Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

All of this went through Middleton’s mind as he pondered the man’s question: Why would Chernayev involve himself in such an outlandish scheme?

But in any case, Middleton needed information. He decided to play the man right back. He took a gamble. “I didn’t have any choice but to come here. My leads to the Scorpion dried up. Chernayev was all I had left,” he bluffed.

The reaction was subtle but telling. Trying not to sound eager, the man said, “What do you know of the Scorpion?”

“So he’s not bidding for me?”

No answer.

Middleton had a flash. And tried another gamble. “I don’t know much,” he said. “But I’ll tell you it was confusing. We couldn’t figure out how one individual could pay for all of Sikari’s education and then stake him after he graduated with start-up capital for his corporations? It had to be companies or foundations that were involved.”

The man replied as if the Scorpion’s support of Sikari were common knowledge. “You never thought that the companies he, or she, owns ultimately were set up as subterfuge. Layers upon layers of companies. Like BlueWatch.”

“BlueWatch?” Middleton frowned. “The security outfit in Dubai?” BlueWatch had been the subject of a number of investigations following the shooting deaths by overly enthusiastic employees around the world. Most of the investigations had ended without any prosecutions-some said the company had intimidated prosecutors and judges, forcing them to drop charges.

The man said, “But the cash ultimately came from one individual who controlled all the companies. The Scorpion.”

So he’d not only confirmed the Scorpion had paid for Sikari’s education and financed his companies but that, for some reason, No Name and his organization, whatever it was, had been following the Kashmiri’s story very closely. And undoubtedly they too were eager to find the Scorpion.

Which told Middleton that he-or she-was the answer to everything.

“Well,” he told his captor, “like I was saying, we weren’t successful in finding the Scorpion.”

No Name continued, “Do you know Sikari’s own description of his benefactor? He said he was ‘holy, but of this world.’”

“Yes, but I think that was a corrupted translation. The words Sikari used were jnana and vijnana. The prefix vi , when added to a noun, tends to diminish or invert the meaning of that noun. Jnana is spiritual knowledge. Vijnana , then, is practical or profane knowledge. Sometimes vijnana and jnana , used together, are meant to suggest knowledge and wisdom. All he meant was the man had not just a worldly but philosophical bent.”

No Name shrugged. “What more do you know about this Scorpion? Tell me and I’ll make your life here easier.”

“Not much… ” Another gamble. He thought of Felicia’s email to him. “Aside from the copper bracelet, of course.”

No Name’s attempt to conceal his surprise was futile. His reaction was even more pronounced than at the reference to the Scorpion. As if unable to stop himself, he asked, “And the relation between the Scorpion and the copper bracelet? How do you mean, Colonel?”

Middleton wanted to play the man out longer, but he knew that if he told too much, he’d use up whatever value he had. “I think I’ve said all I’m going to for the time being.”

The man leaned forward, persisting. “Do you know about the technology involved? What have you learned?”

Middleton smiled and shook his head.

No Name studied him for a moment, then rose and turned toward the door.

Staring at the back of his heavy wool coat, Middleton felt an odd premonition, as though life itself were about to leave him there alone. He’d established his value and learned some facts, but had he inadvertently exposed himself to long bouts of torture to learn what else he knew?

“What now?” He tried not to sound frightened. “I’ve cooperated. How much longer do you intend to keep me here?”

The man rapped gently on the door. The deadbolts rattled open. Without looking back over his shoulder, he said, “Regrettably, that’s not for me to decide.”

Ian Barrett-Bone stood outside the L’église de la Madeleine, leaning down so his face was level with those of Charley Middleton and Leonora Tesla. He said, “You’re making a mistake, you know.”

“You can always talk to me,” Tesla said.

He sighed laboriously. “Not acceptable. How many times-”

“I’ll pass word on to Colonel Middleton then. If he wishes to contact you, we have the number you provided.”

He leaned closer, laying a hand on the roof of the cab. “The offer stands till midnight, not a tick longer. After that, I’m afraid, the race is on. And you’re at a distinct disadvantage, you know. Been a step behind the whole time. I can change that. Truly. But I’ll expect a certain recompense, you understand. Only fair.”

“As I said, I’ll pass that along.” She signaled for the cabbie to drive on. “Thank you for your… ”

They were out of earshot before she knew how to finish. The two women watched through the rear window as the dapper, thuggish, enigmatic Englishman grew smaller, staring right back at them through a ghostly plume of black exhaust.

Tesla tried her phone yet again, but was unable to reach Middleton. A call to Wiki Chang revealed that he’d sent their boss information on some shipping companies suspected of sending explosives to Florida from Russia, and that Middleton was investigating that lead in Moscow. But the tech expert had been unable to reach him either.

The taxi turned onto the Place de la Concorde and merged with traffic funneling onto the Champs Élysées. Charley turned toward the front, her voice an empty whisper. “Know what I admire most about you, Nora?” Lacing her fingers together, she stared at her folded hands in her lap as though not quite sure to whom they belonged. “You convinced that man, and quite possibly yourself, that my father is still alive.”

The four-poster dominated the room like a throne on a dais. Royal blue drapes floated over ivory walls. A turquoise satin coverlet turned the bed into a shimmering pool. Fat cherubs chased each other around the intricately carved molding. Outdoors, lovers who shared a kiss as they watched the brightly painted dhows cruise by on the Creek could be jailed. Here, in one of Dubai’s finest hotels, a mirror was mounted to the ceiling over a bed large enough to sleep four.

Jana found the decadence both disturbing and provocative. Her long-sleeved navy sheath was conservative in cut, as befitted a woman traveling in the Middle East, the kind of dress an airline hostess might have chosen, or a nun, although neither would have cinched it with a wide leather belt.

She located the BlackBerry with no difficulty, tucked in the corner of the middle drawer of the bureau to the left of the bed, as arranged. At exactly eight, she pressed the keys. The connection took time, but the voice, when he answered, was clear. The right voice.

Archer had learned Hindi from the man he called father, Devras Sikari. They conversed in that language, Jana proud of her fluency in her mother’s native tongue. She rarely spoke it aloud, letting others see her as the ignorant South Asian, almost equally tongue-tied in English and French. The assumptions of others wearied her, particularly the assumptions of men.

“Yes,” she said, “he is with me. He’s assured me there’s a lead and I believe him.” She listened awhile, nodding her head, all the while wrestling with the news Archer had just delivered rather casually-the death of his father Devras Sikari. It was inevitable, of course, though the particular circumstances had turned the matter into more of a Shakespearean tragedy. Her heart pounded hard as she considered the implications of the man’s death. There were many of them.