“Why not?”
“Because I like my life the way it is. I have a great job, I have my rescue work where I help save lives—not so different from what you do, I guess, but on a smaller, more personal scale —and I don’t have any desire to disrupt or change or compromise it. Plus, I’m about to complete the coup of my career. I don’t have the time or the desire to stray from that project. Whatever you think you can get from me, I’m sure you can get somewhere else.”
She stood. “I’m ready to end this meeting now. I’m tired, and sore, and I helped drag a bloody, broken man out of a cave this morning. I’m finding a bed and going to sleep. And tomorrow I’m leaving for Myanmar. I’m not going to do anything that will jeopardize that opportunity.”
-14-
July 7, 2007
Dublin, Ireland
Junie Peters woke in darkness.
At least, it appeared to be dark until her eyes adjusted to the faint light and she realized she was in a hospital room. The telly mounted on the wall in front of her, near the ceiling, and the tubes attached to her wrist were the first indications. Something protruded from her nostrils, too; she reached up to touch it gingerly and found a small plastic curl attached to a long tube that fell away into the nothing next to her narrow bed.
The faint bong from the other side of the wall sounded like the subtle cue for a nurse or physician to attend to a patient’s call. The crack of her door allowed the low light to come in; the windows were shaded, but even so, it was clear it was night.
Junie frowned, trying to recall how she’d come to be there. She blinked, trying to shake off the weariness and the fog that surrounded her.
And just as memory flirted with the edge of her mind, a shadow in the corner of the room moved.
She would have screamed only because the sudden movement startled her, but the face that came close was appallingly handsome and even in the grey light shone with concern. Relief.
“You are awake.” His voice, smooth, carried a breath of an accent that she couldn’t place; it wasn’t American, yet he spoke English perfectly. “I can remove this now.”
Listing to one side, he bent down next to her bed. Junie became aware of the soft rumbling sound only when it stopped. Then the man reached over and gently plucked the curving plastic from her nose. His face was illuminated for one instant.
“Who are you?” Junie was surprised that her voice came out easily.
“The only person who could help you. And now you will recover completely.” He wrapped the long, slim plastic cord around his wrist and tucked it into his pocket; bent to lift a small machine.
“I don’t remember what happened—the oil spill.” Suddenly, she remembered, and the impossibility of it shocked her anew. “It … disappeared.”
“It did indeed. You happened upon the scene too soon after the cure was applied. I am sorry for that; but you will recover completely now.”
“But … how? And who are you?”
But he did not answer; instead, he turned and slipped out the door.
-15-
July 7, 2007
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
Hamid al-Jubeir normally preferred to keep his investigations civilized. He didn’t stoop to the fright tactics of some of his peers by threatening bodily harm, or worse, to people he believed could assist him in his work as an inducement for their cooperation.
But the assistant to Israt Medivir challenged Hamid’s lofty ideals.
The man was dumb as a roach, ready to slip with his fogged brain into a dark corner at the earliest opportunity. Hamid had had him into his office twice since discovering Medivir’s oil-infested body. And each time, he was certain that the man, Konal, had something to hide.
And perhaps something to share.
Finally, frustrated beyond courtesy, Hamid gave up all pretense of civility and rounded on the slender man.
“I do not care if you took riyals from the dead man’s pocket, or if you stole his business secrets! You must have something more you can tell me about your master’s visitor.”
Konal’s eyes popped in his stolid face. Hamid realized he’d struck the nerve he’d been hoping for, and he lowered his voice into one that hinted of menace. “If you do not recall what it is I know you are hiding, I will set my colleagues of the muhabarith on you to find out where and how you came into a sudden fortune.”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed in a long slender throat the color of mahogany. “I have already told you what the man looked like. Your artist drew a picture that looked very like him.”
“Yes … and there is more. Did he … .” Hamid’s voice trailed off as a thought struck him, then lifted. “He did not give his name, nor did he have an appointment. Did he perhaps have any identification on him? Or provide a calling card of some type?”
The wary look disappeared from Konal’s face. “A card. He did have a card.”
“And what happened to that card? What did it say on it?”
“I did not think anything of it, for it had no writing on it. Just a symbol. An odd symbol that I had not ever seen before.”
At last. “What did it look like? Can you draw it? Where is the card?”
“I may still have it.”
Hamid resisted the urge to throttle the man in front of him. The Qu’ran made it clear that violence was not a solution. Still. “Where might it be if you still had it?” He forced his voice to be slow and low and calm, and tried not to think that nearly a week had passed since he’d found Medivir’s body, and that this balid had sat on important information through two other interviews.
Thank Allah that Hamid knew people, and knew when something was missing, and knew when to push.
To his complete astonishment, Konal reached into his thobe and pulled out a flat black billfold, opened it, and thumbed out a card.
A business card.
It was blank on one side and on the other, just as Konal had described, was a black symbol. Nothing else.
Hamid had never seen anything like it before.
But he was certain that somewhere in the world, someone had. Where one murder happened, another followed … and may just as likely have been after a previous one.
He snatched the card from Konal and called for his assistant to take the absurd, thieving man from his office. Before he strangled him.
And then he got on his computer and started emailing every contact he had in every law enforcement precinct around the world.
Someone would know something about that symbol.
-16-
July 7, 2007
Ann Arbor, Michigan
“Bergstrom isn’t one to make idle threats, but he’s also not one to make any threats at all if he doesn’t need to,” Gabe MacNeil said to Marina as he eased the government-issue Taurus down Main Street, Ann Arbor, where she lived. He’d never been to the university town himself, but had heard enough about it, and was enough of a Big Ten fan, to want to take a spin past Michigan Stadium. The Big House. It almost made it worth having to bring her home, if only temporarily.
“Idle threat or not, he made it. He’s eliminated any voluntary help I might have provided now or in the future. I’m not going to be going out of my way for Colin Bergstrom.”
Marina’s short, messy hair tossed in the breeze of the open window. She flattened it with the palm of her hand, smashing it down, apparently heedless of any formal style. Despite her black expression, she was a great package: with her pointed chin and wide, sensual mouth, round, apple-sized breasts and long, slender legs. Her features had a trace of the exotic, with almond-shaped eyes, high, slicing cheekbones, and faintly olive skin. More than once, he’d found his thoughts wandering to that shower she’d taken in the hotel room, and he had to catch himself and refocus—which pissed him the hell off. Even when he was on a case with Rebecca Ives, he’d been more focused.
Of course, they had been sleeping together at that point.
Irritation with himself came out in his response. “You won’t help Bergstrom even if it’s regarding a threat to our national security? That’s big of you.”
“I’m here, aren’t I? The CIA’s got me for eighteen hours, and I’ll do what I can during that time, clearly under duress.” She returned her attention to the pedestrian-clogged street. Friday night on Main Street. It was hot in Ann Arbor, and it showed in the tank tops and short skirts clinging to the college kids that had stayed on for the summer.
Antipathy burned off Marina in the same way the sun beat down on the tall, awning-less buildings. It was too bad, because, as annoyed as he might be with the way Bergstrom had set this whole thing up, Gabe also recognized that the man didn’t make mistakes. His instinct was usually dead-on. Obviously, this operation was important enough to him to go out on a limb with not only a civilian, but also with Gabe, while working around the Agency’s protocols. Gabe trusted and respected his director. He didn’t always agree with him and his methods, but he trusted him.
“Why are you so sure my father’s in danger?”
He’d never said that Alexander was in danger. Instead, he turned her question back around. “What do you think? You know more about the Skaladeskas than any of us—which isn’t saying much, because we know very little. If he left them against their will years ago, why would they want him back? Are they such a close-knit group that they insist that no one venture to the outside? And if they do—are there consequences?”
Of course, the guy could be dead somewhere too, which would put a whole ‘nother spin on this situation.
The reality was, the Agency crowded too many other issues on its plate to be concerned about a tiny little tribe in the snowy mountains of Siberia. He and Bergstrom and their intelligence reports about Taymyria would never make it into the daily briefing for the President; in fact, their data was barely reviewed. If it didn’t have anything to do with al Qaeda, nuclear weapons, or drug trafficking, they were pretty much left alone.
That was good and bad. Good because Colin and Gabe would have little interference. Bad because they had fewer resources. Which was, of course, one of the reasons Bergstrom wanted a free ride with Marina Alexander. She could help, and she would be a cheap resource. Free.