She thought of his bodyguards, the deadpan faces, the impenetrable black eyes. The weapons they carried. Nausea curled in her stomach.
“Bella, he could kill you.”
“I don’t think he would, Hurley. I feel he—”
I feel that he cares for me. He’s attracted to me, and I don’t want to blow it all. But how stupid am I to think I could even have a chance with him…
“Maybe not him, but others connected with him. This is a powerful family, Bella. They protect each other, and that might include doing whatever it takes to protect the queen’s secret.”
Family—those blood ties—it’s everything, Amelie.
“You should get out of there now, while you can—just run with what we’ve got, especially if the queen’s biometrics match Alexis Etherington’s.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I need his side of the story. I’m a journalist, that’s my job if I’m doing it properly. And I owe it to him if he’s clean in all this.”
Hurley’s mouth flattened. He stared at her in silence for several beats. “What you’re doing could scuttle the U.S. presidential election, Bella. People have already died.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“Please, be careful.”
She nodded.
“Wipe your Skype files. Keep everything on that flash drive. You have access to a safe?”
“Estelle Dubois has a fire safe. I’ll ask her if I can store my drive in there. She doesn’t have a computer, knows nothing about them, so there’s no chance she’ll try and look into it. I’ll tell her it contains a draft of my novel.”
“Tariq doesn’t know you took his family photo?”
“Not yet,” she said, very quietly.
Then, as she was about to kill the call, he said, “Bella—” Something in his voice changed.
“Look, I know how badly you want to go mainstream, how badly you want a paying job. This will take you and the website mainstream. It will start to pay.”
“Hurley, I’m committed to breaking this on my blog.”
“Promise.”
“I promise,” she said.
Bella signed off, rubbed her brow. It seemed ridiculous to break a story of this magnitude on an obscure conspiracy-theorist website. But she had to. She had to find a way to leverage it. She couldn’t betray Hurley and the crew. Not now. Yet it went against every journalistic instinct. It went against her key goals, the reason she’d come here. But she wouldn’t even be here without Hurley, Scoob, Agnes.
She heaved out a sigh, cleaned up her Skype history again, opened up a fresh Word file on the flash drive. She began to write down notes, thinking how best to approach Tariq with the truth. But all she could see in her mind was an image of Tariq standing in front of the abbey gates as she’d been driven out the gates this afternoon. She touched her cheek where he’d wiped away a tear. Emotion rode hard in her chest.
When she revealed who she was, at bare minimum he was going to cut her out.
Family is key.
This is a powerful family, Bella…
She inhaled deeply. Tomorrow night, when she went for dinner—that’s when she had to do it.
Removing the flash drive she curled her fist around it and sat there for a while, weighing her options. Then she lurched to her feet and began pacing her small quarters.
She essentially had two big stories she could run with if Tariq—or the palace—chose not to comment. One was that the MagMo assassination attempt on Sheik Tariq Al Arif had failed to kill him, and the heir to the oil-rich kingdom of Al Na’Jar was alive, scarred and hiding in France. That the palace had lied. She had the photos and biometrics to prove it was him.
The other story—if Hurley’s facial-recognition software confirmed it—was that Senator Sam Etherington’s ex-wife was not dead, either, and was now married to the blind king of a country under MagMo attack, the same country Etherington was promising a lucrative oil deal with. If she could only find a way to speak to the queen—she might finally find out what had happened, and who had tried to run Alexis off that bridge, and why.
Bella chewed on her lip. And how did this link to STRIKE and the senator’s apparent involvement in an assassination attempt on the youngest brother, Omair Al Arif?
Just who was in bed with who?
Nerves twitched through her stomach. Tariq was going to hate her.
Bella stopped pacing. What made it worse was she wanted him to like her.
And tomorrow night her revelation was going to end the small, tremulous but very real connection that had been growing between them.
She gave a snort. Yeah, Bella, a connection between Amelie and Tahar—neither of them are real. It’s fiction. All lies. You’re a nothing orphan from Chicago, and you’re dreaming of a prince?
Get real.
She had to stick to her core reasons for coming here. Get the story—go big, make a name, get a real job, earn a living. Take care of herself.
Because no one else was going to do it for her.
Tightening her mouth, she firmed her resolve. Then she went to the main house to ask Estelle Dubois if she could lock her USB drive in the safe.
*
Isaiah Gold studied the digital image his surveillance team had just forwarded to his laptop—a photo of queen Nikki Al Arif without a veil.
The file had been entered into the Watchdog facial-recognition program, and it had come up as a match against several older photographs of Dr. Alexis Etherington. He rubbed his jaw, thinking. Not only had Bella DiCaprio found Tariq Al Arif alive, she now knew what The Moor knew—that the queen of Al Na’Jar was Sam Etherington’s ex.
Did she also know Sam had tried to have his ex killed? That he’d inadvertently murdered his own twins in the process?
Up until this point, this knowledge had been Aban Ghaffar’s trump card, his blackmail tool. Ghaffar’s way of securing Sam’s cooperation both now, and into the future. It was Ghaffar’s way of ensuring the future president’s commitment to militarily back a coup that would overthrow Al Na’Jar, and put the kingdom and all its oil in his control.
In return, during the proposed coup, Ghaffar’s promise was to have the queen eliminated along with the rest of the remaining royal family. Sam would then finally be free of the specter of his ex. Because as long as she remained out there, she would always be a Sword of Damocles hanging over the future president’s head. There would always be the potential for blackmail, a chance Sam could still go down for murder, and conspiracy to commit murder.
But if DiCaprio ran this story about Alexis and Sam now, she would effectively cut the balls off Ghaffar, leave him with zero control over Sam. The Moor would lose U.S. backing to take control of Al Na’Jar, yet Sam would still go down. And Isaiah himself would lose his prospects as a behind-the-scenes presidential advisor, the quiet ruling hand in the Oval Office. The puppet master.
It was in all their interests to stop Bella DiCaprio before she could run with this story. Already it was spiraling out of their control—she’d shared this photo with the Watchdog crew. Several people now knew Sam’s secret. That meant too many loose ends.
Isaiah ran his tongue over his teeth. DiCaprio had not sent this image via any of the computers connected to the Watchdog server. It had been introduced to the system via an external storage device, then run through the biometrics software. She was being careful. But not careful enough.
He picked up his encrypted phone, called New York.
“Are you near your computer? You need to see this.” He clicked Send.
A few moments of silence hung between the lines as the image was downloaded into a computer in Ghaffar’s plush Manhattan penthouse. A powerhouse.
“Where did this come from?” Ghaffar asked.
“DiCaprio. She knows about Alexis Etherington.”
Silence.
Isaiah swallowed, loosened his tie. Few people in this world made him uneasy—Aban Ghaffar was one.
“Does the senator know about this?”
“Not yet.”
“Can you keep it that way?”
Isaiah knew what Ghaffar was getting at—if Sam found out a reporter had the information, it stole The Moor’s power over him.
“If we nip this in the bud,” Isaiah said, “before it can become an issue, then there is no need for the senator to know. I’d rather not have him distracted from his campaign at this stage.”
This statement put Isaiah in a slightly elevated position over both Sam and Ghaffar. He liked it this way. Another beat of silence.
“Any leads as to where she is yet?”
“She called a prepaid cell in the Watchdog building. My surveillance team outside the building picked it up with surveillance equipment, and traced the area code to France. But she signed off before they could triangulate further.”
“France,” Ghaffar said quietly. “And you say this was from your CIA surveillance guys?”
Isaiah moistened his lips. “Black ops, culled from CIA and STRIKE intelligence, on a need-to-know basis only. They believe they’re on a terrorist surveillance mission, and they’re answerable to a middle man—no overt link to me or Sam. Or you.”
Aban stared at the photo of the queen, thinking Isaiah was going to be an invaluable tool in the White House, and a way for him to influence the most powerful office in the world—as long as he kept hold over this information.
“I thought it was France,” he said softly as he continued to stare at the photo. “I already have men on standby in Paris. We have meteorological information that matches the conditions along the Brittany coast at the precise time the photo of Tariq was taken.” He paused. “We’re narrowing it down. My men will take care of Tariq and DiCaprio as soon as we find them. We’ll need to eliminate the Watchdog team as well.”
“If we take the Watchdog crew out too soon, we lose our link to DiCaprio.”
“Then we use them as leverage first.”
He heard Isaiah inhale, and Aban smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “The men we used in the attempt to take DiCaprio—I will use them again. You can keep your hands clean that way. But your surveillance team will need to stand down when we’re ready to move in on the crew.”
Silence.
“Mr. Gold,” Aban said coolly. “Fear not, my men are dispensable. Their cells stateside are tightly compartmentalized. They do not know my identity. If the proverbial scat hits the fan, law enforcement will find only MagMo fundamentalists.” He paused. “But should you expose me…well, I keep careful records.”
“Likewise.”
Ghaffar smiled. “We make a good team, then.”
*
Tariq positioned his lower back against the padded seat of the chest press in his gym, feet planted firmly apart. The room was bright, mirrors bouncing light back at him. He wore only his black gym shorts, a white towel around his neck, his body supple from a swim. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the sea, silvery streams of rain snaked down the panes.
He reached for the handles at chest level, his right hand finding an easy grip. Tariq angled his crippled fingers around the other handle, breathed in deep. Slowly he pressed outward, trying not to let his right side dominate his left, struggling to make the injured half of his body work in tandem with his good side.
Muscles stretched against scarred tissue, against disuse, but slowly he found a rhythm borne of intense focus. Sweat poured off him as he pumped the weights, harder, faster, his chest burning. He caught his reflection, his dark skin shining, his black hair wet—no eye patch. A ferocity filled him and he used it to push harder. He was doing too much, too soon, he knew that. But he couldn’t stop. All he could see when he closed his eye, when he felt the burn, was Amelie.
He could imagine the taste of her mouth, smell her shampoo, the feel of her body under his. He pumped harder, blood roaring in his ears as he struggled to burn off the attraction.
Finally he let the weights drop with a clang and he slumped against the seat, sweat dripping. He couldn’t chase her from his thoughts. He could not beat out the desire building in him. It was just physical, he told himself—it did nothing to diminish the memory of Julie.
Irritably he reached for the television remote, clicked a button. A large satellite TV screen mounted in the far corner of his gym flickered to life. He found the CNN channel. Tariq had been out of touch with the world since the bomb blast ten months ago, and he felt a need to reconnect. Subliminally he blamed this, too, on Amelie.
He got to his feet, toweling off, thinking that not only was he trying to chest-press her out of his mind, he wanted to get fit, look good for her. Tariq swore softly in Arabic, then glanced up sharply as the CNN newscast segued into coverage of the U.S. presidential campaign, cutting to footage of Senator Sam Etherington alighting from his campaign bus.
Distaste filled Tariq’s mouth.
The broadcast cut to a clip of Etherington talking about homeland security, and then about energy and oil. How he would bring new allies from the Middle East to the table, and how there was potential for an agreement with the newly oil-rich kingdom of Al Na’Jar. Tariq stilled, towel in hand, and he frowned. The guy was in for a rude awakening—Al Na’Jar was not his friend.
So what made him think he could talk like this?
Tariq flicked through several more channels—all covering the election, all talking about Sam Etherington as if the sociopathic narcissist was already the president. He stopped as he hit another newscast. A blonde anchorwoman was saying, “There are still no leads in the accident that claimed the life of Althea Winston and her five-year-old daughter, Della Johnson. Winston’s tragic death comes mere months after her husband, Travis Johnson, was shot execution-style in an underground parking lot. There have been no leads in his murder, either.”
A chill slaked through his chest.
Travis Johnson had been Faith’s STRIKE handler. He’d been shot by men on a motorbike as Omair had been trying to question him about who’d ordered the hits on him and Faith. But Johnson had died with the secret on his lips. And now his wife was dead?
Tariq reached for his T-shirt, yanking it over his head as he went rapidly to his office. He punched in Omair’s number.
“Did you hear the news?” he said the instant his brother picked up. “Althea Winston, Travis Johnson’s widow—she’s dead. Run off a bridge with her daughter in the car.”
Omair was silent for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“It’s all over the news.”
“She must have known something,” Omair said softly. “Johnson could have let something slip, some pillow talk. I should have gone back, pressed her.”
Tariq raked his hand over his damp hair. “No, Omair. She had her child with her—you did the right thing. Her death could have been an accident.”
“Or she might have tried to talk to someone, let slip that she had incriminating information. She could have told me who ordered my assassination—whether it came from high up, or a rogue faction within STRIKE.” Omair cursed softly. Then he said, “So you were watching the news?”
Tariq inhaled slowly. He knew what his brother was getting at—it was becoming clear that Tariq was reengaging in life, in politics, reconnecting with a sense of royal duty. But he changed the subject, preferring not to discuss it. “Anything yet on Amelie Chenard?”
“My P.I. is due to call me with his results day after tomorrow. I’ll let you know as soon as I have word. Just keep her close meantime. Was there anything on her computer?”
“Research files on the history of the abbey, the murder of the abbess, some notes on Ile-en-Mer.”
“No email history? Contact list? No parts of her novel—nothing else?”
“No.”
Omair hesitated. “That’s unusual, Tariq. Be careful.”
“I will.”
But as Tariq hung up, he knew—innocent or not—on some level he was already sunk with Amelie.
And he needed her to be innocent because of it.
&n
bsp; *
Wanting to get a head start on a marinade for the lamb she planned to cook, Bella arrived at the abbey early. Nerves bit at her as she rang the bell at the abbey gate.
If Tariq had been clued in to her true identity by now, she could be walking into a trap. And if he didn’t know, she might be creating a trap of her own by returning his family photo and confessing her real reason for being here.
Before she left Madame’s place, Hurley had called to confirm the facial-recognition match between Alexis Etherington and Queen Nikki Al Arif. This information was burning in Bella’s chest now, along with her nerves.
Scoob had also discovered that fifteen years ago Benjamin Raber had been CEO of Armstech, a manufacturer of military-grade weapons and security installations. At the same time, Etherington had been on the Armstech board, working as a lawyer for the corporation. It was during this period that a sexual assault charge was brought against Raber.
According to Hurley, it was not the first time Raber had gotten rough with prostitutes, and it looked like the charge was going to stick. But Etherington appeared to have made the charges miraculously go away. The prostitute in question had then drowned in an “accident” later the same year.
“This could mean that Sam Etherington has power over Raber,” Hurley had told Bella earlier on Skype. “And Travis Johnson apparently took his orders from Raber. At the very least, we now know there’s an intimate connection between the STRIKE boss, and the probable next U.S. president.”
The gates swung slowly open and Bella wheeled her bike down the gravel driveway through the rain.
Scoob had also learned that Raber was being touted in some circles as Etherington’s pick for Ambassador-at-Large for Counterterrorism.
This new information fed into Bella’s anxiety as the butler let her into the abbey. It could mean that Sam Etherington himself had ordered Omair Al Arif’s assassination—if Althea Winston had been telling the truth.
“Monsieur Tahar is not expecting you yet—he’s in the gym,” the butler said as he showed Bella in. She caught a look in the butler’s eyes, a slight smile on his lips. There was something accessible about the man today, something had softened in him toward her.
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