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Marseille

“The French call it entrecôte,” al-Bashir was saying as he pulled up a chair for April. “Much better than the grilled steak you get in Texas.”

April sat at the wheeled cart and stared at the dinner laid out before her. Steak with some sort of sauce on it. Vegetables. A salad in a separate little plate. The silverware looked like solid silver. She picked up a fork. Yes, it was heavy.

“You must be famished,” al-Bashir said as he sat on the opposite side of the table. “Dig in, as you Americans say.”

April nibbled at the salad, sliced a piece of steak and tried to eat it. She had no appetite whatever.

Al-Bashir put down his knife and fork and looked across the table at her. “I understand,” he said softly. “This is all very strange to you, even a little frightening.”

April said nothing. She couldn’t look at him. She stared down at the table setting in front of her.

Getting to his feet, al-Bashir came around the cart and grasped her by the arm. “You’ve got to face the facts, April. There’s no life for you in America anymore. Your life is here, with me.”

“I want to go home.”

“Forget about America. Forget about Dan Randolph. His corporation will be destroyed and him along with it.”

She turned her face away from him.

His grip on her arm tightened and he pulled her to her feet. “Come to bed with me, April. You’ll enjoy it, I promise you.”

With one swift move she grabbed the steak knife from beside her plate and rammed it into al-Bashir’s soft belly. He grunted, his eyes went wide.

“How did you enjoy that, wiseass?” April snarled at him.

Al-Bashir tried to speak, but his knees gave way and he sank to the carpet, the silver knife sunk into his gut all the way up to the hilt. Blood was seeping. He tried to say something but all that came out of his mouth was a strangled little squeak.

They’ll kill me, April told herself. They’ll beat the hell out of me and gang-rape me and kill me. But at least I got him. She looked down at al-Bashir. His hands were twitching, trying to grasp the hilt of the knife.

“You’ve destroyed Dan? Well, I’ve destroyed you. How’s it feel?”

Bending over the prostrate, staring al-Bashir, April yanked the knife out of him. He screamed and blood spurted from the wound.

Holding the bloody knife, April waited for the Asian woman to return. I’ll slit the bitch’s throat, she told herself. I’ll kill as many of them as I can.

But nothing happened. No one rapped at the door. No one tried to enter. Al-Bashir was groaning, still breathing shallowly, but his eyes were closed. A growing pool of blood stained the carpet around his body.

She heard a car door slam. Going to the open French windows, she saw several men loading electronic equipment into a van. One of them looked up and pointed. For an instant April thought he was pointing at her but then she heard a roar like a rocket engine and the world exploded in a flash of fire.

Back on the Truman, the skipper stared at the satellite imagery. The hilltop villa was obliterated: nothing left standing except a few blackened stones. Even the cars and vans were only twisted wreckage now.

The steel hatch opened and the flight operations officer stepped in and saluted. The skipper dumped the satellite image and returned his salute.

“Scotty’s back. Picture-perfect trap.”

The skipper nodded. “Tell him ‘well done’ for me. And then neither of you is to say a word about this again. Ever. To anyone.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”