primitive arrangement, easily neutralized in about a minute and a half. The cheap hollow-core wooden door behind it took less than half that time, but it was still an anxious interlude, kneeling in front of the handle with a tension wrench and half diamond and hook pick, obviously up to no good.
She was glad to get through the locks and, after gently unlatching the front door, into the apartment. A short, darkened entry hall lay in front of her, with a doorway into a laundry and bathroom to her immediate left. She could smell detergent and the warm, almost comforting odor of tumble-dried clothes in there. Caitlin took a good two minutes to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. She had rejected the idea of using goggles for fear of being blinded should Fabia suddenly flick on a light.
It did not take long to begin picking shapes and objects out of the charcoal gray dimness. A pair of windows in a lounge room directly in front of her appeared to open onto an internal courtyard. She unholstered one of the machine pistols and fitted the long rubberized tube of the specially designed Reflex Suppressor. With the stock unfolded and resting against her armpit, she felt confident enough to move into the main area of the flat.
A small kitchen sat to the left, just beyond the laundry and looking out over a tiny open-plan living area. There were no more doors on that side and only one to the right. The bedroom. The assassin moved slowly, not even pushing dust motes in front of her. She controlled her breathing and allowed her senses to flow outward in a meditative technique she had learned while studying aikido in Japan. Rather than focusing attention down to a single point and letting the world fall away, she threw open the doors of all her senses and allowed everything to rush in. She could smell the meal Fabia had cooked for herself hours ago. Taste the spices at the back of her mouth. Hear a clock ticking and a woman breathing. Feel the thin, threadbare carpet beneath the soles of her boots. See all the depressing details of the flat's spartan furnishings and the slight phosphorescent glow of a small TV screen on a sideboard crowded with photo frames. She knew that if she took the time to inspect those photographs, she would almost certainly find in some of them, smiling and innocent, the younger face of the man who had raped her back in Noisy-le-Sec.
She ghosted forward.
One hand reached out for the door, and she carefully pushed it open, ready to shoot if necessary. Instantly she was struck by the scent of Baumer's mother. Cold cream. A harsh perfume. Soap. And perhaps an apple-scented shampoo. The woman's breathing did not falter. She snored slightly and ground her teeth together, but Caitlin could tell that she was truly asleep.
She swept the muzzle of the suppressor across the room, but there was nowhere for anybody to hide. Fabia had no room for walk-in cupboards or closets, and just a few outfits hung from a wooden clothes rack pushed up against one wall.
They were alone.
Caitlin shouldered the machine pistol and took a small one-use syringe from her jacket.
She uncapped the business end, flicked the chamber to force any air bubbles up, and squeezed off a small stream of liquid to clear them completely. She carefully crossed the floor to crouch by the bed and without preamble slid the syringe into the woman's neck, pressing down on the plunger. Fabia snorted and moaned slightly. She rolled away from Caitlin, forcing her to follow while she administered the last of the shot.
When she could depress the plunger no farther, she withdrew the needle and waited, more than a little relieved that Baumer's mother had not woken up. With a few minutes to wait before the drug took hold completely, she withdrew from the room and checked the rest of the apartment again, spending some time with her ear to the front door, listening to the corridor outside.
Nothing.
She approached the bedroom with much less stealth this time, walking in and sitting on the mattress next to her mark.
'Fabia,' she said in a conversational tone, not too loud and softened with a hint of kindness. 'Fabia, it's time to wake up.'
The woman stirred and gulped air. She stopped snoring but didn't rouse herself.
'Fabia,' Caitlin repeated. 'Wakey wakey…'
Jesus, she thought, I've been in England too long.
'Fabia, wake up. We need to talk now. About Bilal. I need to find Bilal.'
'Bilal? Is that you?'
'No, Fabia. I am a friend of Bilal's. I need to find him. He needs my help.'
The woman appeared to struggle against unconsciousness, lifting her head from the pillow, blinking her eyes slowly. She groaned and spoke in a slurred voice.
'Too tired.'
'I know you're tired, Fabia. Just tell me where Bilal is and you can sleep. Is he here? In Neukolln?'
'Bilal…'
Caitlin suppressed her frustration. Questioning a drugged subject was never ideal, but Fabia would not raise an alarm and would remember this encounter only as a dream in the morning.
'Fabia, I need to see Bilal. Where is your son? Where is Bilal? Do you know?'
'Tired…'
'Where is Bilal, Fabia? His friends need him. Where is Bilal?'
'Not here,' the woman said, speaking so faintly that Caitlin had to lean forward.
'What did you say, Fabia? Is Bilal here? In Berlin?'
'Bilal is gone,' she said as the drug broke down more of her defenses. 'He's gone away.'
'Where?' Caitlin asked, containing her impatience. 'Where has Bilal gone?'
'America.'
Caitlin's surprise was so total that she nearly missed the snick of the door latch in the entry hall.
Baumer was in America.
But where?
The question answered itself.
He had to be in New York.
And how many possibilities opened up from that, like a poisonous flower budding in the dark? Fabia Shah mumbled on about Bilal and America and somebody called Abu, possibly Abu Bakr Shah, her brother, as Caitlin recalled from the al Banna case history.
There was no time for contemplation or further questioning, however, because somebody was coming.
Caitlin spun up from the bed, as silent as quicksilver, bringing the fat black silencer of the gun to bear on the bedroom doorway.
Whispered voices, both male. Low and guttural.
She stood with knees bent slightly, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. Centered. Waiting for it to happen.
Behind her Fabia began to mumble about Bilal and America again.
The voices stopped, and with them all movement in the apartment.
No footfalls. No elbows brushing against walls. No creaking knee joints or the whisper of one pants leg against another.
'Bilal is back but gone. Gone away,' Fabia murmured.
Caitlin resisted the urge to turn toward the only voice in the apartment. She kept the oversized suppressor targeted on the open doorway. She closed one eye as a precaution. Her night vision was dark-adapted so completely that simply flicking on a light would be enough to blind her.
Fabia snored, a long and ratcheting hawking noise that ended with a gulp.
Caitlin heard snickers from just outside the doorway.
She heard a few muttered words in Arabic.
'She is dreaming. There's nobody here. Abu smokes too much hash.'
'We need to check, anyway.'
The outline of a man appeared. Relatively young, she judged. Dressed in sports training gear. His eyes were drawn to the bed where the woman lay, and for a second he did not notice the assassin's form in the darkened room. Caitlin took in all she needed to know in less than a second. The man was carrying a blade and a pistol.
As his partner moved into frame just behind him, she silently cursed herself. She had left the iron cage open at the front of the apartment and all but invited these two inside.
