entirely. I decided to go after Annika. But I knew I couldn’t do it directly. I had to move softly and take a roundabout route.”
“Which is where McClure comes in.”
“There is something between Annika and McClure, of that there can be no doubt.” The Syrian smiled his crooked smile. “As I said, sentiment is itself a weakness.”
“Maybe she’s continuing to play him.”
The Syrian scratched at the thicket of his beard, which was shot through with white. “That possibility has occurred to me.” His smile widened. “But the beauty of my plan is that it doesn’t matter. She is so heavily defended and almost as wily as her grandfather that McClure is the best way—probably the
He sighed again. “The truth is, I cannot go forward without those secrets.”
Xhafa pricked up his ears. This was the first time the Syrian had come close to defining the goal of his plan —a plan he had been forced to go along with if he wanted to continue the very profitable arrangement he had with the Syrian. A powerful incentive, since this arrangement had provided him with capital and influence in exchange for a third of his smuggling operation. Now Xhafa’s small fleet of new and larger planes were filled with the Syrian’s mysterious cargo as well as Xhafa’s stolen girls.
“Just what are those secrets?”
“Enough criminal dirt and serious indiscretions to take control of his worldwide constellation of politicians and security officers.”
Xhafa would have staked his life on the fact that the Syrian was not telling the truth or, at least, not the whole truth, but he let it go because, humiliatingly, there was nothing he could do. The hard truth was that he felt like a child beside this man, this monument to power.
The rain beat down hard against the reinforced metal top and the landscape outside was gray and hazy, like a painting whose colors had run together. They had been joined by a phalanx of motorcycle police fore and aft, the caravan cutting a swath through the streets with the seething din of war.
The Syrian shifted again, the aura of his power rippling outward, filling the entire vehicle so completely that Xhafa could scarcely draw breath.
“And as to the other part of your mission…?” The Syrian let his last words hang between them like an implied threat.
“Arjeta Kraja is dead,” Xhafa said. “I killed her with my own hands.”
“THE LAST time I saw Naomi Wilde?”
“That’s what I asked.”
Peter McKinsey shifted in his chair. It was a stiff chair with one of those minimalist backs guaranteed to make you more uncomfortable the longer you sat in it. He was downtown at Metro Police HQ, in a separate suite of offices reserved for the Violent Crimes Unit.
“Yesterday, at about a quarter to five in the afternoon. We’d been using my car. I dropped her back at the office. She got into her car and drove off.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
McKinsey nodded. “She told me she was going home.”
“Directly home?”
“‘I’m going home, Pete. I’ve had it.’ This is word for word what she said to me.” He spoke neither quickly nor slowly, but his voice was appropriately tight. After all, his partner of six years was missing.
Chief Detective Nona Heroe’s head came up. She had been scribbling in a small spiral-bound pad. “Agent Wilde said, ‘I’ve had it’?”
McKinsey nodded. “Yes.”
Heroe tapped her pen on her notebook. “What did you take that to mean?”
He shrugged. “That she was beat. We both were. We’d been up and working for more than two days.”
“In that time you two never went home?”
“Just to shower and change clothes.”
Heroe marked this down as if it would someday be used as evidence against him. He hated her even more.
She looked up. “Where were you before you arrived at the office?”
“We were following up several leads concerning the trafficking network that brought Arjeta Kraja into the States illegally.”
“And?”
“Unfortunately, they led nowhere.”
“Why were you so interested in Ms. Kraja?”
“That was Naomi’s idea. According to Alli Carson, the Kraja girl was seen with Billy Warren the night he was tortured and killed.”
Heroe processed his tone. “And you didn’t believe Ms. Carson.”
“Let’s put it this way. I’d have liked the opportunity to question the Carson girl more closely.”
“What stopped you?”
McKinsey shrugged. “You know as well as I do. She’s a protected entity.”
Heroe made more notes. “And you never found Ms. Kraja’s body.”
McKinsey sighed heavily and pressed his thumbs into his eye sockets. “She vanished into thin air.”
“Just like Agent Wilde.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way, but I suppose you could say so, yes.”
Heroe scribbled industriously. She was good at it. Engaging his eyes again, she said, “Agent McKinsey, I’m afraid I have some bad news. We found Agent Wilde’s car. It had gone off the road in rural Maryland. We had the devil’s own time pulling it out of a concrete abutment at the base of the embankment.”
“Did you find her?” Suitably anxious tone. “Did you find Naomi?”
“No.”
He frowned. He was good at it. “What about her handbag, her cell? I’ve been trying to call her for hours.”
“There was nothing in the car,” Heroe said. “The driver’s side door was open and the seat belt hadn’t been engaged when the airbags deployed.”
McKinsey shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us, Agent McKinsey.”
Heroe flipped closed her notebook and stood. McKinsey admired her while she stretched. She was an imposing woman, with a good figure, fine features, and skin the color of bitter sweet chocolate. She seemed to be on the good side of forty, young to be the head of Violent Crimes. Either she had offered herself to all the right people, he thought, or she was very, very smart.
“Why don’t we take a break.” It was not a question. She gestured to a sideboard on which stood some kind of stainless-steel-and-glass apparatus that looked like it belonged in a Starbucks. “Would you like some coffee?”
“As long as it’s not swill.”
Her laugh seemed to him corrosive.
“I make my own. Stumptown.”
That meant nothing to him. While she busied herself, he looked at his hands. Steady as a rock. But he sorely wanted to get the hell out of there. He wasn’t used to being interrogated, and now he regretted his rash action at the bank. But he had had no choice. Naomi had discovered the connection between Middle Bay and Gemini Holdings. He was now in the middle of a shitstorm and he knew that bastard Pawnhill blamed him. He’d tried to warn Naomi away from Middle Bay but, as always, she had been like a dog with a bone. He’d admired that in her. Truth be told, shooting her dead had frazzled his nerves. That was a surprise. Before coming to the Secret Service he’d killed before, more times than he’d like to count, but this kill was different. It was Naomi. Christ, it was like a marriage—in many ways, more intimate. They’d had each other’s back. Until yesterday. Truth be told, he was still in shock. He continued to stare at his hands, wondering when they would begin to shake.
He looked up as Heroe returned with two tiny cups, setting one down in front of him.
