Trojan Horse

23

Gholam Rahmani glanced at his wristwatch and realized he was running late. Moving about in central Madrid at this hour was always a problem and he should have allowed more time to reach the meeting. Pedestrians crossed the busy streets without regard for the cars inching along. Madrid had grown from a traditional pueblo and the city center had retained that small town configuration with its narrow winding streets and low buildings.

Rahmani eased back in the taxi and reminded himself not to worry about it. This was Spain and though these were Iranians with whom he was meeting they’d surely been contaminated by the chronic tardiness characteristic of Spaniards. He’d be lucky if the rest were even there. He drew an American cigarette from a pack, lit and decided he should simply relax.

As executive director of the Frente Democrático Iraniano, or FDI, headquartered in Rome, he made at least one of these fund-raising trips to Madrid each year. The FDI was one of the oldest organizations in opposition to the ruling mullahs in Iran. From his office in Italy he maintained the FDI’s Web site and confidential forum, connecting Iranian ex-patriots from across Europe.

The organization received the ongoing attention of VEVAK, Iran’s intelligence service, and Rahmani’s rise to the directorship had been in part due to the assassination of two predecessors. This was the price expatriate Iranians once loyal to the Shah were forced to pay to return their country to freedom, to release it from the iron grip of theocracy.

The fall of the Shah had been disastrous for the Rahmani family. At the time he’d been living with his father in Rome where a new branch of the family’s successful Persian rug export business had been established. But most of the family’s wealth was in Tehran as was the rest of the family. When things appeared sufficiently settled his father had returned to bring them out, leaving his nineteen-year-old son to tend affairs in Rome. Rahmani had never heard from his father again.

It had been several years before he received word from his mother informing him that his two younger brothers had died as martyrs in the war against Iraq and that his two sisters had both been married and were now widowed for the same reason. She cautioned him not to return and instead to do all he could to someday find a way out of the country for the family, but most of all to take care of himself. That was his only contact with his mother. Afterward, she and his two sisters were lost in the unsettled time that followed the end of the war with Iraq.

The taxi driver tapped his horn to alert three talking women, then stopped beside the four stout pillars planted in front of the two-story building. These were meant to prevent anyone parking here. Rahmani stepped out, paid the driver, then went to the front doors. One of the young women seemed to pay close attention to him and he turned his face away. In the lobby he punched the elevator button for the third floor and waited. He heard the motor engage above, then felt the slight sense of movement as the small elevator descended to him. He glanced surreptitiously outside and noted that one of the other women was taking a photo with her cell phone. He would be in the picture.

He sighed. Nothing to do about it. They were likely harmless anyway. He glanced at his watch. Just after nine o’clock. Not so bad after all.

Rahmani was a diminutive man, though all his features were well formed. He stood just five feet five inches. His hair was luxurious and long. A source of pride, he kept it carefully combed. A closely cropped beard concealed the acne scars of his youth and he wore heavy-rimmed glasses. His usual dress was a dark business suit, though he wore a tie for occasions such as this.

He was greeted as he stepped from the elevator, the man speaking Farsi. They shook hands, then Rahmani entered the meeting room and found it almost full — an excellent sign. Nearly everyone turned to face him, most smiled and nodded in greeting. It was an older crowd with a scattering of young faces, adult children of men and women who had died in exile. For every woman there were three men. He walked to the front and stepped up on a slightly raised platform. There was a lectern and behind it a row of seven folding chairs.

Rahmani was urgently required at the office in Rome and he’d asked to advance the starting time for this meeting, so such a large crowd had come as a pleasant surprise. A woman of about fifty, slightly overweight and a few years old than he, greeted him.

“You see?” she said. “I told you they would come. Everyone is very excited to hear what you have to say.” Her name was Zarah and she’d taken over local leadership of the Iranian community in central Spain when her father had died three years before. She’d proven less effective and contributions were down since then but she was enthusiastic. She wore too much makeup in Rahmani’s view and smelled vaguely of sandalwood. “I know you must leave so I suggest we start at once.”

Rahmani nodded and took a seat.

There were perhaps just fifteen thousand Iranian exiles living in Spain and they were by and large an affluent class. They’d always been generous to the FDI. This though his three largest donors had all died the previous year, two when they were struck by cars, the third having gone missing while sailing, his body later washing up on a beach near Tariff.

As Zarah introduced him in glowing terms his mind returned to the three women outside. It wasn’t like the VEVAK to use women but they were changing their ways. He knew this community was watched and he was all but certain his donors had been murdered. It took courage to oppose evil.

Perhaps it was like that pizza parlor about which he’d read in Jerusalem. It was a special target for suicide bombers and over the years the slaughter had been enormous. But the parlor was always rebuilt and always well attended. The young Israelis refused to be driven away, refused to surrender to the terrorist. This was like that, Rahmani thought.

Zarah was done speaking and he stood to a round of strong applause. He acknowledged old friends in the crowd, then began with an update of FDI’s activities this past year, followed by an account of his travels on behalf of the cause. He reported events within Iran that it was unlikely they’d heard. The mullahs kept a tight lid on the country but the FDI had its ways.

The most significant news from Iran was the progress it was making with its nuclear program. Everything else in the country was falling apart. With but a single gasoline refinery in a nation awash with oil it was necessary to import refined gasoline by tanker. As Iran’s economic condition declined through corruption and mismanagement, there were constant shortages and long lines at service stations. And that was just an outward sign of the chronic deficiencies in nearly everything.

Even the vaunted nuclear program was experiencing serious setbacks. The virus attack surely initiated by Israel had significantly set back the production of enriched uranium. The nation’s single nuclear power plant was very much an on-again — off-again operation. But as badly as the program was progressing, at least it was progress, if that’s how you chose to see it.

Iran will have the bomb soon, Rahmani told his audience. Very soon. And when that happens everything will change. His audience turned sober at the thought. He’d discussed the likely consequences with them before and they were informed people. They knew.

Within Iran, even some of those in opposition to the mullahs took pride in the prospect of their country becoming a nuclear power. India had the bomb; so did Pakistan and Israel. Why shouldn’t they? The bombing of nuclear facilities by either America or Israel would anger many Iranians who otherwise despised the nation’s rulers. It could very likely unite the nation in an unpredictable way.

But no one in this audience wanted to see Iran with the bomb. It would solidify the mullahs’ hold on power and spread more tyranny throughout the region. It could very easily lead to the first nuclear war.

A counterstrike could not be prevented. The United States was pledged to respond with nuclear weapons if they were used against Israel. Israel itself could nuke Iran. Even if the Iranians managed to knock out Israel’s land-based capability with a sneak attack, there were Israeli submarines with nuclear-tipped rockets cruising off the coast of Iran. And they could not be stopped.

What would the inevitable retaliation do to Iran? It would certainly destroy it as a modern nation; cast it back into a new dark age from which it would never arise in their lifetimes. And in so doing, leave it open to foreign aggression. Iran had been invaded and occupied before, and would be again Rahmani was certain.

Without a nuclear bomb the current regime was trouble enough for those listening to him. They had worked hard to establish themselves in Spain. They maintained a low profile, struggled daily against the stereotypical belief they were Arabs, an unpopular group in Spain. They struggled as well to make it clear that they opposed and were victims of the mullahs, not supporters of the theocracy.

As always Rahmani wrapped up on an optimistic note. He didn’t practice the art of frightening people to give. The money should come from the heart. In traditional fashion a fedora was passed and most laid checks or envelopes into it, though a number gave euros. Rahmani would record the cash for the organization’s private records but the money itself would go into his pocket to pay his way. This kept it from the Italian tax authorities.

He finished with his customary farewell. “We will see a free Iran again. I believe it. And you should believe it as well.” He smiled broadly. “Be sure to give us your current address for our newsletter.”

Afterward there was a crush of hands and of words of deep gratitude. Before leaving he pocketed the updated register, then with a warm smile set off. Outside the women were gone. Rahmani took a taxi directly to the airport. On the plane no one seemed to pay him special attention, nor did anyone as he went to get his car.

By that afternoon, he was at his office. He placed the revised register in his safe, making a mental note to update the computer database later. He glanced at his watch. There was much to do and very little time.

24

Ulrich Spyri entered the police station with a scowl. He’d allowed himself to have hope in what logic and experience told him was a hopeless situation.

“Where is he?” he asked the desk sergeant.

“In the common room, sir.”

“I’ll be there if anyone needs me.” Spyri was buzzed from the waiting area into the hallway leading to the offices and holding cells of the police station. He walked the short distance to the common room. Inside were three tables with chairs, a pair of vending machines, a joint use refrigerator, a microwave and two toasters. Someone had placed travel posters along one wall with pictures of distant and sunny climes.

When the American had been picked up on the Route de Meyrin by a patrol car not long after midnight, Spyri had him rushed to the station. His feet were bleeding and he was struggling to compose himself. He’d been bandaged and provided with a pair of shoes. For all that he’d been through, he gave a good recounting of the kidnapping, of his extraordinary escape, and an accurate picture of where he’d been held and how to get there. He’d conveyed the sense of urgency they all felt.

Within minutes Spyri was confident he knew where the woman was. His lieutenant had been furious as they’d waited the few minutes for the tactical team to prepare for the rescue. The old shoe shop wasn’t three blocks from the police station.

The raid had taken place very quickly and with typical Swiss precision. And to no avail.

The woman was gone. So were the three men.

The forensic team had meticulously combed the van they’d discovered but so far had produced nothing of use. The problem now was that Spyri had no idea what vehicle they’d fled in. They’d questioned everyone living or working along the street but no one had seen anything. With the border to either France or Italy not ten kilometers away they were surely already out of the country and had been by the time the raid was launched. He’d immediately sent an alert but had no expectation it would succeed.

Jeff was sitting at a table with a blanket across his shoulders. A female officer had been assigned to remain with him as experience had shown a woman had a calming effect in such situations. Spyri took a chair that gave a small squeal as he moved it and sat facing the American.

“You’ve been told?”

Jeff nodded. “Yes. I’m disappointed but relieved you didn’t find a body. Do you have any leads?” There were two Band-Aids on his face, three more on his hands. The laces to his oversized shoes were untied. He clutched a mug in his hand.

“We’ve sent an alert to all the neighboring countries. We routinely work with them and they will treat it as if the crime had been committed within their jurisdiction. We’ve also notified our own police in the unlikely event they’ve remained in Switzerland.”

“What did you tell them to look for? Three men and a woman?”

“I’m afraid so. That’s all we have presently.” The American looked exhausted. Well, he would be.

There was a rap at the door and Henri Wille from UNOG entered the room carrying a black athletic bag. Spyri gestured at a chair. “You two met before, I think?” Spyri said. Jeff looked up and nodded in recognition.

“I am very sorry for this, Mr. Aiken. Your government and employers have been informed. I want you to know we are doing everything we possibly can to find Miss Haugen.”

“Thank you.” Jeff drank the now cold tea, then said, “Let me ask you an important question. If they were going to kill her, wouldn’t they have done it where we were held? Then they’d leave? They wouldn’t take her to kill her later, would they?”

They would if they wanted to question her first, Henri thought, glancing at Spyri, who by his look had reached the same conclusion. “We can’t know what they plan,” Henri said. “They are criminals, terrorists from what you’ve told us. We just must do all we can to find her. Has anything more come to mind since the police last spoke to you?”

“Nothing. I keep reliving it over and over, wondering if I shouldn’t have tried to get her myself.”

“You did the right thing,” Henri said. “It was three against one. And they were armed. You’d have had no chance.” No one said anything for a long moment, then Henri continued. “We found this at the scene of your abduction.” He reached into the bag and extracted Jeff’s laptop bag. “We’ve assumed it was either yours or your partner’s.”

“It’s mine,” Jeff said. “I could use it right about now.”

Henri glanced at Spyri, who shrugged. He handed it over to Jeff, who took it with alacrity. He’d lost his cell phone during the abduction and never expected to see his laptop again. He removed the computer and flipped open the screen.

“We’ll leave you for a bit, Mr. Aiken,” Spyri said. “If I hear anything, anything at all, I’ll let you know at once.” He glanced at the female officer, indicating she was to remain. She nodded in understanding.

Outside in the hallway Henri leaned against the wall and let out a deep breath. “Rough,” he said when Spyri had closed the door. “I’ll be tagging along for now,” he said. “I’m the Interpol contact at UNOG and I’ve received instructions to stay on this until she is recovered.” Spyri nodded. “Don’t look so grim,” Henri said. “You did your best.”

“I don’t feel any better for it.”

“I understand but you’ve got one of the two who were abducted. That’s better than anything you could have hoped for a few hours ago.”

Once the WiFi connection was established, Jeff immediately sent a message summarizing events to Frank Renkin in Langley, copying it to Graham Yates at Whitehall. Frank replied at once.

Suddenly overcome, Jeff placed his face into his hands in thought and exhaustion.

“Can I get you something, sir?” the woman asked from her place.

“No. I’m… just tired is all.”

“We have somewhere you can lay down. I think it would be a good idea.”

“Not yet. Thank you.”

He went back to Frank’s message and hit “reply.” He asked for his assistance, unofficially if necessary.

Next, Jeff sent a message to Bridget Evans, Daryl’s best friend at the National Security Agency where she’d once worked. Worldwide electronic surveillance and encryption were their specialty. To his relief he received an immediate message of sympathy and assurance that she’d do what he asked. “But it’s my job if you aren’t careful,” she’d written.

Jeff closed the computer. “I’d like to go back to my hotel room, if that’s all right. There isn’t any point in my hanging out here from what I can see.”

She stood up. “You’re feeling all right, then? Shock can linger.”

“I’m fine. I’d just like to get out of a police station and into a warm bed. I need to sleep and turn my mind off.”

The woman nodded, stood up, and went out into the hallway. There she found Spyri, who was saying good-bye to Henri. He returned to the common room. “You’re quite sure, Mr. Aiken?”

“Yes, I’m sure. This is now a police matter. I need to get some rest and I have to contact her family yet. I’m not looking forward to it.” Actually, Jeff had no intention of contacting Daryl’s family. He’d let her do that once he had her safely back.

“Very well,” Spyri said. “Officer del Medico will drive you to your hotel and see you to your room. I will be in touch when we have any word at all.”

It was not yet lunchtime when Jeff entered the ultramodern hotel room. Spyri had placed a uniformed officer out in the hallway as a precaution. To Jeff’s surprise, he found it somewhat comforting to be back. It reminded him of a happier time, not that many hours ago, when his own world had been safe and he’d been with the woman he loved. It also seemed to him he could smell Daryl’s fragrance, though he realized that was foolish. The room had been cleaned, the large bed freshly made. A light jacket Daryl had left out was now neatly folded atop her suitcase. He lifted it lightly and held it to his nostrils. There it was, her scent. He had smelled it.

Jeff placed the laptop on the desk and plugged it in to recharge. When he and Daryl had first moved in together she’d written a program that allowed the other to track his or her cell phone. That way they always knew were the other was. Since they traveled so often they’d found it a convenience. Plus, if either lost his or her cell phone, which Jeff had a tendency to do on occasion, they could find it.

He launched the app and his heart sank when he saw there was no signal from her phone. He checked for his own. The same. The phones weren’t just off since they were programmed to report their position every fifteen minutes even when on standby. They were destroyed.

Next, Jeff checked messages and found none relevant. Though he had no appetite he picked up the room-service menu, used the telephone, and placed an order. He’d need the energy.

While he waited for the food, he stripped off his soiled clothes and stepped into a very hot shower. He let the water play over his body as he tried to control his thoughts. The last time he’d done this, Daryl had joined him and the memories were still vivid.

He stepped out of the shower and as he toweled off he inadvertently caught a look of himself in the large mirror. There was a bruise along his entire right side, two dark bruises on his face, as well as a number of small cuts and lacerations. He’d taken a beating.

He brushed his hair, then his teeth, and just as he put on the oversized bathrobe the doorbell chimed. He let the waiter carry his meal in and place it on the small table in front of the large window with two facing chairs, signed for it, then closed the door. He checked for messages again.

Nothing.

Jeff sighed, turned on the television for noise, then listlessly ate the meal, forcing himself to nearly finish the plate. Afterward he placed the tray outside, closed the door, then checked again for messages.

Still nothing.

He tried desperately to think of what else he could do. Rest, he decided. He could rest. He moved the computer to the bed and placed it beside his head, activating the chime and turning the volume all the way up. He lay back and closed his eyes, doubting he could sleep but within seconds had fallen into a restless black hole.

25

Rush hour was beginning and Wu Ying glanced across the terrace. Located atop a five-story building, his restaurant delivered a commanding view of the ancient city. The terrace was more than half full, a welcome sight as the weather had recently been cold. The Red Dragon was noted for its outdoor dining. In the near distance was the blue Bosporus, looking more inviting from here than it did on close examination. Flowing from the Black Sea into the Mediterranean, with the effluent of this metropolis of 12 million, it was an all but open sewer.

Today promised an early spring. Wu wondered if it would take or if winter would return. He glanced at the azure sky but found no answer there. Buds were thick on the carefully tended potted shrubbery, a handful of flowers revealing the first signs of blossoming. A good sign.

Customers had come out today to take in the view and enjoy his fare. There was laughter and the steady chatter of any successful restaurant, music to an owner’s ears. Still, they were dressed warmly against what could on occasion be a chilling breeze from off the water.

The kitchen behind Wu was a zoo right now, contrasting sharply with the controlled pace and casual elegance of the terrace. The waitresses were dressed in body-hugging red cheongsam dresses embellished with elaborate golden embroidery. These had a closed neck and short sleeves. On their trim bodies the sight was subtly erotic, as the original designers had intended. His waiters were all young, slender, handsome men brought from mainland China, like all the staff. Everyone and everything was efficient. Wu would have it no other way.

Originally from Shandong Province, China, he’d lived in Turkey for nearly ten years now. Besides the Red Dragon, he also owned the Great Wall in Ankara, and he divided his time between them. It was in Ankara where Wu had his residence, a modern condo situated above the city’s chronic pollution. He had good managers at both restaurants but experience had proven they both required his attention.

Wu lit a cigarette near the railing so the sea breeze would carry away the smoke. This was Turkey and every adult and half the children smoked, it seemed to him, but enough antismoking tourists frequented the Red Dragon to make him cautious.

Wu watched an American couple across the terrace laughing. Each was overweight and their voices dominated the eating area. His father had told him that in time he’d likely resettle to America or perhaps Vancouver in Canada. Wu wondered if he’d like it. The thought of living in either place repelled him. But the Chinese were world settlers, more widespread than the Jews or Armenians. His time would come, he knew.

He reminded himself that he’d not expected to like Turkey. When his father first told him this was where he’d start the family business Wu had been miserable. Not even Europe, he’d thought. He’d expected France or one of the other Western countries. In the worst case, he’d thought he’d end up in South America, Rio or Buenos Aires. But Turkey!

It was neither East nor West. It was Muslim as well. He’d pictured himself living behind a guarded wall, cut off from a sterile city, unwelcome and alienated.

The reality had been the precise opposite. Turkey might be Muslim but it was a nominal designation. They didn’t take it that seriously despite its overtly Muslim president. The ruling Justice and Development Party was traditionally conservative and presented a public secular face. It was a mixed-race nation, a unique melting pot in which the Middle East, Central Asia, Southern Russia, Greece, and central Europe had intermixed. Istanbul in particular was a city that took its pleasure seriously, which was why the capital had been moved to dreary Ankara. Wu had found a wonderful life in Istanbul.

And being part of neither Europe (though a member of NATO) nor the Middle East, Turkey was uniquely positioned as the crossroads for this vast region of the world.

Li Chin-Shou came out of the double doors, carry ing a large tray of steaming food and headed toward the loud Americans. Perhaps thirty years old, he was remarkably fit and played his part well. As he set the plates down for the approving couple, he glanced about the terrace, taking it all in.

Though trade with China had increased this last decade and there were more Chinese here than ever it was not possible for Wu to move about Istanbul unnoticed. The Chinese had been in Istanbul for more than a thousand years but they were still a small minority. Unless you worked for the Chinese government in some capacity or operated an export import business, it was assumed you worked in a Chinese restaurant. So it was, the world over.

And that was just fine with Wu. The less attention he drew, the more he fit a stereotype, the easier his life was. He drew the last of his cigarette, then held it in his hand until he could dispose of it. Every smoking customer, it seemed to him, casually flicked their discarded butts over the railing. Each day he had one of his staff apologize to those who lived below before cleaning up the litter.

His father had known what he was doing. Istanbul was a world banking center, appreciated by the Arab oil moguls and international traders of all sorts. From here, Wu could safely and discreetly distribute the family’s growing fortune. No less than once a year he returned to Beijing to visit his family, always returning with a stash of American dollars and euros. China might be a growing economic and military power but its future was uncertain. Every family of prominence planted adult children out of the country to establish roots and to squirrel away the family fortune.

And from here, he had ready access to Europe. It seemed, as well, that all those who really knew what was going on found their way here. The name players on the world stage rarely landed in Istanbul but the second-tier players, the money and power brokers, all did, most having a second home here. This was the true crossroads of the world, the gateway between East and West, as it had always been.

He felt a tingle in his pocket, turned toward the rail, and took out his iPhone. It was his father.

26

Agnes Edinfield stirred from her early-afternoon nap. She rose from the chair and went down the hallway to the restroom to refresh. There had been a time when she’d worked straight through her long day, rarely taking a break. But in recent years these postlunch naps taken in her chair at her desk with the door closed had become a daily habit.

Back at her desk she reviewed again the hard copy of Jeffrey Daniel Aiken’s file. She’d never met the man, knew little about him beyond management scuttlebutt. He’d been one of those who claimed to have uncovered the Al Qaeda plot to destroy the World Trade Center and attack on the Pentagon. There’d been a lot of those Monday-morning quarterbacks in the Company in those days.

Sadly, Edinfield thought there was a lot of truth in the claims. She’d personally found the entire event very disturbing. In Aiken’s case, he’d left the Company, and started his own computer security firm with which he was proving quite successful.

Though she knew Daryl Haugen no better, Edinfield had at least seen her several times and was aware of her very favorable reputation. She’d done good work at the NSA and was missed. Now she was Aiken’s partner, and from appearances they were a couple.

Edinfield had spoken to Frank Renkin that morning and received what initially sounded like good news: Aiken had somehow managed to escape his captors. A Europe-wide manhunt, if that was the phrase, was under way for Haugen, who had not managed to escape. The Swiss police were treating their abduction as a terrorist act. Renkin had said nothing about Tusk, so for now it seemed whoever had taken the couple didn’t know about it. She made a mental note to be certain Aiken was asked explicitly about his interrogation.

The part of Aiken’s file Edinfield found most interesting concerned events two years earlier in Paris. There’d been a shooting of two Saudi nationals, brothers, who were believed responsible for the cyber-attack against Western computers and the Internet. Aiken and Haugen had been involved in that, keeping valuable information to themselves, not informing the proper authorities of the threat, then precipitating a gunfight by their actions. That was Edinfield’s interpretation of events, which she admitted were sketchy. The confidential aspects of the story that were known were certainly intriguing but the file left a great deal unstated.

How a woman with the credentials and background possessed by Dr. Haugen could allow herself to be manipulated into some kind of Wild West shootout was beyond Edinfield’s comprehension. Given events their due, it might have been an unexpected development. But such an outcome was to be anticipated when amateurs went beyond their expertise. Had the couple gone to the authorities the two brothers would have been apprehended and interrogated where much more would have been learned about their actions. In that event, it was likely that far more of their cyber-attack could have been blunted.

But Aiken, acting as some sort of vigilante, had prevented any possibility of such an outcome. Instead, he’d left behind two dead bodies and had destroyed Haugen’s reputation in the process. She’d left government service not long after, perhaps of her own volition, perhaps not.

Edinfield reread Aiken’s history, then closed it again. The man had played football in high school, rugby in college — hardly the activities of your usual computer geek. There was something there, perhaps an unfulfilled desire for action, an appeal to danger.

Edinfield opened her intraoffice e-mail and typed a message to Renkin.

Next she sent a priority one message to her contact in Geneva.

27

Ahmed eased the Jetta into the rented garage, then killed the engine with a sense of relief and exhaustion. He sat for a moment with his hands resting on the top of the steering wheel and closed his eyes. He flexed his body, releasing it from tension. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this tired.

Outside, Karim glanced along the street, then closed the two wooden garage doors behind them. He turned and opened the trunk where Daryl lay bound beneath a blanket. He pulled her up to sitting position, not gently but not roughly, either. She was drowsy and murmured a complaint. With considerable effort he lifted her from the trunk and stood her up against the vehicle.

With a sigh, Ahmed opened his eyes, exited the car, and walked to where the pair stood. Karim was holding the woman as if she might topple over. “I don’t think she can walk,” he said.

Daryl looked terrible. Her eyes were deeply set, ringed with dark shadows. There was a bruise on her left cheek. She was blinking slowly but her eyes remained mostly closed.

“She must,” Ahmed said. “Your place is close and we are going to walk there.” He’d wanted to drop the woman off with Karim but the narrow alley where his apartment was didn’t allow a car. It was just around the corner though.

Ahmed moved closer to Daryl and spoke. “Wake up now. You must be awake.”

Daryl’s head rolled from side to side and she did indeed look as if she was about to fall over. Ahmed slapped her once, then again harder. It had no effect.

Ahmed grimaced. “This may take a few minutes. Try walking her back and forth to get her circulation going.” He moved to the double doors and peered out. He could see no one.

The drive from Geneva to Prague had taken twelve long and nerve-wracking hours. Ahmed had made no plans to bring a hostage from Switzerland and had been forced to improvise. When the other American had managed to fight his way clear and flee on foot Ahmed had called both Karim and Ali back from their pursuit. Karim had argued they must find and kill him at once before he had time to reach the police.

But Ahmed didn’t think that was possible. They weren’t that far from a main road and he’d had an entire day to note how well policed Geneva was. No, the only choice was to leave — at once. He’d told Karim to load the car, then took Ali aside for his next assignment. Ali nodded in comprehension, picked up his small bag, embraced them both, then set out on foot.

The most immediate decision had been what to do with the woman. He’d considered killing her but there was little point in that now that the man was gone and could give the police their descriptions. And no matter how careful they’d been, one of them might have left behind a fingerprint. A murder would only heighten the intensity of the manhunt. He seriously weighed leaving her behind to be found but decided he still needed answers. And as long as he had the woman, the man would be focused on finding her, not on his work. No, he had to take her with them.

He took the couple’s cell phones out to the backyard as he considered how to get out of Switzerland and into the European Union. He wondered what valuable information there might be in these little devices. He couldn’t risk it though; he knew they could be traced. He removed the batteries, then the SIM card from each and destroyed them. For good measure he crushed everything else under his heel, then buried the lot.

Fortunately, the man hadn’t seen the car. The border control into Italy from Geneva was generally lax but he didn’t want to have to depend on that. Regardless, they’d have to stop, present passports, and undergo at least some level of scrutiny.

He had no choice but to smuggle the women into the EU and he had no time to figure out something clever. Not wanting to cooperate, stalling for time, Daryl had fought them but to no avail. As Karim held her, Ahmed found his medical pouch, located the syringe, then injected her. Then they’d taken her out to the backyard and into the garage where they’d lifted the already groggy woman into the trunk of the Jetta. Just to be safe, Ahmed told Karim to bind her up and to tape her mouth. In training he’d noted that similarly drugged subjects often snored. He’d tossed a blanket across her; then satisfied she was no threat he closed the trunk lid, opened the garage doors, and eased the car onto the street.

It was a high-risk option, one he’d only undertaken because the operation had been such a botch to that point. They’d produced their operation passports to reenter the EU as they were the only ones they’d used to enter Switzerland. He hadn’t wanted to risk their day-to-day identities in the Czech Republic so had left those passports behind. He’d considered using the French passports he and Karim held but the car was registered in Prague and it would have raised questions.

The passports didn’t have their cover names or a connecting address and would be destroyed once they were in Prague but they did have their photographs. Ahmed doubted that made a difference but with computer technology you could never be certain these days. It would take time he reasoned. The computers might be lightning fast but a human mind had to put two and two together, then set the technology in motion.

But he’d be known now. He could no longer remain anonymous. He could change his appearance but again computers made matching images much easier even if he wore a beard or glasses. That was something else he’d have to confess to Hamid, likely one disclosure more than his career could bear.

Walking her back and forth had helped. Daryl was more alert now. “We must walk a short way, Miss Hagen,” Ahmed said. “I will kill you if you cause any trouble. It is a short distance. You understand?”

Daryl nodded. “I’m very thirsty,” she said.

Ahmed gave her a long look. “As soon as you are in the apartment. Now straighten your clothing,” he ordered, “and your hair.” When she was finished he told Karim to go outside and when the street was clear to call for them.

“Let me go,” Daryl said, licking her lips. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Ahmed smiled. “The man has already told the authorities. But that is far away. To answer your question, I will let you go, but first you must answer all my questions.”

Daryl nodded, too exhausted to put up an argument. Somewhere in the back of her mind a dim memory named Tusk stirred uneasily.

28

Ulrich Spyri sat alone in his office. He picked up his small coffee and took a sip as he reviewed the list in front of him. In his time at the Mairie Commune de Meyrin police station he’d had few contacts with UNOG security. It represented an international agency after all, the largest in the world, and considered itself to be above mere local police. Henri Wille had proved a surprise.

“My neck’s on the line here,” Henri had told him.

“Surely they don’t blame you. The couple was kidnapped from the street.”

“That’s how I see it but there will come a time when it will be argued that someone made a mistake and it’s likely to be me who gets the finger.”

“What were they doing here?” Spyri asked, expecting no answer.

Henri paused a moment. “I don’t know the details but they are highly regarded computer security experts. They were working on a special project.” The man, he told Spyri, was a former employee of the American CIA while the woman had worked for the even more elusive National Security Agency. They ran a cyber-security business routinely employed by both private companies and national governments. Henri had no doubt their abduction was related to their work.

Spyri had tried to question the American on that very subject but he’d been too distraught and concerned for the woman to answer his questions. Not long after, he’d asked to go back to his hotel.

Spyri had alerted the border-crossing checkpoints even before the failed rescue attempt. When the rescue team reported back their failure to find the woman he’d issued a standard Swiss nationwide alert. He next ordered a door-to-door canvass of the immediate neighborhood, which was broadened in scope as the day progressed.

Though the American had been surprisingly detailed in his description of the three men there was really nothing remarkable about them. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of similar appearing men lived and traveled routinely in Switzerland. Spyri had put out the descriptions without success and that was how he suspected it would remain.

The forensic examination of the van and of the abandoned shoe repair shop had produced nothing of use. There’d been a few smeared fingerprints, blond hairs from the woman, darker hairs likely from the men, but nothing of help.

Spyri picked up his telephone and called his assistant. “Any word from the border yet?”

He had placed a request to have every bit of traffic that passed through from midnight to four this morning meticulously examined. His gut told him his men would be somewhere in that data but without a car description and a name it was going very slowly. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of entries had been made in that short time span.

“They’ve been through every vehicle,” his assistant said, “and so far have found nothing suspicious. They’ve reviewed each passport scanned. I’m to receive copies of those that even generally match Mr. Aiken’s descriptions. You should get them at any time.”

Spyri hung up. Maybe the American would recognize a photograph. You never knew. He glanced at the telephone and considered calling DAP again. It had been several hours. Though neutral, of necessity Switzerland maintained a counterterrorism service. Early on, Spyri had made a request through normal police channels to the Federal Office of Police asking for any information concerning a terrorist cell operating in the Geneva area. He expected nothing to come of it. National police response in Switzerland was notoriously slow. The Service for Analysis and Prevention, or DAP as it was known, was also responsible for investigating organized crime and money laundering. Spyri wasn’t even certain they’d have the kind of information he needed.

In any event, the clock was ticking and he was all but certain that time had already run out for the woman. Spyri could not escape the feeling that something more was going to happen. He just hoped it wasn’t the report of a body being found.

29

The e-mail chime woke Jeff. There from a Hotmail account was the response from Bridget, Daryl’s NSA friend, containing the access information he’d asked for. “Be discreet,” she had cautioned.

When the Internet first became a reality, politicians insisted on calling it the Information Super Highway. The phrase had quickly turned into a joke. Though it was accurate it scarcely grasped the true scope of the digital world that now seemed to run or monitor almost everything in the West. Entire airplanes, office towers, bridges, even ocean liners were designed by computer and constructed based on their designs. All but totally automated factories run by computers were commonplace worldwide. Any nation with the right natural and labor resources could have a predesigned factory dropped into place and fully operational in record time, all made possible because of computers.

And because of the Internet, distance largely meant nothing. These factories and nearly everything in between were digitally connected. American company call centers located in India and elsewhere were scarcely the tip of the iceberg. The only place where physical distance was meaningful was when it came to shipping and there were more than enough freight forwarders for that. If the right balance of resources, labor, and production costs was made against the cost of shipping, factories in the most remote corners of the world were profitable.

And there were other tasks that computers did very well indeed and at extraordinary speed. Databases were one of them. It wasn’t just that the entire Library of Congress could fit on a single chip, it could as well be generally accessed and rapidly searched for specific information. A wealth of knowledge was readily available to anyone with a computing device who wanted to bother.

And now with scanners, even from a distance, certain types of data could be collected and stored automatically and remotely. In Western Europe and North America, police cars were increasingly equipped with an automobile license plate reader, which acquired every car license plate it encountered at lightning speed then ran it through a computer to see if the vehicle was reported stolen. The same system allowed officers to run plates of cars even before they pulled the vehicles over. The officer could run a driver’s-license check of the registered owner or he could program the system to do that for him automatically. What this meant was that the officer, in most cases, knew as much as he wanted about the operator of the vehicle before he ever stopped the car.

The previous year, Jeff had worked on a portion of the European Union’s TALOS system, Transportable Adaptable Patrol for Land Border Surveillance. Largely robotic, it was designed to handle surveillance and was becoming the EU’s primary border-control monitoring system. The entire network was meant to be automated in the extreme. Conventional border-protection systems are based on expensive ground facilities installed along the entire length of the border complemented by human patrols. TALOS was meant to be more efficient and flexible.

The completed network would have both aerial and ground unmanned vehicles as well as roving robot vehicles, all supervised by a command and control center. The ground component would consist of a system of watch stations and primary-response patrols. The system was designed to be mobile and adaptable to local conditions of border length and terrain.

The design and implementation of the project had been extensive, involving experts from more than one dozen institutions, eight EU nations, Turkey, and even Israel, which had the most experience with such matters. And while this aspect of it was intended to reduce reliance on human patrols, the greater vision was to extend it beyond mere electronic bordercamera surveillance.

With the credentials Bridget had provided, Jeff logged into TALOS. He spent several minutes surfing its interior to refresh his memory of its structure and to learn what he didn’t already know. He was not surprised at how unchanged it was since he’d last had a look. Despite widespread illegal immigration into the European Union, there was no sense of urgency about implementing the project to its full capability.

He soon located ASSET, Advanced Software and driver Support for Essential Road Transport. As was the case with so many patrolling police cars, all European Union entry points possessed such cameras and every car entering the EU was recorded and basic computer checks run on its history. It made bringing stolen cars into Europe more difficult than ever and when an alert was out for a certain vehicle it could be stopped or tagged for follow-up when it entered.

France and Germany in particular also possessed an extensive network of highway cameras, which made it possible to track a vehicle on the major highways and often within the cities themselves once they’d been identified and marked.

Every passport of someone entering the EU was also scanned and if the individual arrived in a passenger vehicle, the two databases were linked. In other words, the driver and occupants of a car were matched to that car. Even if the system was not set up to do that automatically, the two sources could be readily matched if you had the right access codes and knowledge of the system.

Jeff had fled his captors shortly after one in the morning. The police rescue team had located and entered the building around two thirty so that was his starting point. He assumed the captors had left the country at once, which meant they’d have crossed no later than three in the morning. One hundred and twenty minutes. A check of the map displayed three major routes immediately out of Geneva into a foreign country.

Two major routes entered Italy, one veering east, the other west and quickly led into France. The third was a lesser road and took an indirect route before crossing the border also into France. Once in the EU, there would be no more passport controls. Two hours, in the dead of night. Jeff typed the query into the database analysis path using the ASSET syntax and crossed his fingers as he pressed ENTER. There had to be a manageable number. There had to be.

Six hundred thirty-eight. That was what he had to work with, assuming Daryl’s abductors had fled Switzerland. He had no idea what vehicle the men were using, so next he matched the vehicles to the scanned passports.

Nine hundred and four passports.

He stopped to think. The vehicle he wanted would be multipassenger so he dropped all single-passenger vehicles. That left 246 cars and trucks, which gave him another idea. He could always come back if what was left proved a dead end. He dropped the passports for large commercial trucks. It was possible they’d had one lined up but unlikely. Now he had 187 scanned passports.

And that he could manage. Before starting, he picked up the telephone and ordered a large pot of American coffee.

He’d seen their faces. That had been their big mistake.

He also knew there was only one reason why they’d allowed it. They’d intended to kill him. And they intended to kill Daryl. The only question was when. With that grim foreboding, Jeff began scanning the passports photos, willing himself to take his time, to get it right.

30

Franz Herlicher closed the door to his office, carefully locking it behind him. Since the events of the last few days he’d become conscientious in following standard security protocol. Now he set out with briefcase in hand.

Work had been hell. The status of his report was up in the air since no one could be sure what data was authentic and what had been tampered with. The documents, pictures, e-mails, and other evidence they had that Iran was on the verge of detonating a device was being reviewed by the department’s staff and they found more and more original material that appeared to have been modified, sometimes in major ways and sometimes in subtle ones. No one was sure anymore what was real and what had been doctored. He was determined that his months of work not go to waste and this huge opportunity for advancement and recognition be missed and was urging his superiors to circulate the copy of the report he’d verified as unaltered, but he was meeting resistance. They couldn’t publish a report with such implications without all the supporting data being in order, certainly not with their records in a state of disarray.

Then there was the consternation caused by the abduction of the two Americans. When he’d first learned the news, he’d not believed it. He’d never heard of such a single incident taking place anywhere near the Palais des Nations. What troubled him was the rumor he’d heard during lunch. According to the grapevine, security believed the kidnapping was related to their activities. As they’d been working in his office, on his problem, Herlicher couldn’t help wondering if he was at risk.

When the thought first crossed his mind, he’d dismissed it as absurd. He knew nothing about viruses and that sort of thing; that’s why they had experts. But as he prepared to exit the building, he wondered if the Arabs knew that. Maybe they’d want him as well. Maybe the altered report had made him a target. They could have been Iranians. Outside, he stopped and checked the grounds carefully. The late-afternoon light was fading. Every tree cast a nearly black shadow. Anyone could be hiding there.

Several colleagues glanced his way and he realized his behavior was arousing suspicion. There’d be talk if he just stood here with his back to the building. He joined the stream of employees taking the walkway to the street and tried to put a smile on his face.

Ali Kharrazi was tired. He’d hardly slept in the last forty-eight hours. Yet he had much to do before he’d get any rest.

He still burned with humiliation at the American’s escape. True, he and Ahmed had been in the other room when the man had managed to get free and assault Karim. But Ali had believed he should have had no difficulty subduing the man. Instead, he’d managed to be struck in the nose, a blow that still hurt. He was uncertain if his nose was broken but the skin had turned ugly shades of purple.

After receiving his orders and leaving the abandoned shoe shop, he’d moved quickly away from the busy streets into a quiet neighborhood. He’d found a darkened house, placed himself in the black shadows beside it, and after keeping a nervous vigil he’d fallen asleep. He was awakened at dawn as the family inside stirred, and he quietly set out on his quest.

With daylight and the return of normal city activity, Ali was no longer concerned. His passport was good, he had cash in his bag and a change of clothes. If stopped, he’d say he was looking for work and though that was technically illegal it was not something the Swiss police would arrest him over. They’d just check the stamp on his passport and warn him about the law.

He stopped at a workers’ café to eat, feeling much better with a full meal in his stomach. This operation was rushed. There’d been no time to properly plan it. His escape would depend on confusion and a measure of luck. He was not concerned. What mattered was success; what took place after that was in Allah’s hands.

At the café, Ali made inquiries and by noon was in possession of a used Ford Focus. It was suffering from a serious rust problem and had high mileage but it ran well. Next, he drove about the city to become accustomed to it and the car before heading to his destination. He was careful to avoid passing more than twice through his target area. The streets were narrow and complex. He identified routes but was concerned about recalling them at the crucial moment. He decided on another course of action. He drove back to the industrial regions and the lower-class residential areas. He checked the proximity of busy streets and public transportation.

Late that afternoon, he parked near the Place du Marché and waited. He wondered if this assignment was punishment for botching the earlier mission but dismissed the thought. It was important, and, he concluded, had been made necessary by their failure in allowing the man to escape.

Workers on their way home were now filling the sidewalks as they exited the sleek multicolored tramway. Ali waited until the streets were bustling, then took another look at the photograph he’d been sent, fixing it in his memory. He left the car and made his way to the address. There he stopped and scanned the men walking along the sidewalk, especially those approaching the building, careful not to be seen as doing so.

His situation was awkward. Standing within this well-dressed crowd of mostly blond-haired Swiss, Ali was aware of how he stood out. It was important he look like a laborer of some sort here to meet someone or maybe waiting for a ride. He couldn’t simply stand like a statue. He used his phone frequently, pretending to text. He had to wait at or very near this spot because this was the only place he could be reasonably certain his target would appear.

To mask his intentions, Ali moved away from his position from time to time, walking a short distance up the sidewalk, then back, pacing easily as if searching for a car. But he always returned to the one spot from which he got a clear view of every man.

Herlicher had boarded his usual tram for Carouge, the suburb where he lived. Carouge was unlike any other part of Geneva. Originally controlled by Sardinia, its colorful three-story buildings retained a strong Mediterranean appearance. It was a quiet district, known for its artists, old-style cafés, and a certain small-scale nightlife that appealed to Herlicher.

At the Place du Marché, he climbed off the tram and walked the short distance to the Rue Jacques-Dalphin. He then turned onto his own narrow street, experiencing the first sensation of relaxation from work.

A heavyset olive-skinned man stood before him. “Franz Herlicher?” he asked with a becoming smile.

“Yes?”

Ali pressed the revolver against the man’s torso and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. The sound was explosive and those nearby recoiled reflexively away. A woman screamed as Herlicher fell to the sidewalk. Ali turned away from him, pushing his hand with the gun into his pocket as he did.

Guido Thury, gendarme with the Commune de Carouge police, was driving past in his white police car with its distinctive broad orange stripe, when he heard the noise and spotted the trouble. He jerked the car to the side of the road, riding up on the sidewalk, then bolted from the vehicle even as he reached for his handgun. Those were gunshots!

Ali was running toward Thury, back to the Place du Marché where his car was parked. It was a short distance and he estimated it would take him less than one minute even with busy pedestrian traffic. Once in the car he’d drive a distance, ditch it, then make his way to the immigrant quarter on foot. All he needed was a bit of luck during this crucial minute.

“Arrêtez!” Halt! Thury shouted at the running man.

Ali barreled down the sidewalk, knocking people left and right as he did, finally moving into the narrow street to give him a clear run.

“Arrêtez!” Thury shouted again.

Ali spotted the officer, brandished his gun, and gave a shout as he rushed at the officer. Thury crouched, held his pistol with both hands, and fired once into Ali’s chest.

Ali staggered but kept moving, slowing with each step, his gun clattering to the cobblestone. After a few steps he was walking awkwardly, then he drew to a stop. He felt as if a heavy hammer had struck him. There was no pain but now it was as if all the air had been knocked from him. He willed himself to keep moving. Only in the car would he be safe. He took a step, then another, then dropped to his knees in an attitude of prayer.

There was more screaming very close. Behind, he could hear heavy footsteps. He placed his hand on his chest and felt a hot flow. He tried to breathe and it was as if a tight belt was choking him about the chest. He toppled face forward.

Everything around him slowed. He could no longer hear. The man who’d pointed a gun at him was beside him, mouthing something. Their eyes met for the first time. Ali moved his lips as if to speak. Thury knelt and moved his ear to the man’s lips but there was no sound except a harsh whisper, as he heard for the first time the death rattle.

31

The system at the Italian border, Jeff discovered, was for the security officer to scan the passport of each incoming person. This produced an image of the page containing the photograph, which was stored along with the information that of the database search produced. To move people as rapidly as reasonable the system was limited to wants and alerts.

As the physical passport was scanned when the officer pressed it to a screen the quality of the photographs varied but was generally poorer than Jeff had anticipated. He had thought that the system would enable Italy, an EU country, to immediately access the passport database of each involved nation, especially if it also was part of the EU. That would have produced a clearer image but that was not the case.

The difficulty it presented him with was that because of the indifferent quality one dark-haired man in his thirties of a certain weight tended to look pretty much like another. He also could not discount the possibility of the use of glasses or presence of facial hair in photographs intended to make a visual search such as this more difficult if not impossible.

After several minutes, Jeff organized a system in order to speed the process. He passed through the 187 photographs with relative speed, noting those that roughly fit his recollection. He immediately discarded the obese or excessively thin, those with blond hair, and all women. He copied each of the other photographs and placed them in a separate file within his computer. This process consumed nearly two hours.

He then slowly went through the likely fifty-six photos in his computer, taking his time, trusting his instincts. It took half an hour to view them again and not one jumped out at him. The problem he realized was that he was searching for three men or any one of them. His mind could not conjure a single face and attempt to match it to what was on the screen. He had to recall three images.

He stood up and paced the room, trying to devise a means to make this happen. He could think of no additional screening device so sat back down and worked his way through the photographs, discarding once again those he was certain were not who he was looking for. When he finished he was down to a tentative nineteen.

Now he went through them very slowly, reminding himself that these men were professionals and would have made an effort in their photograph to present as bland an impression as possible. He thought of glasses again and paid special attention to the eleven wearing them.

And there he was. Jeff stared at the photograph, looked away, then stared again. He took a long drink of coffee. That was him. He was wearing glasses and sported a bushy mustache but that was the leader. His pulse quickened. One step closer to saving Daryl.

He examined the others again. Nothing. He went to his discards and then, almost at once, found another. He was much thinner and very young-looking in the photograph. This was the bigger man, the one who had stood guard over them. He looked diminished in the picture, as if it was the photograph of someone related to him.

Jeff segregated these two files into another folder. Now he went carefully back through the others until he was satisfied his third man wasn’t there. What did that mean? Was he assuming too much? Were these two leaving Switzerland innocently, leaving Daryl behind guarded by their confederate? Or was the third man smuggling her out of the country some other way, perhaps across a thinly guarded part of the border in some rural region?

He stopped and reminded himself that there was no way he could know what was taking place. He could only make his most educated guess and act accordingly. He was certain that time was against him. He had to take chances.

Neither of the two passports had raised an alert with the border security officer. The names and addresses were certainly aliases and false leads. What he did note was that both passports were from the Czech Republic, though their names were Middle Eastern. He performed a quick Internet search. Both addresses were for modest hotels in Prague. He ran the names. There were no matches.

Now what? The car. The two passports were matched to a VW Jetta. When he checked he found that the ACCESS system had automatically produced the registration and found the car clean. All it showed Jeff was that the country of original was the Czech Republic.

And that was it, nothing else.

Jeff rose and rubbed his forehead. What to do? What could he do? For all he knew, Daryl was right here in Geneva. That certainly made a lot of sense. The leader and one of the men had left the country, leaving her guarded by the third man. That was the simplest explanation.

Would they have risked smuggling her out in that car? Could she have simply been bound up and in the trunk? Would they have been so reckless?

He went back to the computer. There was no indication the vehicle had been searched but he didn’t know if such a record was kept.

What to do?

He glanced at the security officer’s code, which was the same for the two men and the car. He entered the number and located the sequence of the officer’s scans for his shift. He moved to the time slot for the scans. The officer had spent thirty-four seconds on the two men and car. There’d been no search.

Jeff rose again, feeling restless. In his work, all the action was on the screen. He was accustomed to focusing his attention there. Now, an instinctive desire for physical movement all but overwhelmed him. He wanted to do something, anything, rather than wait in this room. He sensed that in such a compulsion lay danger, the very real risk of making the wrong decision.

He couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning Daryl if she was nearby, but what if she was in Prague, waiting for him to come for her? What should he do? The tension and uncertainty was nearly more than he could stand.

There was a knock at the door, which startled him. He crossed the room and opened it to reveal a woman in police uniform. “Mr. Aiken. I’ve been asked to have you come with me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Please come. I am told it is urgent.”

32

As the officer slowed the car to a stop, Jeff spotted Henri Wille standing within a circle gathered in the narrow adjacent street. The area had been cordoned off. In the fading light of the dying day, enormous work lights set ablaze the scene where the police stood; farther away down the narrow street, bright camera lights shone on reporters speaking into microphones.

“This way,” the woman officer said as she opened his door.

There were bystanders but for the most part those present struck Jeff as officials of some sort or media. Henri spotted him.

“Mr. Aiken. Thank you for coming. I am sorry to say I must ask you to identify someone for me. He is dead. You understand?”

“A man?” Jeff’s voice shook with emotion.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. A man, of course. We have no new information at all about Miss Hagen. When you are ready?” He gestured toward a covered body.

Jeff nodded and walked over. A uniformed officer reached down and revealed the face, set in a grimace, the eyes mercifully closed.

“Yes. That is one of them.” Jeff experienced a sharp satisfaction followed at once by a sense of loss. He’d never learn anything from him now. “What happened?”

“He was shot by a police officer. This way,” Henri said, leading down the narrow street. “This man was waiting here and shot Mr. Herlicher to death as he was coming home.”

“Herlicher is dead?”

Henri nodded. “Frankly, it had not occurred to us that Herr Herlicher might be in danger. Do you have any idea as to why one of your abductors would do this?”

“Daryl and I were working on a virus found on Herlicher’s computer, so you have that as a connection. The virus was a potential security risk and unique. When they questioned us, that’s what they wanted to know about.”

One conclusion was self-evident to Henri. Someone of Middle Eastern origin was very worried about this computer virus. And they didn’t want it interfered with in any way. Kidnapping computer experts and killing a UN official struck him as extreme but that only served to impress on him how serious this was to someone.

“Did either of you mention Herr Herlicher’s name?” Henri asked. “It would be understandable if you had, under the circumstances.”

Jeff thought. “No. His name never came up.”

“You’re certain?” Henri asked.

“Absolutely. Had they more time and asked it would have come out. We aren’t heroes but we never reached that point.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Perhaps Daryl mentioned him after I left.”

“Yes,” Henri said. “That’s likely it, then.”

“Are the local police making any progress searching for Daryl?” Jeff asked.

“I regret that they are not,” Henri said. “Though she may still be in Switzerland, the local police think it most likely she was taken out of the country last night before they had time to raid the location you gave them. The officer in charge has requested the passport and vehicle records from the Italian and French entry points and hopes to have that information soon. It may prove valuable. He will need you to examine the photos at that time.”

For an instant, Jeff thought about telling him that he’d already done that. He hated to see the police waste their time but Bridget put herself at risk to give him access. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No. Thank you for coming. I will confirm your identification for the local officers. Just stay in your room.”

“I’ll wait for your call.”

The same female officer drove him back to his hotel. Once in his room Jeff returned to his computer. He sent the information he’d developed to Frank, surmising the Company would have the most ready access to the data he was after. He also brought him up to date.

Jeff quickly packed. He’d left cash, a credit card, and their passports in the room safe as he always did. He paused with Daryl’s passport in his hand, then placed it with his. She’d need it. He had to believe she would need it again.

Jeff now knew why the third man had not left Switzerland. He also knew with absolute confidence that the other two had taken Daryl out of the country. They would not have assassinated a United Nations official in Geneva and risked the heightened manhunt to follow unless they had already spirited her out of the country. And while he could not know with equal certainty where they’d gone — they would surely have access to safe locations throughout Europe — he believed they were in Prague.

But what if the vehicle proved a dead end? Jeff had thought of little else since sending his message to Frank. He logged onto his laptop and pulled up the scan of the passports again. What on them could he trust? He’d forwarded the names and addresses but was certain Frank would turn up nothing of use. The photos — those were real. And with facial recognition programs, a computer could generate a small selection of likely matches. But the process was time consuming and he had no time. The trick then was to narrow the search field.

He had no idea how long it would take to scan every Czech passport or identity card but knew it would be too long. No, he needed to reduce the field significantly. But how?

He looked at the passport of the leader again searching for something, anything that would help. Occupation. In Czech, the man had listed studentka, repeated in French as simply student.

Jeff examined the man again. He didn’t look like any student he’d ever seen. But it might just be the cover he was using. It was surely a common one for agents. This time he sent the file to Bridget, asking her to conduct the facial scan of every college and university ID in Prague. When that was done she was to extend it to all of the Czech Republic. He hoped the NSA would have access to that data or know who would.

He didn’t wait for a reply. He had no time. She was bright and she knew what he needed.

Jeff quickly checked flights from Geneva to Prague and found none that were direct, most having a stop in Frankfurt. He booked a flight he could just make.

Now, how to get out of the hotel without the police stopping him…

In his office at the Mairie Commune de Meyrin Police, Ulrich Spyri’s assistant gestured to attract his attention. He waited until Henri finished briefing him on the shooting and death of the murderer, then disconnected. He looked up.

“Italy has given us access to the border scans you requested. I’ve e-mailed you the link. I’ve checked the names.”

“Any luck?”

“Nothing. There were no alerts last night during the time period you requested.”

“All right. Let’s get the American over here to look at the photos. Any names used by the kidnappers are likely aliases anyway.”

Spyri poured himself a cup of coffee but when he lifted it to his lips he realized it was rank. He dumped it out as well as the last bit in the pot, then waited as a new batch brewed. He poured the coffee, added white powder since there was no milk in the refrigerator, then raised the cup again. Before he could drink his assistant rushed over to him.

“The man is gone!”

33

Colonel Jai Feng, dressed in mufti, lit another cigarette, and glanced casually at his watch. The meeting had been scheduled for 6:00 and now that he’d arrived, the real waiting began. The longer he was made to sit, the less important he was. The sober assistant in a trim navy Brooks Brothers suit gave no hint.

During the four-hour flight from Urumqi to Beijing, Feng had planned for this meeting. Mei Zedong, Deputy First State Counselor of the Communist Party, had been his patron almost from the beginning. Zedong’s rise in the Party had preceded Feng’s own advancement in the People’s Liberation Army. Indeed, Feng had risen in the shadow of the always more powerful and politically astute Zedong. Theirs was an unofficial relationship and not widely known, though by no means meant to be a secret. That would have attracted too much interest in paranoid Beijing. Such associations were the lubricant of the Chinese government and accepted as necessary. Still, they met after regular work hours and Feng wore a gray business suit.

Though his orders to assist the Iranians had come to Feng through military channels, it was Zedong who had alerted him months in advance. This had given him valuable time to prepare and show his best to his official superiors from the very beginning. Now Feng had a coup to present to Zedong and was eager to get on with it.

He’d regretted the necessity of a face-to-face meeting as every hour he was away from his office was a risk but he was unwilling to chance an electronic communication of any sort. Events were moving rapidly and he did not trust his immediate subordinate to let him remain in charge for very long. Feng would be back behind his desk by lunchtime tomorrow, and that was not a moment too soon in his view.

At eighteen minutes after the hour the assistant lifted his head and informed him that the deputy was ready to see him. He’d received no communication that Feng could detect. It was as if the prescribed time had passed. Still, he’d waited less than twenty minutes and that was a good sign his star was still ascendant.

And why shouldn’t it be? His Cyber Warfare Center produced more intelligence than every other department in China. His people had penetrated the American Department of Defense and stolen countless documents that had allowed the Chinese Air Force and Navy to leapfrog ahead in design. And because of him, China knew the precise American response to every potential confrontation. No government in history had ever had available such broad and accurate intelligence about their principal adversary.

But in Feng’s view it was not even necessary to consider any of that. Just look at what his people had managed within the United Nations alone. It was without parallel. For the last few months, the Politburo had known every secret of that massive bureaucracy. And his department had just launched its most sophisticated operation, a Trojan that changed everything.

Zedong remained sitting as Feng entered the room. He reached across his desk to shake hands. “Can I get you anything, Colonel?”

“Perhaps some water, Deputy.” To Feng’s surprise Zedong rose, crossed to a wet bar, and poured a glass of water. He handed it to him, then took his place behind the desk. Zedong was perhaps five years older than Feng, and at least two inches shorter. Squat in appearance, resembling a toad as much as anything, he smiled constantly, a trait common among senior Party officials. Chinese culture held that the shorter the man, the more devious. That had been Feng’s experience. But Zedong had always dealt honestly with him. And so it would be until the day he did not.

“You have something urgent, I believe?” Zedong said.

“Yes. The penetration of UNOG in Geneva with our new cyberweapon is all but complete and we are rapidly gaining access to the United Nation’s headquarters in New York.”

“So I understand. I recently read a report from your superior, General Ming, saying the same thing. You are to be congratulated. Everyone is most pleased at this point.”

“We have also gained total access to the UN Office for Disarmament Affairs. This is how we learned the contents of the final report.”

Zedong smiled. “Which you altered.”

“Which we altered. The objective as outlined for us was to delay the release of the report. Given how the United Nations operates we were told this would insert paralysis for these crucial weeks. Our plan, which succeeded, was to make the alteration at the crucial juncture. However, at our moment of greatest success the trouble started.” Zedong’s smile faded ever so slightly. This was the first he was learning of this. Feng gave him a succinct briefing of events, reporting in an even voice the detection of the latest Trojan, pointing out that it meant little in the end as altering the Iran report had made discovery certain. He focused his remarks on the American man.

Zedong considered the information before speaking. “This man was a threat?” he at last asked, with a measure of disbelief.

Feng nodded. “He discovered our code in Geneva with surprising speed.” He omitted mentioning that his team had determined that the man had first identified the Trojan in London.

“This is an unfortunate development.”

“I had his photograph and identity forwarded to our contact with Iran. Initially we didn’t know the woman was with him. We only learned that after they were both picked up. Their operatives seized the couple as they were leaving the UNOG building. Their purpose was to learn how much they knew and how many others had been advised. And to halt the work.”

“It also alerted the United Nations.”

“Yes.” Feng paused. “A few hours ago these same operatives killed a UN official. He was the author of the report.”

Zedong straightened in his chair and was no longer smiling. “This is getting out of hand. Those people are lunatics. How protected are we?”

“Very. There is no direct connection between us and the Iranians. You will recall that we use a cutout. And the code was carefully vetted. It has no provenance leading back to us.”

“Let us hope so.” Zedong took a moment to light a cigarette. After drawing on it he smiled, then said, “I warned my superiors that you cannot alter such reports without alerting those involved.”

Feng resumed his briefing. “We continue to alter documents as we speak. No one in the ODA will trust or believe anything in their computers. It had been my hope that it would take months, even years, for them to unravel what we have unleashed. They might never have figured it all out. And we are reading nearly everything, most especially their communications. I could use twice as many people to handle the flood of information.”

“I do what I can but there’s no time to train them even if qualified people could be found on short notice.”

“Our access is going to be short lived in any event,” Feng said with resignation. “As they now know about the Trojan they will find a way to block it. I have a team devising a new penetration route but they will be on guard. As a consequence, it will never have the benefits for us I had envisioned.”

Feng lifted his glass and took a long drink as he watched Zedong think. “Colonel,” Zedong said finally, “I must tell you that there is criticism about your penetration of the United States Department of Defense. The information flow has slowed dramatically and certain key data long requested has not been produced.”

Feng placed his glass down. “They are getting smarter. The easy days are over. Our job is more difficult but I’m confident we’ll obtain everything that has been requested.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“This brings up another matter we’ve discussed previously. These Information Warfare Units, the so-called Patriotic Hackers, has anything been done to stop them? They make our job very difficult. Their carelessness increases security against us. Surely, with the success our sophisticated operations have enjoyed, those who make these decisions understand that the time for such groups has passed.”

Zedong nodded slightly. “I agree but progress is slow. Others control them and broadcast their every success. It is a way to cover them with glory and advance their careers. And certain people don’t want to see you alone in this area. They fear too much power in one man’s hands.”

Feng bristled slightly. “I have always served the Party faithfully.”

“Of course. But you understand.”

Unfortunately, Feng understood all too well. Zedong glanced at his watch, a Rolex and a gift from his son the previous year. Feng cleared his throat as if to announce he had something important to say.

“You recall Stuxnet?” he said.

“I’ve read your reports.” Zedong said with a smile. “And, of course, I read the New York Times. What about it?”

“It is my understanding that the Iranians have advised they are making considerable progress and believe they will be ready with their device in the immediate future. This was why I was ordered to alter the report.”

Zedong grimaced. “Our latest information is that they have once again overstated their capability. Stuxnet2 crippled them far more than they admitted. They could be close, but…” He shook his head, then asked, “How effective do you believe their new air gap measures are?”

“Better than before. They prohibit thumb drives and outside computers. But we have no confidence in their measures. They are inept in that regard and we are starting to detect signs of a new version of Stuxnet. The Iranians report nothing but then they usually learn of such matters when their programs fail utterly or we tell them. But”—he thought a moment, then said—“now that the CIA knows we altered the UN report they will conclude Iran is very close. They are certain to accelerate release of this latest version.”

Zedong stared out the window and when he spoke it was more to himself than to Feng. “If this new version does to the Iranian program what the previous ones did there will be no nuclear test. I will have to answer for that failure.”

“We have an omnibus Stuxnet countermeasure.”

Zedong looked at him sharply. “How effective is it?”

“We believe 100 percent. It will enable them to quarantine Stuxnet. Then it is just a question of how proficient they really are in the final stages of their program.”

“They claim a few weeks at most. You’re certain?”

“It works in all our tests and I assure you we’ve made them very tough.”

“And if they’ve changed the virus?”

“Our countermeasure assumes the key elements of the Trojan remain essentially the same. Short of an entirely new design, this will stop it.”

Zedong nodded approval. “Pass it along to your contact for transportation.”

“We can just e-mail it the entire way. There are very effective ways for doing that. It will be much faster.” This was an old disagreement between them.

“Absolutely not! It has been decided that there must be intermediaries. We will use the standard method.”

“There’s something I’d like from you.”

“Yes?”

“When the Iranians seized the Americans we believe they took their laptop computers. They will have invaluable information for us. This couple works on all kinds of high-security programs, both in the private sector and within Western government security agencies. There will also be information telling us what they know about our Trojan that could be very useful. I want the computers. It is even possible, perhaps likely, they have done work on the next version of Stuxnet.”

“I can’t see the Iranians making good use of them.”

“Nor can I. This is a small price for giving them the countermeasure.”

Zedong nodded. “Pass on the request with your countermeasure. I’ll work this end. Before you leave give me all the information you have about this couple and the Iranian operatives, if you know. Where are these computers?”

“In Prague, we believe. I have printed everything for you.” Feng removed the report and placed it on the desk.

Zedong picked it up. “You’ve done well, Jai. Very well.”

As Feng left, Zedong stared again out his window into the eternal smog of the Chinese capital. The Iranians couldn’t be trusted in this. Once they knew the Chinese wanted the computers they’d deny having them. Or only produce one. He sent his assistant home, then scanned Feng’s report in the outer office. At his desk he sent an e-mail to his son, attaching the document.

“Get the computers,” he wrote. “As quickly as you can.”

34

Daryl lay unmoving, willing her breath to remain in a slow deep rhythm. She knew her captors were suspicious. She had no idea how long she’d lain on the mattress, a few hours at least as the sun had first rested on her leg and had now moved on. She could smell cooking oil and strange, though not unpleasant, aromas coming from somewhere. From time to time, she’d risk raising an eyelid ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of the room and the two men.

It was a grim place with bare walls. Opposite her was a small wooden table with facing hardback chairs. There was, she was certain, a small kitchen area out of sight. Before her was a ratty couch, facing a wall with a small flat screen television sitting on a largely empty cheap bookcase.

As for the men, her primary watcher was perhaps thirty years old, slender. At first glance he’d seemed undersized but she’d determined if that were true it was only slightly. He sat in one of the chairs and faced her but he became restless and bored from time to time. He’d wander, usually returning with a coffee, which was how she’d decided the kitchen was above her head.

The other man was the leader. She couldn’t place his age but he was a few years older than the other, with olive-colored skin, very black hair and a moderate mustache. There’d been just a single glimpse at his black eyes and she’d perceived a quick intellect and a certain animal cunning. He moved with athletic grace and seemed very fit despite his chain-smoking. In fact, both men puffed away with abandon, the smoke forming a visible cloud in the room.

The pair conversed quietly in a Middle Eastern language. It did not sound to her like Arabic, which she’d heard enough to believe she’d recognize. But it might be Arabic spoken with a strong regional accent. She thought of what other languages it could be and came up with Turkish, Armenian, and Farsi. She had no idea what Turkish sounded like and Armenians were Christian, hardly likely to be terrorists. She had no idea what Farsi sounded like but she’d come to believe that these men were Iranian. They had the most to lose from what she and Jeff had discovered.

Not that it made any difference. She was a prisoner and though they’d not yet killed her, she could not see any other possible outcome. She could remain a prisoner or die. So she would not remain their captive and if she was killed attempting her escape, that was better than to be taken like a lamb to the slaughter.

Neither man had so much as groped her. And that heightened her fear; not that she wanted to be touched or raped. God no! For now they kept their distance, treated her like professionals. But she had no doubt once the smart one had stripped her of every bit of knowledge she possessed, they’d kill her. She’d seen their faces.

She tested her wrists behind her back again. Were they looser? She couldn’t tell. She was careful not to work the binding of the rope as it would alert the men that she was awake. For a moment she yielded to hopelessness. She could see no way out of this and despaired at the thought.

Still, Daryl could not help but cling to the hope of rescue. It was engrained in her. The dark moment passed; a resignation to her death was simply against her nature. When Jeff had managed his escape, she’d allowed herself to hope. Surely he’d find a policeman and help would come.

But this leader had moved with lightning speed. He’d sent one of the men off on foot, then ordered the other to wipe the place down quickly. The few items they’d brought into the room were taken outside, then within three or four minutes they’d hoisted her to her feet and given her that first injection. She’d been unconscious almost at once.

She had no memory of the next time period. It could have been two or three hours, or ten for that matter. There’d been the black hole of unconsciousness, then a surreal state during which she’d felt the road passing beneath the car, sensed the closeness of the trunk in which she lay. For a while she’d been certain she would choke because her mouth was taped shut and she’d had to will herself to remain calm.

Then the trunk lid was opened with a flood of stinging light. One of the men spoke to her but she remembered nothing of what he said, the tape was removed, and she immediately felt the prick of the needle again. And so it had gone until they’d trundled her from the car to this room where she lay, knowing the worst of her ordeal was yet to come.

For all this, she clung to hope of rescue.

But who would save her now? Jeff was in Geneva and while she had no idea where she was, it had taken a long, hard day’s driving to get here so it was far away and in another country. No one locally would be looking for her.

No, if she was to live she had to escape. She could not depend on anyone but herself.

Daryl knew the questioning would soon begin. The leader had been about to start earlier, telling her he knew she was faking it, but instead he’d stalled. She could hear the exhaustion in his voice. She’d listened as he’d made a telephone call to a woman and left a message in English. It sounded like a girlfriend but there’d been something else that suggested to her a business arrangement. Not a prostitute, but something else she was certain.

Then he’d received a call and for the last five minutes had been deep in conversation with someone who was clearly his superior. The other man had glanced his way uncertainly several times. These two were in trouble with someone — that was easy enough to decipher, as was the reason.

They’d let Jeff escape.

Which meant it was going to go very hard on her very soon. They had to make up for their laxness and they’d do that, she was certain, by squeezing her mercilessly.

She wished she could sleep. She’d like nothing more than to escape this moment and her rising fears.

Only after moving the American woman to Karim’s one-room apartment had Ahmed realized it was not suitable. This was a contingency he should have thought about previously. While the street here was occupied primarily by immigrants, so few of whom would want to summon the police, the screams of a woman would likely overcome that reluctance. And to learn what was necessary, he could not be certain she’d not find a chance to scream. He’d tried persuading himself but the place wouldn’t do for what came next.

If only she weren’t so stubborn.

He’d told her when they dropped her on the mattress that he knew she was faking it, and in fact he did. But what was he to do here if she refused to talk? He’d asked Karim if there was somewhere else they could take the woman later this night, after it was dark, somewhere secure and isolated. The man had shrugged.

Ahmed couldn’t blame him for the oversight. There’d never been the need before. Prague was the command center for Central Europe. Operations were meant to be kept away from it. A safe house in the country, far from neighbors would have been ideal and not that difficult had he arranged for it earlier. But not now, not on short notice. And every time they moved the woman their exposure increased.

Ahmed was becoming convinced he should have just left the woman in Geneva. Taking her had been a risk and though so far he’d got away with it, having her was a hindrance to his every move. Maybe he should just kill her and get it over with.

But what to do with the body afterward?

This woman was not his only concern. There was Saliha. He had no idea if she’d returned from Turkey. He’d called her repeatedly but she was not answering. Damn her! He never should have mixed pleasure with business. She was jealous, that was clear enough, and now she was punishing him for her suspicions. He’d already left two messages and refused to leave more. He didn’t want her to know how important she was to him.

He’d been under enormous stress since leaving Prague and there’d been little time for rest. The long drive from Geneva had nearly done him in. He’d not trusted Karim to drive, knowing the poor level of his skills, so he’d had to do it all himself. With the woman in the trunk there had been no choice.

His great temptation now was to leave the woman with Karim, collapse into his own bed, and deal with all this in the morning. He tried to think why the situation was urgent but it was as if his mind was filled with cotton.

He’d received a call, and though he did not recognize the voice, he had been certain who it was. Hamid.

“Where are you?” the man had asked in English.

“Prague. With my man and the woman.” His answer was in Farsi so she would not understand. Hamid switched when he spoke next.

“The American?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.” Ahmed gave a cursory briefing of the essentials. There was a long pause then Hamid said, “The one man is dead in Geneva. So is ours. Shot to death by police. It is all over the news. There is endless speculation about what this means. Terrorists are identified as the suspects and security throughout all Europe has been increased.”

Dead! Ali dead! Ahmed didn’t want to believe it. The man been so steady, so dependable.

Well, it had always been possible, as it was for any of them. Still, though Swiss security was sophisticated, the police forces there were not accustomed to hunting down suspects with great speed. It was a soft country, with soft ways. Ahmed had expected Ali to slip away. He was beginning to think this operation was ill starred.

“How did the American get away?” Hamid asked. Ahmed told him. “That is not an explanation I can pass along, brother. Truly. It will not be accepted. You’ve been careless. I’ve never known you to be so careless.”

That, Ahmed knew, was very true. He was surprised himself. “I have the woman,” he offered as a consolation.

“Careless again. You should have seen to her in Geneva. Taking her with you was too great a risk.”

“It worked.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps the police are watching you right now.”

Ahmed took a drag of his cigarette before answering. “She has important information. I will get it.”

“That is good.” There was a pause, then Hamid said, “There is a vital message on its way to you in the usual manner. Your person must transport it at once. It is essential, more important I believe than what you might learn from the American. See to it at once.” He paused as if weighing what to say next. Finally, “It will stop the Zionist interference with the computers. You understand? You have surely read of the virus attacking our program. Do this successfully and all will certainly be forgiven, for very soon thereafter the world can no longer abuse or neglect us.”

When Hamid disconnected, Ahmed returned the phone to his pocket. He lit another cigarette as he eyed the American woman but his thoughts were on Saliha. Damn her!

35

As Saliha walked along Lupacova Street on her way to Ahmed’s apartment, she glanced at her phone again. The same two messages. He was back in the city and eager to see her. Well, even if she was eager to get paid, he could wait the way he’d made her wait.

In the early-evening darkness, the street well lit, she stepped along at a steady pace, her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders and down her back, her black, leather, high-heeled boots clicking on the stone pavement of the walkway. There was a slight chill as spring had not yet turned to summer and she wore a matching leather jacket she’d bought in Ankara the year before.

She didn’t like thinking about Ahmed. It made her unhappy. She’d once loved him passionately and imagined a life with him. She’d never before experienced such feelings. But during their first year together she’d come to realize that he was not faithful. She’d lied to herself about that. Her roommate, Ayten, had told her what she’d seen and she was right. A man who strayed always strayed. There was no stopping it. A woman could close her eyes to it, but if she did, she lived a lie and her life was never truly what she pretended it to be.

Yes, he was a lovely man and his fingers and lips were magic on her body but, though she was young, she knew there was more to a life together than wonderful lovemaking. Still, memories of warm summer afternoons wrapped in his arms, the church bells announcing the hour, the shutters thrown open, the flutter of the pigeons and the river breeze occasionally wafting over them nearly overwhelmed her. She wanted nothing more in such moments but to yield to fantasy, to imagine Ahmed was faithful and always would be, that they could have a life together.

But how stupid could she be? Dreams weren’t reality and recent events had brought the real world back into her life once and for all.

She could not ignore this business he was in. The worst part was he’d put her into the middle of it. How deeply was she involved? In how much danger had he placed her — repeatedly? She had no way of knowing. She could ask but he would only lie to her. What risk was she taking for this unfaithful lover?

And perhaps it was all a pretense on his part, an emotional device to get her to do his unquestioning bidding. She didn’t want to think him capable of such deceit but what else could she conclude? She’d come to realize that almost nothing he’d said about himself was real. For all she knew, he already had a wife and family in Iran. She’d heard such stories from other women. Why wouldn’t it be true in her case? Was she so special?

You don’t know what you don’t know, her grandmother had often told her as she repeated the lessons of life to her lovely granddaughter while combing her hair. You can stare at the mountain all day but you cannot discern what is on the other side.

But don’t learn too much, she’d murmur as if repeating a catechism, don’t know things you don’t need to know. Too much knowledge, the wrong kind of knowledge, can destroy your life. Don’t ask what you shouldn’t know, don’t learn what isn’t your business. Such was one great secret of life she had learned and impressed upon Saliha.

Ahmed wasn’t involved with drugs or the black market — he was a spy. There could be no doubt. His secretive trips, the mask he put over his face when he received certain messages on his computer, his stern businesslike manner when he downloaded the encrypted files onto a new chain thumb drive, which he would give to her with great solemnity.

She’d never pressed him for answers about all this. Though she’d expressed curiosity initially, his evasions had alerted her. She no longer asked, not seriously at least, and she’d long since given up any expectation of an honest answer.

Always, she realized, there’d been an implied threat behind her trips, the hint that something terrible would be done to her if she failed to carry out the assignment properly. She dismissed that initially as so much showmanship, a Middle Eastern man telling her he was the boss, but now she knew better. She was at risk and not just from the CIA or Mossad.

She turned the corner and walked to the entrance of the building where Ahmed lived. She entered the code and passed through the doors. The Hungarian, if that’s what he was, emerged from his doorway as if he’d been lurking there. If anything he was dirtier than ever, his soiled undershirt his only covering above well-worn trousers. He’d not combed his bird’s nest of hair or shaved in several days. He leered at her and said, “What do you want?” His tone announced he considered her a whore.

“None of your business,” she answered, and walked toward him to pass.

He reached out with his hand and attempted to grab her arm but she moved quickly aside, nearly jumping to escape his clutch. Now she smelled him and realized he was drunk. He lurched toward her again but before he could take proper hold Saliha had her switchblade out.

Snap! She pressed the knife to his neck.

The man froze, then pulled back. Saliha glared at him, staring him into intimidation. “Touch me again,” she hissed, “and I will cut your balls off, not that they are any use to you, old man.”

With that she stepped away and started up the narrow stairs.

This had to end, she told herself. Just look at the situation Ahmed placed her in just to get her money. For that was her only reason in coming here. There would be no last trip. No, she was done with that. She’d get her money and never see him again, or the filthy man at the landing. She shuddered to think what he’d do if he ever got her in his power.

She knocked at the apartment and waited. When there was no answer she let herself in. The room was dark, exactly as she’d seen it the last time she’d been here the previous day. If Ahmed was back, and his messages said he was, then he’d not come here yet. So where was he? At one of his secret meetings, she decided, as she sat down to wait, not bothering to turn on a light. She removed a fresh packet from her purse, opened it, tapped out a fresh cigarette, and lit it. She drew the first smoke into her lungs with great pleasure, held it momentarily, then forced it through her nostrils. She closed her eyes and willed herself to relax.

Ahmed looked at Karim and said, “Watch the woman. Be careful with her. We’ve made mistakes and they are not happy. You understand?”

Karim nodded.

Ahmed considered telling him that Ali was dead but decided not to mention it, not yet. He couldn’t be certain what the man might do to the woman in revenge.

He picked up her bag, which contained her computer. Hamid thought there was valuable information in it, not that Ahmed could understand the technical aspects. In the hands of experts the laptop was potentially a gold mine of data, more important than what she told them even. Maybe dumping her body was going to be the easiest solution after all.

He nodded to Karim as he let himself out. No mistakes, he said to himself as he stepped outside. There must be no more mistakes.

Saliha finished another cigarette as she waited. She realized that she was now feeling the full weight of adulthood and of her greater responsibilities. All that had gone before now had been an extended childhood. Her sister had called earlier that day with bad news. Their older brother had lost his job on the Istanbul docks. It was time to grow up, really grow up, and stop playing the adult, behaving as if her life was hers alone to live.

Saliha placed her face in her hands and sighed. How she missed her grandmother. How she missed the sweet innocence of her youth, the false security of their home. How she longed for life to be easier — but that was not to be, she knew. She was fortunate to have choices. Her English was very good, she’d been told; her looks would hold for some years yet; she was bright and she was not lazy. Given the opportunity she could be a productive employee anywhere in Europe.

She heard steps on the stairs outside and wondered if it was Ahmed. Would she have to sleep with him again to get her money? What if she did? This was the end of it for them. She stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray and instinctively straightened her hair.

And if it happened, it would be a way of telling him good-bye.

36

Slipping out of the hotel in Geneva had proved surprisingly simple once Jeff was ready. The guard in the hallway outside his door was nowhere in sight. Likely he’d just stepped away for a moment. Jeff had grabbed his gear and walked quietly to the backstairs and descended all the way to the parking garage. Again he found no guard. In fairness, he realized they were not holding him prisoner but looking to protect him from harm. Their focus wasn’t on him.

He’d walked up the car ramp to the street, turned to his left away from the entrance, and a few minutes later climbed into a taxi parked at a stand. He’d made the flight only because an increase in the security level had backed up passenger boarding and all flights were delayed.

He’d not had to change planes in Frankfurt, taking the time to consider his actions as sleep was out of the question. Once in flight, an air of calm spread through the cabin. Jeff closed his eyes with fatigue. He could hear the muted tinkle and clatter of the cart as the attendants moved down the aisle, taking orders and serving drinks.

He couldn’t shake the thought that this was all a waste of time. Police professionals and intelligence agencies were searching for Daryl; why did he think he could succeed where they failed? She could be anywhere right now — anywhere. The evidence on which he was acting was flimsy at best. He had absolutely no real proof Daryl was in Prague.

He ordered a double bourbon, surprising himself. He typically drank very little and then only wine. The liquid stung as he sipped it, the taste if not pleasant not unpleasant, either. When he finished, he felt a hot glow in his gut that slowly spread throughout his body as the tension eased from him.

Yes, Daryl could be anywhere. She could very well be dead. But the trail led to Prague. And even if the police and intelligence agencies were looking for her they were also occupied with a thousand other tasks. No one was more motivated to find her than Jeff because no one else loved her as he did.

The plane landed without incident. As soon as he could, Jeff booted his laptop to connect but found nothing from Frank. He put his computer away, made a mental note to buy a new cell phone, then filed out of the airplane and made his way to an Avis rental counter. Thirty minutes later, he had keys. But before going outside to claim his car he located a hot spot. And there was the message he’d hoped for.

Nothing from Bridget. He kept himself from sending her a reminder. She already knew how urgent this was.

Jeff drove out of the airport. He cautiously followed the GPS instructions, which still managed to confuse him repeatedly once he reached the crowded city center. There the old streets were short, extending only a city block. Though it was late the city had the sense of just coming alive and pedestrians crossed streets with casual care. More than once his eye was drawn to a young couple walking arm in arm, lost in their own world.

It was nearly midnight when he spotted the address. Afraid to slow, he drove by, went around the corner, promptly found himself lost, shut off the GPS system and its nagging voice, and finally made his way back to Jezkova Street. This time he slowed a bit as he went past but still could not make out what was at the address. It was an old building, with several large wooden doors, but that was all.

He drove in circles in the nearby area as he considered his next move. Frank might well have been right. Jeff had already withheld important information from the police in Geneva to protect a source, seriously handicapping official efforts. Then he’d taken off before he’d identified the photographs for them. He suddenly realized that by his actions he made it impossible for them to know who to look for or where to go in their search.

What would the local police do if he went to them? Once they contacted Geneva they’d probably detain him.

No, he’d made his decision. Now he had to play out his hand. If this was a dead end then he’d tell the police what he knew — if he was able.

A car pulled away from the curb, giving him a parking spot that he backed into. On the sidewalk, Jeff took a moment to orient himself. He walked back the way he’d been driving and after a few minutes located Jezkova Street. Though it was not crowded there were a number of pedestrians and he blended in while strolling by the address. He still was unable to make out what it was. There were no offices, from what he could see. It looked to him as if residences were on the second and third floors, which was the case throughout the street. His heart raced and for a moment he wondered if Daryl was being held there.

At the corner was a tiny shop where sundry items were sold: cigars, cigarettes, mints, magazines, toilet articles. He bought a magazine, thinking it might be useful as a prop, then a bottle of water and two candy bars since he had no idea when he’d eat next.

“Excuse me,” he said to the young woman behind the counter, “but can you tell me what business that is down the street?” He hoped she knew more than the few English phrases her job required.

She raised her head. Her hair was dark and short. She wore stylish glasses. He formed the impression she was a student. “What business?”

“Let me show you.” He smiled and went toward the door. She moved from behind her counter without hesitation and walked outside with him. He pointed to number 564 just down the street. “There, with the old wooden doors.”

“Ahh,” she said then smiled. “It is a lockup.”

“Lockup? I don’t know the phrase.”

“You know, for cars.”

“Like a garage, you mean.”

“Like that. Few apartments here have parking so you must pay for a place. You understand?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“Would the owners live close to their lockup?”

She nodded. “If they can.” She shrugged. “I can’t say.”

After thanking her Jeff walked back to his car. What to do? He started the engine, pulled away from the curb and through the rearview mirror saw another car dart into the spot. He made several turns then drove down Jezkova Street again. The young woman was closing up for the night. He drove as slowly as he dared.

How often, he wondered, could he risk driving down this street? Maybe he should park nearby and watch the location from on foot. He couldn’t see anywhere convenient for that, though. He kept driving, taking his time. He feared he’d attract police attention if he kept this up.

Jeff glanced at his watch. He’d risk an hour. If he couldn’t find a parking spot from where he could watch the location for the night he’d park somewhere and risk a vigil on foot.

As he drove he wondered how he might contact the Geneva police and forward to them the photograph of the men he’d recognized. But he could not figure out a way to do that and keep Bridget out of it. What had he done by rushing off to Prague? Shouldn’t he have at least waited to view the photographs for the police, pointed out the two he knew then flown to Prague?

The thought tantalized him but he sensed that time was an issue, that taking those few hours might prove fatal to Daryl. Well, he thought, it made no difference now. The fat was in the fire. He’d made his choice and would have to live with the consequences.

Finally, on his fifth or sixth time down the street — Jeff no longer could keep track — a parking spot magically appeared. He rushed to it, pulled the car in, then killed the engine. By turning just slightly to his right he could make out the lockup, as the girl had called it, from the corner of his right eye and not seem to be watching it.

He cleared his mind of all unpleasant thoughts. After a bit he ate one of the candy bars and drank some water. The street and city slowly become quiet and without realizing it he lay his head across the back of the seat and fell into an exhausted sleep.

37

Saliha sat smoking as Ahmed worked his new computer. He’d had a laptop he’d brought with him that he’d removed from a carrier and sat on the desk beside his old one. Nothing had gone as she expected since he’d arrived and been surprised to see her waiting — pleasantly surprised. They’d all but leaped into bed and now she was disgusted with herself. Why was she always so ready for him? She’d never been like that before.

Worse, he still hadn’t paid her for the trip even though he examined the personal items she’d brought back for him with approval.

Saliha rose and went into the bathroom where she turned on the water, then prepared to take a shower. Ahmed no longer thought of her, not after, and was instead engrossed in his new computer. In that way he was like every man she’d ever slept with. They wanted a woman for one thing and that was all. She stepped into the hot water and considered what to do next. Or rather, how to tell Ahmed she was finished with these trips and still get paid. She’d wait until after getting the money she decided, then tell him. She’d never seen him lose his temper. Tonight might be the first time.

With the shower running in the background Ahmed stared at the computer screen without comprehension, his mind far away. His conversation with Hamid had disturbed him deeply. This whole operation he realized had been a botch from the first. He wondered now how many problem areas existed about which he knew nothing. The police could be searching for him this very minute. He had no way of knowing. He should have thought more carefully of the possibilities. That was what he’d been taught.

He’d simply driven to Geneva and kidnapped the couple. Those had been his instructions but it was assumed he’d consider every eventuality and take the necessary steps. Up to that point it had appeared a straightforward operation. What he’d not done was plan for likely scenarios and devised a plan for each. He’d had good men, access to others. It should not have been a problem.

It occurred to him that like his men he’d been in the field for too long, that his life in Prague was too easy. The edge he’d once possessed had been dulled by soft Western living and now he was paying the price.

Still, Hamid understood operational problems. He was a field agent himself, one of the best and knew how events could easily spin out of control. Ahmed’s instructions had been vague and that always meant that the outcome was unpredictable as was the path in getting there. Hamid might truly be angry, even questioning Ahmed’s ability, but he was a reasonable man aware of local difficulties. Ahmed had been under extreme time constraints. Hamid knew that.

Ahmed closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to release the pressure. He was being too hard on himself. Except for the escape, which had not been his fault, he’d done pretty well. He’d improvised, adjusted to changing circumstances and completed the mission. Mostly.

No, Hamid was not likely all that unhappy except possibly for Ali’s loss. Good agents were hard to replace. The council’s opinion was another matter altogether. These were men Ahmed did not know, faceless administrators who moved pins on maps, made decisions in meetings with an excess of enthusiasm, men who in their deepest soul cared not one whit about Ahmed or any of his agents.

He shook his head against the gathering despair he was feeling and told himself it was the result of his exhausted state. He needed to sleep then deal with the woman. But first there was this other matter. Hamid had told him it would make all right so he drew on his final reserves.

He turned to his own computer and checked his e-mail account again but found nothing. He lit a cigarette as he listened to the shower, his mind conjuring up an image of Saliha.

He’d been enormously relieved to find Saliha waiting for him. He’d feared she’d broken off or was playing some kind of woman’s game and would make him search for her. Given the urgency of the mission he had to send her on he had been very concerned as he had no back up for her. But there she’d been.

After sex, though, she’d turned petulant. He didn’t understand women. They were always like that after. He tried checking messages again. Nothing.

He’d have thought himself too exhausted for sex but the moment he laid eyes on Saliha he’d been ready. He realized it was the adrenaline of the mission, the closeness of failure, even of death. He’d rushed through the preliminaries, or perhaps it was her who had rushed. Now his fatigue had returned and he was so sleepy he could hardly keep his eyes open.

He checked messages. Again nothing. This was nonsense. How urgent could the message be?

He glanced at the woman’s laptop. He would get the password from her first thing then skim the machine for data before turning it over to his computer expert. Unfortunately the man wasn’t in Prague.

Ahmed closed his eyes as he sat, nodding off almost at once. The water stopped. He jerked awake. He checked his messages and there it was. At last, he thought. There was a coded message, the first time one had come with the attachment. He pulled over a sheet of paper and pencil and worked the code used in such situations.

Ahmed glanced at the woman’s computer. So someone else understood how important it might be. But he had only the one. What would Hamid think when he learned?

Ahmed was getting a headache. He again pinched the bridge of his nose. The pressure wouldn’t go away. He inserted the small thumb drive and transferred the attached file directly into it. Once it was loaded he closed the computer off then removed the drive.

Saliha was humming as she patted her damp hair. He could just make out the sight of her through the partially open door and though he felt no bodily urge for her at the moment the vision was fulfilling just to see.

He had to sleep. There was no getting away from it. He’d send Saliha on her way then lay down for a few hours. After that he’d return to the woman. That was the way it had to be. He’d muffle her and do what had to be done at Karim’s apartment. He had no alternative.

Saliha stepped out of the bathroom and began to dress. She saw him holding the thumb drive. “What’s that?”

“I need you to make another trip.”

“I just got back.”

“I know, but this is urgent.”

She snapped her bra into place. “You haven’t paid me yet for the last trip.”

“I have your money.”

“I’m sure you do but I don’t have it and we aren’t talking about another trip until I’ve been paid.”

“This is important.”

“It’s always important, Ahmed. My money?” She held out her hand suddenly aware that she was dressed only in her bra and panties. For an instant she wondered if he’d toss it at her like she heard some men did to their whores.

Ahmed pulled out his wallet and counted bills. He handed them to her then said, “Okay now?”

Saliha counted the money, then shook her head. “My miscellaneous expenses. You didn’t pay me for them last time either, remember?”

Ahmed made a great effort not to show his anger. “How much?”

She pursed her lips. “A thousand euros for both trips. It is a bargain because I think I spent more.”

He handed her the money. She nodded approval then began dressing.

“You must leave immediately, as soon as you can make arrangements,” he said.

“No. That was my last trip.” She eyed him carefully, searching for any warning sign that he might explode. “This is too dangerous.”

Ahmed suppressed a sudden surge of anger. “Dangerous? What are you talking about? You are doing nothing illegal.”

“Oh? What is on that drive you hold in your hand? I watch you with the computer. It is very important.”

Important, Ahmed thought. The CIA and Israeli dogs had crippled his nation’s nuclear program with their computer virus. If what Hamid said was true, the code on this key chain would change all of that. “It is just information I need to get home.” Do this, he’d been told, and all would be well.

“Then e-mail it the same way you got it. Okay?” Ahmed said nothing. “You see? It is important and it is dangerous for me to have it. I understand and I am finished with this.”

What to do? Ahmed’s mind raced through the choices. Take her into his confidence? That was out of the question. Threaten her? No, he couldn’t make that last for the duration of the trip and she traveled alone, unsupervised. A woman like this would just vanish, reinvent herself in another European city. She must get offers from visiting men all the time. It was too easy for her. He hesitated at the thought of humiliating himself in front of her but could think of no other way.

“This will be your last trip. I promise,” he said. “And I will pay you double.”

Saliha looked at him carefully. Once more might be all right. That’s what she’d decided in Turkey before changing her mind once she was back in Prague. “Four times more. You must double it again or I won’t go.” Eight thousand euros, that was what she wanted, plus her road expenses.

Ahmed slowly nodded agreement and she realized she could have demanded even more. What was this she was to carry? How dangerous could it be? “And half now, the rest when I return.”

He nodded again.

“So? Get the money. I need to sleep if I’m to leave in the morning.”

Ahmed went to his dresser drawer and withdrew the cigar box where he kept his open reserve. There were three hiding places nearby but he’d have to leave to get to one of them. He was certain he had enough. “Here.” He gave her the money.

As she counted the bills Saliha said, “There’s no flight before tomorrow morning. I know the schedule by now. The first flight never leaves before nine. And I have to call work.”

“Make the flight reservation. You can spend the night here.” Ahmed was suddenly fearful of letting her out of his sight.

She gave him a wicked smile. “I know what you want,” she said. “But promise you’ll let me sleep after, all right?”

The last thing Ahmed had been thinking about was sex but as he watched her at his computer making the reservation he felt himself stir. I’m weak, he thought a few minutes later as he joined her in bed. No wonder I behave so foolishly.