Simon chuckled. “I assure you, I can still cause your daughter immeasurable pain. And I might just do that, simply for the trouble you have put me to.”
This guy was bluffing and where yesterday Tom might have hesitated, not today. He was Tom Sagan, Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative journalist, no matter what anybody said.
“Then you can kiss what I have goodbye.”
Silence from the other side.
“What do you propose?” Simon finally asked.
“We trade.”
More silence, then Simon said, “I cannot bring her here.”
“How did you plan to release her—if you planned to do it at all?”
“I was hoping electronically would work, with a video of it happening, perhaps a tearful reunion afterward on your own time.”
“That won’t work.”
“Obviously not. What do you propose?”
“We trade in Vienna.”
———
HAD ZACHARIAH HEARD RIGHT?
“You are coming there?” he called out.
“And you, too.”
This might work out. He had a serious problem, considering that Alle Becket was dead. But he might be able to accomplish his objective after all.
“All right. When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, 5:00. St. Stephen’s Cathedral.”
———
TOM MADE HIS CHOICE CAREFULLY. HE’D VISITED VIENNA SEVERAL times, staying there once for nearly a month while covering the war in Sarajevo. He was familiar with the place. He knew the Gothic cathedral, which sat at the heart of the city. Public. Lots of people. A good locale for a switch. He should be safe there. The only trick would be getting away before Simon could make a move.
But he’d figure that out later.
“Five o’clock tomorrow,” he yelled.
“I will be there.”
Simon and the other man retreated to their car and left, a swirl of dust obscuring the view.
He stepped from behind the door and lowered the gun. Great patches of sweat soaked his shirt. His insides boiled like lava and air fled his lungs in harsh gasps. For the first time he noticed the scent of orange blossoms, the trees all around him dotted with white blossoms.
A smell familiar from his childhood.
Such a long time ago.
He raked a hand across the three-day stubble on his face.
None of his misgivings had vanished, but for a guy who was supposed to be dead he felt awfully alive.
———
SIMON WAS PLEASED.
“Find a way out of here,” he told Rocha. “Then straight to the airport.”
He’d call ahead and have his jet ready. He’d come here on a private charter and would return to Austria the same way. He should be leaving with the Levite’s secret, but he’d have it soon enough.
Sagan probably thought himself clever picking St. Stephen’s. True, a public locale should assure both sides an equal footing. Not a bad place to trade a daughter for a packet.
Unless.
He grinned with triumph as his mind played with an idea and the strength of his plan dawned on him.
Tom Sagan had just made a fatal mistake.
And the fact that Alle Becket was dead would not matter.
Her father would soon be joining her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TOM FOUND HIS WAY OUT OF THE ORCHARD THEN ONTO INTERSTATE 4 and west toward Orlando. The weariness that had once made his head heavy and his thoughts sluggish had vanished. Unfortunately, as the adrenaline faded, all he could visualize was the decayed mass that had once been Abiram Sagan. Children should never see their parents that way. He’d been a bull of a man. Tough. Unrelenting. Respected in his community. Honored by his temple. Loved by his granddaughter—
