barrier,” I say. “You can hide two guys in the van while the drones pick up only the driver and passenger. Simple thing to quickly switch places when the trade was made after the Cessna landed…then you leave the side door open, and when the van heads out to the runway, the original two occupants—Rashad and his friend—roll out and slip into the woods. The drones would be tracking the van, and they would easily miss something like that.”

  I toss the plastic back into the wreckage. Jeremy says, “I got a quick word with one of the investigators. Two of the Kazakh men are dead. The other was wounded…and all he knew was that he was flying here to drop off a very valuable package and pick up some diamonds.”

  “There’ll be some real diamonds in whatever package they were using,” I say. “The rest will be cubic zirconia. Guaranteed.”

  I walk around to the crumpled rear of the van, where two more forensic types in bright yellow protective radiation gear, respirators, gloves, and face masks are examining some straps; a charred, square-shaped canvas knapsack big enough to hold a refrigerator; wires; and a number of dull-gray tubes.

  “Gamma-ray source,” I tell Jeremy. “Medical device, small-scale radioactive processing machine—something similar. Shield it so it’s covered. At a certain point, pull off the shielding, gamma-ray radiation starts emitting, and if you think a suitcase nuke is coming your way, this will make your detection devices start screaming.”

  I step back, knowing that whatever’s being emitted there is low dose and not too dangerous, but why take chances?

  Damn, it feels good having shoes on.

  I look at the wreckage at my feet, see a discarded MP5 on the ground with spare magazines taped to it. I squat down, start stripping the magazines of their 9mm rounds.

  “What are you doing?” Jeremy asks. His face is blackened and there’s a deep gash on his left cheek above his neatly trimmed beard, but otherwise he looks okay. I think of what he said earlier about the bravery of French soldiers, and I shudder, knowing deep inside that the only reason Jeremy and I are walking and breathing is because the line of paramilitary agents in front of us took the blow of the exploding van.

  “Reloading,” I say, dropping the 9mm rounds into my blazer pockets. “We’re still on the hunt, right? And I don’t think there’s an ammo store around here, do you?”

  I stand up, wince at the pain in my side. Probably some good bruising on my right ribs, if and when I get a chance to look at them.

  We both turn at the sound of a high-low siren, and three black Peugeots roar down the runway. “It looks like some heavy brass is rolling in,” says Jeremy. “Amy, we need to get out of here, and now. We can’t afford to stick around and be interrogated.”

  “Agreed,” I say, “but I need to clear something up.”

  “Make it quick.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say. “Back in Lebanon, Ollie was beheaded, and you were up next for the guy with the sword. That wasn’t somebody killing an MI6 team that they captured. No, they would have celebrated your capture, gotten a huge propaganda victory over the infidels, held you for ransom, have the two of you be the lead stories on Al Jazeera day after day, yadda-yadda-yadda. In other words, it was something personal.”

  Jeremy is watching the three Peugeots brake to a halt. I say, “The swordsman there at the farm, the one who slipped away. Rashad, or one of his men?”

  Jeremy says, “Rashad.”

  “And this whole mess”—I spread my left arm—“had two goals. One was to divert resources from whatever Rashad has planned for May 29. The other was to kill Victor, and kill you. Agreed?”

  The Peugeot doors are open. The senior Frenchwoman who had chewed out our asses is now in a huddle with other officious-looking men and women.

  “Agreed,” Jeremy says. “Look, Amy, we don’t have much time—”

  I interrupt. “You tell me why he’s after you, Jeremy, and why Rashad is making it personal, or I’m going to stay here and reveal all. Hell, I’m not even a government employee anymore. I hear the food for high-value prisoners here in France is pretty damn good.”

  Jeremy turns to me, his face now haunted. “My father…and Rashad’s father. They were once best friends.”

  A pause that seems as heavy as a barrel filled with lead.

  He says, “And Rashad killed them both.”

  Chapter 50

  NADIA KHADRA is having an early outdoor breakfast this morning of strong coffee and fresh crossiants at Café Falguière, not far from l’Institut Pasteur. A small part of her is filled with regret that within a very few days she will no longer be working there.

  She has made some acquaintances—no true friends, she’s never had a true friend in her life—but she will miss the order and discipline of coming here every day and doing good work, then later doing even more vital work at home.

  The morning commuters stroll by on Rue Falguière. One well-dressed man with a familiar bearded smile departs from the walking crowds, steps over to the stone patio, and takes a seat with her under the wide red-and-white umbrella.

  “Bonjour, Nadia,” he says, sitting down directly across from her. He’s carrying a large shopping bag from Le Bon Marché that he carefully places between his gray-trousered legs.

  She just nods in return, trying once again to puzzle out what’s behind those cheery brown eyes, that confident smile, the way he carries himself, and how he had seduced her—with his charm and intelligence only—nearly a year ago. He is dressed like other times she has met him: a fine suit of light blue or gray and a white shirt with no necktie, though something bulky is around his left wrist, like he is wearing a bandage under his shirt.

  He says, “How is your mood? Are you ready for your travels?”

  “I am.”

  He says, “Very well. I have some items for you. Here.”

  Her benefactor moves the chair back, brings the bag over so she can look down as he opens the top. Inside is a silver ribbed briefcase with a black handle.

  “That will be the container for your items,” he says. “Inside is a protected compartment, immune to any scanning device at the airport. To get access, you pull the handle up and twist clockwise at the same time. Understand?”

  “Yes, I do,” she says.

  “Very good,” he says. “Your ticket from Charles de Gaulle to JFK is enclosed, along with your American passport—with your own name, which will make it easier for you—and what the Americans call Global Entry.”

  “What is that?”

  With a wide smile, he says, “According to the Americans, you are a ‘trusted traveler.’”

  Rashad studies the woman sitting before him, a true beauty if she would do something with her rough complexion, trim her heavy eyebrows, and wear something more fashionable—which is why he dips back into the package once more.

  He pulls out a thin white cardboard box, far enough so she can view it, and says, “I need the hand-off in Manhattan to go smoothly.”

  Nadia checks out the box and says, “What is this?”

  He puts the box back in. “A simple black dress, that’s all. And…” Rashad takes out a smaller paper bag and from it removes a thin black belt with a red, jewel-like fastener. “The day of your arrival, you are to wear this dress and this belt.”

  “It’s rather…gaudy.”

  “I know,” Rashad says. “Which is why when you arrive in Manhattan, your contact will be able to see you in the crowd. I will provide you with a cell phone with a preprogrammed number to call him, but with this bright belt there will be no chance of a missed identification. Along with your ticket are the directions to use the New York subway. It has all been arranged.”

  His woman appears to consider this, then takes the bag and moves it to her side of the table.

  “The contact in Manhattan…he is prepared to receive my package?”

  “He is.”

  Nadia looks suspicious. “Are you sure? This…material, it’s not effective if you just walk around downtown Manhattan, shaking out the bags. Or drop it off the top of the Empire State Building. You need a delivery system. A sophisticated delivery system.”

  Rashad is once again impressed by the woman’s intelligence. “We have one. One that has been carefully prepared, one that will blend into the background, one that will have the right geographical penetration and get the job done.”

  She asks, “Passenger aircraft? Trucks? Helicopters?”

  “Close,” he says. “A transportation system, indeed.”

  She thinks for a moment and says, “Trains. Subways.”

  He gives her a pleased nod. He has chosen well.

  “Correct.”

  She glances at the bag he gave her and says, “Very well. If I may…your wrist? Did you injure it?”

  Damn, this plain woman is one observant wench!

  He makes a point of scratching at the bandage—pulling it free for just a moment—and says, “Ah, nothing significant. Nothing to worry about. But questions…I have just one more for you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Rashad chooses his words carefully. He has gone too far and has done too much to risk it all now, but he needs to make sure this quiet, mouselike, angry woman will do her job.

  “What is driving you, Nadia? What has made you do this? How—and please don’t be offended—how can I trust you to do what I have asked of you?”

  His woman just stares at him, glances down at her coffee cup, and then looks back to Rashad. Her expression is a haunted one.

  “My grandparents…they were from Oran, in Algeria. They came to Paris after the war. Then the Algerian War began…in 1954. My grandparents worked for the independence. In October 1961, they took part in a large demonstration, seeking peace and an end to the war.” The woman pauses, and Rashad watches her closely. He senses that he has passed her defenses and is now about to learn all.

  “Do go on,” he says.

  “My peaceful grandparents, my dear grandparents, they were gunned down here, in Paris. At first the police lied, as all police lie, especially from a ruling empire. Only two demonstrators were reported to have been shot. Two! It took years for the truth to come out: that more than two hundred men, women, and children had been massacred by the police, with some of their bodies tossed into the Seine.”

  The fire in her eyes impresses Rashad. “Then you are not doing this as a jihad, for God?”

  She nearly spits back at him. “What do I care for jihad? And I don’t believe in God. I believe in vengeance, that’s all.”

  Rashad reaches over, gently caresses her wrist. She nearly blushes. He says, “Again, please forgive me, but this…this all happened to your grandparents more than half a century ago, well before you were born. How can I be sure you will travel to Manhattan and make the delivery, knowing what will happen to all the innocents later—all because of something from history?”

  Nadia is quick to reply. “My landlady is a dear old woman, Madame Juliette Therien. She is in her sixties, a widow, a grandmother with two sons and lots of grandchildren. She remembers my birthday, and Christmas, and charges me much less in rent than others in the neighborhood, all because she secretly thinks of me as her own daughter.”

  “I see.” Impressive—very impressive indeed.

  Nadia says, “If you wish, we can take a Metro train and be at my flat in thirty minutes. I will lead you to the basement, where Madame Therien lies dead on the cellar floor because she learned what I was doing. Instead of telling her a lie, or begging her to keep my work secret, I bashed in her brains with a hammer.”

  For once Rashad does not know what to say.

  Nadia asks, “Does that answer your concern?”

  He smiles. A warm feeling of success swells within him. This will happen. This mad young girl is about to fulfill her destiny, and his.

  Rashad touches her wrist once more. “It certainly does.”

  Chapter 51

  IN HIS sterile and tidy office, Ernest Hollister just sits there, contemplating what Tyler Pope has just told him.

  Ernest says, “That was a fine briefing. Are you sure it’s good?”

  Tyler says, “Ah, it’s the best I could put together based on—”

  “Is it good?” he repeats. “Don’t fence with me, don’t parse words, for Christ’s sake, speak in plain English. I’m about to take this Cornwall matter to an entirely new level. So I need to know before I go ahead, Tyler, that your information is good. That it is reliable enough that I’m about to put myself into great exposure. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is the information good?”

  “It’s good, sir,” Tyler says.

  “Glad to hear it.” Ernest points to a chair across from his desk. “Have a seat. You’re going to have a busy afternoon.”

  His assistant sits down. “And the first thing you’re going to do is get me on a Company jet, heading to the UK, as soon as possible.”