“Why would we?” he asked. “It’s just a search.”
“Right,” Bishop agreed. “But as with the airplane, we tend to check in places and with ways that might not be part of your tool kit.”
The inspector eyed him suspiciously, then looked back at his Mounties and waved them forward. They all fell in more closely around the shackled Veil, the two men flanking her, the blond woman a step or two behind. Bishop and Muloni watched the service road and the tarmac, respectively, in case anyone made a rescue attempt. But there were no sounds of car engines, nothing to break the reassuring monotony of the roaring turbines.
When they reached the jet, Bishop noticed Veil’s eyes shoot toward the masked men. It was the first time she was in a position to see them. The woman moved ahead without halting as they followed her into the charter terminal.
Bishop felt a chill. In his nineteen years with the Bureau, the former field operative had learned to respect his intuition almost to the point of obsession.
She knows who they are, who they were, he thought. She would not want to go back to Baghdad with them. Any prisoner would rather die. It was a dangerous game they were playing now, but if it worked, the payoff would be considerable.
The terminal was a barracks-style concrete structure with a small functional waiting area and a corridor running back along one side of the unattended reception desk. On her arrival at the terminal that morning, Muloni had picked a small boxy storage area at the end of the corridor for the holding room. She directed the others toward it. Javert entered the corridor first, followed by the other Mounties and Veil. The black-clad men from the Gulfstream came next, with Bishop and Muloni in the rear. She shut the door behind her and locked it.
“He’s not going to like this,” she warned as they lagged well behind.
“I know. But what’s he going to do about it? Quote regulations at us? We’ll be done before he can even start to explain this to his commander.”
“Our boy here can still shut down the tower,” Muloni said. “Veil’s got to be airborne before it hits the fan.”
“She will be,” Bishop promised. “Remember what Harper’s buddy Ryan Kealey did to that United Nations security guard in oh-seven?”
She grinned. “It’s legend among those who knew what went down. Said he mistook a walkie-talkie for a gun. Threw the guard across the room. And he wasn’t even the target-it was the diplomat who was crossing behind him. The guard got credit for the takedown.”
“Classic,” Bishop said. “I’ll make sure only Javert comes in, and make it seem like it was his idea.”
Muloni was still smiling. “Perfect. My move, if it comes to that.”
Bishop nodded as the group clustered tightly around the door.
“You can stand by in the corridor,” Bishop said, reaching for a doorknob. “We’ll let you know when we’re set to roll.”
“No,” the inspector said. “We will observe all of it.”
“All right,” Bishop said. He pretended to consider his options. “But just you. Nobody else. And no talking. Take it or leave it.”
Javert’s jaw muscles were working. He nodded once, sharply.
“Who has the key to the prisoner’s restraints?” Bishop asked.
Cosette came from behind Veil and flicked her right hand up from her side. The key hung from a steel-plated bracelet locked around her wrist.
Bishop extended his hand, but Javert inserted himself between them.
“I’ll take it,” the inspector said.
The woman unclasped the bracelet and gave it to Javert. Bishop nodded to Muloni. She entered the office first. Javert grabbed the prisoner’s handcuffs and, walking behind Veil, guided her in. The Pakistanis went next, followed by Bishop. The American shut and locked the door behind him. It was a solid oak door with a shoulder-high dead bolt. While Javert watched Muloni, Bishop slid the bolt into place.
The room was empty except for a small card table against one white cinder-block wall. On the table were a folded tracksuit, a digital camera, and a scalpel. Surrounded by her captors, Veil took notice of the surgical implement for scarcely an instant before letting her eyes move on to study the rest of the room. Bishop felt an uncharacteristic edginess as her roving attention fell on him again. Muloni had examined the room personally, so he was confident no one had hidden a weapon where Veil could grab it. Perhaps it was because this was the first time a woman had been rendered with his direct involvement. If anything definable was bothering him, he supposed that explained it.
Bishop watched as one of the men in black coveralls took the scalpel from the tabletop. He was tall and square-shouldered, only his eyes visible through the balaclava that concealed his features. Bishop was assured that he had been cleared by voice recognition, as had all the others. The FBI phones had an XApp for that as well. The Pakistani looked at Bishop.
“Let’s get it done,” the American said.
The hooded man crossed the room to the prisoner with two large strides, raising the scalpel and then sweeping it down the front of her skirt. The skirt came apart with a whispery shredding of fabric and dropped over her ankles, revealing her bare thighs underneath as he brought the blade up again to slit open her blouse. For a moment she stood, shackled, in her bra, panties, and the plain low sneakers. Another swipe of the blade sliced the bra in half, leaving her nude from the waist up, the limp remnants of her blouse hanging from her arms and wrists above the cuffs.
Bishop wasn’t sure who was more surprised by the act, the prisoner or a visibly horrified Javert.
The photos came next, a second man in black rapidly snapping pictures of the woman with the digital camera. Bishop caught himself looking at her tanned, nude flesh and guiltily lifted his gaze. When he did, she was staring back at him, her dark, bright eyes steady, burning into his own as they had on the tarmac. There was no trace of embarrassment or submission in her expression, nothing to indicate she was at all intimidated. Just her seething anger and steadfast eyes.
Bishop could tell she was thinking. Hard.
“What’s the need for this?” Javert asked, frowning unhappily.
Bishop was glad for the distraction. “Remember our agreement, Inspector? No talking.”
“Yes, but you go too far,” Javert replied.
“You think so?” Muloni cut in. “How would you ID her if you found her dismembered body in a Pakistani street?”
Javert’s mouth snapped shut, audibly.
“Okay, Inspector,” Muloni went on. “We’ll need her out of those arm and leg cuffs.”
Javert stepped forward. The man with the scalpel backed off to make room for him. The inspector bent and opened the ankle restraints, then straightened, slipped the key into the handcuff lock, and gave it a three-quarter turn. The manacles clicked open and came loose in his hands. He took two steps back, holding them with both hands.
The man with the scalpel nodded to his teammates. “Check her. Everywhere inside,” he said in Arabic.
Bishop recognized the words. He’d heard them in more rooms like this than he could remember. They were not really instructions, since his companions knew the drill. They were meant for Veil, designed to cut away her dignity the way the surgeon’s blade had slashed away her clothes. This repatriation unit of the Pakistani Quel Affada intelligence division had been active for twenty-four months, its members handpicked from Saddam Hussein’s disbanded Mukhabarat. Amnesty International and other human rights organizations insisted the infamous secret police were the wrong people to rehabilitate criminal Pakistanis operating abroad, but the FBI had gone ahead with the plan. Part of the QA charter was to prevent Baghdad from exporting terrorists and criminals. The threat of being turned over to a unit comprised of professional torturers was credited with helping to discourage black market operators and the export of terrorists.
For the masked men, the routine was familiar. For Bishop and Muloni, it was necessary. For Javert, it was a new experience, and as two of the masked men closed on her, he let his eyes drop.
That was when Veil struck. Her left hand shot out in a palm-heel strike. It connected with Javert’s chin, causing his teeth to clap shut on his tongue. Blood oozed from the sides of his mouth as he stumbled back, dropping the shackles. Veil remained in motion. As the nearest of the Pakistanis moved forward, she sidestepped him and
