Iris Johansen - Final Target

"Sorry." She laid her head back in Jessica's lap. "Just answer me one question. If I swear on my love for you that I'm right about the Wind Dancer, that it's a danger to Cassie, will you believe me?"

Silence.

"Oh, Jesus."

"I'm too firmly grounded in reality, Mellie. I know you think you're right, but my mind automatically searches for a reasonable explanation for everything that's happened. And reason tells me that exposing Cassie to an influence that's always been benign to her might open a door."

"It's a risk, such a terrible risk."

"A risk worth taking." She paused. "And I have to take it, Mellie."

" That's your final word? "

"Yes. But if you disapprove, you don't have to go with us."

"The hell I won't." Melissa sat back on her heels and wiped her eyes. "Where you go, I go." She stood up. "Drink your tea. I'll go wash my face and then I'll fix you some lunch."

2:45 P.M.

He was getting nowhere.

Travis leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Flipping through the records on the computer screen was proving to be as tiring as it was frustrating. He'd known there was little chance, but he'd hoped he'd run across something that might trigger a memory, anything…Sometimes something clicked, a flash of-

Nothing.

Well, what had he expected with what he had to work with?

Green eyes, slightly tilted. Blond hair that might or might not be his true color. A beard that hid his features like a mask.

Mask…

He slowly sat upright in the chair.

Mask.

He hadn't recognized the man's face. He hadn't thought the man was familiar until he'd seen him walk from the cotton-candy stall to the bench.

Mask.

"Christ."

"Have you got it?"

"Cool it. It takes time." Thomas didn't take his gaze from the screen. "I've been working on it for only a couple of hours."

"You said it would be easier if I could narrow it down" Travis said. "I've narrowed it down."

"Six foot two or three, age between thirty-five and forty, Nordic coloring, nine-millimeter pistol weapon of choice." He flipped through more screens.

"And a terrorist background," Travis said.

"That's the key. If you'd told me that before, I could have been-"

"I didn't know before. How long? There can't be that many who fit the profile."

"You'd be surprised. It's a violent world we live in."

Another hour passed.

"Bingo." Thomas leaned forward. "Take a look. This may be your man."

Age thirty, but this record dated back ten years. Clean-shaven, pale brown hair slightly receding, but the eyes were right. Green. Slightly tilted at the corners.

Yes.

"Print it out."

Thomas pressed a button. "Nasty." He read the history. "Arson, theft, murder…IRA, Italian Sons of Liberty, Nazi skinheads. He doesn't seem wedded to a single cause, does he?"

"Not unusual. Mercenaries go where the money is." He took the mug shot off the printer. "I thought he may have terrorist affiliations since two of the dead at Vasaro had them."

"Vasaro?"

"Never mind." He grabbed a pencil and began shading in a beard. There was no doubt.

"It's him?" Thomas asked. "I did it?"

"You did it." He pushed back his chair. "You're a genius, Thomas."

"Genius should be rewarded." Thomas smiled slyly. "Don't you think I deserve a tip? Maybe another one of those pretty baubles?"

"Don't be greedy," Travis said absently, as he stared at the mug shot. "Can you get me a background and psychological profile?"

"The CIA probably has one. Give me thirty minutes."

It took forty-five minutes before he punched the button to print and then handed the two pages to Travis. "There you go."

"Thanks." He headed for the door.

Edward James Deschamps.

Gotcha.

4:15 P.M.

"Edward Deschamps." Galen lifted his gaze from the rap sheet. "You're sure?"

Travis nodded. "As certain as I can be without seeing him again."

"And you think he's the leader of the team at Vasaro?"

"It adds up. He knew me and indicated I'd gotten in his way sometime in the past. He was familiar to me, but I didn't recognize the face. I must have remembered the way he moved."

"I was outside in the courtyard, so I didn't see him. How did he move?"

"Fairly distinctively. Fast, springy, on the balls of his feet, like a tennis player."

"Karlstadt had nothing to do with Jan's murder?"

Travis shook his head. "It's not likely. Vasaro happened before I became involved with Karlstadt and the diamonds. Besides, Deschamps went for the money first and not for the diamonds. The diamonds were Karlstadt's first priority."

"Then you now have the Russians, Deschamps, and Karlstadt after you?"

"You've forgotten the CIA and the Secret Service," Melissa said from the corner, where she was curled up in a chair. "I find that very encouraging. With those odds, someone is bound to catch up with you."

"You can hope," Travis said. "But maybe if you tell your sister Deschamps is back on the scene, she might change her mind about the Wind Dancer. She mig ht not think the risk is worth it."

"I'll tell her." She rose to her feet. "But she won't change her mind, not unless there's a direct danger to Cassie."

"You're resigned at last?"

"Hell, no," she said fiercely. "I've accepted only the first step. That doesn't mean I won't fight every other step along the way."

" I'm sure you will. Then you intend to go with us?"

"You were hoping I wouldn't. Sorry. I wouldn't miss it."

Galen was frowning as he studied the mug shot. "I think I've run across him once. Somewhere in Portugal. Possible?"

"He didn't belong to a Portuguese group, but that doesn't mean he didn't operate there." Travis was reading the profile. "He's a U.S. citizen, but he's bounced around all over Europe. He's something of a gourmet. Snazzy dresser…has his suits tailored in Rome." He skipped over a few lines. "His mother divorced his father and brought Edward to Paris when he was six. She married Jean Detoile, the owner of an art gallery. Detoile had money and put the kid in a private boarding school. Excellent grades at first, very high IQ. Then, when he was twelve, his stepfather accused him of theft and turned him in to the police. He was in jail for two years."

He scanned the rest of the page. "When he came out, he worked the streets-drugs, con games, theft. Evidently, that didn't pay enough, because he turned hit man by the time he was twenty. He became an expert with surveillance equipment." He glanced up. "That would correspond with what Jan told me about the bugs in his apartment." His gaze shifted back to the report. "Then he graduated to terrorism. Worked with a number of groups and then formed his own. It didn't last long. He was essentially a loner and his team drifted away."

"What about his parents?"

"His mother died when he was in prison. His stepfather was murdered four years after Deschamps was released."

"By Deschamps?"

"Probably. It was never proven. Not one trace of evidence was found. But it was an extremely gory death." He paused. "It's interesting that he didn't kill his stepfather immediately upon his release. He waited and learned and then he moved. Cold-blooded son of a bitch."

"But evidently very bright"

" Not so bright. The only reason he had for killing Jan was to hurt me." He added softly, "That mistake is going to cost him."

"And you'll enjoy it," Melissa said.

"No doubt about it. Would you like to hear some more about Deschamps? I believe you'd think even I come out pretty good in comparison."

She headed for the bedroom. "It would take a mass murderer to make you look good to me."

Travis turned to Galen as the door closed behind her. "Do you have enough info here to find him?"