David Ishag closed his eyes. In a dull, lifeless monotone he asked, “What do you want me to do?”
OUTSIDE, IN THE PUNISHING MUMBAI HEAT, Danny pulled out his BlackBerry and sent a private, encrypted e-mail. It was addressed to Rajit Kapiri of the Indian IB and all six members of the Azrael team, and was cc’d to Henri Frémeaux back in Lyon.
The message read simply: “Ishag’s in. Operation Azrael a go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
WILL YOU BE LATE TONIGHT, DARLING?”
Sarah Jane Ishag leaned over the breakfast table to kiss her husband. David had been unusually distracted lately. They hadn’t made love in weeks.
Without looking up from the Wall Street Journal, David said, “Hmm? Late? Oh no. I shouldn’t think so.”
Sarah Jane studied his handsome head, with its thick, shining jet-black hair and skin the same shade of cappuccino as her silk La Perla robe. She watched his fingers trace the words of the newspaper article as he read. Everything about him seemed so vital, so alive. For a moment panic gripped her, but she quickly banished it.
“Good. I thought we could make it an early night. I’ll make you some of that horrid chicken noodle soup that you like, with the dumplings.”
David looked up. It was disconcerting the way he stared at her, as if he were seeing her face for the first time.
“Matzo balls,” he said dully.
“Sorry. Matzo balls.” She blushed. “Not much of a Jewish wife, am I?”
A few weeks earlier, on their honeymoon, David would have laughed at that line. Made some joke about Catholic girls being crap in the kitchen but virtuosos in the bedroom. Now he said nothing. He just sat there, staring. Something’s changed.
Inside, she was worried, but she made sure to betray no trace of her anxiety in her tone.
“So if I have dinner ready at eight, you’ll be home?”
“I’ll be home.”
David Ishag kissed her on the cheek and went to work.
TEN MINUTES LATER, BEHIND THE WHEEL of his Range Rover Evoque, David plugged in his MP3 player and listened again to the recording Danny McGuire had given him yesterday.
Sarah Jane’s voice. “We can’t, not yet. I’m not ready.”
A man’s voice, electronically distorted. “Come on, angel. We’ve been through this. We go through it every time. The gods have demanded their sacrifice. The time is now.”
Sarah Jane again. Angry now. “That’s all very easy for you to say, but it’s not the gods that have to do it, is it? It’s me. I’m the one who has to suffer. I’m the one who always suffers.”
“I’ll be gentle this time.”
A strangled sound, half muffled. Was it a laugh? Then Sarah’s voice again.
“He’s different from the others. I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Different? How is he different?”
“He’s younger.” There was a note of desperation in her voice, of pity even. Hearing her made David Ishag’s heart tighten. “He has so much to live for.”
The distorted voice took on a harder edge. “Your sister has a lot to live for too, doesn’t she?”
The line went crackly at this point, and the audio was lost. David had heard the recording fifty, a hundred times now, desperately searching for any meaning other than the obvious one: that his wife and some unknown lover were plotting his murder. Each time he reached this point, he willed the next line to be different. Prayed he would hear Sarah Jane’s voice saying: “No, I can’t, I won’t do it. David’s my husband and I love him. Leave me alone.” But each time, the nightmare recurred exactly as it had before.
“Yes, yes. Friday night.”
“I love you, angel.”
“I love you too.”
With David’s help, Danny McGuire and his team had finally managed to tap in to Sarah Jane’s cell phone, as well as the two pay phones in Dharavi that his men had observed her using. They still hadn’t traced the identity of the man. He was obviously a pro, distorting his voice and using sophisticated blocking software to prevent anyone from accurately tracking his number. But the Ishag mansion was under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Any unidentified male coming within five hundred feet of the place was photographed and, if necessary, stopped and searched.
“You’re completely safe,” Danny McGuire told David. “If she tries anything, we’ll be there in an instant.”
But David Ishag didn’t feel safe. Not just because Interpol being there “in an instant” might not be quick enough. It could take less than “an instant” for a bullet to penetrate his skull or a kitchen knife to puncture his aorta. But because the real tragedy of all this, the thing he feared most, had already happened. He had lost Sarah Jane. Worse than that, he never really had her in the first place. Sarah Jane, his Sarah Jane, didn’t exist.
Even now, in the face of overwhelming damning evidence of her guilt—even without the audiotapes, David Ishag had seen McGuire’s pictures of the other widows, and the resemblances were too striking to ignore—he couldn’t fully make himself believe it. Sarah Jane had looked so heartbreakingly sexy in that negligee this morning. She’d sounded so vulnerable when he hadn’t been able to bring himself to laugh at her jokes, or even look at her properly when she spoke to him. Part of him, a big part, still wanted to tell Danny McGuire and Interpol and the rest of the world to go fuck themselves. To take Sarah Jane to bed, make love to her the way he used to and afterward simply ask her about the man on the tape and the lies she’d told him. Challenge her face-to-face to explain herself and give him a rational explanation.
And she would explain herself and apologize, and David would forgive her, and someone else would have committed these dreadful murders, not Sarah Jane, and they’d live happily ever after.
His car phone rang, shattering the fantasy.
“So we’re still set for an eight o’clock start tonight.” Danny McGuire sounded almost excited, as if they were talking about a kick-off at a football game and not an attempt on David’s life. “No last-minute changes. That’s good.”
“You picked all that up, then? At breakfast.”
“Clear as a bell.”
David thought, At least the bugging devices are working properly. The only thing more terrifying than going through with tonight’s plan would be going through it with technical hitches.
Danny McGuire said, “Try to relax. I know it doesn’t feel that way, but you’re perfectly safe in there. We’ve got your back.”
“I’ll try to remember that this evening when my wife’s boyfriend starts lunging at my jugular with a sharpened machete.” David laughed weakly.
“You’re doing the right thing. Come tomorrow morning, this will all be over.”
David Ishag hung up the phone and swallowed hard. He knew that if he allowed himself to cry once, the tears would never stop.
“This will all be over.”
No, it won’t.
For David Ishag, the pain of Sarah Jane’s betrayal would never be over. Without her, he might as well be dead.
AT SIX P.M., DANNY MCGUIRE SAT in the back of the transit van, dividing his attention between the screen in front of him and today’s London Times crossword puzzle on his iPad. It was Richard Sturi, the statistician, who’d gotten him hooked on British-style crosswords and Danny had quickly become a junkie. They helped relieve the stress and loneliness of running Operation Azrael, helped him forget how much he missed home and Céline, helped him block out the fear about the state his marriage might be in once this operation was finally over.
The London Times puzzle was usually the most challenging, far superior to that of the New York Times or Le Figaro, but today’s setter seemed to be having an off day.
One across: Wet yarn I entangled.
As anagrams went, it was laughably easy. As Danny typed in the answer—R-a-i-n-y—his mind started to wander. When had he last been in the rain? A month ago? Longer? It rained a lot in Lyon. Here in Mumbai the sun was relentless, beating down punishingly on the stick
y, humid city from dawn till dusk.
“Sir.” Ajay Jassal, a surveillance operative on loan from the Indians, tapped Danny on the shoulder. “The catering van. That’s not the usual driver.”
Danny was alert in an instant. “Zoom in.”
Jassal was eagle-eyed. Even up close, it was tough to make out the van driver’s features on the fuzzy green screen. It didn’t help that he was wearing a cap and had one hand covering the lower part of his face as he waited for the service gates to open.
“You’re quite sure it’s a different driver?”
The young Indian looked at Danny McGuire curiously, as if he were blind. “Yes, sir. Quite sure. Look at his arms, sir. That is a white man.”
Danny’s pulse quickened. Ajay Jassal was right. The arm dangling out of the driver’s-side window was a distinctly paler shade of green than that of the rear gatekeeper waving him into the compound.
Was this him? Was this the killer?
Was the face beneath that cap the face of Lyle Renalto, aka Frankie Mancini?
Have we got him at last?
The barrier lifted. Lurching forward, the driver put both hands back on the wheel, turning slightly to the side as he did so. For the first time Danny McGuire got a good look at his face.
“I don’t believe it,” he whispered.
“Sir?”
“I do not fucking believe it.”
“You know the man, sir? You’ve seen him before?”
“Oh yeah.” Danny nodded. “I know the man.”
It wasn’t Lyle Renalto.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DAVID ISHAG PULLED INTO HIS UNDERGROUND garage. The clock on the dashboard said 7:30 P.M.
In five minutes, I’ll see Sarah Jane.
In half an hour, we’ll have dinner together.
By midnight, she’ll have tried to kill me.
None of it felt real, except his nerves. The tight knot in his stomach, the sweat running down his back. Mentally he ran over the plan again. He would go inside and act as natural as possible around Sarah Jane. They would have dinner. By nine o’clock it would be safe for David to go up to bed. At some point Sarah Jane would join him, and soon afterward her mysterious accomplice would presumably burst in. David’s job then was to feign a heart attack, momentarily confusing his would-be killers and hopefully buying enough time for McGuire and his men to show up and make their arrests.
Raj, David’s valet, greeted him as calmly as ever. “Good evening, sir. How was your day?”
None of the staff knew what was going on, for their own safety. David trusted Raj implicitly, but Danny McGuire had been insistent on total secrecy.
“It was fine, thank you, Raj. Is Mrs. Ishag at home?”
Please say no. She’s gone out. She’s changed her mind. She couldn’t go through with it after all.
“She’s in the drawing room, sir. Waiting for you.”
When David walked in, Sarah Jane was facing the window, her back to him. She was wearing a long scarlet jersey dress with a scooped back that David had bought for her in Paris, on their honeymoon. Her hair was piled up in loose coils on top of her head. She looked stunning.
“You dressed up.”
She turned and smiled at him shyly. “I thought I’d make an effort for once. Do you like it?”
David’s throat went dry. “You look incredible.”
Walking over to him, Sarah Jane wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thanks.” She kissed him tenderly on the lips and David felt his resolve weaken. He tried to think about the photographs of the other Azrael widows, Sarah Jane’s alter egos; about her voice on the police tape, plotting his death. But both those things felt like a dream, utterly unconnected with the real Sarah Jane, the Sarah Jane whose soft lips now pressed against his own.
Was it possible to love someone you knew was going to try to murder you?
“Shall we eat?”
BACK IN THE SURVEILLANCE VAN, DANNY McGuire’s mind was racing.
The “new” delivery driver was not Lyle Renalto, as he’d half hoped, half expected.
The new driver was Matthew Daley.
Danny’s thoughts lurched wildly from past to present, questioning everything. Could Daley really be involved? Could he be Azrael’s accomplice?
Every instinct in him told him that this wasn’t possible. Matt Daley hadn’t met the woman now calling herself Sarah Jane Ishag till her most recent previous incarnation as Lisa Baring. And that meeting had happened after Miles Baring’s murder, a crime Matt couldn’t have committed because was in L.A. at the time.
And yet…
What did Danny McGuire actually know about Matthew Daley? Only what Matt had chosen to tell him. That he was a writer from Los Angeles, that he had a sister called Claire and an ex-wife called Raquel and that he was Andrew Jakes’s biological son. The sister was real enough. Danny had met her. As for the rest of the story, McGuire had taken it all on trust. What if it was all bullshit?
Forcing himself to calm down, Danny tried to analyze things rationally.
Let’s say what he told me was true. Let’s say he really is Jakes’s son.
According to Daley, Jakes had abandoned him and his mother and sister, apparently cutting them off without a penny. Was that enough of a motive for murder? Sure. Matt would have been in his midtwenties when Andrew Jakes was killed, more than old enough to plan and carry out a homicide. What if he didn’t meet Azrael as Lisa Baring? What if he already knew her as Angela Jakes, his father’s second wife? And later as Tracey Henley and Irina Anjou, and now as Sarah Jane Ishag?
But if that was the case, where did Lyle/Frankie fit into all this? And why, more importantly, would Matt Daley have flown to Lyon to see Danny McGuire in the first place? To point out to Danny the links between the various Azrael killings and convince him to reopen the case? Surely, if Matt were involved in the murders, that made no sense.
Unless he wants to get caught.
Wasn’t that the classic psychopathic mind-set? That there was no point committing the perfect crime if the world never got to know how brilliant you were? Danny pictured Matt Daley, first in L.A. then later in London and the South of France, waiting for the police sirens, for retribution, for the knock on the door that never came. Perhaps the anonymity had gotten to be too much for him?
“Camera three, sir!” Ajay Jassal’s voice brought Danny back to reality. “Daley’s leaving.”
“Leaving?”
Now Danny was even more confused than before. Wasn’t the hit on Ishag supposed to be tonight? If so, why the hell would Matt Daley be leaving, and at breakneck speed too? That van must be doing sixty miles an hour.
He looked at his watch. Five to eight. Dinner would take at least an hour. David wasn’t scheduled to go up to bed until well after nine.
“Where’s Ishag right now?”
“Still in the drawing room, sir. Audio’s picking him up clearly. He’s fine.”
Danny McGuire made a split-second decision.
“Okay. Follow Daley. Follow the van.”
Ajay Jassal hesitated. “Are you sure, sir? If something unexpected happens up at the house and we don’t get back in time…”
“We’ll get back in time. I wanna know where that bastard’s headed in such a hurry.” Danny picked up the walkie-talkie so he could speak to the men sitting in the second surveillance vehicle, parked on the front side of the mansion. “Jassal and I are in pursuit of a possible suspect. You guys stay in contact, let us know if you need to go in earlier, or if anything happens.”
“Yes, sir.”
Danny turned back to Ajay Jassal. “What are you waiting for, man?” he shouted. “Drive.”
COILED LIKE A RATTLESNAKE IN DAVID Ishag’s master-bedroom closet, the man pressed the barrel of his pistol against his cheek, closing his eyes as if embracing a lover. At his feet the blade of a six-inch hunting knife glinted in the darkness.
It was uncomfortable, crouched in his hiding place, but the dull ache in his thighs was a small
price to pay for vengeance.
In one short hour it would all be over.
“HOW’S THE SOUP?”
“Very good. Thank you.”
“I made it myself.”
Really? We’re making small talk? David scraped the last of his matzo ball from the bottom of the bowl. He’d worried all day that he’d be too nervous to eat tonight. Danny McGuire had stressed the importance of behaving naturally around Sarah Jane, but what if David couldn’t? What if he threw up, or passed out, or accidentally blurted out Why are you trying to kill me? over dessert? But as it turned out, he found that he was surprisingly hungry for the condemned man’s last meal. And the soup was good.
“What’s so funny?” Sarah Jane asked. David realized belatedly that he’d been grinning like an idiot, lost in his own thoughts.
“Nothing.” He tried to reset his features to neutral. “What’s for dessert?” Death by chocolate?
“Ice cream. Are you sure you’re all right, David?”
It was no good. He was visibly laughing now, powerless to stop the tears of mirth from rolling down his face. He hadn’t felt like this since his brief stint as a pot head back in his Oxford days. I must be getting hysterical.
“Do you want to go upstairs and lie down?”
Upstairs. The word sobered him up instantly, like a glass of ice-cold water in the face.
So she wants to do it now, does she? Get it over and done with? Why not?
The original plan had been to wait until after dinner to make his move upstairs, somewhere around nine fifteen. But if Sarah Jane was ready now, then so was he. He thought about the SWAT team surrounding the property and remembered Danny McGuire’s words from this morning. “You’re completely safe. If she tries anything, we’ll be there in an instant.”
He turned back to Sarah Jane.
“I think I will, if it’s all the same to you. I don’t feel too great all of a sudden.”
THE CATERING VAN WEAVED ITS WAY through the grand streets of Marathi, as fast and nimble as a mouse. Ajay Jassal followed, struggling to keep control of his large, squat surveillance vehicle while the usually mild-mannered Danny McGuire screamed at him to “Keep up! Don’t lose him!”
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