James Patterson - Judge & Jury

"Oh, yes he will. He will. "

I ran my hand through her hair, pulling a few strands away from her face."I need you to say yes, Andie. I need your help to get it done."

"And if I don't?"

"Then we walk away. We get on that plane and go back home. We forget about Cavello."

Andie sucked in a breath, wrapping her arms around her knees."And if I say yes? Afterward, what happens?"

"We let the boy go, Andie. We let the boy go. "

She shook her head."I meant with Remlikov. And the blond man."

I told the truth."I don't know."

She nodded, and after a while her body just sank into mine."He can't be harmed," she said."The boy…"

"Of course not." I squeezed her."I promise."

PAVEL NORDESHENKO WAS twelve years old, and he no longer liked that his father still insisted on driving him to his lessons in the center of town.

Other boys his age were riding the Metro. Sometimes, when his father was away on his many trips, his mother let him take the bus lines. He liked to spend a few minutes in the bustling streets of the Old Town, far away from the sprawling vistas of Carmel Center and the heights.

Down here, where Abhramov's academy was, the streets were narrow and busier. Alive! The smells were of leather goods and spices and Arab bakeries. The sounds of merchants hawking their goods in the bazaar.

His father was always overprotective. Pavel wanted to go with his friends to the cinema or the beach, but Father always said,"You can't be too safe. Too careful." What was he always so afraid of? Sometimes his mother would let him take a day off, but his father always made him go to his lessons, as if it were religious study.

"There is a tournament next month, in Tel Aviv," his father said as they drove quietly through the crowded streets."Would you like to go?"

Pavel shrugged. Tournaments meant work, more studying to prepare.

"There will be masters from other countries there. Sergei thinks you are ready. What do you say?"

"I guess." Pavel shrugged."If he says I'm ready."

The car turned onto Allenby Street. The Baha'i Gardens were in full spring bloom.

"There is a casino in Caesaria. On the way back, we might stop. I'm told they play a little poker there. Just like the Americans. I know a man there who owes me a favor. He might get you in. Just to watch."

"You think?"

"I don't know," his father said, hiding a smile."I've been known to have a few connections here and there."

They made the turn on crowded Hassan Street. Down here, the traffic was mostly mopeds and small delivery trucks. And taxis filled with tourists making their way up from the port.

Master Abhramov's studio was over a pita bakery. The place always smelled sweetly of dough. Their car slowed in front of the run-down building.

"Study hard." His father winked."There's a lot at stake."

Pavel gathered up his notebook and computer, and opened the door. He ran inside Abhramov's building, on cloud nine. As he headed for the narrow stairs, a man was standing in his way.

"I'm afraid that I'm lost," he said."Do you know where Haaretz Street is?"

The man was large and handsome, in a blue shirt and khakis, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. He spoke English like a tourist. American, perhaps.

"Haaretz? I think it's just down there. At the end of the street."

"Can you show me?" the man asked."I'm not from around here."

Abhramov would be expecting him. They had an hour and a half, and the grumpy old master didn't like him to be late.

"Just here." Pavel pushed back through the door and pointed."At the end. The bakery. You see?"

That was one of the last things he remembered.

Other than a hand wrapping around his mouth, and the damp, acrid cloth that smelled of chemicals. And the feeling of total weightlessness, of being carried away.

And the fear that his father would be angry when he came to pick him up and he wasn't there.

"MIRA, LISTEN CLOSELY. I can't find Pavel! "

Nordeshenko's heart was beating wildly. The chess instructor said his son had never arrived for his lesson. It had happened a few times before-always when Nordeshenko was away on business. He combed the streets around the studio. He checked the ice-cream stalls, the bakeries, Pavel's favorite places. No one had seen the boy.

"He wasn't there when I went to pick him up at Abhramov's. I was hoping he had called."

"What do you mean?" His wife became alarmed."He always waits there. He knows not to stray."

"He didn't go to his lesson. Is there anywhere he might go that you can think of? Someplace he's spoken of? A friend?" How many times had he told the boy he had to be careful?

"No!" Mira's voice began to get excited."Maybe he took the bus. I've let him once or twice."

"He wouldn't let us know?"

Over the years, Nordeshenko had experienced the hollow feeling when a job didn't go right. He had that feeling now.

"We've got to call the police," Mira said.

"No!" The police! That was exactly what he could not do. Draw attention to himself. Now-with Reichardt in his house. What if they looked into him? He'd have to explain where he'd been overseas. And who this visitor was.

No, he had to think."You could be right about the bus. I'll follow the line. I'll call you closer to home."

Nordeshenko switched off and wound the Audi through the streets of the Old Town, frantically searching for his son's face amid the crowds. This is payback, he thought, for the things I have done.

On Hassan Shukri, near Memorial Park, he overtook a city bus and swung the car in front of it to block its path."I'm looking for my son," he yelled, and pounded on the door for the driver to open."Please, let me in!"

People would be panicked, he knew. They would think him a terrorist!"Look, I'm not armed." He put out his arms. Finally, the hesitant driver opened the door.

"Pavel!" Nordeshenko jumped on, searching the rows of startled passengers.

Pavel wasn't there!

"I'm sorry, but we must move on," the driver said. Nordeshenko stepped back onto the street.

Mira was right. They would have to call the police. There was no escaping it. Even to delay a minute could endanger his son more. Reichardt would have to leave-immediately. But surely Mira would mention him. The police would look into him. This was very bad!

Minutes later, Nordeshenko pulled into his driveway. He slammed the Audi door and ran into his house."Any word?"

"No." Mira shook her head, clearly panicked.

"We're in trouble," Nordeshenko said, realizing now there was no other choice.

Reichardt came in from the deck."What's wrong?"

"You have to leave. Now. Pavel is missing. We have to call the police."

The South African's eyes stretched wide. Nordeshenko instinctively knew what the man was thinking. The conversation would turn to their visitor. They would have to explain him-and why he had had to leave so suddenly.

The telephone rang, reprieving them.

Mira covered her mouth."Maybe that's him."

Nordeshenko ran to the phone. He didn't want to let the South African out of his sight. He swallowed, lifting the receiver.

"Pavel?"

"You have a nice boy," the voice on the line replied."I'm going to give you instructions, and the degree to which you follow them will determine whether you ever see him again."

"What?" Nordeshenko grunted. So it was some kind of kidnapping. He spoke in English. Perfect English.

"I have your son," the caller said again."The good news is you can have him back safe and sound in a matter of minutes. The bad news is if you don't do precisely what I ask, you'll never see him again."