blackmail theory. The woman was capable of anything, she believed. Grisella had probably murdered someone, a deranged lover, perhaps— any lover of hers would have to be deranged — and somehow Abu Qasim had learned about it. Qasim … yes, with his air of knowing all, back then she thought him capable of blackmail. Years later she found that he was capable of the most heinous crimes imaginable. Blackmail would have been a misdemeanor for him. Had Qasim murdered her mother?
Tonight, in the cottage in Kent, Marisa Petrou lay in the darkness turning that possibility over and over in her mind, as she had done for thousands of nights, ever since she was a child.
It was almost midnight when Eide Masmoudi and Radwan Ali met on the sidewalk outside the mosque. There was a trash can on the street corner, full but not overflowing, and as he went by he stuffed the tightly capped bottle in there. Just having it on his person was a huge risk — he had carried the damn thing far enough.
They crossed the street and were walking down the sidewalk when Radwan glanced over his shoulder. “What did you put in the trash?” he asked.
Eide looked back. Someone was reaching into the can, pulling out trash. He didn’t recognize the figure under the streetlight. “Who is that?”
“Looks like Omar to me, that suck-up from Libya, the one who’s always spying on everyone. He must have seen you put something in there.”
Eide jerked at Radwan’s arm and kept walking. “I put a bottle in there,” he said. “Jake Grafton gave me a small bottle with a chemical of some kind to pour in the drinking water. It will kill the sheikh, stop his heart. Maybe tonight.”
Radwan stared into Eide’s face.
“It’ll look like a heart attack,” Eide said.
Radwan stood paralyzed, trying to process it. Eide grabbed his arm and forced him to keep walking. “Grafton wants us out of here. Now.”
“Oh, man …”
“I’m going to call Grafton and set up a meet. He’ll send us back to the States.”
“All my stuff is in our flat,” Radwan protested. “My money, everything. I gotta go by the flat and get my stuff.”
“Let me call Grafton first.” Eide removed his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number he had memorized. They continued along the sidewalk.
As Eide waited for the phone to send the call through, Radwan said, “Man, if the sheikh croaks and we rabbit, the holy warriors are going to smell a rat. They’re going to be really pissed. I mean, like, really pissed.”
Eide snapped the telephone shut. “So what do you want to do?”
“Man, if that asshole just drops dead of a heart attack and we sit there with our mouths shut, looking innocent and heartbroken, who’s to know?”
“Grafton said the risk was too great.”
“He doesn’t think we have the balls for this.”
“I don’t know that I do,” Eide said as he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. He had his cell phone in his left hand, his right in his pocket, and was staring at the sidewalk.
“Well, by God, I do,” Radwan Ali declared. “These jihad fools are pissing on believers everywhere. They’re pissing on the Prophet. They’re pissing on Allah!”
“It’s that kind of world.”
“Allah will help us. He’ll give us strength. The truth is we are on His side. Do you believe or don’t you?”
I came awake when I heard someone moving in the room. My pistol was a lump in my pants pocket, and Marisa’s Walther was in my coat. I lay frozen, listening. The glow from the light outside on the stoop gave the room a smidgen of illumination.
“Are you awake?” Marisa’s voice.
“Yeah,” I said. I moved then. I reached into my pocket and got the pistol in my hand. Slid it out. Since I had my overcoat over me she couldn’t see what I was doing.
I found her with my eyes. She was wearing some kind of robe and was barefooted. Since she hadn’t had a chance to pack when we left the chateau — yesterday? — presumably she found the robe in a closet. She held the robe shut with her arms, which were wrapped around her chest.
Marisa sat down in the stuffed chair across from me, so I relaxed a little. If she intended to stick a knife in me, she was going to have to come flying out of that chair to do it. She used a hand to brush hair back out of her face.
“I want to talk to Jake Grafton,” she said.
“Umm.” I checked the luminous hands of my watch. About 2:30 a.m. here, 9:30 p.m. last night on the East Coast. “What about?”
“Abu Qasim.”
“One of his favorite subjects,” I admitted. What the heck. Grafton rarely said anything interesting, and Marisa might. After all, Grafton told me to pump her. I got my cell phone out, flipped it open and pushed the button. Grafton’s cell number came up. I pushed the green button and listened to the rings. He got it on the fourth one.
“Yes, Tommy.”
“Marisa wants to talk to you.”
“Everything okay?”
“Quiet as a grave.”
“Okay, put her on.”
I threw the coat back and stood, reached, handed the phone to Marisa. Her eyes swept over the pistol I had in my right hand and fastened on the cell phone. She grasped the thing in both hands and said, “Hello.”
I went to the window by the front door and looked out. At least the limo was still there.
When I turned around Marisa was walking toward the kitchen, whispering into the telephone. I got a few words, but only a few.
I debated following her — after all, she was using my phone — but didn’t. I dropped into the chair she had vacated, put the pistol back in my pocket and yawned. Her voice was merely a low murmur.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. I was starting to nod off sitting up when Marisa came back and handed me my phone.
“Thank you,” she said.
When she turned away I caught the glistening of tears on her cheeks. I reached out, grabbed her, pulled her gently onto my lap. She didn’t resist. I wrapped my arms around her and she laid her head on my shoulder.
After a while I realized she was asleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was the pounding on the apartment door that awoke Eide Masmoudi. He slept beside Radwan Ali on a foldout couch, while the other two men who shared the apartment shared the only bed in the only bedroom.
Ali was also instantly awake. It was only a few minutes after five in the morning.. still dark outside.
As the pounding sounded through the apartment, Ali leaped from the bed and stepped around the kitchen counter. Masmoudi put on his trousers and shirt, then unlocked the door.
Three men from the mosque burst into the room. One of them was Omar from Libya. When Eide saw him, he knew he and Radwan were in big, big trouble.
The other two, Osama and Fawaz, were older men, trusted confidants of Sheikh al-Taji.
Before anyone could say a word, the bedroom door opened and Eide’s roommates appeared wearing trousers and T-shirts. In the kitchen area, Radwan was pulling on his trousers and shirt.
“Sheikh al-Taji is dead,” Osama roared, his eyes on Eide.
“How.’..?” asked one of the men from the bedroom.
“Poisoned,” Fawaz thundered.
“Poisoned?”
