Hercule let the thought go. He prided himself on his intelligence, and he was smart enough to know his life as Dr. Samir Basara was near its end as well. How long would it be before the imam’s paper trail led them directly back to him? A week? A month? Days?
He saw quicksand seething and surging everywhere ahead of him, knew if he didn’t act, it would suck him under. He had no intention of being tried as a traitor; he couldn’t imagine the humiliation, couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life rotting in prison. There would be no more television appearances for him, no more charismatic lectures at European universities, his views lauded and applauded. He could accept that—indeed, he’d planned for it. But what he couldn’t accept was that all of his meticulous planning, all the options he had weighed so carefully, had left his life falling apart. It enraged him. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, let that happen. The Strategist would have his last final victory, despite everything, and he would see to it himself. Then he would disappear where no one could find him.
He had his escape plan well in hand; he’d been preparing it for fifteen years. He would face what was coming head-on, not bury his head like the imam, who refused to see beyond his own veined nose. Most of his fortune was safely tucked away in Switzerland. He had several passports ready, plenty of cash, and a lovely small villa in Sorrento, Italy, owned by a Swiss corporation, waiting for him. He would at least continue to be the Strategist, even in hiding, as feared as before.
He turned off the television and dialed Lady Elizabeth. She would be expecting him to call to show his concern, at any rate, now that the news about St. Paul’s was everywhere. Perhaps she had seen why Bahar had failed. When she picked up over voice mail, he could hear her breathing, her fear making it fast, choppy. He schooled his voice. “Elizabeth? I saw on television they tried to blow up Saint Paul’s. Please tell me you are all right.”
“Yes, yes, well, now I am. Samir, it’s been a nightmare, unbelievable—” And she told him the ceremony was about to begin when a man ran up the aisle, waving a badge and ordering them out. “He said a man had been placing explosives inside the cathedral and we were all to leave as quickly as possible. Now they’ve brought me back inside one of the cathedral anterooms. An MI5 agent said he needed to speak with me, that it was urgent, and I was to wait. Before I could ask him why me in particular, he rushed off. Why would MI5 want to speak to me, Samir? I mean, what could I possibly know about any of this?”
He’d stopped listening, punched off his phone. Why indeed? They knew he was seeing Lady Elizabeth Palmer. But how was that possible? Mifsud—he must have known about Lady Elizabeth. Had the imam boasted of her in his hearing? But why had Mifsud betrayed him in that way? It didn’t matter any longer. He had, it was done. He knew then he had no time left to prepare his leaving. It was time to disappear.
Dr. Samir Basara didn’t pack a bag, only took time enough to empty his safe before he closed the door to his penthouse on Wyverly Place and walked to the private garage off Bond Street to fetch the nondescript beige Fiat he kept there under the name of a man who didn’t exist.
ALCOTT COMPOUND
PLACKETT, VIRGINIA
Late Monday morning
Savich’s Porsche purred to a stop directly in front of the Alcott main house. He sat a moment, marveling at the peaceful setting, the three houses set in the middle of nature, vibrant and green, the scents of grass and flowers everywhere. Hard to believe a monster lived in that house.
There was no sign of the Alcotts, but Savich knew they were inside, waiting for them. He’d called earlier, made it an order that they would meet while the children were still in school. He wondered what they were saying to one another, what they were thinking. One thing for sure, they had no idea what he had planned for them.
He turned to Griffin. “You ready?”
“Oh, yes. Let’s do it.”
They’d stepped onto the porch when the ornate front door opened and Deliah Alcott appeared. She was wearing her usual, a long flowing skirt and sandals on her long, narrow feet, a white blouse tucked into the skirt. She wore no makeup, and today she looked pale. Was she afraid? He hoped so.
She looked from him to Griffin, stepped back. “Everyone made the effort to be here, as you ordered. I don’t know what you expect to accomplish by disrupting our lives again.”
They stepped into a living room filled with Alcotts. Brakey stood in his favorite post near the fireplace, his head cocked to one side, looking at them with—was it hope?
Jonah was standing by the window, no doubt watching them as they drove up. He followed their every move, wary about what kind of ax would fall, but certain it would fall.
Liggert looked at them with frank loathing, his stance aggressive, and Savich couldn’t see a spark of fear in his eyes, only the threat of violence, barely leashed.
Savich turned at the sound of the clack-clack of knitting needles, loud in the stark silence. Ms. Louisa appeared to be humming softly as she knitted what looked like the same scarf Savich had seen when he’d first met her, paying them no attention. She clamped her false teeth together when she dropped a stitch and frowned over at them. “Our honored lawmen are here to protect us? Or are you two here to string someone up by his heels? Believe me, they’ve all been jabbering on about it. As for Morgana, I think she’s afraid to know. I don’t suppose you’ve found out who made our poor Brakey stick that Athame into Deputy Lewis’s chest?”
Brakey took in those words and looked like he was ready to faint.
Savich looked at each of them again. It was a face-off, all of them standing stiff and silent, looking back at him and Griffin. He said, “We’ve asked you here today because we know why Stefan Dalco wanted Sparky Carroll murdered and in such a spectacular way. Some of you already know Sparky’s murder was revenge because Sparky struck and killed Arthur Alcott six months ago.”
Brakey blinked, started forward. “Sparky killed Dad? But that’s crazy, Agent Savich! Sparky knew my dad all his life, spent lots of time here. Dad played football with him. He really liked my dad.”
Savich nodded. “He didn’t mean to, Brakey, it was an accident. He struck your father and then he didn’t know what to do. Like you, Brakey, Sparky panicked. He drove away, too afraid to say anything. Except to his father.”
He studied each of their faces. “Then Sparky made a bad decision. He went to see his lifelong friend Walter Givens to fix the dented bumper on his Mustang and Walter put it together and called Deputy Lewis.” He paused, nodded to Griffin.
Griffin said, “Everyone in Plackett knew Deputy Lewis liked to drink. One of his best friends was Milt Carroll, Sparky’s dad. After Walter told Deputy Lewis about the damage to Sparky’s prized Mustang, we believe Milt Carroll begged Deputy Lewis to protect his boy. It was an accident, after all— Mr. Alcott had wandered into the road. Sparky couldn’t avoid hitting him. It wouldn’t be justice to ruin his son’s life because of an accident. So Deputy Lewis became complicit in Mr. Alcott’s death.”
Liggert said, “It wasn’t like that! The little sod was drunk and he was driving and he hit my dad!”
Savich said, “We’ll never know now one way or the other since Sparky’s dead. In any case, Deputy Lewis buried the information Walter Givens gave him about the dent in Sparky’s Mustang. He called Walter back, told him to forget about it, that it wasn’t Sparky.
“Then you, Liggert, noticed that the paint job on Sparky Carroll’s Mustang didn’t quite match and you wondered. You went to Walter’s shop and asked him about it. An innocent question, and so Walter told you about the dent in Sparky’s Mustang and how you had had such a hard time trying to match it. Walter didn’t realize he was painting a target on himself, as well as on Sparky.
“You were furious, weren’t you, Liggert? You wanted to see your father’s death avenged.”
Liggert yelled, “The little bastard murdered my father! He left him to die! Ye
s, I could have killed him for that. He deserved what he got.”
“But you didn’t want to get caught for it, did you, Liggert? You’re fast with your fists, everyone in Plackett sees your wife’s bruises, everyone knows you smack her around. I imagine you wanted to beat Sparky to death in the middle of Plackett, watch him die, and walk away, like he did to your dad.”
Liggert was breathing hard, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You can imagine what you want. You have no proof I was involved in any way. Why don’t both of you leave, before—”
“Before you what, Liggert? You want to try to throw us out?” Savich flicked his fingers toward Liggert in invitation.
Liggert took a step toward Savich, his face a picture of rage, his hands fisted so tightly his knuckles bulged. Deliah yelled, “Liggert! You stop now!”
He wanted to fight, to pound them into the ground, but his mother’s voice reined him in. He flicked her an uncertain look. So Deliah still exercised some control over her son. Savich wished she’d kept her mouth shut. But at least he might get Liggert to keep talking.
Ms. Louisa sang out, “Let the boys have some fun, Morgana. Why not? What’s a little blood on the floor?”
Deliah turned on her. “Be quiet, you old witch!”
Savich never turned his eyes away from Liggert. He said, “Liggert, did you make Walter murder Sparky in front of all those people?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Liggert said. “It was Walter who killed Sparky. I was here in Plackett. I have witnesses. And that little murderer Sparky deserved it, but I had nothing to do with it. How could I?”
Savich ignored Liggert, said to Deliah Alcott, “You know who Dalco is, Mrs. Alcott. I imagine you’re furious that Dalco made Brakey a murderer. I think you’re not saying anything because you’re terrified of what else Dalco might do. To you, to your sons, your grandchildren, to your life.”
Deliah stood in the middle of the living room, looking utterly disconnected from all of them, utterly alone. She shook her head.
“Liggert is your son, but you know he can be vicious, ungoverned. He beats his wife. He beats his children. Does he have the power to frighten someone into doing whatever he wants? Is Liggert Dalco, Mrs. Alcott? Has he threatened to kill you if you say anything? Threatened to kill Brakey or Jonah? Perhaps even his wife, his children?”
That got her. Deliah yelled, “That is ridiculous! Liggert has a bit of a temper, that’s all. He rarely hits his wife—”
Brakey said, “I saw him hit Marly, Mom. He smacked her so hard he knocked her out of her shoes.”
“All right, I know, I know. Liggert, you promised me you’d stopped. You don’t hit your children, do you?”
Liggert said nothing.
Deliah looked devastated.
Griffin said, “Walter Givens said he did. He said he had to stop Liggert from beating his little boy in public.” He turned to Liggert. “Is that why you sent Walter to murder Sparky Carroll? He’d be labeled a murderer? And you’d have your revenge?
“And then we came along and were getting too close. You wanted us out of the way. Why did you pick Charlie Marker to ambush us in McCutty’s woods? What did he do to you? Or was he just handy? And you knew he could get ahold of his dad’s gun. Come on, Liggert, aren’t you man enough to own up to that?” Savich could see the pulse in Liggert’s neck pumping from eight feet away.
Jonah took a step toward Griffin. “Stop it. You’re wrong, both of you. This Dalco character you say forced Walter Givens and Brakey to kill people, forced Charlie to come after you two—it can’t be Liggert. He has no ability to convince anyone to do anything at all. That’s why he’s so pissed off all the time. He hits his wife because he can, because she puts up with it and won’t listen to me when I tell her she should leave him. She only shrugs and waits for him to smack her again.” Jonah looked at his brother and continued, disgust thick in his voice. “Liggert’s common. He’s a good old boy with more rage than brains. I didn’t know he’d fallen so low to hit his kids. You actually hit little Teddy? That sweet little boy? You hit him again, Liggert, and I swear to you I’ll call the sheriff. You hear me? He’ll toss your ass in jail, and you’ll pay for that. Imagine the shame you’ll bring on the family then. Liggert Alcott beats his kids.”
They were getting off the tracks, though Savich was pleased Jonah was taking a stand. He hoped Jonah would follow through. In his experience, someone like Liggert would never stop hurting those weaker than him. Savich said, “Is it you, then, Jonah who has the ability to control what a person does? Do you have more luck with young men? You find they’re more malleable, easier to control? Did you avenge your father’s death by manipulating Walter and Brakey and Charles to do it for you? Your own brother? Are you that cowardly?”
Savich was surprised when Jonah laughed. “Nah, I’m not Dalco. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my dad, his death hit me hard, hit all of us hard, made me really mad, but the thing is I’ve known Sparky Carroll his whole life, watched him learn how to make meatballs from his dad. Sparky was always a nice little wuss who wouldn’t squash a bug on his nose. He was sweet, you know? It’s really sad if he did hit my dad. I can see him standing there, frozen, not knowing what to do. I can see him going to his own dad. He wouldn’t have gone to Tammy, she’s sweeter than he was.”
Jonah looked at them, shook his head. “It isn’t me who’s this wild-haired Dalco. It certainly isn’t Brakey. I mean, Brakey’s such a good criminal, he put Deputy Lewis’s body into his own truck in his own OTR. And Liggert?” He turned to his brother. “Have you learned some things I don’t know about, Ligg? Have you been dancing around a fire in McCutty’s woods, learning spells? Come on, Liggert, out with it. You saw the mismatched paint on Sparky’s fender and that turned you into a mad psychic?”
There was cold pounding hard silence. Liggert was looking at his brother like he wanted to cut his brain out. He shook himself, sucked in a deep breath, and turned back to Savich and Griffin. “You two clowns done here?”
Savich said, “I haven’t said the most important thing I came to tell you all. Dalco tried to kill me last Thursday night. He tried to terrify me in my sleep, as he did to Brakey, and Walter Givens, and that boy Charles Marker, just as he’s trying to terrify some of you. He tried, but he failed. I was stronger than that madman. I took him to my own ground, and I scared the crap out of him. He hasn’t come again because he’s afraid of me. He knows I’ll kill him.
“He’s so afraid of me he didn’t come after me in McCutty’s woods. No, he sent a boy, Charles Marker, with his father’s gun to ambush us. He’s a coward, not man enough to come at me head-on again. Worse, look what he did to Brakey.
“Deliah, you’ve got to give him up. I can protect you. If you don’t, Walter Givens will spend the rest of his life in jail. Brakey will be indicted. Every shred of evidence points to him, and the federal prosecutor will even have motive, revenge for the cover-up of his father’s murder. Aren’t you more afraid of that than what Dalco might try next?”
Deliah Alcott didn’t move. Slowly, she shook her head.
Ms. Louisa cackled, raised her arthritic hands, and waved a finger at Savich. “You waltz in here, boy, and you make your threats and try to get poor Liggert to lose his temper, and what have you accomplished? Nothing. Who is this Dalco? What is he? You claim he’s tried to kill you. You know what I think? I don’t think he even exists.”
The old lady looked at each member of her family. “All I know for certain is that Morgana isn’t Dalco. She isn’t strong enough. Even if she were, can you imagine her making her precious Brakey into a murderer?” She picked up her knitting needles, dismissing them all, and lowered her head to the interminable scarf that looked like it had grown another foot.
Savich looked from Brakey, who was standing behind Ms. Louisa’s wheelchair, to Jonah, leaning against the windowsill next to an oversized pentagram, to Liggert.
Savich smiled at him. “Are you Dalco, Liggert? Will you come to me again when I’m sleeping and try to kill me? Do you think you can?”
Griffin watched everyone’s faces as Savich goaded Liggert. Their expressions didn’t give anything away, but he smelled fear, ripe and dark, and a deep, smoldering rage that heated the very air. From Liggert? Probably.
“You don’t want to wait until I’m asleep, do you, Liggert? You want to have a try at me right now, but not here in your mom’s living room. You want to come outside? I’m not weak and small like your wife or your kids. I can fight back.
Liggert roared and lunged at Savich. His mother yelled.
Savich kicked out, no muss, no fuss, got Liggert square in the belly, sent him flying backward to fetch up against a table leg, gasping for breath.
Deliah ran to stand between them. “That’s enough, Agent Savich. Leave my house, and don’t come back without a warrant. Liggert is not Dalco!”
Savich said, “Dalco should know it’s over now. He should give himself up, for Brakey’s sake, or he should come try to get me. Those are his choices, and yours.”
He said nothing more. He and Griffin turned and left the Alcotts in their living room.
26 FEDERAL PLAZA
NEW YORK CITY
Tuesday morning
The speaker was blasting out John Eiserly’s voice when Special Agent in Charge Milo Zachery walked into the conference room that smelled of old bitter coffee and overripe pizza, but the agents focused on the MI5 agent’s voice didn’t seem to mind.
John was saying, “Kelly, as you know, we obtained a warrant to search Samir Basara’s flat—excuse me, the penthouse—on Wyverly Place within minutes after you called yesterday. He was gone, which means he was already prepared to make a fast getaway. The safe was open, and empty, probably missing his private papers, money, and another passport. He may have several passports, we don’t know, but he’ll have trouble accessing any accounts in his own name in England at least. We’re working on freezing any accounts he may have in Switzerland. Naturally he could have accounts in other names, in other places. Our forensic people are neck-deep finding that out. We’ve mobilized all our resources, alerted ports, airports, private airstrips. Still, it will be difficult to catch him if he’s intent on leaving England. He’s obviously spent a long time thinking it all through.”