Jeffery Deaver - Watchlist

A flash of recognition in his eyes. The man didn’t try to bluff. “He’s former U.S. military intelligence. Maybe a killer. I’m not sure. The implication is that he has some connection to the Scorpion. That’s why I ended up in London. Look, I’m on your side.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I swear.”

“What else do you know about him? Tell me.”

“I didn’t have much time to find out anything, if you recall. You stopped me at his flat.”

“You’re lying.”

“I-”

“Tell me.” She said it calmly, and that she didn’t thrust the weapon forward theatrically seemed to scare him all the more.

“I did see something in his flat. A note. About his daughter.”

“What about her?”

“Where she’s staying in Paris. The Queen Elizabeth Hotel. Registered under her mother’s maiden name.”

Jana knew that the daughter sometimes worked for the Volunteers. She filed this new information away.

“The name?”

“Rosewald. I think.”

“All right. Now tell me everything you know about the Scorpion. No games. No pillow talk. Facts.”

His eyes were searching for his play. But he was naked and too far away to try marital arts. His look of betrayal was feigned; he hadn’t trusted her to start with. And in any case, he knew deep down that she wasn’t one to be moved by hurt looks or pleas for compassion.

“He bankrolled Sikari and a few others. Anonymously. But I’m not sure what he wanted from them. He’s in it-whatever it is-for the money. If he’s a he. I’m not even sure he is. He might even be a group. Think about that.”

“What’s the Dubai connection? Why are we here?”

He regarded her eyes and his lost their playfulness completely.

“The Scorpion is connected with BlueWatch,” Crane said as calmly as he could. “Which is headquartered here.”

Her eyes glowed at this information. “The security company. Yes… Tell me more.”

“Their-and presumably the Scorpion’s-interests currently involve India and Pakistan.”

“And what are those interests?”

“I don’t know that. I don’t.”

The reporter was now showing fear. She wondered if he’d start to cry.

“I’m asking you again: Do you know anything more about his identity?”

“No, I swear. Please, Jana… ”

She believed him. “Another question: In the limo that night outside Paris, who were those men?”

“I thought you knew. You tried to kill them.”

“I tried to kill them because I didn’t recognize them. Tell me.”

“I was led to believe one of them was the Scorpion. I was wrong. They never identified themselves other than that. They were trying to get information out of me, I assume. They sent me to Middleton’s flat in London. But I don’t know why.”

His tone and delivery convinced her that he was being truthful.

Crane gave a weak smile. “Now I’ve done my part. Your turn to answer some of my questions.” He reached for a towel to cover his nakedness.

She knew instantly this was a feint-his submissive pose gave him away. So she was fully prepared when he flung the towel in her direction and leaped forward in what must have been some classic karate move, swinging his long arm and knife-like flat hand directly at her throat.

She only had to step back two feet and pull the trigger several times.

The recoil was negligible.

Something was happening, Harold Middleton thought, listening to the muffled sounds emanating from the world beyond the cracked plaster walls of his cell. After so much uncounted time in solitary confinement, Middleton was like a blind man, his senses as finely tuned as the strings on Felicia’s beloved Szepessy. He had learned to distinguish the various footsteps in the hall outside his door and what they meant: whether his meal of rancid soup would be served with an angry smirk or merely an apathetic one; if there was a purpose to the questions about to be posed to him or if the impending interrogation was merely a way of passing the time.

But this was different. There was an urgency to the raised voices and hurried movements that he had not heard before. From somewhere outside the boarded windows came the faint but steady thrum of an engine and the unmistakable hint of diesel fumes.

They were getting ready to move him: Middleton was almost certain this was the case, though why was less clear. Had one of the factions interested in him finally placed a winning bid? Or had the Russians grown impatient and decided to wash their hands of him-permanently? Given the circumstances, neither possibility boded well for his survival. If he was going to get out of this alive, Middleton decided, he would have to act now.

Quickly, he glanced around the room, searching for anything that might function as a weapon. His eyes lit on the ancient space heater and he lunged for it, kicking the cover with the sole of his boot, feeling the rusted screws that held it to the wall give way. Another kick and the cover swung open to reveal the glowing heating element, a crosshatch of naked metal. Sharp and hot, Middleton told himself as he delivered a third kick, knocking the element free in a shower of sparks. He could only hope it would be more effective in his hands than at its intended purpose.

There was a flurry of footsteps in the hallway just outside the door and Middleton recognized the voice of the sad-eyed Russian who’d visited him earlier. Pulling the sleeve of his jacket down over his hands, he picked up the red-hot element, slipped it into his pocket and hastily kicked the heater closed, praying the man would be in too much of a hurry to notice the mangled cover.

Almost instantly, the door swung open and his inquisitor, accompanied by a shorter, beefier and decidedly meaner looking compatriot in a black leather jacket and stiff jeans strode into the room.

“Out!” the brutish man commanded, producing a pistol from the waistband of his pants, motioning toward the door.

“What’s going on?” Middleton demanded, taking note of the man’s choice of weapon-a Russian military issue Yarygin PYa.

The sad-eyed man took a black cloth bag from his pocket and handed it to Middleton. “If you could be so kind as to put this on,” he crooned in his cultured accent.

Middleton hesitated, feeling the weight and heat of the metal in his pocket, contemplating his options. If they were, in fact, moving him to another location he’d do better to wait until they were outside to use his makeshift weapon.

“I have other ways of asking that are not so nice,” the Russian reminded him.

Reluctantly, Middleton took the bag and slipped it over his head.

A hand grabbed him roughly by the arm and he felt himself propelled forward, out the door and down the corridor, then down a narrow, twisting flight of stairs. In his blind state, he stumbled on a riser and pitched forward, his shoulder slamming painfully into the wall.

“Up! Up! Up!” the man with the Yarygin yelled, cursing Middleton in Russian, prodding him with the pistol. He smelled of fried onions, cheap tobacco and the saccharine stink of half-metabolized vodka. In the confines of the stairwell, the stench was overpowering.

Trying not to retch, Middleton staggered to his feet and resumed his hurried descent. He could hear more voices now, urgent shouting in Russian. Hurry! Hurry! and that engine again, louder and closer. Then, suddenly, there was a blast of frigid air and they were outside.

Middleton took a deep breath, trying to gauge exactly what was going on around him. Dim early morning light filtered in through the mask. The air was heavy with the odors of fast-food grease and industrial pollution. From the movements around him, he guessed that there were at least four men, possibly more, no doubt all armed. Still, if he could get the Yarygin away from his captor he might stand a chance. It was now or never.