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A noise made her look up. The front door was still open. She could see it from the living room and cursed herself for being so stupid. A tall, gangly man with exceptionally pale skin and an ugly face was marching through the door, looking both scared and determined at the same time.

Felicia Kaminski wanted to say something but at that moment her mind locked. Szeryng’s luscious rendition of the Bach Partita was reaching its final note, a delicious D played double stringed, one open, one fingered with vibrato, then dying into silence. She loved that touch and had wished for so long that one day she might emulate it. Tonight, maybe, in the Wigmore Hall. Tonight . . .

It took Pierre Crane one strike to knock the weapon out of the fingers of the slender, pretty-plain young woman, and a second to render her unconscious as she stood dumb-founded over a man who lay bound on the floor, face swollen yet still visibly terrified. She crashed down in a heap next to him. Crane’s eyes strayed around the room. There was no one else in the little house. He could sense this.

Crane made a fast search of the flat—which belonged to Harold Middleton, the American that the driver of the car outside of Paris had warned him about. He found what looked like a gun safe and scanned through a number of documents and notes on the desk.

“Find anything helpful, Pierre?” said a female voice behind him, one so calm and unflustered it made his blood turn cold, sent his hand dashing for the gun in the holster beneath his jacket.

Something stabbed into his shoulder before his fingers got halfway.

“Don’t be foolish,” she said.

He turned and saw the woman he now knew as Jana. She held a long black handgun with a lengthy silencer. A professional weapon. She looked at him carefully, her gaze reminiscent of what had passed between them on that deserted two-lane road outside of Paris not long before. “We meet again, Pierre.”

Crane gave a faint laugh, though he shivered at the memory of the bullets snapping against the windows of the limo. “You know me?”

“You do your background work as a reporter,” Jana shrugged. “I do the same in my line.”

Which told Crane that she had indeed followed him to the meeting outside of Paris with the man posing as the Scorpion.

“Where’s Middleton?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“The woman he works with? Tesla?”

Crane shook his head. “I don’t know her.”

In the distance, the urgent bray of a police siren grew closer. Had someone reported a disturbance? Seen a weapon? She grimaced, looking at the flat and apparently realized she had no time for a thorough search.

Jana ordered, “Take the girl outside. There’s a van there.” She hesitated. “Go with her. I will join you in a moment.”

“You don’t think I’ll run?”

A smile. “No.”

“Why?” he asked, trying to see some window of attack, realizing, from her careful stance and the steady gaze in her eye, this was impossible. Nor was he sure he wanted to; something—the journalist within him? Or the man?—told him to simply go with what was happening.

“Because you’re after the truth, aren’t you, Pierre?”

Jana reached out and removed the weapon from his jacket. Then she watched as he picked up the unconscious young woman in his arms and walked outside.

There was a Mercedes van with opaque windows by the front door and a driver in a black uniform, gloves and a cap, sliding open the rear door.

As Crane reached the gate with the girl in his arms he heard the sound from behind, and recognized immediately what it was. The low, explosive growl of a silenced weapon, followed by a curt, agonized shriek of pain, one that lasted a second, no more.

4

JIM FUSILLI

A
gray morning in Paris had given way to a lovely, tranquil afternoon, and as she crossed the Place de la Concorde and entered the pebbly pathway that cleaved the Jardin des Champs Élysées, she reviewed her day: an early jog along Avenue George V across the Seine at Point d’ Alma, back through the Parc du Champ de Mars and under the Tour Eiffel; a shower in her room at the Hotel Queen Elizabeth on Pierre 1er de Serbie; and in a thin, peach v-neck sweater, jeans and a short, buttery leather jacket she’d bought for a small fortune in USD at a shop on Boulevard Saint Germain, a walk around the corner to the Hotel George V for a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with brown sugar as she read
The Wall Street Journal Europe
and
USA Today
. Then she went back to the Queen Elizabeth, sat on the floor with her back to her unmade bed and sobbed.

It wasn’t working. “Come to Paris,” her father had said. “You need a little magic.” “Thanks, no, Harry. Too many memories,” she’d replied. “Charley, maybe you’ll make new memories,” he said gently, taking her hand. “We need you among the living. We really do . . . ”

But everywhere in Paris reminded her of what she’d lost: her baby, the miscarriage induced by, of all people, her late husband who was part of a conspiracy that took her mother’s life as well. Every day was a relentless replay of what could’ve been and what would never be. Even now, as she strolled through dappled sunlight under leafy trees whose branches crowned the pathway, she saw young children toddling comically as they chased pigeons, their contented mothers smiling as they watched. Nothing else existed for her at that moment, neither the dignified old men in their brown suits who chatted knowingly, the businessmen and women on the Champs Élysées who were making their way back to their offices nor the tourists wandering toward the Obelisque and Jardin des Tuileries. All she saw were stout, laughing children and their beaming mothers, and she felt the weight of hopelessness and a profound, hammering sense of loss. She knew she would never be whole again and would never trust any man enough to love him. As for a child of her own, she feared she would never be able to provide the sense of security and optimism the child would need to thrive. She was counting her days, wondering when she would be consumed by the void inside her.

And so all that remained for Charlotte Middleton—she’d returned to her maiden name when she learned the extent of her husband’s participation in a plot to kill thousands in Washington, D.C.—was the work she was doing for the Volunteers. Her father had told her he needed her. It was possible that he did. Protesting, she’d said, “Harry, I can’t. Given how pointless, how empty . . . Damn it, I wish I could explain so you’d know.” “Charley,” he replied, “when I think about what my life would be without you, I know.”

At a kiosk near the Théatre Marigny, she bought a sandwich of thin slices of ham, a sliver of gruyere and salty butter on crunchy bread, and a bottle of Badoit, and sat on a bench in a stream of sunlight, the Étoile and the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, the relentless traffic coursing along the cobblestone. In an attempt to dispatch her thoughts, she recalled some of the research she’d done for the Volunteers. Her mind wandered to Connie Carson and the bravado instilled in every task undertaken by that little Texas firebrand, and then to Wiki Cheung’s fascination with Second Life and how the adorable 19-year-old computer geek had given himself a black avatar with a ’70s Afro and chiseled body any athlete would kill for. “Try it,” Wiki had suggested. “Everybody needs someplace to be somebody new.” As soon as the words passed his lips he recoiled in embarrassment. “I’m not saying your life is not good, Charley. No, what I’m saying—I’m saying, Charley, the game—Maybe you’ll make new friends—If you want new friends, Charley . . . Ah damn it . . . ”

Around the same time, Leonora Tesla, who she admired more so now that she understood what the Volunteers had achieved, had asked her to join her for a drink after hours. They’d gone to a Latin lounge in Dupont Circle, where they were surrounded by careless singles floating between youth and responsibilities, six fresh faces crammed at tables for four. Giddy conversations rose over bubbling music. “Charley,” Tesla shouted, “here’s my advice: Don’t take any advice. Listen to your own heart in your own time.”

Now on the Champs Élysées, reflecting on those memories four-thousand miles away, Charley watched a tour bus scored with Hangul script wheezed to a halt, blocking traffic. She grimaced as taxi horns blared, and then returned to her solitude.

Perhaps 30 yards behind Charlotte Middleton in the park was a self-satisfied man in his 50s, tanned with salt-and-pepper hair. His blue suit, cut to perfection, was impressive even in the
arrondissement
that hosted the houses of Saint Laurent, Dior, Chanel and Lacroix. As he sat, he removed a silk handkerchief from an inner pocket and wiped the sides of his Berlutti shoes, removing a coat of dust. His cell phone vibrated as he returned the kerchief to its post.

“I’m on Middleton’s daughter,” he said. “In Paris. I’ll stay with her.” He hung up without waiting for a response.

Ian Barrett-Bone had gotten over the shock of nearly being gunned to death on a road outside of Paris. He and his employer were used to wielding money and threats of violence—and violence itself—to force people to do the most despicable things. Many of them sputtered and swore and promised to get even. But few did.

Jana was different, of course.

Barrett-Bone himself was motivated by money and thrill. He considered a desk job the purest of tortures.

But Jana? What drove her?

Idealism, he supposed. How childish a motive. How meddlesome.

Yet her appearance on that road outside Paris was a sharp reminder of the danger everyone was facing.

How many other deaths would occur—all because of the copper bracelet?

He watched as Charley rose from the bench. She took a long, final swig of the sparkling water and tossed its green plastic bottle in the trash, along with the heel of the bread. Then she thought better of it, retrieved the bread, crumpled it and offered the crumbs to pecking pigeons.

“She couldn’t be more American if she tried,” Barrett-Bone muttered to himself as he regarded the attractive woman with a measure of disgust.

He glanced at his Patek Phillippe wristwatch as he resumed following Middleton’s daughter from a discrete distance. He imagined she would continue to wander aimlessly, her guard down, defenses non-existent.

Felicia Kaminski, now conscious, and Pierre Crane sat side by side in the back row of the Mercedes van, their wrists cuffed together with plastic, their ankles tied to each other’s. The driver had managed to shackle them in seconds while Jana trained her gun at the two captives.

A double beep of a cell phone sounded. Jana answered. She spoke in a language Crane took to be Hindi. Then she spun to face the prisoners. “I have just learned,” she said in thickly accented English, “that you are not Charlotte Middleton.”

Felicia said nothing.

Jana barked at Crane. “Who is she?”

“I have no idea. I can ask her, but it will have to be in English. But I don’t think she speaks French.”

“You,” Jana said in halting English. “What your name is?”

“Felicia.”

Jana looked at Crane. “Is French,” she said in English.

“Is Polish,” he replied in French. He was going to mention her accent, but knew Jana couldn’t detect it, no more than he could distinguish between an Algerian or a Moroccan when they spoken French. “She may be his maid.”

“A maid who can fight.”

“I think she was defending herself. A lucky blow with the instrument. You have the wrong girl.”

Crane knew they were heading southeast.

“I think she’s a little off,” he added. “Incompetent. You know . . . ”

Felicia seemed to will herself not to stare at him, not to stomp his foot.

Jana had Crane’s gun in her lap.

“Let her go,” the reporter said.

The driver glanced at Jana.

“Let her go and I’ll help you.” Crane was after a story. He was after Jana. He had no quarrel with the young woman.

“How? How can you help me?”

“I’m searching for the Scorpion. And so are you. I know things about him. I saw your face when you noticed the men in the limo. You were disappointed neither of them was him.”

“Give me a fact. Something I can use.”

“And you’ll let her go?”

She stared at him. “Maybe I kill you
and
her,” Jana replied.

“Or maybe I help you and nobody dies.”

“Pay for one life. Yours or hers. Give me a fact.”

Crane thought for a moment. What would be dear to her yet not give too much away? “There’s a Dubai connection.”

“Dubai? What?”

“That’s all I’ll tell you for now. For my own protection.”

Jana debated. Then she turned to the driver and spoke in Arabic. “Dump her by the O2,” she said. “We keep him.”

Middleton stood on the driver’s side of his car, his head hung in frustration. The London address Jean-Marc Lespasse found on Kavi Balan’s computer was a mosque just south of Tufnell Park, a thriving neighborhood in North London populated by hundreds of Muslims and far, far fewer Hindus. The mosque had a noxious reputation its new, moderate leadership couldn’t quite erase: Before his conviction for murder and racial hatred, its previous imam advocated jihad with suicide bombing its primary form—no one seemed to doubt his involvement in the 7/7 attacks. Supporting al-Qaeda’s violent activities, it had offered training in assault weapons and served as a clearinghouse for untraceable telecommunications equipment.

“A ruse,” he said. “A joke.”

From the opposite side of the car, Tesla replied, “Not necessarily. Maybe someone here”—she nodded toward the mosque and the squat brick buildings that lined the street—“knows of an attack on the mosque. It might not be a dead end.”

“But it’s a lead that will take weeks of infiltrating to develop. We don’t have the time. Not with what’s going on.”

Tesla tugged on the car door, but it was locked. “You’re right. We need to strategize.”

Middleton dug into his pocket and tossed her the keys. “Take the car,” he said. He gestured in the direction of the Tufnell Park Underground station. “I’m going to Wigmore Hall to see Felicia. It was damned thoughtless of me to forget her recital. Lose the weapons and catch up with me, if you’d like. We can talk to Connie and Jean-Marc once they get settled in Tampa.”

Middleton emerged from the Underground at Oxford Circus, amused by how quick the trip had been, even with the transfer at Euston. He imagined Nora still on the 503 motorway, if traffic was lurching. By instinct, he checked his common cell phone first. One message from Felicia, probably chiding him for failing to remember her recital or his lack of interest in crossword puzzles, cryptograms and such. When he looked at his encrypted phone, he saw he had no messages—nothing from NATO, the French, Interpol or the ICC as a post-mortem on the Cap d’Antibes operation; nor from Charley, Nora, Jean-Marc, Connie or Wiki. As he crossed the park at Cavendish Square, he thought for a moment of Wetherby, the bright NATO officer who gave his life to help prevent another godless execution of innocents. To steel himself from grief, long ago Middleton learned to shift his thoughts quickly to the mission at hand: to complete it would honor the likes of young Wetherby. Sikari and fresh water. Devras Sikari had developed an interest in fresh water. What could it mean?

Middleton left the park and as he waited for black cabs to pass, he saw a crowd milling under the hall’s glass-and-filigreed-iron marquee. Ticket-holders, he assumed, waiting to enter. Not that he would’ve delayed: He loved the hall’s alabaster-and-marble walls, the painting in the cupola over the stage in which a figure representing the Soul of Music stared in awe at a fireball that stood for the Genius of Harmony. The Wigmore stage was an altar and the music represented an offering to the Heavens. For Middleton, music was mankind’s link to divinity. It was his respite, his relief from the ugly, banal truth of the world of anguish and hatred in which he found himself while pursuing the likes of Devras Sikari. Only watching Charley blossom had given him a feeling of contentment and transcendence as had the music he loved.

“Is there a problem?” he said to the first patron he saw, a middle-aged woman dressed against the threat of rain.

“They aren’t opening quite yet,” she replied, “but they haven’t said exactly why.”

Middleton thanked her and headed toward the artists’ entrance around the corner on Wimpole Street. He’d never known Felicia to be an overly demanding artist, so he assumed the problem was with the house. Perhaps the pianist had taken ill.

His encrypted phone rang, its call an old-fashioned American bell chime rather than an identifying ring tone like the Chopin he’d had on his other line.

“Harry,” Tesla said.

“Nora—”

“Harry, you’d better come home.”

Jean-Marc Lespasse caught up with Connie Carson on the concourse at Tampa International Airport. He smiled as he saw her volley, with a sweet smile, the attentions of one of the men who had tried to woo her on the flight from Nice through Paris. From his seat several rows behind her, Lespasse watched as one male passenger after another found a reason to approach her. Connie wasn’t the only appealing woman on the flight, but she glowed with that sort of naïve, fun-loving self-confidence men were drawn to like bees to bluebells. As was her way, she managed to tell each one to buzz off with so much charm that they hadn’t realized they’d been swatted.

“There you are!” she cheered as Lespasse approached.

The last man quickly withdrew and Carson lifted her bloated leather satchel, hoisting the strap on her shoulder. She hooked her arm in his and they strode off, the picture of a happy couple.

“Check your PDA?” she asked.

“So, I guess I’m the lucky fellow—”