He’d been based in London for seven years now, and each year he’d learned from his mistakes. Some had cost lives and, more important, cost him money. He had won the right to choose the targets the imam funded, putting Hercule in command of dozens of jihadists. He agreed with some of their grievances, but he saw them as misguided thugs who did as he asked for very little money. What better cover could he ask for than mindless acts of terrorism when there was an opportunity for profit?
It had been years since Hercule had allowed the imam to help plan an operation, but this time, against his better judgment, he had. Nasim Conklin had been a big mistake. Hercule wouldn’t have used that kind of leverage. It was too uncertain, too unpredictable. You could always count on a true believer, but using a man’s family as a sword over his head was taking too big a risk. The imam had been certain Nasim would make the perfect tool. He would give up his life for his family, the imam was certain. He had refused to approve Bella without his being used, and Hercule needed the imam’s backing for this project. The stakes were too high. But there was more, Hercule knew it simply because he knew the imam so well, knew he hadn’t told him his real reason for wanting Nasim Conklin to give up his life at JFK.
He got up to ease his frustration. He cracked his neck and stretched as he walked to the wide suite windows that looked toward the Charles River. He couldn’t actually see the water, not in the middle of the night, but knowing it was there was somehow satisfying. The endless flow, the gentle lash of waves against the docks, the water lipping the sloping grassy shoreline: it was like watching the Thames from his apartment window in London. It helped him think.
Hercule turned away from the window. He was tired but knew he couldn’t sleep yet. It was time to meet the failures of the past few days head-on, to look at every step taken, every decision, and why each had failed. He had to salvage what he could of his meticulous plan, his brilliant project, Bella, named after a particularly inventive lover he’d enjoyed for several months in the South of France.
He’d even come to the States to oversee the details directly, his cover a lecture at Boston University, and that had gone well. But Bella’s kickoff? It had dived headfirst into the crapper.
It was his thirty-seventh birthday and everything was cocked up.
Letting Al-Hädi ibn Mirza talk him into using Nasim Conklin to provide the grenade blast at JFK as a diversion was the obvious first mistake. Nasim had screwed up royally, was taken down by an FBI agent in the security line—a woman, of all things. It was a completely avoidable blunder, but not in itself fatal to his plan. It had worked as a diversion, in any case.
Then the wretched bad luck of the altar boy finding the bomb in the utility closet at St. Patrick’s, the priest hurling the bomb out onto Fifth Avenue. No one had been killed, not a single stone ripped from St. Patrick’s belly or even its newly shined-up façade. And worst of all, the vice president was still alive and well, a surviving hero. He would have to devise a new plan to remove him from this earth.
Two failures. The imam had consoled him that it was bad luck all around, but Hercule knew to his gut it wasn’t bad luck at JFK. Out of respect, Hercule hadn’t pointed out the obvious to the imam, that Nasim had been the imam’s mistake. It was on Hercule’s head nevertheless, because he hadn’t said no. The imam would never make him go against his better judgment again.
As for St. Patrick’s, yes, he would accept that every plan had risks, a small chance of failure, even if it was planned perfectly. But today in France, they wouldn’t be so lucky.
He sat back down on the sofa, leaned his head against the soft cushion, and closed his eyes. He didn’t even know for certain whether that idiot Nasim was dead, whether that irritating thread had been nipped.
He’d sent Jamil Nazari, his best sniper, a longtime friend in Algeria, to kill him. The GPS chip in Nasim’s armpit would guide him, and Hercule had his family under his control. He surely expected Jamil to succeed, dangerous as it was for him. When Jamil called him on his business phone to tell him the FBI woman from the airport was there with Nasim at the safe house, Hercule happily gave the order to take her out as well. Surely the FBI hadn’t gotten their hands on that burner phone—Jamil was always too careful for that.
Hercule had considered what would happen if Jamil failed to kill Nasim—he always considered everything. He’d had Jamil followed to Colby, New York, with instructions for the follower to keep out of Jamil’s sight, keep watch, and keep Hercule informed of everything as it happened. So he knew Jamil had been shot, knew he was out of surgery and expected to live in that Podunk hospital on Long Island. Hercule mourned losing Jamil even though he wasn’t dead. He would be imprisoned forever, perhaps executed, and there was little chance of freeing him. He wasn’t worried about Jamil talking—he was a true believer, not hired muscle. Hercule knew Jamil would never talk, not even if the FBI poured a truth serum down his throat.
What he didn’t know for certain was whether Nasim was still alive, whether Jamil had succeeded in killing him. Nasim hadn’t been removed from the safe house, not dead, not walking, in the several hours after the shooting, the GPS chip out of power or disabled. The FBI had made no announcement of any kind. Were they playing with him, hoping he would spare Nasim’s family until he knew for certain? Even if Nasim had talked before Jamil shot at him, it didn’t matter much, because he didn’t know about the whole, only his tiny part. He could tell him he’d met with the imam, but without proof, the old man was probably safe. Nasim knew nothing about Hercule, nothing about the Strategist. He really should stop worrying; Jamil had very likely killed Nasim.
There was a knock on the suite door. It was room service with fish and chips, his favorite, served up at the crack of dawn for his breakfast, served elegantly and without any smart comments. He would put everything right, back on track. He would give the FBI no more than a day to make an announcement about Nasim. If they didn’t, he would eliminate Nasim’s family and put the whole business behind him. It was too dangerous to let them live. Bella had more surprises than they knew of yet.
And there was France. He should find out very soon now.
As he chewed on a french fry dipped in mayonnaise, he wished himself a happy birthday and thought again of that redheaded female FBI agent who was there when they’d taken Jamil. She would be the woman who beat him twice. How would it look to let a woman do that to the Strategist? What could he accomplish if the primitive men who worked for him lost their fear of him, their respect? He decided to kill her—in public, if possible—with lots of smartphone videos running. It would be seen as an outrage, she’d be a martyr for some, but his own people would know the Strategist had the last word.
His cell rang. It was Bahar, calling from France. He listened and then hung up.
And smiled.
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Saturday afternoon
Savich pulled into the driveway of an older one-story, red-brick house that looked settled in and comfortable, sitting in the middle of its large front yard. Flower beds filled with pansies and marigolds lined the front of the house and mature oaks hovered around its perimeter, their leaves rustling in the stiff breeze. As he walked the long flagstone path to the front door he smelled the sweet aroma of freshly mowed grass. He was glad to see a small white Miata in the driveway. Tammy Carroll’s mother, Mrs. Stacy, was at home.
When he rang the doorbell, he was surprised to hear it play a similar chant to the Alcotts’. He heard hurrying light footsteps inside, and when the door opened, he looked into what Tammy Carroll’s face would become in twenty-five years. Mrs. Stacy was a beautiful woman, like her daughter, but there was character in her face, that only years could have given her. He saw grief there, too, saw it in her eyes. Like her daughter, she was suffering after the death of her son-in-law.
“Mrs. Stacy? I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI.” He handed her his creds.
“I know w
ho you are, Agent Savich. Tammy called me right after you and Agent Sherlock left.” Mrs. Stacy gave him a small smile. “Agent Sherlock made quite an impression on my daughter, not because of her heroics at JFK, but because of her beautiful red hair.” A smile that he imagined curved up her mouth most of her life quickly fell off her face. She said in a flat voice, “This is about Sparky.”
“Yes,” Savich said. “May I speak with you, Mrs. Stacy?”
She stepped back and motioned for him to enter. “This way, Agent Savich.”
He followed her down a long hallway, past a formal living room on the right with heavy oak furnishings, an old-fashioned kitchen, and a half-bath painted pink, to a closed door at the back of the house.
“This is my own personal room,” she said, and opened the door. “Come in.”
Savich walked into a Wiccan’s fantasy. The room wasn’t large, but still it felt light, airy, and spacious. It was painted white, and had a white sofa and chair, white curtains on the windows. An entire wall was covered with white built-in bookshelves with bottles of herbs lined up on one shelf, each jar meticulously labeled. There were dozens of books whose titles he skimmed, from Dreaming the Dark: Magic, Sex, and Politics to The Spiral Dance to Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner. There were dried flowers in several vases sharing space with seashells and pearls and bowls of crystals. He saw a line of small, oddly shaped dolls on a long windowsill.
Mrs. Stacy said from behind him, “We call them poppets. They’re tools to aid in working magic.”
“How?”
“I can’t do justice to that with you quickly, Agent Savich, but I will say that poppets help achieve what you wish for, and are an integral part of some of our rituals.”
He didn’t understand, but nodded.
She smiled at him. “They aren’t voodoo dolls, there’s no evil intent. I will use them soon at Litha—our celebration of the summer solstice.” She raised her chin, as if daring him to mock her. “And I will set the powers within myself and the powers of the gods we summon to discover why Walter Givens murdered poor Sparky.” She shook her head, shrugged. “I doubt it will succeed, but I will have to try if you haven’t found out the truth by then.
“I’ve heard Walter has no memory of killing Sparky, no memory of why he did it in such a public place. If this is true”—she raised raised her eyes to his face—“it’s quite terrifying.”
“Yes,” Savich said, “it is.” He pointed to a collection of small square cloth bags piled in a basket on the floor beside the sofa.
“Those are plackets.” She fell to her knees and picked one up. “Yes, I know, it sounds like the name of our town, but it’s a coincidence. I’ve already prepared a placket with Walter Givens’s name on it. I will use that placket as well to help me.” She gently set the placket back in the basket and rose. “Please, sit down, Agent Savich, and tell me how I can help you.” She pointed to the white sofa. She sat in the single white chair facing him, placed her small hands on her jeans-covered legs.
“Tell me how Tammy is doing.”
“She’s a wreck, as you would expect. She’d been married four months and her husband didn’t simply die, which would have been horrible enough, he was viciously murdered. In public. She refuses to come back home, though. She wants to stay where she lived with Sparky.” Mrs. Stacy fell silent.
“Did Mrs. Deliah Abbott give you an Athame collection that belonged to her husband?”
“Why, yes, she did.” She rose and walked to a glass cabinet, opened it, and lifted out a beautifully carved wooden case. She brought it back to the sofa and opened it. Savich looked at a dozen Athames, some similar to the Dual Dragon, others also with incredible carved figured handles.
“It was soon after Mr. Alcott died—well, Arthur was killed, too, wasn’t he?” She sighed. “Deliah gave them to me about three months after he died, said he would have wanted me to have them.”
“Do you know if there were any Athames missing from the collection when Mrs. Alcott gave it to you?”
She wasn’t stupid. She swallowed. “You mean you believe Walter may have used one of Mr. Alcott’s Athames to kill Sparky?”
He nodded.
“If it was one of Mr. Alcott’s Athames, it wasn’t in this collection. It’s possible Deliah kept some of the Athames. I don’t know. She never said and I never asked.”
“Do you and Mrs. Alcott practice Wicca together, or in a group, to celebrate ceremonies like this Litha coming up?”
“No. Not for many years. I’ve become what Wiccans call a solitary practitioner.” She nodded toward a book on the shelf. “I imagine Deliah still shares the circle with her own family.”
“But she thought enough of you to give you Mr. Alcott’s collection.”
“Yes. Arthur Alcott and I got along very well. I thought he was a gentleman, a kind man. My husband liked him, too, trusted him. He was never mean about money like some folks get when they’re lucky enough to come into a windfall like the Alcotts did. No, Arthur always was down-to-earth and generous with what he had. I guess you could say my husband and I both loved him.” She sighed again. “We considered poor Sparky’s father a friend to us, too, until he started drinking so much. I don’t remember Arthur ever drinking alcohol at all.”
“I understand Sparky’s father, Milt Carroll, owned the catering company that Sparky inherited?”
“Yes. Eat Well and Prosper—rather silly, but both Milt and Sparky liked it. Now, Milt was a big drinker.”
“I understand Deputy Lewis was quite a drinker as well? Did they often drink together?”
She nodded. “Kane was an alcoholic; why, I don’t know. He and Milt became drinking buddies, you could say. No one minded enough to get Kane in trouble for it. He never drank on the job, and most everyone liked him.” She looked toward the small wood-burning stove in the far corner of the room. She raised her eyes to his face. “They’re both dead, too. Like Sparky. Agent Savich, what is happening here in Plackett?”
MAPLE LEAF INN
COLBY, LONG ISLAND
Saturday, noon
Everyone’s eyes were on the large TV on the wall behind the counter in the main dining room, where the news was reporting at the scene of the horrific TBV train wreck hours before, thirty miles north of Lyons, France. A massive explosion had ripped through five first-class cars and derailed them, hurling flaming debris over a mile of countryside, some of it still burning and smoking. As the camera panned over some of the wreckage, a reporter was saying what incalculable loss of life and property might have resulted if a bomb that size had exploded under the train in a town or city. So far forty-eight people were confirmed dead, more than a hundred injured. The count would continue to rise.
Pip Erwin raised his head from his bowl of vegetable soup, pointed his spoon at the TV. “I’m waiting for someone from the French government to even acknowledge that carnage was another terrorist attack. They’ll have to, eventually. I’d be willing to bet the rest of my minestrone it’s the same people who attacked us, that it was part of their Bella project. Not a cathedral this time, but certainly a national treasure, the famous French high-speed train. They were so proud of having built the fastest train in the world for the past thirty-five years.”
Cal said, “They said the train was traveling at three hundred kilometers an hour, not anywhere near as fast as the TGV can travel—but that’s a hundred and eighty miles per hour, fast enough to make that bomb a thousand times more effective. Can you imagine sitting in one of the last cars on that train and watching the front of it get blown off the track at that speed?”
Kelly’s BLT and the lovely pile of french fries cozied up to it lay untouched on her plate. On even a mildly bad day, she still loved her french fries, but not today, not watching the horror unfold in France. She agreed with Pip, knew everyone else at the table did, too. It was terrifying. “Maybe someone in the group wi
ll take credit? Maybe this Strategist? We still have no idea who they are.”
Cal’s eyes were glued to the TV screen. “A couple years ago I rode on one of those from Paris to Geneva. Train à Grande Vitesse, they call it. They’re amazing, some can travel up to nearly half the speed of sound. I remember we were hardly out of the station when the train was passing cars on the highway. It was better to be sitting as it picked up speed, one hundred kilometers before it even left the station, I heard. The French who rode the train already knew that, so only a couple tourists ended up getting slung into someone’s lap.
“What was amazing to me was you couldn’t tell you were moving that fast because the ride was smooth, and it was quiet, until you looked out the window and saw the world going backward. Eat your lunch, Kelly.”
She picked up half of her BLT, studied it, set it back down. “Terrorist groups want to take credit. It brings them credibility, more support. I can understand not hearing from anyone after they failed to blow up Saint Pat’s, but this”—she waved a hand toward the TV—“vicious act was a massive success.”
Sherlock was listening to a reporter interviewing a bystander who’d witnessed the explosion, and a passenger traveling second-class who’d survived it. An English newscaster interrupted him. “A French government spokesman has confirmed that French economic minister Marcel Dubroc was aboard the train and is presumed dead. President Dumas is expected to arrive at the scene shortly and to make a statement.”
Cal said, “Dubroc had to be in first class, where all the cars were blown off the tracks. I wonder if that was by design or accident?”