intellectuals. Your parents emigrated to the United States in 1933. Your father was a journalist a clever man with words, educated for a time at Oxford, comfortable in English as well as German. Your mother was the daughter of a wealthy German porcelain manufacturer who lost most of his money after World War One. She was raised, regardless, in an atmosphere of privilege.
“We both know that your father was a Jew who renounced his faith and pretended to adopt your mother's beliefs. He even changed his name from Friedman to Freeman once he got to the United States. But that sort of posturing would never have saved his life, Mrs. Payne, or even your mothers. Had your parents remained in Berlin in 1933, you would not have been born.”
“You're out of your mind.” Whatever Sophie had expected from Krucevic threats, intimidation, even physical harm it had not been this. “My parents were Lutherans. They had friends who died in the Resistance. For years they struggled with guilt thinking they should have stayed in Germany and fought Hitler to the end.”
“That may be what they told you,” Krucevic retorted, “but they lied. Your father was a Jew. His people died in Bergen-Belsen and he did absolutely nothing to save them. I have seen the records, Mrs. Payne.”
“Bullshit,” Sophie spat out.
Krucevic thrust his face mere inches from her own. There was a new malevolence in his eyes, naked pleasure at her subjugation.
“Let's just call that your first mistake.”
He began to pace again.
“After four years at Radcliffe, you did the expected thing: You married a graduate of Harvard Business School, one Curtis Payne, the son of an old Philadelphia family, what your people call “Main Line.” How amusing it must have been to trip down the aisle in Episcopal splendor, a mongrel brat! And when poor Curtis died of cancer during his first term in Congress, you took over his seat and parlayed it into a term in the Senate.” He ticked off the points on his fingertips. “You have never remarried. You have a son named Peter at Yale. How have you managed it so long, Mrs. Payne — suppressing the truth of your past?”
“I suppressed nothing,” Sophie said.
“Liar!”
“It's the tendency of the madman to see his obsession wherever he looks, Krucevic. You know nothing about me.”
He threw back his head and laughed.
“Really! Then what if I tell you your shoe size is 7AA? Your preference in takeout, Thai soft-shell crabs — from a restaurant on Dupont Circle? That you mismanage your money and are chronically late in paying your credit card bills, that you've gone through three lovers in the past eighteen months? I know their names and the ways they made love to you. I know which were sincere and which were interested in fame. I know that one — the Republican senator — wanted to marry you. You declined gently, in part because of politics, and in part from consideration for the feelings of the senator's wife. I should imagine your heart is not easily touched, Mrs. Payne, however available the rest of you.”
He stared pointedly at her spread knees. The stripping sense of exposure. She stared back, hating him.
“There is nothing to tracking a woman like you,” he said softly, “a woman who lives in the public eye. My watchers were simply lost in the crowd. But even in your shower at the Naval Observatory, Mrs. Payne, you were never truly alone.”
A frisson of fear, like a spider crossing her neck.
“So you chose me to kidnap,” Sophie said briskly, as though some sort of deal had been struck. “You spent the money and the time. I suppose this is about revenge for the NATO air strikes against Belgrade. Am I right?”
But Krucevic was staring at his watch; he had already dismissed her.
“Otto — bring in the boy. It's time for his shot.”
One of the silent men — bald, muscular — disappeared through a door behind Sophie.
So he was not Michael, either. That left two possibilities: the curly-haired weasel with the nervous face, or the lean blond with the day-old growth of beard. The latter had kept his eyes trained upon her through most of the interview, and curiously, his watchful stillness had given her strength. He was Michael, she was sure of it. She smiled faintly at him; his gaze shifted to Krucevic.
The door behind Sophie opened again. A child's voice, sharp and high-pitched with fear.
“Please, Papa! Not the needle! I promise I'll be good I promise” Sophie craned her neck around and saw them: the powerful bodyguard, and the boy rigid with apprehension. Unruly dark hair fell like a protective screen over his wide gray eyes; from the frailness of his body, Sophie thought he might be about ten. He had called Krucevic his father, and now the man was reaching for a syringe.
Involuntarily, Sophie strained against her bonds.
“Now, Jozsef we talked about this before,” Krucevic said soothingly. With one hand he stroked the boy's pale cheek; the other held the hypodermic.
“For the good of the cause, remember? You want to make me proud. The thigh, Otto, I think.”
In one deft movement, Otto thrust the boy face downward on the floor and pinned him there. Krucevic sank the needle into the flesh of his son's leg.
Jozsef cried out.
“You bastard,” Sophie hissed. “What have you done to him?”
Krucevic twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled her face close to his own.
“Nothing I wouldn't do to you, Mrs. Payne. Given time.”
Ten
Washington, 2:31 p.m
Jack Bigelow's cowboy-booted feet were propped on his broad mahogany desk. Like many men who had come late in life to Texas, he made a point of embracing its eccentricities. But then, Texas had given him the presidency.
“I've got the director of our Federal Bureau of Investigation here, Fritz,” he said, “and a few other folks who'd like to hear what you have to say. So I'm going to put you on the speakerphone. That okay with you?”
“Of course, Jack.” The German chancellors voice sounded remote and disembodied.
Dare Atwood immediately discounted anything the man might say. Someone comfortable with an audience of unknowns, in a room he couldn't see, was hardly planning to bare his soul.
“I have to tell you, Fritz, I'm just sorrier'n I can spit about the mess you've got over there in Berlin,” Bigelow drawled.
“A tragedy,” Voekl replied, “for both Berlin and the German nation. It is our Oklahoma City.” He spoke English too carefully, caressing each syllable before releasing it with regret.
“Any word of Vice President Payne?” Bigelow asked.
“Jack, I regret to tell you that I have no news to offer. None of the hospitals in Berlin has admitted Mrs. Payne as a patient, and the medical helicopter itself has not yet been located. We are doing everything in our power, of course.”
“Sure you are.” Bigelow's shrewd eyes, utterly devoid of their usual warmth, slid over to Dare.
“And you're still goin' with the notion of these Turks, Fritz? As the responsible parties, I mean?”
“Every indication at the bomb site would lead me to believe that the Turks are responsible, yes. We are confident of an arrest very soon.”
“Once our FBI boys get over there excuse me, boys and girls, Fritz, don't want to be sexist if I can help it maybe we'll get a better handle on what's goin' on. We're sendin' out a team tonight, should be there by dawn tomorrow.”
“That is excellent news, Jack.” Voekl said it woodenly.
“You must know, however, that we are very well equipped to manage the crisis. We have been expecting some reprisal from the Turks for some time. They are unhappy with the stringency of our program of repatriation.”
