Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

“Lucky for me… ”

Carson checked the passenger side view and eased toward the highway.

“The first exit,” Lespasse said. “Don’t get on Inter-Don’t get on Route Four.”

The Prius took the ramp with ease.

“Jean-Marc, I see you’re not wearing a ring… ”

He undid the top buttons of his Oxford and withdrew a chain he wore around his neck. It was looped around a gold wedding band.

“Jean-Marc… ”

“She was killed. On September 11, at the Pentagon. A new-business presentation scheduled for 10 in the morning. She was early, as usual. We had no chance for the business, of course. But that was Johanna. A fighter. Very American. Like you, Connie.”

Carson saw his bittersweet smile.

“Jean-Marc, I’m so sorry.”

“As am I. Thank you.” Lespasse peered through the windshield. “There’s the exit.”

Carson tapped the blinker.

“Cookie-cutter,” she said as they approached the long, one-story building in the corner of an industrial park just short of McKay Bay. “Glass and steel. They throw down a foundation and drop ’em out of the sky.”

“Yes, but this one has palm trees,” Lespasse said.

There were FedEx, DHL and UPS boxes out front, and a tin box labeled Doolittle Diagnostics with a warning that it contained blood products. On the first floor, drawn blinds revealed an empty lunchroom with vending machines and newspapers scattered on tabletops.

Carson and Lespasse entered the vestibule to look at a blackboard dotted with white plastic letters.

“Sindhu Power & Electric,” he said. “Twenty-six South. So they’re still here.”

“Unless no one cared to change the sign.”

“We can imagine Sikari has been here. Perhaps he returned.”

“OK. But I don’t guess we’ll find him at a desk.”

“No,” Lespasse said, as he continued to study the board. “But let’s see what we can see.”

They stepped toward the receptionist, a young, brown-skinned woman who was hiding a college textbook under the crescent-shaped desktop. She greeted them with a warm smile and a Cuban accent.

Lespasse said, “My wife and I have an appointment with Dr. Faraday.”

Carson nodded. “We know the way.”

The receptionist hesitated. “You can go,” she said finally.

As they turned onto a long carpeted corridor, Carson said, “Dr. Faraday?”

“His office is Eighteen South.”

“Ah.”

The wooden doors to each office were closed, muting the buzz of activity. At the end of the hall, two women were using a smaller reception area to review a presentation on a laptop. Lespasse followed Carson along a dogleg turn and soon they passed Dr. Faraday’s office.

Twenty-six South was at the end of the hall and Carson realized its windows faced the parking lot, which teemed with cars glistening in the afternoon sun. “What’s the play?” she said.

Lespasse dug into his wallet and pulled out a Technologie de Demain business card. “A cold call,” he said. “I will ask for the head of IT.”

“You think they’ll have staff here? I mean, this office is probably the biggest on this side of the building. But it’s a shell, if anything.”

“I suppose you can file a patent from a post office box. Why go to the expense of opening an office if you don’t intend to use it?”

Carson reached for the door. “Ready?”

He held up a finger. “Forgive me, but I will put on a heavy accent. Maybe it will explain why I’m so… so wrinkled.”

She smiled. “At least you’re wearing slacks. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt.”

“Yes, but your T-shirt is the same color as your boots, and no one wears jeans like you, Connie. Maybe 100 men on our flights will swear to that.” He didn’t mention the make-up she applied at the airport nor the lipstick she refreshed before they left the car.

“Well, to be safe, I’m calling you ‘boss.’”

“ Très bien ,” Lespasse replied.

Carson swung open the door, and Lespasse stepped inside.

The office was empty.

Thin wires dangled from displaced ceiling panels and a few telephone handsets sat on the floor. There was room for perhaps 10 desks, but there were none in sight. The air-conditioner had been turned off.

As Carson passed him, Lespasse switched on the overhead lights. They flickered, then glowed. “Someone paid the bill,” he said.

Carson had stepped into a private office. It too was empty, its carpet musty and soiled, its closet flung open and bare. “So much for Sindhu Power & Electric… ”

Across the office space was another closet, the kind that held paper products, out-of-date files in cardboard boxes, maybe a space for jackets and personal effects. Someone had started to clean it-probably to get the place ready to lease again.

Together, Carson and Lespasse went through it and found nothing enlightening-except for a blank label from an international shipping company she’d never heard of. She also found a discarded Post-It note: Call Moscow. 14.00 hours . Carson jotted down the information. “That’s it,” she sighed. “When someone skedaddles, they usually leave something behind.”

She looked around. The blinds were drawn tight, but under the overhead lights, she could see there was dust everywhere-on the ledge below the windows, on the phones on the floor. Every door inside the suite was flung open. Except for another closet door.

“Maybe they have,” Lespasse said as he approached it, “Let’s see what we-”

As Lespasse pulled open the door, an explosion burst from the closet, rattling the building. The force flung him across the room, a fireball trailing him as the windows shattered, throwing glass and debris onto the parking lot.

Carson awoke under the flood of water raining from the overhead sprinklers. Through ringing ears, she heard sirens drawing nearer. She tasted blood in her mouth. She tried to stand to find Lespasse, but couldn’t manage. Collapsing, she lost consciousness again and dropped to the damp carpet.

Felicia fought to control her hammering heart, and by so doing control her racing head. She didn’t understand what her captors were saying, but she easily comprehended the body language. They were angry, but in a way that went beyond whatever prompted them to take her. Twice while the woman was on the telephone jabbering in what she assumed to be an Arabic dialect, the word Charlotte rose above the gibberish and each iteration brought increased levels of ire.

The pieces fell into place easily. They’d thought she was Charley Middleton. And why wouldn’t they? She was in Harold’s house, after all, and she and Charley were close enough in age that it would be a simple conclusion that she was his daughter.

Oh, God, my Bela Szepessy , she whined silently. Of all the potential weapons at her disposal, why did she have to choose something so valuable-something so close to her soul?

After the bitch with the gun hung up her phone, the heated discussion with her fellow captive confused her. They seemed to have the kind of knowing-if uneasy-relationship that comes of people who have worked together before. Why, then, was Felicia bound to this man and why did he continue to speak to his captor in tones that were as cordial as they were laced with fear? Each in turn looked right at her as they spoke. Clearly, she was the focus of their disappointment.

Felicia knew she was in trouble when the woman talked directly to the driver. It was something about the way she made a tossing movement with her head, at once dismissive and definite. A moment later, the driver changed lanes and headed for an off-ramp. They were going to get rid of her.