Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

“How?” Perez dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “We’re not wanted by the police, but I’m sure they’re looking for us.”

She looked back at her mother, fighting back despair-and the urge to crawl into her husband’s arms and sob. She was Harold Middleton’s daughter. She would hunt down whoever had done this. And make him-or her-pay.

In the distance came the sound of sirens. “The lake house,” she said, starting for her mother’s bedroom and a change of clothes. “Eventually, Harry will look for us there.”

In the Dulles parking lot, FBI Agent In Charge M. T. Connolly watched homicide detectives process a policeman’s corpse. A deep ligature mark around the murdered cop’s neck and blossoms of red in the white of his eyes made cause of death obvious, the same way the security videos made just as obvious the identity of the man who killed him, stole his uniform and stuffed him into the back of a Jeep, where he now lay.

The detectives had arrived in response to the shooting of a state trooper in the concourse. Despite early reports to the contrary, Trooper George was still alive, but in grave condition. Three bullets had deformed against his bulletproof vest and one had gone high and deflected against the collar and severed an artery. He wasn’t expected to live. If he did, he could have serious brain damage from blood loss.

Accompanied by homicide detectives, Connolly had gone from the parking deck to the security offices to view the video surveillance. She got a good look at the fake cop who’d fired at the passenger identified by customs as Harold Middleton. Middleton had taken away the assailant’s gun and subsequently fired in self-defense. Trooper George assumed the cop was in the right and his target a felon-an understandable mistake. Initially, she had jumped to the same conclusion in the melee, but she had been shackled to her idiot prisoner and couldn’t give pursuit until it was too late. She’d assumed that the fake cop had chased Middleton to capture him, but it was now clear he’d run away from her and other security officers who’d come rushing at the sound of gunfire on the concourse. It was also apparent that the fake cop had drawn his gun on Middleton right after Middleton seemed to recognize him.

After Middleton captured the Beretta and used it to defend himself from the trooper’s gunfire, he’d fled through an emergency door. The fake cop, wearing the purloined and somewhat ill-fitting uniform, had vanished as had Middleton.

Her next reaction had been to use Bureau resources to find out all she could about Middleton and the cop killer. She and the detectives had agreed that Middleton would be identified only as a material witness who had to be picked up immediately for his own protection. Unless the uniformed cop-killer got to him first. His description was circulated immediately to area law enforcement-picture to follow as soon as it could be printed from the surveillance video-and he was identified as a wanted cop-killer, which meant he’d only live through his apprehension if they found him naked and lying face down on the pavement in front of live TV film crews.

The airport terminal and parking deck teemed with angry cops, crime-scene evidence staff and passenger witnesses. State troopers with dogs were beginning a search of the airport, hoping to find the killer and Middleton, but Connolly doubted they were still in the area. While the cops were reacting like disturbed fire ants, Connolly was working the steps calmly-something that came naturally to her.

She had found a business card lying on the concourse floor, which the detectives had taken as evidence. They didn’t know where the card had come from, or if it had meaning to the case, until in watching the video of the struggle between Middleton and the fake cop in slow motion, the card was seen falling to the floor after Middleton’s shirt pocket ripped. It read “Jozef Padlo, Deputy Inspector of the Polish National Police.”

It caught her like a hammer blow, and, if she hadn’t believed in coincidences before, she was a devotee now. Mere minutes later, certainly hours before the detectives would get around to it, Connolly called the phone number and, since it was six hours later in Poland, left the inspector a message on his office voice mail to call her ASAP. Next she tried a number that wasn’t on the card, but was in her cell phone, but again Padlo didn’t answer. When the inspector’s voice mail kicked in, she left the same message. This time she gave Harold Middleton’s name figuring that if hearing her voice wasn’t enough to get him to respond immediately, Middleton’s name would.

When Padlo returned the call 25 minutes later, Connolly had already learned about retired Colonel Harold Middleton from the FBI’s Intel group, and decided she was going to work the case come flood or tall cotton. Middleton had located the butcher, KLA’s Colonel Agim Rugova, and brought him to trial at The Hague. Rugova had been murdered, so the possibility that the two events were connected thrilled her. Aside from terrorism, there was nothing sexier or better for a career than an international case. And she knew Padlo would cooperate fully with her.

Connolly met Padlo at Quantico three years earlier when he was a guest at the Bureau’s law-enforcement classes offered to leading European investigators. As fortune would have it, Connolly had been one of the instructors, and she and Padlo had become close-very close. An image of a naked Padlo sitting cross-legged on her bed-a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other-as he told her in depth about a cold case he couldn’t solve brought a warm smile to her lips.

Jozef Padlo wasn’t especially handsome, but there was something about the lanky Pole that strengthened his appearance and negated his well-worn clothes. Connolly knew she wasn’t a beauty either, but Padlo saw her as one. He was quick-witted, honest, intelligent, dedicated to his work, spoke fluent English, had big sad eyes, delicate hands and was an attentive lover. For the first time in her life, she hadn’t minded the clouds of cigarette smoke. In the intervening years, they spent a few days vacationing together and spoke by telephone two or three times a week. Since both were dedicated to their careers, being together full time was impossible.

Connolly knew she was going to run the case-a cap-feather generator, probably an international one-and if the detectives got in her way, she’d sweep them aside. After all, she’d witnessed the shootout, connected Middleton to the ICCY and kept the cops from misinterpreting Middleton’s actions and, possibly, killing him. And she had a working relationship with the foreign authorities. Plus it didn’t hurt that she was the southern belle apple of the her boss’s eye-they were both from Mississippi and, more important, she had a high-profile case closure rate second to none. It also helped that she never failed to give her superiors as much of the credit as possible.

Connolly looked across the security room at her annoying prisoner, whose wrist was now cuffed to a pipe. EMS had bandaged his nose and cleaned the blood from his face. To turn him over for processing, she’d been calling the U.S. Marshals Service every 10 minutes for an hour. Finally, she thought, as her phone rang. A callback.

“This is Connolly,” she said. “Where the hell are my Marshals?”

“When and where did you last see them?” the Polish inspector asked.

“Well, hello, Inspector Padlo,” she answered, softening her voice as she stepped outside.

“Hello, FBI Special Agent Buttercup,” Padlo said. “Have you found Middleton?”

“Here’s the deal,” she said-and told him everything she knew. Padlo listened without interrupting.