Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

Middleton couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, we’ve talked about reuniting, the Volunteers.”

Padlo fished in his pocket for a pack of Sobieski cigarettes. He pulled one out. Then frowned. “Oh, in America, is okay?”

Middleton laughed. “Outside in a park? That’s still legal.”

Padlo lit up, sheltering the match from the mist. Inhaled deeply. “Where do you think the stolen art is, Harry?”

“Faust and Chambers probably have a half-dozen safe houses throughout the world. We’ll find them.”

“And what do you think you will find there?”

“If the Chopin is any clue, it’ll be breathtaking. I can’t even imagine.”

Middleton glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. Still, this was northwest D.C., a yuppie oasis in the city that often sleeps. “Will you join me for a drink? I know a bar that’s got some good Polish vodka.”

The inspector smiled, sadly. “I think not. I’m tired. My job is done here. I leave tomorrow. And I must get up early to say farewell to someone. Maybe you know where this is?”

He showed Middleton a piece of paper with the address of a cemetery in Alexandria, Virginia.

“Sure, I can give you directions. But tell you what… How about if we go together? I’ll drive.”

“You would not mind?”

“Jozef, my friend, it would be an honor.”

Finally the families were alone.

Since the start of their vacation two days ago, they’d been in public constantly, taking in the sights in this touristy area along the beaches near Nice, France. They’d seen the museums in Antibes Juan-les-Pins, the fragrant perfume-making town of Grasse, the violet fields of medieval Tourettes sur Loup and nearby Cannes-a dull provincial village when emptied of film-makers, paparazzi and actors.

And wherever they went: too many people around for him to move in for the kill.

Now, at last, the Americans were alone, picnicking on a deserted stretch of white sand and red rocks near le Plages de Ondes at Cap d’Antibes-a postcard of the South of France. Sullen autumn was on the land now and everyone had returned from holiday. Today the weather was overcast and windy, but that hadn’t fazed the two families-a husband and wife in early middle age and a slightly younger couple with their baby. Apparently they’d decided to take the day off from sightseeing and strolling past the tabacs, cafés and souvenir shops, and spend the day alone.

Thank you, thought Kavi Balan. He needed to get the job done and leave. There was much to do.

The swarthy man, born in New Delhi and now, he liked to think, now a resident of the world, was observing the family through expensive binoculars from a hundred yards away, in the hills above the beach. He was parked in a rented Fiat, listening to some syrupy French pop music. He was taking in the gray water, the gray sky, looking for signs of gendarmes or the ubiquitous governmental functionaries that materialized from nowhere in France to ask for your passport or identity card and snidely demand your business.

But there was no one about. Except the families.

As he studied them, Balan was wondering too about a question much on his mind the past few days: how he would feel about killing a whole family. The adults were not a problem, of course, even the women. He’d killed women without a single fleck of remorse. But the younger couple’s baby-yes, that murder would bother him.

He’d lain awake last night, considering the dilemma. Now, watching the young mother rock the infant’s bassinette absently, he came to a decision. Balan had been instructed to leave no one alive, but that was because of the need to eliminate anyone with certain information. He hadn’t seen the baby, but it couldn’t be more than a year old. It could hardly identify him, nor would it have retained any conversation between the adults. He would spare the child.

Balan would tell his mentor that he’d grown concerned about somebody approaching as he’d been about to kill the child and had left the beach quickly so he wouldn’t be detected. This wasn’t unreasonable, and wasn’t a complete lie. There were houses here, cars and trucks passing nearby. Even though the beaches were deserted, people still lived in the area year round.

There. He’d decided. Balan felt better.

And he concentrated more closely on the task before him.

The families were enjoying themselves, laughing. His ultimate target-the American husband in his fifties-joked with his wife, who was a bit younger. Not classically beautiful, but exotic, with long dark hair. She reminded Balan of an older Kareena Kapoor, the Bollywood film star. Thinking this, he felt a wave of contempt course through him at these people. Americans… they had no idea of the richness of Indian cinema (no American he’d ever met even knew that that Bombay supplied the “B” for Bollywood, which, they also didn’t know, was only a part of the nation’s film industry). Nor did they understand Indian culture in general, the depth of its history and its spiritual life. Americans thought of India as customer-service call centers, curry and “Slumdog Millionaire.”

On the beach the two men jumped to their feet and pulled out an American football. Another shiver of contempt raced through him, as he watched them pitch the elongated ball back and forth. They called that a game, gridiron football. Absurd. Big men running into each other. Not like real football-what they called soccer. Or the most sublime game in the world: cricket.

He looked at his watch. Soon, he thought. Just one phone call away. He checked his Nokia to make sure it was working. It was. Balan was known as a fanatic about details.

He turned the binoculars on the families again. Since they were about to die, he couldn’t help wondering where they were on the ladder of spirituality. A Hindu, Balan had an appreciation of the concept of reincarnation-the concept of returning to earth after death in some form that echoes spiritual justice for your past life. His philosophy was a bit at odds with traditional Hindu views, though, since he believed that though he devoted his life to death and torture he was doing higher work here on earth. In an odd way, perhaps by hastening the families’ deaths-before they had a chance to lead even more impure lives-he might hasten their spiritual growth.

He didn’t need this idea to justify what was about to happen, of course. All that mattered was that his mentor, Devras Sikari, had singled him out to kidnap the husband-and kill anybody with him-then torture the man to find out what he’d learned on his recent trip to Paris.

There are more than 300,000 deities in the Hindu religion, but Sikari, though flesh and blood, was higher than them all, in Balan’s mind. In India, the social and economic caste system is impossibly complicated, with thousands of sects and subsects. But the religious text the Bhagavad-Gita defines only four castes: the highest are the Brahmin spiritual leaders, the lowest, the working-class Sudras.

Devras Sikari was in the Kshatriya caste, that of spiritual warriors and leaders. It was the second most spiritual class, below only the Brahmin. The Bhagavad-Gita says that those in the Kshatriya caste are “of heroic mind, inner fire, constancy, resourcefulness, courage in battle, generosity and noble leadership.” That described Sikari perfectly. His first name, Devras, meant servant of God. The surname meant “hunter.”

The man took the names when he was “twice born,” a phrase that has nothing to do with reincarnation, but refers to the coming-of-age ceremony for Hindu youths. Balan believed a name was important. His own first name, for instance, meant poet, and he did indeed have an appreciation for beauty and words. Mahatma Gandhi’s surname meant “greengrocer”-and was a perfect description of the mild-mannered commoner who changed the history of his country though peace and passive resistance.