“You might laugh, but it hasn’t been easy for any of us.” He paused again, another smile playing around his mouth. “Marie Claire can be ferocious.”
When he looked up again, he whispered, “Do you know what is most painful for me? Realizing that Marie Claire, however she tries, cannot help herself or our children. And I am useless to her.
“You have heard everything I know. And you will use it to help my family. I am sorry it wasn’t more.”
“Did you have any idea you were a diversion, Nasim? That Saint Patrick’s Cathedral was the prime target? That the vice president of the United States was inside the cathedral when the bomb was planted? And other high-ranking members of our government?”
“No, I didn’t know. I did believe, though, there would probably be other attacks. Why a grenade in a security line if there was no more to it than that?”
“You never heard any of the men who took you speak of the vice president? Or any other American names?”
Nasim shook his head. “I only heard the word Bella—and as you know, that is Italian for beautiful. I can’t imagine their calling Vice President Foley beautiful. I suppose now they meant the beautiful cathedral, other cathedrals as well? They are prized symbols, are they not, monuments revered for their beauty?”
“Worse, they are effective targets for terror. If you can’t feel safe in a church, where are you safe?”
“Yes. Who would risk attending a place of worship if someone might blow it up? I pictured the incredible cathedral in Rouen, lying in rubble. It would be an awful thing.”
Sherlock said, “Until we find them, we can’t know what they will try to do next. Do you think there is any chance they will release your family?”
“Not while I am alive, in your custody. While my family is alive, they control me. These people know no mercy, no forgiveness, no understanding. They are like dogs. They defecate and move on. I pray my family is not already dead.” He raised hopeless eyes to her face. “I pray also that I am not being a fool to believe it possible.”
She brushed against the cuff on his wrist. “You have done the right thing, Nasim. If it is possible to help them, we will.”
Nasim looked down at his shackled feet. “They took me outside for a half-hour last night, when it was dark, to breathe in the fresh air, to let me feel I’m alive. I look forward to that. May I ask you to bring me a pen and paper now, so that I may write a note to my family? I will trust you to give it to them, if it is possible.”
“Yes.” As she rose, he said, “My kidney still hurts, but I don’t have any more headaches. Perhaps you are out of practice.”
“I thought I kicked you hard enough to give you a right proper concussion, maybe a short hospital stay. I’m glad I didn’t.” She smiled at him, waited for Cal to follow her out, and closed the door.
Was that a laugh she heard?
When Sherlock and Cal returned to the living room it was to see Jo raising a cup to Sherlock. “Well done.”
Giusti was rubbing her hands together. “We’ve already notified MI5 about this nom de guerre—the Strategist. We have nothing in our records about him. I’ve put out a call to find anyone by the name of Hosni Rahal, get us a location.”
She looked at Sherlock. “I’m sorry for Nasim. We won’t let him die, we won’t let that happen, but I fear for his family as much as he does.”
Cal said, “Seems to me Nasim asked the best question—why him? This imam? And why? MI5 needs to do some digging into the imam’s finances, his dead father’s, his mother’s. There’s got to be something there.”
Pip Erwin sipped his iced tea. “I still wonder why Nasim trusted only you, refused to speak to the rest of us. Just you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock said, “I think he wanted to tell someone, and I was the one he felt a connection to. It’s strange, though, how convinced he is he will die soon.”
Giusti nodded. “He clearly does. I don’t think there’s a terrorist within a hundred miles of this place, but I’m tempted to tighten security even so. Perhaps we should keep him in the house tonight.”
“He was so looking forward to being outside,” Sherlock said. “It would be an opportunity for me to talk with him again.”
Cal was standing next to the front window, his arms crossed over his chest. “Come on, you guys can’t really be thinking about taking him outside every night, among all those trees? Have you looked through an infrared sniper scope, like the Ares 6? Attach that to an H-and-K and you’re in business from hundreds of yards away. You can’t take that kind of risk, especially if Sherlock is with him.”
Jo Hoag walked to Cal, put her hand on his shoulder. “Cal, I’ve walked the grounds, and there are only a few spots that would be vulnerable to a sniper. We never let Nasim walk that way.”
“There are people who want Nasim dead, he’s right about that,” Cal said. “He failed them, and he’s a major loose thread, a threat to them. I would be moving him room to room, never on a schedule, and no outside jaunts, ever. As for letting Sherlock out with him, I veto that.”
“Your objection is noted,” Giusti said. “However, McLain, you’re not in charge here, I am.”
Cal got in her face. “My job is to follow my own orders where her safety is concerned.” He looked from Pip Erwin, to Jo Hoag, to Arlo Crocker, and then to Sherlock. “If anything happens to you on my watch, Sherlock, my life won’t be worth spit.”
Sherlock said, “All right, I’ll do as you like, Cal. I owe that to you.” She didn’t want to think about what Dillon would do if something happened to her; she couldn’t think like that. There was always risk. And Kelly was right: who could possibly know about this place? “Everything having to do with Nasim is your call, Kelly. Now, does anyone know where I can find a pencil and paper for Nasim? He wants to write to his family.”
• • •
AN HOUR BEFORE DARK, Sherlock and Cal sat down for dinner with Nasim in his room, the local news on TV turned down low. Nasim had asked for fast food, a hamburger and fries, his favorite food as a tourist, he said. They spoke of family. Sherlock learned Cal had three sisters, half a dozen nieces and nephews, and a mother who tapped her toe at him whenever she saw him. She wanted kids from him as well.
Nasim looked up at the camera and asked to use the bathroom.
Within a minute Agents Hoag and Crocker appeared in the open doorway. A visit to the bathroom after dinner seemed an established routine. Nasim rose.
Sherlock and Jo Hoag followed Crocker, his hand on Nasim’s cuffs, to the end of the hall. Crocker took off the cuffs, opened the bathroom door, checked around the small room, and nodded. Nasim went in and Crocker partially shut the door.
Agent Hoag checked her watch. “Not long before it’s dark enough to take him out to the front porch, if that’s what Kelly decides. That’s where we’ve got the best cover.” They heard the toilet flush, heard water running in the sink.
There was a shot, then another, sharp and very loud—rifle shots.
“No!” Crocker and Hoag were through the bathroom door in an instant. Nasim was leaning over the washbowl, staring at himself in the mirror. It was covered with a spray of blood, his blood. Nasim saw Sherlock’s white face in the mirror and slowly sank to the floor, his hands pressed against his chest. He didn’t speak, but his mouth formed the words Save my family.
Sherlock was on her knees beside him, pressing hard against a gaping wound in his chest. She saw blood pouring out of his shoulder where a second bullet had hit. “Nasim! Don’t you dare die on me. Come on, keep your eyes open, stay with me!” Sherlock was dimly aware of the agents shouting, running, yelling into comm units. She heard more shouts from outside the bathroom window, more loud gunfire, but she wasn’t listening. She was pressing her hands against his chest. But she’d seen his wound and she knew—she eased herself down over him, said quietly to him, “Nasim, you will not die, do you hear me, you can’t die
, not after all this. Stay with me!”
Nasim’s thready heartbeat stuttered, slowed, and stopped. Blood no longer pulsed in his neck. Sherlock pulled him away from the wall, laid him flat on his back, and started CPR, pushing on his chest again and again, breathing into his mouth even after she felt Cal’s hand on her shoulder. “He’s gone, Sherlock. It’s over.”
She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, not yet. She banged her fist against his bloody chest, breathed her breath into his mouth.
“Sherlock, look at his eyes.”
Three fast shots rang out through the bathroom and shattered the tiles around them. Sherlock felt the hot, fast path of a bullet as it parted her hair at her left temple and crashed bits of tile onto her head. Two more bullets shattered yet more tiles and gouged out the rim of the bathtub. She flattened over Nasim and Cal slammed down over her, covering her as best he could.
There were shouts, more rapid bursts of gunfire, then quiet.
They heard Jo Hoag yell out, “Thompson’s down, but Elliott got the shooter!”
Cal whispered against her ear. “You okay?”
Sherlock looked up at him, nodded. “He’s dead, Cal. He’s dead, like that.” She snapped her fingers.
Cal lifted himself off her, offered his hand, but she rolled to her side, balanced above Nasim, and stared into his empty eyes. “No,” she whispered. She leaned down, touched her hand to his cheek. “We failed him.”
“Come,” he said, and finally she let him help her up. The front of her white shirt and her fisted hands that had banged against his heart were covered with Nasim’s blood.
“Cal, your arm, it’s bleeding.”
Cal hadn’t felt a thing, but he did now. A streak of pain slashed through his arm. He looked down at a spreading bloody stain on his shirt, pressed his hand against his upper arm. “It can’t be bad, it’s not bleeding very much. It’s probably a through-and-through.” Agents crowded into the bathroom, all of them talking at once. He heard Giusti’s voice, turned to see her white face.
Sherlock looked over at her. “Nasim was right, Kelly. He said he was going to die here.”
“I don’t know how they found us.” Kelly took a step into the bathroom. “Are you all right, Sherlock?”
“Yes, it’s all Nasim’s blood. But Cal took a bullet in his arm covering me.”
“It’s under control, no worries,” Cal said. “He came close to taking Sherlock out, Kelly.”
Jo Hoag yelled from down the hall, “Elliott shot the shooter right out of the tree, but he’s alive! Thompson’s okay, probably concussed. Paramedics will be here any moment. I’m going out to meet them.”
Sherlock said, “Jo, wait. Have the paramedics tend to the shooter and Thompson. Don’t bring them in here. Nasim’s dead, there’s nothing they can do.” She drew a deep breath. “Listen, I don’t think we want it to get out yet that Nasim is dead. Let’s keep the terrorists guessing, at least until we find and hopefully save his family. Nasim didn’t entirely trust the terrorists not to murder his family if he gave himself up and let them kill him, and I believe that’s the reason he told me. I’m his backup.
“I don’t trust the terrorists, either, so let’s hold off—only a day, tops—give ourselves time to find his family. Then we can announce it and take the heat.”
Kelly said, “We can’t, Sherlock. We’d be crucified, accused of a massive cover-up, and that’s the last thing—”
“You don’t understand, Kelly,” Sherlock said right over her. “Unlike Nasim, I believe once the terrorists know Nasim is dead, they’ll kill the family. If they don’t know he’s dead, then maybe we have a chance. We have a name, Hosni Rahal. We can find the family.” She stopped, looked down at Nasim again. His eyes stared straight at the ceiling. There was no surprise on his face. What there was was acceptance.
Kelly chewed this over. “All right, okay. I’ve got to call Zachery, clear it with him. A day, tops. We’re looking for Rahal. If he’s in the U.S., we’ll find him and pray he’s still holding the family.” She looked down at her watch. “The crime scene techs and the ME are a half-hour out. Cal, Sherlock, come into the living room. Before I call Zachery, we’ve got to figure out how this happened. We’re lucky Elliott’s such a great shot or it could have been worse. Do you know he could shoot a feather off an eagle’s wing—”
Kelly realized shock was nibbling at the edges. She had to get herself together.
She saw Cal was shaking his head at her.
“What?”
“This wasn’t your fault.” He’d wanted to blast her for this debacle but didn’t because he knew she’d blast herself enough for all of them.
Giusti gave a scratchy laugh. “Then whose fault was it, Cal?”
“There’s a lot to be done,” he said matter-of-factly, “and you’re in charge. You’re the one everyone will look to.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right.” Giusti nodded, sucked in air, rebooted.
Cal said, “Sherlock came closer to dying than any of us. I saw a bullet part her hair over her ear, scared me spitless. Those last shots were aimed at her and they came well after the shooter had to know Nasim was down. If he hadn’t stayed in that tree to try to take Sherlock out as well as Nasim, he might have made it out of here. Point is, Sherlock wasn’t a bystander, she was one of his targets.”
Kelly looked like she’d taken a punch to the gut. “I’m very sorry about this. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Cal said, “Nah, she’d never admit it to you because if she did, she’d have to spit it out to Savich.”
She closed her eyes. “You swear your arm’s not bad?”
“It’s only a flesh wound,” he said, and grinned at her. Cal saw it steadied her. Good. He knew Giusti had to be wondering about her career prospects in the FBI. She’d lost a major terrorist on her watch. Not good.
Sherlock said, “Cal, let me take a look at it. When the paramedics get here, they’ll have to deal with the shooter and Thompson.” She cleaned the wound with alcohol from the first-aid kit, then wrapped his arm in a soft white bandage. It didn’t hurt all that much. Both of them were listening to the agents discussing what had happened, trying to figure out how it had happened. She said to Cal, “When we get to the hospital, they can take a look. As far as I can tell, all you’ll need is Steri-Strips, Cal. You were lucky.”
No, he thought, you were the lucky one. “You guys got any ideas on how they found Nasim?”
Pip Erwin shook his head. “I don’t understand it. No one would break protocol and get us followed. I can’t imagine there’s a leak in the Counterterrorism Task Force.”
Cal looked at Sherlock. “You know, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think so. Remember Nasim kept repeating he was going to be killed, even though he was tucked away in a safe house? All he could talk about was that his life didn’t matter, just his family’s. Once he told me everything he knew, I think Nasim made it easy for them to shoot him. Did you notice the bathroom curtains were wide open? He did that to make an easy target of himself. He thought it was the only thing left for him to do that might let them live—that, and tell me everything. He figured he’d done everything he could to save them.”
Kelly said, “So you think the terrorists were still in control, that they’d convinced him he had to die, one way or the other, if his family was to live? But that leads to the question: How did they find him?”
Sherlock said, “I’m betting the ME will find a small wound hidden somewhere on Nasim’s body, maybe his armpit or inner thigh. He’ll find a low-power chip under the skin, a tracking chip. If I’m right, the terrorists have known where Nasim was every minute since he walked into JFK. With the chip, they could be sure he was walking into the security line and track him if he walked away.”
Cal looked at her like a proud papa. He said to no agent in particular, “She’s really good at this. I’ll b
et you she’s right.”
Giusti said, “Whether you’re right or not, Sherlock, it still means we’ve been had. And not by some group of young men with box cutters or homemade bombs. These guys, whoever they are, who they represent, are stone-cold professionals.”
Giusti’s cell rang. She answered it, then hung up. “The paramedics took our shooter directly to the hospital. He’s going into surgery to remove the bullet from his shoulder.” She paused, pressed speed dial. “Time I spoke with Zachery.” And she walked out the front door.
Sherlock called after her, “When the ME gets here, Kelly, he needs to find and remove the chip and leave it here, otherwise the terrorists would know Nasim’s dead.”
D.C. JAIL
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Friday afternoon
The D.C. Jail was a grim spot in a beautiful landscape, Savich had always thought, at the end of D Street near the Congressional Cemetery, the Potomac at its back. Ten minutes after he’d showed his creds at the gate, he’d gotten permission from Warden Spooner to use the conference room. He was shown to a small utilitarian room with pea-green walls and institutional furniture where Walter Givens and his family had been seated around a large square table. Savich hadn’t wanted to speak to Walter Givens through bulletproof glass, and when he learned Walter’s family was visiting, he’d asked the warden that they all be moved.
Mr. Givens turned when Savich came into the stark room. He waved his arms around him. “I suppose we should thank you for this? Getting my boy out from behind that wall of glass with guards standing behind him?”
Savich introduced himself, showed his creds. “I thought this room would be better so all of us can speak together.”
Mrs. Givens waved her fist at him. “Our lawyer found out you hypnotized Brakey Alcott. So if you’re here to push hypnosis, Walter will not do it. I don’t care if you take us all to the Ritz-Carlton.”
“There’s no need to have Walter hypnotized,” Savich said. He motioned for Mr. Givens to be seated again. He was surprised to see a teenage girl in the room. It had to be Walter’s seventeen-year-old sister, Lisa Ann. He smiled at her.