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  Vanessa sat still, absorbing the wealth of new information. Sid had provided surprisingly detailed intel from another agency. And Europol was just as territorial as any other law enforcement and intelligence agency. She still felt grateful to Sid—but she definitely still felt wary. Call her paranoid . . .

  Sensing his rising curiosity, she nodded. “Thanks for this,” she said softly.

  Sid rubbed his temples, his eyes meeting hers, weirdly enlarged by the lenses. “Listen, Vanessa, Europol would love to pin no less than a dozen other hits on this shooter, if they could track him down. Definitely not someone you want on your trail.”

  Pauk settled back in the recliner as Lyon kicked off against Marseille on the condo owner’s massive flat-screen. From here, in the most recessed corner of the living room, he could still see the Russian’s penthouse clearly, and for the past three hours things had become very quiet.

  He sipped a can of mineral water through the first half of the game and the movement and the energy on-screen soothed him. He’d had word from his mentor—one more day to finish up this job and get off the island. There would be another job very soon.

  Pauk never questioned how his mentor knew so much—information came cheap, and everyone had his price. But he also knew, this time, they were working against the clock.

  Pauk would be busy for the next ten days, but then he would take time off. He could afford to vacation anywhere in the world. But he would probably spend his time with Madame Desmarais and les chats, enjoying fútbol. He found her company surprisingly tolerable.

  He pictured his mentor’s last text: this time leave no loose ends.

  Vanessa sprawled on her back on the weathered metal chaise longue on the rooftop patio, the dark heavens spilling out above Nicosia. At this liminal time between deep night and dawn, the neighborhood was mostly quiet. Even so, as minutes passed, night sounds rose up from the streets: tinny strands of music; a voice echoing, then gone; the faint rumble of an engine; the strangled songs of feral tomcats.

  She closed her eyes, kept them closed, letting the darkness blanket her mind.

  Gradually the shapes began to appear: oceans and seas and continents—filled in with the imagined stroke of brush, water, and pigment. Next came the mountain ranges, vast lakes, primary rivers; and finally the countries and major cities. Just as they did when she was a child, a military kid tagging after her big brother, tacking world maps to the prefab walls of her latest bedroom. And when she was tall enough, she tacked the maps over her bed, so she could lie back and stare up at the world.

  Friends made, friends left. Teachers. Rivals. Boyfriends. Mentors.

  But these days, her world, her life, was marked by terrorist activities and black-market weapons-procurement networks—names, players, events, locations, intel, operations—all etched to memory.

  Mentally she added the latest pins:

  Her Iranian asset murdered in Vienna.

  A Spanish arms dealer murdered in Barcelona.

  A dead Russian engineer suspected of spying for the Brits.

  A Dutch intelligence officer assassinated in Amsterdam.

  Whether or not her Chechen shooter was the ghost’s minion—and she was more and more certain he was—he was killing off players in the world of procurement.

  Suggesting Bhoot’s reach was very wide indeed.

  Vanessa pulled herself to sitting, and she wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly chilled. One more day and she’d have the protection team on Sergei.

  The muted, disembodied voice announced the imminent boarding of Lufthansa’s flight 2227 nonstop from Paris to Cairo as David Khoury set a crisp twenty-euro banknote on the kiosk counter.

  He felt the intensity of the clerk’s gaze and met it. Very young, very pretty. North African, he guessed—with a discreet faux-diamond piercing one dark brow.

  She smiled as she slid the red pack of Gauloises across the glass. “Vous avez des beaux yeux.”

  Pocketing the cigarettes, Khoury smiled back. He shrugged, feigning bemusement.

  With deliberate slowness, she counted out his change. Her slender hands made him think of Vanessa in Cairo—the heat and fierceness of her fingers against his bare skin. A memory defined by sharply perceptive desire and grief.

  He held his palm open, but the clerk kept him waiting. “Vous partez déjà?” Did he really have to leave now?

  He’d spent the past twenty-four hours in Paris, traveling as Canadian businessman Michael Aubuchon, tracking down a skittish French-Lebanese asset who traveled frequently to South Lebanon’s border district—the front line for the next war between Hezbollah and Israel. A war Khoury and many others believed would come soon.

  “Vous devez rester à Paris . . .” She placed her hands on her hips, her eyes brightly innocent.

  The second announcement of the Lufthansa flight’s imminent departure sounded smoothly above the general hum of Terminal One. Khoury slid his hand into the pocket of his gray slacks, encountering the edge of his boarding ticket—and with it, a realization.

  With an effort, he refocused on the girl. His look of regret was real but not meant for her. He couldn’t shake the image of Vanessa, her blue eyes turned almost black as she asked for his help. Eyes like faceted stones: from one angle, tough enough to cut glass; from another angle, fragile. She had a depth of vulnerability she couldn’t admit to herself.

  He found his voice, “La prochaine fois. I’m sorry, there is somewhere I have to be.”

  He stepped out of the kiosk, turning toward his gate, walking quickly now, with deliberate strides. The line of passengers inched forward, snaking toward the jet bridge. The flight would depart on time, and Khoury would make his first meeting at the embassy in Cairo.

  But only if he actually boarded.

  As he reached the gate, he hoisted his carry-on bag higher on his shoulder and kept walking. He would help Vanessa—and no doubt buy himself more trouble in the process. But the thought crossed his mind: Could he actually be in any more trouble than the shit that was already falling on him at Headquarters? So, what the hell, why not push back a bit and help out his lover, too? Which created a new problem: what excuse to give the Station when he didn’t return on his expected flight? Station management would be apoplectic if he simply failed to show on his scheduled flight.

  He needed to buy himself twenty-four hours . . .

  A ferocious case of twenty-four-hour flu?

  He moved quickly away from the gate toward the escalator and the RER, the commuter train that would take him to Gare du Nord and the Chunnel. With luck he would make London in less than three hours and Oxford in four.

  • • •

  A racy red Alpha darted past Khoury’s rented Mini Cooper on the M40 motorway, eighty kilometers of roadway from London to Oxford. On another day, he might feel very frustrated that he was stuck in his Mini, carrying out a thorough SDR. But today, his thoughts kept circling back to Vanessa and the risk she’d asked him to take. If her asset hadn’t been murdered in front of her, Khoury wouldn’t be headed to Oxford—Vanessa never would have crossed that line; he was sure of that. He pictured the flowing curves of the Middle Persian script of code covering the page now tucked into a paperback copy of Bitter Lemons of Cyprus by Lawrence Durrell. En route from Egypt to France and now England, he’d stored the paper in his shoe—between sole and insole—until he moved it thirty minutes ago in the privacy of the rental car. Middle Persian or Pahlavi, yes, and probably related to some archaic verse. But that was as far as Khoury could take it, so he was on his way to Oxford to meet with a man he thought might have an answer.

  His eyes cut to his rearview mirror, tracking vehicles. These days, he couldn’t shake the constant sense that he was being watched.

  Inside the small, dark lecture hall, Professor Shahrokh Mokri’s deep voice seemed to dance with the consonants and vowels of New Persian as he rea
d from the poet Rumi’s Masnavi-I Ma’navi.

  Khoury stood listening intently, watching from the back of the hall. Closing his eyes for a moment, he let Mokri and Rumi lead him to memories of childhood visits to Lebanon and hours at the beaches outside Beirut. The Mokris and Fadi and Sabah Khoury met while teaching in London in the 1980s. Neighbors in faculty housing, they remained friends, and, in 2000, when Mokri’s wife died, Khoury’s parents offered Mokri safe haven in their Boston area home. But Khoury hadn’t seen Mokri in at least three years, and he was startled by the obvious changes—too thin, his tall frame hunched at the shoulders.

  Mokri’s star had risen on both academic and literary horizons. When it came to speaking honestly about Iran, Mokri’s beloved homeland, he was as vocal with his criticism as with his praise. His outspokenness had earned him formidable enemies. Khoury knew about the death threats, the chatter on extremist websites, falling just shy of a full-out fatwa.

  Khoury gritted his teeth at the thought of asking Mokri for help. A flash of anger surfaced—at Vanessa for putting him at risk, yes, but also at himself for extending the danger on her behalf. He didn’t like that he was pulling a trusted family friend into his CIA world.

  The rising lights along with the rustle and hum of conversations in myriad languages drew Khoury back. With a bit of amazement, he watched the students gathering their books and papers—Indian, Chinese, African, female—not the old-boys’ club at all. A good handful of them clustered around their professor, waiting for their chance to ask questions.

  Khoury stood while exiting students streamed past him. Only one or two showed any curiosity at his presence, the rest caught up in their lives and their conversations. A line floated past him from the lips of a young Asian woman: “Rumi is and always will be the iconic Persian poet.”

  Mokri talked patiently with the students, never glancing up from the front of the hall. Teaching was an honorable profession—but Mokri’s brilliance was wasted on these students, Khoury thought.

  Finally, the last of the students were clearing out. Mokri gathered up his briefcase, and Khoury readied himself to intercept his old acquaintance.

  A young Indian man chose Khoury’s aisle to exit the hall. As he passed Khoury, he glanced up briefly, handing him a folded paper.

  Khoury’s eyebrows rose slightly. But then he turned and followed the boy out, opening the single page in dappled sunlight: 30 minutes, north bank, Folly Bridge.

  Khoury arrived first, highly alert, his affect belied by the casual way he pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and slouched a bit beneath a dark brown baseball cap and behind aviator sunglasses.

  In February and May, this stretch of the River Thames, known as the Isis, would be filled with college rowing crews competing in the two annual regattas. Now the boathouses were fairly quiet, and strollers and joggers on both the north and south bank seemed to have agreed on a somewhat lazy pace. Khoury paid particular attention to a very British-looking mum pushing a pram in his direction and a bird watcher on the opposite bank. Both he and Mokri were potential targets for surveillance.

  Restless after thirty-five minutes, Khoury felt a rush of relief when Mokri emerged from between the elms lining a narrow side trail. The men did not greet each other. Instead, Mokri turned away from the bridge, following the path upriver, his gait slow enough to allow Khoury to catch up with ease.

  They continued, side by side, Khoury watchful and sensing Mokri’s constant vigilance. No sign of the bird watcher or the mum or anyone else particularly suspicious. But Khoury startled when a large bird took flight from its nest at the edge of the Isis.

  As it disappeared in flight over the trees, Mokri spoke softly. “How are your mother and father? Sadeeqy Fadi? And Sabah?”

  “They are well. They speak of you often. Salam Agha-ye Mokri.” Khoury pressed his palms together, offering the Farsi saying of hospitality, “Ghadamet rooyeh cheshm.”

  “Khayli mamnoon.” Mokri smiled. “Your mother still receives grants and support for her elegant poetry?”

  “Yes. She just received word that she has been nominated for the Witter Bynner Fellowships.” Khoury knew that Mokri admired his mother a great deal. In fact, although the scholar would never admit to himself such improper feelings, Khoury believed the professor had always been a little bit in love with Sabah.

  “I dream often of her kibbet batata.” Mokri’s eyes twinkled and, for a moment, he looked much as Khoury remembered him from so many years ago. “And her baklava . . .”

  “She makes her kibbet batata often on Fridays. A wise day to visit.”

  “It is good to see you, Dawood,” Mokri said, calling Khoury by his Arabic given name. “But you do not look happy.”

  “I need to ask for your help.”

  “And this is the source of your unhappiness?” Mokri’s graying eyebrows arched quizzically.

  Khoury met his gaze intently. “This is not official. It’s a favor.”

  “I am always happy to return a favor. I am eternally indebted to your family.”

  “It is a very dangerous favor I am asking, Agha-ye Mokri.” Khoury’s eyes flicked over the runner approaching on their side of the river: worn running shoes, sweatpants, All Souls T-shirt. As the man passed, Khoury could hear the clean, strong rhythm of his breathing. “I know about the death threats. I know you are in a very sensitive position, a guest in England . . .”

  Mokri veered slowly toward a bench sheltered beneath the limbs of a weeping willow. He sat, and Khoury joined him. A man on the south bank was leash-walking a nervous, gangling spaniel, both of them tangled together at the moment.

  “That will never stop me from helping dear friends,” Mokri said.

  Khoury felt another twinge of anger as he placed the paperback copy of Bitter Lemons of Cyprus between them on the bench. Mokri looked straight ahead, not even glancing at the book’s cover. “A few years back, if I remember correctly, there was a special young woman. Are you still seeing her?”

  Khoury frowned, hesitating too long. Remembering suddenly how his mother had often teased the professor about his sixth sense. “Yes,” he said finally. “We see each other when we can.”

  Mokri, in his silence, seemed to understand more than he should.

  Khoury’s eyes followed the man and the dog as they moved out of sight.

  “So what are you leaving me?” Mokri asked finally.

  “An inscription. Middle or classical Persian.”

  “From?”

  Khoury smiled ruefully, shrugging his shoulders. “I thought you might be able to help answer that question.”

  “A puzzle, then,” Mokri said. “I do enjoy puzzles.” He smiled, and his face transformed for that instant, back to a better time. “You remember your lessons well, young Dawood.”

  Khoury trapped his lower lip between his teeth. He owned a certain fatalism about the risk he was taking on—a fatalism he’d come to believe might be part of the DNA of all Middle Eastern people. But honor made it impossible to put Mokri at risk without sufficient warning. “If anyone were to find out about this—if it gets into the wrong hands—”

  “I’ve learned my lessons, too, Dawood, and I understand the risks,” Mokri said, turning his face away. “Give me one day at least.” Mokri’s voice was almost inaudible now. “Where can I safely reach you?”

  “A number, page one hundred seventy-seven.” Khoury stood, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. Just before he turned to walk away, he said, “Be careful, my friend.”

  “Enshallah.” Mokri’s smile made Khoury ache.

  On the south bank, Harring, walking his wife’s cocker spaniel pup, stubbed out his cigarette with care. Rita, his seven-year-old daughter, would bite his head off if she knew he smoked. But much worse would be littering!

  At least Churchill had gotten over his puppy diarrhea. Harring was sick of taking jabs from his
fellow spooks at Thames House.

  He raised his tiny camera again, zooming in to photograph both men a final time. Identifying the professor was no problem. He had a massive archive on the old man—just two weeks ago there had been a flurry of new death threats against Great Britain’s honored Iranian guest.

  But the other, younger man—Middle Eastern, early thirties, tall, slender; Harring had jotted the descriptors in his notebook. Still, all his shots had more hat, shades, and five-o’clock shadows than anything helpful. But one shot had been halfway decent—the younger man just beginning to walk away and the book he’d left behind on the bench. In his line of work, Harring had quickly learned, a book is never just a book.

  • • •

  Late that afternoon, Harring ran the photograph through the surveillance database and discovered the match—the man photographed with Mokri was David Khoury, Lebanese American, a credited third secretary at the U.S. embassy in Cairo. He was also suspected CIA.

  Within an hour, Harring had discovered that Mokri and Khoury had crossed paths before, in Beirut and in Boston, where Mokri stayed as a guest of Khoury’s parents. So they had multiple, mundane connections. But why was Mokri meeting with suspected CIA now?

  And they did pass a book.

  And the body language was just a bit off . . .

  Adding up to enough so he flagged the file and made certain his Director-General—Alexandra Hall—had it on her desk.

  Grateful for the baseball hat shading her face from Nicosia’s strong midday sun, Vanessa jogged in place at a street corner until a car cleared the intersection. Only minutes into her half-hour run, she was already dripping with sweat. The car passed, and she launched into her run again, setting her sights on the top of the next hill, accessed by a narrow street in an old residential neighborhood. As she matched her breath with the rhythm of her feet hitting flagstone, she picked out small details from the private homes, each butting up against the next so they seemed to form one solid wall of pastel rainbows. It was a lovely street on one of her favorite running routes—a route she didn’t repeat often. But today she couldn’t find the usual pleasure, because her mind was caught up with Sergei and the sense that he would call very soon. How crazy would he be today?