Andrew Gross - Reckless

Most seemed like legitimate contacts from around the world. Thibault’s network. JP Morgan, Citi, Reynolds Reid. She even came upon James Donovan’s card and those of other securities traders from different firms, which made her wonder if they might have been more potential victims. She laid them all out on the table, snapping digital shots. She came across one that made her heart come to a stop.

The black, embossed logo of Ascot Capital.

Ascot was the investment partnership in Dubai that was linked to Crescent Bay in Toronto, the company that bought Donovan’s house.

The name on the card was Hassan ibn Hassani.

Her pulse rocketed. Hassani was the contact overheard on the phone with Marty al-Bashir in London. That had started the whole thing rolling.

The planes are in the air.

Thibault knew him. Hassani. Ascot was also a link in the chain of funds that went to pay off James Donovan. Not enough to prove a thing, to seek an indictment. But enough to hand over to the FBI and Interpol. Enough to widen the investigation. Everything was knitting together.

Naomi snapped away.

She wasn’t making any distinctions. Everything there could be important. She shot receipts, plane tickets. Even what looked like a ski-lift ticket. From Gstaad, the posh resort in Switzerland. Naomi took a look at the date: 06/26. The summer before. Maybe just a memento. It cost forty euros.

She snapped it anyway.

With haste, she threw the pack of cards back together, reattaching the rubber band. She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes. She felt comfortable that she had more time. She turned back to the computer and saw the download flash drive had connected and tried to enable the password-busting program to do its work. No way she was going to leave it behind.

That was when she saw a light flash outside and heard a vehicle coming up the road.

Naomi’s blood froze. Oh, shit.

Someone was here.

The lights were from a car coming up to the house. The sound of the tires on the gravel knifed through Naomi like a heart attack.

Could Thibault somehow be coming back?

Where the hell was Ty?

The thought that Thibault might have somehow ambushed him and had now come back for her sent her heart into a frenzy. Her throat suddenly got very dry and her blood was pumping at what felt like ten times its normal rate. She checked the table one last time. Everything seemed in order. She hastily threw the camera in her pack and headed back into the bedroom.

She pressed against the wall and took out her gun.

She heard the car door slam. Footsteps coming up the walk. Then a loud knock on the door. And a woman’s voice. Which came as a slight relief to her.

“Franko? Franko?”

It was Maria Radisovic. Thibault’s mother. Naomi wasn’t sure what to do. Stay in the house? Leave?

Then suddenly she realized she had left her flash drive connected to Thibault’s laptop.

Oh, God… If Thibault ever saw it, they were completely blown. She made a move to run out and retrieve it, but the door handle started rattling, scaring her.

“Franko?”

Naomi ducked back in.

Suddenly she heard a key in the lock at the front door. The door was pushed open. Naomi squeezed herself against the wall.

The woman stepped into the house. It was Maria. Naomi recognized her instantly from the day before. She was in a light-brown parka against the chill and a cloth hat pulled over her hair, and she was carrying what Naomi took to be a bag of groceries.

“Franko?” she called out one last time. Then she started muttering loudly in Serbian, no doubt upset not to have found him there.

Then Naomi saw she wasn’t alone. She had a dog with her. It looked like a shepherd. Her heart started to pound. She was trapped there now. The woman had gone into the kitchen and was placing the groceries into the fridge. Maria pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. Whoever she was calling didn’t answer. Naomi was sure it was Thibault. Maria flicked it off in disgust.

The dog started exploring around the house, going from room to room, as if it was familiar with the place.

It was only a matter of time before it alighted on her.

Naomi pulled back the action on her Colt. She wasn’t sure what to do. She’d never used it, not like this. Only firing at a faceless, remote enemy in Iraq. Not an old woman.

She felt a chill and realized she had left the bedroom window wide open. There was a draft that went around the entire house. Maria would find her way back there.

Shit.

“Katja, Katja?” The woman was calling the dog. Her voice started to get closer. “Katja…”

Naomi backed inside the room and hurried over to the window. This was one time she was lucky she was small. She lifted her front leg through and adroitly climbed out. Then she leaped to the side and started to lower it gently. Not quite all the way.

She heard the dog come into the room.

Then, shortly after, Maria. “Katja…” A loud sigh. She seemed to look around petulantly, angry at the mess. Naomi backed away, hugging the house. The woman came to the window. Naomi heard her grunt. She pressed herself against the side of the house and tensed her finger on the trigger guard, her heart beating wildly. What would she do? Please, please-she gripped the gun-don’t stick your head out…

Muttering, the woman tried to jam the window shut. She seemed to get it most of the way. Naomi’s pulse started to relax. She didn’t want to back away into the darkness, just in case she was seen. In case the dog might notice. She just stood there, frozen. Her heart beating at a steady pace. For what seemed like an hour.

At some point she heard the front door open again. The woman called the dog into the car. The car engine started up.

Naomi shut her eyes in relief.

As the car drove away, she went back and tried the window. It opened again. Thank God.

Why hadn’t her phone rung?

Where the hell was Ty?

Hauck turned away from Thibault, glancing at the overhead TV, the European soccer match. He ducked back into a huddle of rowdy beer drinkers, who erupted in whoops and cheers every time the attack went down the field their way. He signaled to the bartender and pointed toward a local beer.

Every once in a while he glanced through the bodies to where the Serbian was sitting. Thibault had ordered a meal. He consumed it quickly, what looked like a plate of sausage and sauerkraut, and it seemed whatever attention he may have directed toward Hauck had now been transferred to his dinner. Hauck checked his watch. By now, Naomi was likely done. He ought to check in. He could always pick Thibault up from across the street. He lost himself again inside the crowd of drunken fans.

A minute or two later, he saw Thibault glance at his cell and motion for a check. A young waitress came up and the Serb threw some bills on a tray, chatting flirtatiously; she seemed no older than a college student. Then he took his leather jacket from the chair and headed out through the crowd. He came within a few bodies of Hauck, who turned, taking a swig of his beer. In the frosted mirror he saw that Thibault never looked his way.

Hauck breathed easier. He must’ve been imagining it.

He waited about thirty seconds, threw a few bills on the counter for the beer, then wandered back to the rear and out the rear entrance. He waited a few seconds and made his way around to the front. There were a couple of locals there huddled around, smoking, conversing loudly. Hauck glanced along the street and saw Thibault’s black Audi still parked on the sidewalk.

But Thibault was nowhere to be seen.

Hauck tucked his cap down over his eyes and thought about calling Naomi. There was an alley off to the far side of the bar that seemed to lead down toward a perch over the river. Losing sight of Thibault made him nervous. Maybe he had crossed the street. Maybe he had gone to meet someone. Hauck looked around and didn’t see him. He stepped around the side to the alley and looked down there.