churning guts of the building, sending up a fireworks display of popping sparks and burning bits of paper and fabric. The air was laced with the petrochemical stench of melting roof shingles, making Henna close his eyes when the wind shifted into his face. Two pumper trucks siphoned water from separate hydrants and showered the house with ballooning arcs, but still the place burned. Heat washed off the building in visible waves.
The structure was a total loss. The siding had burned through in places to reveal the skeletal fingers of the house’s framing. On the far side of the house had stood a chimney, but all that remained was a seven-foot stump. The rest of it lay across the charred lawn in an elongated pile of debris.
Henna saw his theories burning in the fire. Without Hyde, there was no case and all the theorizing in the world wouldn’t change that fact. He had no doubt that when the house cooled, they would discover the undersecretary’s body amid the ruins.
“You’re Henna?” The question came from a fireman much older than those fighting the blaze. His face was weathered like tree bark, and when he pulled off his helmet, his hair was pure white. “The cop at the barricade radioed me you were here. Mind telling me why the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation is here with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs?”
Henna figured the man was the commander of Fairfax’s fire department. He put out his hand. “I can’t tell you the particulars right now, I’m sorry.” The fireman had a tight grip, his hands deeply callused. “Anyone in there?”
“Not alive, if that’s what you’re asking.” The fireman turned to look at the fire over his broad shoulder. “Judging by the two cars smoldering in the driveway, I’d say the house was occupied. The forensic teams may be able to scrape a few bits of bone and some goo into a bag, but don’t expect much.”
“What’s your read?” Henna asked.
“Some squirrel killed the occupants, then torched the house to cover his tracks or delay the investigation. It’ll take a while, but we’ll find it’s a case of murder.”
Henna nodded, his eyes naturally drawn to the walls of fire that erupted from the house. He’d known it at the first police siren, but hadn’t wanted it to be true. Whoever was responsible, Middle Eastern terrorists or Balkan extremists, it was clear they were one step ahead. And with Hyde out of the way, their tracks were well covered. Until he could contact Mercer, he could only hope his friend knew what he was doing because right now Henna certainly didn’t.
“When do you think you can get some men in there to verify?” Colonel Baines asked.
The chief looked back at the fire just in time to see a wall fall outward to the lawn, an explosion of flame and wood that drove his men back half a dozen yards. “We may not get a team in there until after midnight.”
“Anything we can do to help?”
“Yeah, make it rain.” The chief turned away to rejoin his men, leaving Henna and Morrison and Baines alone with their questions.
Leonardo da Vinci Airport
Rome, Italy
Mercer and Selome walked side by side toward the Ethiopian Airline gate for their flight to Asmara. Mercer carried his two matching briefcases while Selome sported a slender leather valise hanging from a shoulder strap. Her long legs matched Mercer’s pace, both of them striding through the crowds in an effort to stretch their cramped muscles. They joked easily, regaling each other with horror stories from past flights.
At the Ethiopian Airlines counter, Selome switched from English to Amharic when she addressed the willowy ticket agent. Mercer listened in for several seconds before realizing he couldn’t understand a word. She turned to him, asking for his ticket, which he quickly produced. Selome and the agent spoke again, their voices rising before Selome seemed satisfied.
Selome was scowling when she led him away from the counter. Over half of the two hundred waiting room seats were occupied, all the passengers either Eritrean or Ethiopian. Looking at their faces, Mercer realized that Selome’s exquisite beauty and her thick hair were more the norm that the exception. There were a number of older women, wrinkled and bowed by life, but the younger ones were all attractive. On the other hand, the men were slight, too delicate to be considered handsome.
“Be thankful I was here,” Selome said as she and Mercer took seats. “They had you as a standby passenger for coach. You might have been bumped from the flight if I hadn’t checked you in. I doubt that witch at the counter”— she tossed her head—“was going to tell you until you tried to board the plane.”
“You sound like you’re not coming with me.”
Selome nodded, her hair cascading over her face. She tamed it with a flick of her wrist. “I’ve got a meeting in London tomorrow. I’ll meet up with you in Asmara the day after. I never asked — where are you staying?”
Mercer took this news in stride. “The Hotel Ambassoira.”
“Good choice, one of our country’s finest. But don’t expect too much,” she cautioned. “The Ambasoira was built during the occupation.”
“Ethiopia’s?”
“No, Italy’s. The hotel dates back to the twenties,” she grinned. “And unless you’re a masochist, avoid their coffee, and never take the plumbing for granted. I believe that Habte Makkonen is going to meet you at the airport. I don’t know him, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder and stood, extending her hand to Mercer. He felt he was being dismissed. The rapport they had built during the transatlantic flight was gone, replaced by a brusque professionalism he hadn’t seen from her before.
“Well then,” Mercer stood formally. “I guess I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
Unexpectedly, Selome stepped close to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t think this was my idea. I’ll see you at the Ambasoira the day after next.” She was gone in a flash.
“Not if I don’t see you first,” Mercer said under his breath, his gray eyes hardening as he watched her cut a swath through the terminal. He returned to the same agent at the ticket counter.
“I’m terribly sorry about all that.” His smile was disarming as he laid his ticket on the counter. “I’m afraid there was a slight language problem. I called the airline this morning to say that I wanted to take a later flight and I’m afraid my traveling partner didn’t understand. I want to be on tonight’s flight which, I believe arrives at 9:00 P.M. local time.”
In fact, Mercer had been booked on this flight, but had changed his reservations with a call from the Air Italia plane when Selome had gone to the rest room. He’d had a lingering suspicion that she might ditch him once they got to Rome and he needed the time to track her movements. He had an idea where she was really going. Just because he believed her motivation didn’t necessarily mean he believed her.
“I understand.” The agent pouted, enjoying a singular female delight in the discredit of another. “These sorts of things happen all the time.” Her nails clicked on the computer keys for a moment before handing Mercer a new ticket. “There you are, tonight’s flight, departing at 7:20 and arriving at 9:15 P.M. I even managed to get you a first-class upgrade at no additional cost. Our night flight isn’t nearly as booked as this afternoon’s.”
“Thank you so much,” Mercer said. “One more question. Where does El Al have their waiting area?”
“At the end of this concourse, to your right, I believe.”
Mercer thanked her again and took off down the hallway, his stride purposeful. There was no need for him to hurry. He was certain Selome would be in the Israeli national airline’s waiting room, but he felt an anger building that needed an outlet.
Nearing his destination, he slowed, blending in with the crowd so that he walked past the El Al waiting room shielded by a half-dozen people. He scanned the room once and then looked again. Selome wasn’t there! A flight was boarding and Mercer cursed himself for being too late, but then saw the flight’s destination was Lisbon. He was sure she wasn’t going to Portugal.
He continued down the corridor until he came to a cluster of television monitors. Directing his attention at the ones displaying departures, he saw that El Al had a flight to Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport in ninety minutes. He spent the time in a crowded, smoky bar at the other end of the terminal, as far from the El Al departure lounge as possible, in case Selome was waiting in a similar fashion. The two gimlets he drank cost twelve dollars each and he
