Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

“And you’ll let her go?”

She stared at him. “Maybe I kill you and her,” Jana replied.

“Or maybe I help you and nobody dies.”

“Pay for one life. Yours or hers. Give me a fact.”

Crane thought for a moment. What would be dear to her yet not give too much away? “There’s a Dubai connection.”

“Dubai? What?”

“That’s all I’ll tell you for now. For my own protection.”

Jana debated. Then she turned to the driver and spoke in Arabic. “Dump her by the O2,” she said. “We keep him.”

Middleton stood on the driver’s side of his car, his head hung in frustration. The London address Jean-Marc Lespasse found on Kavi Balan’s computer was a mosque just south of Tufnell Park, a thriving neighborhood in North London populated by hundreds of Muslims and far, far fewer Hindus. The mosque had a noxious reputation its new, moderate leadership couldn’t quite erase: Before his conviction for murder and racial hatred, its previous imam advocated jihad with suicide bombing its primary form-no one seemed to doubt his involvement in the 7/7 attacks. Supporting al-Qaeda’s violent activities, it had offered training in assault weapons and served as a clearinghouse for untraceable telecommunications equipment.

“A ruse,” he said. “A joke.”

From the opposite side of the car, Tesla replied, “Not necessarily. Maybe someone here”-she nodded toward the mosque and the squat brick buildings that lined the street-“knows of an attack on the mosque. It might not be a dead end.”

“But it’s a lead that will take weeks of infiltrating to develop. We don’t have the time. Not with what’s going on.”

Tesla tugged on the car door, but it was locked. “You’re right. We need to strategize.”

Middleton dug into his pocket and tossed her the keys. “Take the car,” he said. He gestured in the direction of the Tufnell Park Underground station. “I’m going to Wigmore Hall to see Felicia. It was damned thoughtless of me to forget her recital. Lose the weapons and catch up with me, if you’d like. We can talk to Connie and Jean-Marc once they get settled in Tampa.”

Middleton emerged from the Underground at Oxford Circus, amused by how quick the trip had been, even with the transfer at Euston. He imagined Nora still on the 503 motorway, if traffic was lurching. By instinct, he checked his common cell phone first. One message from Felicia, probably chiding him for failing to remember her recital or his lack of interest in crossword puzzles, cryptograms and such. When he looked at his encrypted phone, he saw he had no messages-nothing from NATO, the French, Interpol or the ICC as a post-mortem on the Cap d’Antibes operation; nor from Charley, Nora, Jean-Marc, Connie or Wiki. As he crossed the park at Cavendish Square, he thought for a moment of Wetherby, the bright NATO officer who gave his life to help prevent another godless execution of innocents. To steel himself from grief, long ago Middleton learned to shift his thoughts quickly to the mission at hand: to complete it would honor the likes of young Wetherby. Sikari and fresh water. Devras Sikari had developed an interest in fresh water. What could it mean?

Middleton left the park and as he waited for black cabs to pass, he saw a crowd milling under the hall’s glass-and-filigreed-iron marquee. Ticket-holders, he assumed, waiting to enter. Not that he would’ve delayed: He loved the hall’s alabaster-and-marble walls, the painting in the cupola over the stage in which a figure representing the Soul of Music stared in awe at a fireball that stood for the Genius of Harmony. The Wigmore stage was an altar and the music represented an offering to the Heavens. For Middleton, music was mankind’s link to divinity. It was his respite, his relief from the ugly, banal truth of the world of anguish and hatred in which he found himself while pursuing the likes of Devras Sikari. Only watching Charley blossom had given him a feeling of contentment and transcendence as had the music he loved.

“Is there a problem?” he said to the first patron he saw, a middle-aged woman dressed against the threat of rain.

“They aren’t opening quite yet,” she replied, “but they haven’t said exactly why.”

Middleton thanked her and headed toward the artists’ entrance around the corner on Wimpole Street. He’d never known Felicia to be an overly demanding artist, so he assumed the problem was with the house. Perhaps the pianist had taken ill.

His encrypted phone rang, its call an old-fashioned American bell chime rather than an identifying ring tone like the Chopin he’d had on his other line.

“Harry,” Tesla said.

“Nora-”

“Harry, you’d better come home.”

Jean-Marc Lespasse caught up with Connie Carson on the concourse at Tampa International Airport. He smiled as he saw her volley, with a sweet smile, the attentions of one of the men who had tried to woo her on the flight from Nice through Paris. From his seat several rows behind her, Lespasse watched as one male passenger after another found a reason to approach her. Connie wasn’t the only appealing woman on the flight, but she glowed with that sort of naïve, fun-loving self-confidence men were drawn to like bees to bluebells. As was her way, she managed to tell each one to buzz off with so much charm that they hadn’t realized they’d been swatted.

“There you are!” she cheered as Lespasse approached.

The last man quickly withdrew and Carson lifted her bloated leather satchel, hoisting the strap on her shoulder. She hooked her arm in his and they strode off, the picture of a happy couple.

“Check your PDA?” she asked.

“So, I guess I’m the lucky fellow-”

“Don’t start, Jean-Marc. A few of those boys had me searching for a parachute.” She released his arm.

“You get the same message from Wiki?”

She nodded. “Big files.”

“I’ll use a computer in the executive lounge,” he said.

“And I’ll get the rental car. Give me your bag.”

“Connie-”

“Give me the damned bag.”

Lespasse had seen Carson dislocate a man’s nose with a blow so swift he would’ve sworn her hand never left her side.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

They met 30 minutes later, Carson leaning against the hood of a Prius in a No-Standing zone. “Where to?” she asked, as she opened the passenger door.

When Carson jumped behind the wheel, Lespasse read from his notes. “Get on Interstate Two Hundred Seventy-Five East.”

She laughed as she pulled from the curb. “I love how you say that. ‘Interstate Two Hundred Seventy-Five East.’ All formal and such.”

“I-Two Hundred Seventy Five East is better?”

“Two Seventy-Five East will do. How long have you lived in America, Jean-Marc?”

“Almost ten years,” he said. He slid on his sunglasses as they drove into stark sunlight beyond the airport grounds. Tampa was as bright as Nice had been.

“Ten years and it’s still ‘Interstate’ and all that?”

“Tired, I guess. Anxious.”

“Same,” she said. “You came here to work with the Colonel?”

“Well, I had worked with him before. But, yes, Harold Middleton was the reason I came to America.”

“You could’ve stayed in France.”

“My wife preferred North Carolina.”

“Your wife? Jean-Marc, I didn’t know you were married.” She looked at the third finger on his left hand. No ring.

“We worked together at Technologie de Demain-”

“Your company.”

“She began as a systems analyst-which was not the reason I noticed her, I can tell you. But Johanna was very clever, very precise. Soon, she was invaluable to me. And of course, I was in love.”

“She was too-if I’m hearing you right.”