Watchlist

by Jeffery Deaver

  She propped herself against the sofa, trying to think, trying to locate something that might pass as a weapon.

  "Hey," he said.

  He had his hands up and looked offended. His right eye had gone purple from where the door had caught him.

  "We just want to talk," he said. "That's all."

  "Who wants to talk?" she asked, still looking, feeling behind the sofa with her right hand.

  "Some big guys. They don't mean you no harm. They told me that. They just want you to visit."

  "There are nicer ways to ask."

  He reached into his jacket with his free hand and took out a handgun.

  "There are nastier ones too. Alive isn't the same as undamaged. You choose, little girl. One way or another you're coming with me."

  Szeryng was playing one of her most cherished passages. Felicia Kaminski hated this anonymous man for ruining it.

  She looked him in the eye and said, "They won't hurt me? That's a promise?"

  "A promise."

  He still had the iPhone in his left hand. She watched the way he held it. The obvious affection he had for the thing.

  She put a hand to her head and let down her long brown hair she had fastened for practice. He watched her, smiling again.

  "Isn't that, like, the new version?" she asked, pointing at the phone. "The one with GPS or something?"

  They all loved them. Sometimes it seemed there was nothing more precious on the planet.

  "Yeah . . . " He held it a little higher and pressed a button. A video of MIA began to play on the screen. "I got . . . "

  She was wearing the pointed leather boots she'd bought in a Gucci outlet place near San Giovanni. Those needle-like toes were going out of fashion but she liked them. She took one strong step forward, let her right leg fall back a little to gain momentum, then let loose with a kick, as hard as she could manage--right where it hurt most.

  He screamed. The gun went sideways. She took his wrist and punched it back against the sharp edge of the wardrobe that contained Harold Middleton's armory. The weapon clattered to the floor. The iPhone he held on to, but not after the second kick. By then he was on the ground, squirming, looking madder than ever.

  If he gets up, I'm dead, she thought.

  Her hand strayed to the nearest available object. She felt it and wanted to cry. It was the precious Bela Szepessy that Harold Middleton had bought for her. The finest musical instrument Felicia Kaminski had ever owned.

  She smashed the bone-hard composite chin rest hard into his face. The bottom of the fiddle tore away from the body immediately. It was gone and she knew it. So she took the neck in both hands swung the century-old instrument round like a mallet, dashing the jagged wood into his head until he fell once more to the floor, his nose a bloody mess, his eyes filling with pain and fear.

  There was an old vase, big and heavy within reach. She let go of the ruined violin, picked up the vase and threw it at his head, hitting him square on the temple.

  He went quiet.

  Quickly, efficiently, she snatched a set of spare metal strings from her fiddle case, kicked him over onto his chest, put one knee on his spine and bound his hands behind, then his feet.

  By the time she'd finished he was coming to again. He wasn't moving anywhere. She was thorough. Just in case, she bent down, retrieved his gun and held the weapon tightly in her right hand, hating the feel of the thing.

  With tears beginning to well in her eyes, she looked at the ruined remnants of her fiddle and then the crushed man on the floor and said, "I am not little. And I am not a girl."

  A noise made her look up. The front door was still open. She could see it from the living room and cursed herself for being so stupid. A tall, gangly man with exceptionally pale skin and an ugly face was marching through the door, looking both scared and determined at the same time.

  Felicia Kaminski wanted to say something but at that moment her mind locked. Szeryng's luscious rendition of the Bach Partita was reaching its final note, a delicious D played double stringed, one open, one fingered with vibrato, then dying into silence. She loved that touch and had wished for so long that one day she might emulate it. Tonight, maybe, in the Wigmore Hall. Tonight . . .

  It took Pierre Crane one strike to knock the weapon out of the fingers of the slender, pretty-plain young woman, and a second to render her unconscious as she stood dumb-founded over a man who lay bound on the floor, face swollen yet still visibly terrified. She crashed down in a heap next to him. Crane's eyes strayed around the room. There was no one else in the little house. He could sense this.

  Crane made a fast search of the flat--which belonged to Harold Middleton, the American that the driver of the car outside of Paris had warned him about. He found what looked like a gun safe and scanned through a number of documents and notes on the desk.

  "Find anything helpful, Pierre?" said a female voice behind him, one so calm and unflustered it made his blood turn cold, sent his hand dashing for the gun in the holster beneath his jacket.

  Something stabbed into his shoulder before his fingers got halfway.

  "Don't be foolish," she said.

  He turned and saw the woman he now knew as Jana. She held a long black handgun with a lengthy silencer. A professional weapon. She looked at him carefully, her gaze reminiscent of what had passed between them on that deserted two-lane road outside of Paris not long before. "We meet again, Pierre."

  Crane gave a faint laugh, though he shivered at the memory of the bullets snapping against the windows of the limo. "You know me?"

  "You do your background work as a reporter," Jana shrugged. "I do the same in my line."

  Which told Crane that she had indeed followed him to the meeting outside of Paris with the man posing as the Scorpion.

  "Where's Middleton?" she asked.

  "I don't know."

  "The woman he works with? Tesla?"

  Crane shook his head. "I don't know her."

  In the distance, the urgent bray of a police siren grew closer. Had someone reported a disturbance? Seen a weapon? She grimaced, looking at the flat and apparently realized she had no time for a thorough search.

  Jana ordered, "Take the girl outside. There's a van there." She hesitated. "Go with her. I will join you in a moment."

  "You don't think I'll run?"

  A smile. "No."

  "Why?" he asked, trying to see some window of attack, realizing, from her careful stance and the steady gaze in her eye, this was impossible. Nor was he sure he wanted to; something--the journalist within him? Or the man?--told him to simply go with what was happening.

  "Because you're after the truth, aren't you, Pierre?"

  Jana reached out and removed the weapon from his jacket. Then she watched as he picked up the unconscious young woman in his arms and walked outside.

  There was a Mercedes van with opaque windows by the front door and a driver in a black uniform, gloves and a cap, sliding open the rear door.

  As Crane reached the gate with the girl in his arms he heard the sound from behind, and recognized immediately what it was. The low, explosive growl of a silenced weapon, followed by a curt, agonized shriek of pain, one that lasted a second, no more.

  4

  JIM FUSILLI

  A gray morning in Paris had given way to a lovely, tranquil afternoon, and as she crossed the Place de la Concorde and entered the pebbly pathway that cleaved the Jardin des Champs Elysees, she reviewed her day: an early jog along Avenue George V across the Seine at Point d' Alma, back through the Parc du Champ de Mars and under the Tour Eiffel; a shower in her room at the Hotel Queen Elizabeth on Pierre 1er de Serbie; and in a thin, peach v-neck sweater, jeans and a short, buttery leather jacket she'd bought for a small fortune in USD at a shop on Boulevard Saint Germain, a walk around the corner to the Hotel George V for a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar as she read The Wall Street Journal Europe and USA Today. Then she went back to the Queen Elizabeth, sat on the floor with her back to her unmade be
d and sobbed.

  It wasn't working. "Come to Paris," her father had said. "You need a little magic." "Thanks, no, Harry. Too many memories," she'd replied. "Charley, maybe you'll make new memories," he said gently, taking her hand. "We need you among the living. We really do . . . "

  But everywhere in Paris reminded her of what she'd lost: her baby, the miscarriage induced by, of all people, her late husband who was part of a conspiracy that took her mother's life as well. Every day was a relentless replay of what could've been and what would never be. Even now, as she strolled through dappled sunlight under leafy trees whose branches crowned the pathway, she saw young children toddling comically as they chased pigeons, their contented mothers smiling as they watched. Nothing else existed for her at that moment, neither the dignified old men in their brown suits who chatted knowingly, the businessmen and women on the Champs Elysees who were making their way back to their offices nor the tourists wandering toward the Obelisque and Jardin des Tuileries. All she saw were stout, laughing children and their beaming mothers, and she felt the weight of hopelessness and a profound, hammering sense of loss. She knew she would never be whole again and would never trust any man enough to love him. As for a child of her own, she feared she would never be able to provide the sense of security and optimism the child would need to thrive. She was counting her days, wondering when she would be consumed by the void inside her.

  And so all that remained for Charlotte Middleton--she'd returned to her maiden name when she learned the extent of her husband's participation in a plot to kill thousands in Washington, D.C.--was the work she was doing for the Volunteers. Her father had told her he needed her. It was possible that he did. Protesting, she'd said, "Harry, I can't. Given how pointless, how empty . . . Damn it, I wish I could explain so you'd know." "Charley," he replied, "when I think about what my life would be without you, I know."

  At a kiosk near the Theatre Marigny, she bought a sandwich of thin slices of ham, a sliver of gruyere and salty butter on crunchy bread, and a bottle of Badoit, and sat on a bench in a stream of sunlight, the Etoile and the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, the relentless traffic coursing along the cobblestone. In an attempt to dispatch her thoughts, she recalled some of the research she'd done for the Volunteers. Her mind wandered to Connie Carson and the bravado instilled in every task undertaken by that little Texas firebrand, and then to Wiki Cheung's fascination with Second Life and how the adorable 19-year-old computer geek had given himself a black avatar with a '70s Afro and chiseled body any athlete would kill for. "Try it," Wiki had suggested. "Everybody needs someplace to be somebody new." As soon as the words passed his lips he recoiled in embarrassment. "I'm not saying your life is not good, Charley. No, what I'm saying--I'm saying, Charley, the game--Maybe you'll make new friends--If you want new friends, Charley . . . Ah damn it . . . "

  Around the same time, Leonora Tesla, who she admired more so now that she understood what the Volunteers had achieved, had asked her to join her for a drink after hours. They'd gone to a Latin lounge in Dupont Circle, where they were surrounded by careless singles floating between youth and responsibilities, six fresh faces crammed at tables for four. Giddy conversations rose over bubbling music. "Charley," Tesla shouted, "here's my advice: Don't take any advice. Listen to your own heart in your own time."

  Now on the Champs Elysees, reflecting on those memories four-thousand miles away, Charley watched a tour bus scored with Hangul script wheezed to a halt, blocking traffic. She grimaced as taxi horns blared, and then returned to her solitude.

  Perhaps 30 yards behind Charlotte Middleton in the park was a self-satisfied man in his 50s, tanned with salt-and-pepper hair. His blue suit, cut to perfection, was impressive even in the arrondissement that hosted the houses of Saint Laurent, Dior, Chanel and Lacroix. As he sat, he removed a silk handkerchief from an inner pocket and wiped the sides of his Berlutti shoes, removing a coat of dust. His cell phone vibrated as he returned the kerchief to its post.

  "I'm on Middleton's daughter," he said. "In Paris. I'll stay with her." He hung up without waiting for a response.

  Ian Barrett-Bone had gotten over the shock of nearly being gunned to death on a road outside of Paris. He and his employer were used to wielding money and threats of violence--and violence itself--to force people to do the most despicable things. Many of them sputtered and swore and promised to get even. But few did.

  Jana was different, of course.

  Barrett-Bone himself was motivated by money and thrill. He considered a desk job the purest of tortures.

  But Jana? What drove her?

  Idealism, he supposed. How childish a motive. How meddlesome.

  Yet her appearance on that road outside Paris was a sharp reminder of the danger everyone was facing.

  How many other deaths would occur--all because of the copper bracelet?

  He watched as Charley rose from the bench. She took a long, final swig of the sparkling water and tossed its green plastic bottle in the trash, along with the heel of the bread. Then she thought better of it, retrieved the bread, crumpled it and offered the crumbs to pecking pigeons.

  "She couldn't be more American if she tried," Barrett-Bone muttered to himself as he regarded the attractive woman with a measure of disgust.

  He glanced at his Patek Phillippe wristwatch as he resumed following Middleton's daughter from a discrete distance. He imagined she would continue to wander aimlessly, her guard down, defenses non-existent.

  Felicia Kaminski, now conscious, and Pierre Crane sat side by side in the back row of the Mercedes van, their wrists cuffed together with plastic, their ankles tied to each other's. The driver had managed to shackle them in seconds while Jana trained her gun at the two captives.

  A double beep of a cell phone sounded. Jana answered. She spoke in a language Crane took to be Hindi. Then she spun to face the prisoners. "I have just learned," she said in thickly accented English, "that you are not Charlotte Middleton."

  Felicia said nothing.

  Jana barked at Crane. "Who is she?"

  "I have no idea. I can ask her, but it will have to be in English. But I don't think she speaks French."

  "You," Jana said in halting English. "What your name is?"

  "Felicia."

  Jana looked at Crane. "Is French," she said in English.

  "Is Polish," he replied in French. He was going to mention her accent, but knew Jana couldn't detect it, no more than he could distinguish between an Algerian or a Moroccan when they spoken French. "She may be his maid."

  "A maid who can fight."

  "I think she was defending herself. A lucky blow with the instrument. You have the wrong girl."

  Crane knew they were heading southeast.

  "I think she's a little off," he added. "Incompetent. You know . . . "

  Felicia seemed to will herself not to stare at him, not to stomp his foot.

  Jana had Crane's gun in her lap.

  "Let her go," the reporter said.

  The driver glanced at Jana.

  "Let her go and I'll help you." Crane was after a story. He was after Jana. He had no quarrel with the young woman.

  "How? How can you help me?"

  "I'm searching for the Scorpion. And so are you. I know things about him. I saw your face when you noticed the men in the limo. You were disappointed neither of them was him."

  "Give me a fact. Something I can use."

  "And you'll let her go?"

  She stared at him. "Maybe I kill you and her," Jana replied.

  "Or maybe I help you and nobody dies."

  "Pay for one life. Yours or hers. Give me a fact."

  Crane thought for a moment. What would be dear to her yet not give too much away? "There's a Dubai connection."

  "Dubai? What?"

  "That's all I'll tell you for now. For my own protection."

  Jana debated. Then she turned to the driver and spoke in Arabic. "Dump her by the O2," she said. "We keep him."

  Middleton stood on the
driver's side of his car, his head hung in frustration. The London address Jean-Marc Lespasse found on Kavi Balan's computer was a mosque just south of Tufnell Park, a thriving neighborhood in North London populated by hundreds of Muslims and far, far fewer Hindus. The mosque had a noxious reputation its new, moderate leadership couldn't quite erase: Before his conviction for murder and racial hatred, its previous imam advocated jihad with suicide bombing its primary form--no one seemed to doubt his involvement in the 7/7 attacks. Supporting al-Qaeda's violent activities, it had offered training in assault weapons and served as a clearinghouse for untraceable telecommunications equipment.

  "A ruse," he said. "A joke."

  From the opposite side of the car, Tesla replied, "Not necessarily. Maybe someone here"--she nodded toward the mosque and the squat brick buildings that lined the street--"knows of an attack on the mosque. It might not be a dead end."

  "But it's a lead that will take weeks of infiltrating to develop. We don't have the time. Not with what's going on."

  Tesla tugged on the car door, but it was locked. "You're right. We need to strategize."

  Middleton dug into his pocket and tossed her the keys. "Take the car," he said. He gestured in the direction of the Tufnell Park Underground station. "I'm going to Wigmore Hall to see Felicia. It was damned thoughtless of me to forget her recital. Lose the weapons and catch up with me, if you'd like. We can talk to Connie and Jean-Marc once they get settled in Tampa."

  Middleton emerged from the Underground at Oxford Circus, amused by how quick the trip had been, even with the transfer at Euston. He imagined Nora still on the 503 motorway, if traffic was lurching. By instinct, he checked his common cell phone first. One message from Felicia, probably chiding him for failing to remember her recital or his lack of interest in crossword puzzles, cryptograms and such. When he looked at his encrypted phone, he saw he had no messages--nothing from NATO, the French, Interpol or the ICC as a post-mortem on the Cap d'Antibes operation; nor from Charley, Nora, Jean-Marc, Connie or Wiki. As he crossed the park at Cavendish Square, he thought for a moment of Wetherby, the bright NATO officer who gave his life to help prevent another godless execution of innocents. To steel himself from grief, long ago Middleton learned to shift his thoughts quickly to the mission at hand: to complete it would honor the likes of young Wetherby. Sikari and fresh water. Devras Sikari had developed an interest in fresh water. What could it mean?