Long Lost

22

THIRSTY.

Sand in the throat. Eyes won't open. Or maybe they do.

Total darkness.

Engine roar. I sense someone standing over me.

"Terese…"

I think I say it out loud, but I'm not sure.

NEXT snippet of memory: voices.

They seem very far away. I don't understand any of the words. Sounds, that's all. Something angry. It gets closer. Louder. In my ear now.

My eyes open. I see white.

The voice keeps repeating the same thing over and over.

Sounds like "Al-sabr wal-sayf."

I don't understand. Gibberish maybe. Or a foreign language. I don't know.

"Al-sabr wal-sayf."

Someone is shouting in my ear. My eyes squeeze shut. I want it to stop.

"Al-sabr wal-sayf."

The voice is angry, incessant. I think I say I'm sorry.

"He doesn't understand," someone says.

Silence.

PAIN in my side.

"Terese…," I say again.

No reply.

Where am I?

I hear a voice again, but I can't understand what it's saying.

Feel alone, isolated. I'm lying down. I think I'm shaking.

"LET me explain the situation to you."

I still can't move. I try to open my mouth, but I can't. Open my eyes. Blurry. Feels like my entire head is wrapped in thick, sticky cobwebs. I try to scrape the cobwebs away. They stay.

"You used to work for the government, didn't you?"

Is the voice talking to me? I nod but stay very still.

"Then you know places like this exist. That they've always existed. You heard the rumors, at the very least."

I never believed the rumors. Maybe after 9/11. But not before. I think I say no but that might just be in my head.

"Nobody knows where you are. Nobody will find you. We can keep you forever. We can kill you any time we please. Or we can let you go."

Fingers around my bicep. More fingers around my wrist. Struggle but pointless. Feel a pinch in my arm. I can't move. Can't stop it. I remember when I was six my dad took me to the Kiwanis carnival on Northfield Avenue. Cheesy rides and attractions. The Madhouse. That was the name of one. Mirrors and giant clown heads and a horrible laugh track. Went in alone. I was a big boy, after all. Got lost and turned around and couldn't find my way out. One of those clown heads jumped out at me. I started to cry. I spun around. Another giant clown head was right there, mocking me.

That was what this felt like.

I cried and spun around again. I called for my dad. He shouted my name, ran inside, knocked through a thin wall, found me, and made it okay.

Dad, I think. Dad will find me. Any second now.

But no one comes.

"HOW do you know Rick Collins?"

I tell the truth. Again. So exhausted.

"And how do you know Mohammad Matar?"

"I don't know who that is."

"You tried to kill him in Paris. Then you killed him before we grabbed you in London. Who sent you to kill him?"

"Nobody. He attacked me."

I explain. Then something horrible happens to me, but I don't know what it is.

I am walking. My hands are tied behind my back. Can't see much, just small dots of light. A hand on either shoulder. They roughly pull me down.

Lying on my back.

Legs bound together. Belt tightened across my chest. Body lassoed to hard surface.

Can't move at all.

Suddenly the dots of light are gone. I think I scream. I may be upside down. I'm not sure.

A giant, wet hand covers my face. Grabs my nose. Covers my mouth.

Can't breathe. Try to flail. Arms tied. Legs bound.

Can't move. Someone is holding my head. Can't even turn it. The hand presses down harder on my face. No air.

Panic. I'm being smothered.

Try to inhale. My mouth opens. Inhale. Must inhale. Can't. Water fills my throat and runs up my nose.

I choke. Lungs burning. About to burst. Muscles screaming. Must move. Can't. No escape.

No air.

Dying.

I hear someone weeping and realize the sound is coming from me.

Sudden searing pain.

My back arches. My eyes bulge. I scream.

"Oh God, please…"

The voice is my own, but I don't recognize it. So weak. I am so damned weak.

"WE have some questions for you."

"Please. I answered them."

"We have more."

"And then I can go?"

The voice is pleading.

"It's pretty much your only hope."

I startle awake to a bright light in my face.

I blink. Heart racing. Can't catch my breath. Don't know where I am. My mind travels back. What is the last thing I remember? Putting the gun under the bastard's chin and pulling the trigger.

Something else is there, in the corner of my brain, just out of reach. A dream maybe. You know the feeling-you wake up and the nightmare is so damn vivid but even as you try to recall, you can feel the memory dissipating, like rising smoke. That is what is happening with me now. I try to hold on to the images, but they're fading away.

"Myron?"

The voice is calm, modulated. I am afraid of the voice. I cringe. I feel horrible shame, though I'm not sure why.

My voice sounds meek in my own ears. "Yes?"

"You'll forget most of this anyway. That's for the best. No one will believe you-and even if they do, we can't be found. You don't know where we are. You don't know what we look like. And remember: We can do this again. We can grab you anytime we want. And not just you. Your family. Your mother and father down in Miami. Your brother in South America. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Just let it go. You'll be fine if you do, okay?"

I nod. My eyes roll back. I slip back into the dark.

23

I woke up scared.

That wasn't like me. My heart raced. Panic seized my chest, making it hard to breathe. All of this before I even opened my eyes.

When my eyes finally did blink open-when I looked across the room-I felt the heart rate slow and the panic ease. Esperanza sat in a chair concentrating on her iPhone. Her fingers danced across the letters; she was working no doubt with one of our clients. I like our business, but she loves it.

I watched her for a moment because the familiar sight was so damn comforting. Esperanza wore a white blouse under her gray business suit, hoop earrings, her blue-black hair tucked behind her ear. The window shade behind her was open. I could see that it was night.

"What client are you dealing with?" I asked.

Her eyes widened at the sound of my voice. She dropped the iPhone onto the table and rushed to my side. "Oh my God, Myron. Oh my God…"

"What, am I dying?"

"No, why?"

"The way you rushed over. You usually move much slower."

She started crying and kissed my cheek. Esperanza never cried.

"Oh, I must be dying."

"Don't be a jackass," she said, wiping the tears off her cheek. She hugged me. "Wait, no, be a jackass. Be your wonderful jackass self."

I looked over her shoulder. I was in your basic standard-issue hospital room. "How long have you been sitting there?" I asked.

"Not long," Esperanza said, still holding me. "What do you remember?"

I thought about it. Karen and Terese being shot. The guy who killed them. Me killing him. I swallowed and braced myself. "How is Terese?"

Esperanza stood upright and released me. "I don't know."

Not the answer I was expecting. "How can you not know?"

"It's a little hard to explain. What's the last thing you remember?"

I concentrated. "My last clear memory," I said, "was killing the bastard who shot Terese and Karen. Then a bunch of guys jumped on me."

She nodded.

"I was shot too, wasn't I?"

"Yes."

That explained the hospital.

Esperanza leaned back into my ear in and whispered, "Okay, listen to me for a second. If that door opens, if a nurse comes in or anything, don't say anything in front of her. Do you understand?"

"No."

"Win's orders. Just do it, okay?"

"Okay." Then I said, "You flew to London to be with me?"

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"Trust me, okay? Just take your time. What else do you remember?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing between the time you got shot and now?"

"Where is Terese?"

"I already told you. I don't know."

"That makes no sense. How can you not know?"

"It's a long story."

"How about sharing it with me?"

Esperanza looked at me with her green eyes. I didn't like what I saw there.

I tried to sit up. "How long have I been unconscious?"

"I don't know that either."

"Again I repeat: How can you not know?"

"For one thing, you're not in London."

That made me pause. I looked around the hospital room as if that would give me the answer. It did. My blanket had a logo on it and the words: NEW YORK-PRESBYTERIAN MEDICAL CENTER.

This couldn't be.

"I'm in Manhattan?"

"Yes."

"I was flown back?"

She said nothing.

"Esperanza?"

"I don't know."

"Well, how long have I been in this hospital?"

"A few hours maybe, but I can't be sure."

"You're not making any sense."

"I don't quite get it either, okay? Two hours ago, I got a call that you were here."

My brain felt fuzzy-and her explanations weren't helping. "Two hours ago?"

"Yes."

"And before that?"

"Before that call," Esperanza said, "we didn't have any idea where you were."

"When you say 'we'-"

"Me, Win, your parents-"

"My parents?"

"Don't worry. We lied to them. Told them you were in an area of Africa with spotty phone service."

"None of you knew where I was?"

"That's right."

"For how long?" I asked.

She just looked at me.

"For how long, Esperanza?"

"Sixteen days."

I just lay there. Sixteen days. I had been out for sixteen days. When I tried to remember, my heart started racing. I felt panic.

"Just let it go…"

"Myron?"

"I remember getting arrested."

"Okay."

"Are you telling me that was sixteen days ago?"

"Yes."

"You contacted the British police?"

"They didn't know where you were either."

I had a million questions, but the door opened, interrupting us. Esperanza shot me a warning glance. I stayed silent. A nurse walked in, saying, "Well, well, you're awake."

Before the door could swing closed, someone else pushed it open.

My dad.

Something akin to relief washed over me at the sight of this admittedly old man. He was out of breath, no doubt from running to see his son. Mom came in behind him. My mother has this way of always rushing at me, even during the most routine visit, as if I were a recently released POW. She did it again this time, knocking the nurse out of the way. I used to roll my eyes when she did it, though I would be secretly pleased. I didn't roll my eyes this time.

"I'm okay, Mom. Really."

My father hung back for a moment, as was his way. His eyes were wet and red. I looked at his face. He knew. He hadn't bought the story about Africa with no phone service. He had probably helped peddle it to Mom. But he knew.

"You're so skinny," Mom said. "Didn't they feed you anything there?"

"Leave him alone," Dad said. "He looks fine."

"He doesn't look fine. He looks skinny. And pale. Why are you in a hospital bed?"

"I told you," Dad said. "Didn't you hear me, Ellen? Food poisoning. He's going to be fine, some kind of dysentery."

"Why were you in Sierra Madre anyway?"

" Sierra Leone," Dad corrected.

"I thought it was Sierra Madre."

"You're thinking of the movie."

"I remember. With Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hep-burn."

"That was The African Queen."

"Ohhh," Mom said, now understanding the confusion.

Mom let go of me. Dad moved over, smoothed my hair off my forehead, kissed my cheek. The rough skin from his beard rubbed against me. The comforting smell of Old Spice lingered in the air.

"You okay?" he asked.

I nodded. He looked skeptical.

They both suddenly looked so old. That was how it was, wasn't it? When you don't see a child for even a little while, you marvel at how much they've grown. When you don't see an old person for even a little while, you marvel at how much they've aged. It happened every time. When did my robust parents cross that line? Mom had the shakes from Parkinson's. It was getting bad. Her mind, always a tad eccentric, was slipping somewhere more troubling. Dad was in relatively good health, a few minor heart scares, but they both looked so damn old.

"Your mother and father down in Miami…"

My chest started to hitch. I was having trouble breathing again.

Dad said, "Myron?"

"I'm fine."

The nurse pushed through now. My parents stepped to the side. She put a thermometer in my mouth, started checking my pulse. "It's after visiting hours," she said. "You'll all have to go now."

I didn't want them to go. I didn't want to be alone. Terror gripped me, and I felt great shame. I forced up a smile as she took out the thermometer and said with a little too much cheer, "Get some sleep, okay? I'll see you all in the morning."

I met my father's eye. Still skeptical. He whispered something to Esperanza. She nodded and escorted my mother from the room. My mother and Esperanza left. The nurse turned back at the door.

"Sir," she said to my father, "you'll have to leave."

"I want to be alone with my son for a minute."

She hesitated. Then: "You have two minutes."

We were alone now.

"What happened to you?" Dad asked.

"I don't know," I said.

He nodded. He pulled the chair close to the bed and held my hand.

"You didn't believe that I was in Africa?"

"No."

"And Mom?"

"I would tell her you called when she was out."

"She bought that?"

He shrugged. "I never lied to her before so, yes, she bought it. Your mother isn't as sharp as she once was."

I said nothing. The nurse came in. "You have to leave now."

"No," my father said.

"Please don't make me call security."

I could feel the panic start up in my chest. "It's okay, Dad. I'm fine. Get some sleep."

He looked at me for a moment and turned to the nurse. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

" Regina."

" Regina what?"

" Regina Monte."

"My name is Al, Regina. Al Bolitar. Do you have any children?"

"Two daughters."

"This is my son, Regina. You can call security if you want. But I'm not leaving my son alone."

I wanted to protest, but then again I didn't. The nurse turned and left. She didn't call security. My father stayed all night in that chair next to my bed. He refilled my water cup and adjusted my blanket. When I cried out in my sleep, he shushed me and stroked my forehead and told me that everything would be okay-and for a few seconds, I believed him.

24

WIN called first thing in the morning.

"Go to work," Win said. "Ask no questions."

Then he hung up. Sometimes Win really pisses me off.

My father ran down to a bagel store across the street because the hospital breakfast resembled something monkeys fling at you in a zoo. The doctor stopped by while he was gone and gave me a clean bill of health. Yes, I had indeed been shot. The bullet had passed through my right side, above the hip. But it had been properly treated.

"Would it have required a sixteen-day hospital stay?" I asked.

The doctor looked at me funny, at the fact that I had just sort of shown up at the hospital unconscious, a gunshot-wound victim, now mumbling about sixteen days-and I'm sure he was sizing me up for a psych visit.

"Hypothetically speaking," I quickly added, remembering Win's warning. Then I stopped asking questions and started nodding a lot.

Dad stayed with me through checkout. Esperanza had left my suit in the closet. I put it on and felt physically pretty good. I wanted to hire a taxi, but Dad insisted on driving. He used to be a great driver. In my childhood he would have that easy way about him on the road, whistling softly with the radio, steering with his wrists. Now the radio stayed off. He squinted at the road and hit the brake a lot more.

When we got to the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue-again Win's full name is Windsor Horne Lockwood III, so you do the math-Dad said, "You want me to just drop you off?"

Sometimes my father leaves me awestruck. Fatherhood is about balance, but how can one man do it so well, so effortlessly? Throughout my life he pushed me to excel without ever crossing the line. He reveled in my accomplishments yet never made them seem to be all that important. He loved without condition, yet he still made me want to please him. He knew, like now, when to be there, and when it was time to back off.

"I'll be okay."

He nodded. I kissed the rough skin on his cheek again, noticing the sag now, and got out of the car. The elevator opens up directly into my office. Big Cyndi was at her desk, wearing something that looked like it'd been ripped off Bette Davis after shooting the climactic beach scene in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? There were pigtails in her hair. Big Cyndi is, well, big-as I said before, north of six five and three hundred pounds-everywhere. She has big hands and big feet and a big head. The furniture around her always looks like Toys "R" Us specials built for toddlers, an almost Alice-in-Wonderland effect where the room and all its belongings seem to shrink around her.

She rose when she saw me, nearly toppling her own desk, and exclaimed, "Mr. Bolitar!"

"Hey, Big Cyndi."

She gets mad when I call her "Cyndi" or, uh, "Big." She insists on formalities. I am Mr. Bolitar. She is Big Cyndi, which, by the way, is her real name. She had it legally changed more than a decade ago.

Big Cyndi crossed the room with an agility that belied the bulk. She wrapped me in an embrace that made me feel as if I'd been mummified in wet attic insulation. In a good way.

"Oh, Mr. Bolitar!"

She started sniffling, a sound that brought images of moose mating on the Discovery Channel.

"I'm fine, Big Cyndi."

"But someone shot you!"

Her voice changed depending on her mood. When she first worked here, Big Cyndi didn't talk, preferring to growl. Clients complained, but not to her face and usually anonymously. Right now Big Cyndi's pitch was high and little-girlish, which frankly was a hell of a lot scarier than any growl.

"I shot him worse," I said.

She let go of me and giggled, covering her mouth with a hand the approximate size of a truck tire. The giggling echoed through the room, and all over the tristate area, small children were reaching up and grabbing their mommies' hands.

Esperanza came to the door. Back in the day, Esperanza and Big Cyndi had been tag-team wrestling partners for FLOW, the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling. The federation had originally wanted to call themselves "Beautiful" instead of "Fabulous" but the network balked at the ensuing acronym.

Esperanza, with her dark skin and looks that could best be described-as they often were by the panting wrestling announcers-as "succulent," played Little Pocahontas, the lithe beauty who was winning on skill before the bad guys would cheat and take advantage of her. Big Cyndi was her partner, Big Chief Mama, who rescued her so that they could, together and with the roar of the crowd, vanquish the scantily clad and implant-enhanced evildoers.

Entertaining stuff.

"We got work," Esperanza said, "and lots of it."

Our space was fairly small. We had this foyer and two offices, one for me, one for Esperanza. Esperanza had started here as my assistant or secretary or whatever the politically correct term for Girl Friday is. She'd gone to law school at night and taken over as a full partner right around the time I freaked out and ran away with Terese to that island.

"What did you tell the clients?" I asked.

"You were in a car accident overseas."

I nodded. We headed into her office. The business was a bit in shambles after my most recent disappearance. There were calls to be made. I made them. We kept most of the clients, almost all, but there were a few who did not like the fact that they could not reach their agent for more than two weeks. I understood. This is a personal business. It involves a lot of hand-holding and ego stroking. Every client needs to feel as if they are the only one-part of the illusion. When you're not there, even if the reasons are justified, the illusion vanishes.

I wanted to ask about Terese and Win and a million things, but I remembered the call from this morning. I worked. I just worked and I confess that it was therapeutic. I felt jittery and anxious for reasons I can't quite explain. I even bit my nails, something I hadn't done since I was in the fourth grade, and searched my body for scabs I could pick. Work somehow helped.

When I had a break, I did some Web searches for "Terese Collins" and "Rick Collins" and " Karen Tower." First I did all three names. Nothing came up. Then I tried Terese alone. Very little, all of it old from her days at CNN. Someone still kept a Web site about "Terese the AnchorBabe," complete with images, mostly head shots and video grabs from news shows, but it hadn't been updated in three years.

Then I tried Google Newsing Rick and Karen.

I'd expected to find little, maybe an obituary, but that wasn't the case. There was plenty, albeit most of it from papers in the United Kingdom. The news somehow shocked me and yet it all made bizarre sense:

REPORTER AND WIFE MURDERED BY TERRORISTS

Cell Broken Up, Killed in Wild Shoot-out

I started reading. Esperanza came to my door. "Myron?"

I held up a finger asking for a moment.

She came around my desk and saw what I was doing. She sighed and sat.

"You knew about this?" I asked.

"Of course."

According to the articles, "special forces working on international terrorism" engaged and "eliminated" legendary terrorist Mohammad Matar, aka "Doctor Death." Mohammad Matar had been born in Egypt but raised in the finest schools in Europe, including Spain (thus the name, combining the Islamic first name with a last name that meant "death" in Spanish), and was indeed a medical doctor who'd done his training in the United States. The special forces also killed at least three other men in his cell-two in London, one in Paris.

There was a photograph of Matar. It was the same mug shot that Berleand had sent me. I looked at the man I had, to use the journalistic term, eliminated.

The articles further noted that news producer Rick Collins had gotten close to the cell, trying to infiltrate and expose it, when his identity was breached. Matar and his "henchmen" murdered Collins in Paris. Matar slipped through a French dragnet (though apparently one of his men was killed in it), made his way to London and tried to clean up all evidence of his cell and his "fiendish terrorist plot" by killing Rick Collins's longtime production partner Mario Contuzzi and Collins's wife, Karen Tower. It was there, in the home Collins and Tower shared, that Mohammad Matar and two members of his cell met their demise.

I looked up at Esperanza. "Terrorists?"

She nodded.

"So that explains why Interpol freaked out when we showed them the picture."

"Yes."

"So where's Terese?"

"No one knows."

I sat back, tried to process that. "It says government agents killed the terrorists."

"Yep."

"Except they didn't."

"True. You did."

"And Win."

"Right."

"But they left our names out of it."

"Yes."

I thought about the sixteen days, about Terese, about the blood tests, about the blond girl. "What the hell is going on?"

"Don't know about the details," she said. "Didn't really care."

"Why not?"

Esperanza shook her head. "You can be such a dope sometimes."

I waited.

"You were shot. Win saw that. And for more than two weeks we had absolutely no idea where you were-if you were alive or dead or anything."

I couldn't help it. I grinned.

"Stop grinning like an idiot."

"You were worried about me."

"I was worried about my business interest."

"You like me."

"You're a pain in the ass."

"I still don't get it," I said, and the grin slid off my face. "How can I not remember where I was?"

"Just let it go…"

My hands started shaking. I looked down at them, tried to make them stop. They wouldn't. Esperanza was looking too.

"You tell me," she said. "What do you remember?"

My leg started twitching. I felt something catch in my chest. Panic began to set in.

"You okay?"

"I could use some water," I said.

She hurried out and came back with a cup. I drank it slowly, almost afraid I would choke. I looked at my hands. The quake. I couldn't make it stop. What the hell was wrong with me?

"Myron?"

"I'm fine," I said. "So what now?"

"We have clients who need our help."

I looked at her.

She sighed. "We thought you might need time."

"For?"

"To recover."

"From what? I'm fine."

"Yeah, you look great. That shake is a terrific addition. And don't get me started on your new facial tic. Trés sexy."

"I don't need time, Esperanza."

"Yeah, you do."

"Terese is missing."

"Or dead."

"You trying to shock me?"

She shrugged.

"And if she's dead, I still need to find her daughter."

"Not in your condition."

"Yeah, Esperanza, in my condition."

She said nothing.

"What is it?"

"I don't think you're ready."

"Not your call."

She thought about that. "I guess not."

"So?"

"So I have some stuff on the doctor Collins saw about Huntington's disease and that angel charity."

"Like?"

"It can wait. If you're really serious about this, if you're really ready, you need to call this number on this phone."

She handed me a cell phone and left the room, closing the door behind her. I stared at the phone number. Unfamiliar, but I wouldn't have expected anything else. I put in the digits and pressed Send.

Two rings later, I heard a familiar voice say, "Welcome back from the dead, my friend. Let's meet in person at a secret locale. We have much to discuss, I'm afraid."

It was Berleand.

25

BERLEAND'S "secret locale" was an address in the Bronx.

The street was a pit, the location a dive. I checked the address again, but there was no mistake. It was a strip joint called, according to the sign, UPSCALE PLEASURES, though to my eye the establishment appeared to be neither. A smaller sign written in neon script noted that it was a CLASSY GENTLEMEN'S LOUNGE. The term "classy" here is not so much an oxymoron as an irrelevance. "Classy strip club" is a bit like saying "good toupee." It might be good, it might be bad-it's still a toupee.

The room was dark and windowless so that noontime, which was when I arrived, looked the same as midnight.

A large black man with a shaved head asked, "May I help you?"

"I'm looking for a Frenchman in his midfifties."

He folded his arms across his chest. "That's Tuesdays," he said.

"No, I mean-"

"I know what you mean." He stifled the smile and pointed a beefy arm tattooed with a green D toward the dance floor. I expected Berleand to be in a quiet shadowy corner, but no, there he was by the stage, front and center, eyes up and focused on the, uh, talent.

"Is that your Frenchman over there?"

"It is."

The bouncer turned back to me. His name tag said ANTHONY. I shrugged. He looked through me.

"Anything else I can do for you?" he asked.

"You can tell me I don't look like the type of guy who'd come to a place like this, especially during the daytime."

Anthony grinned. "You know what type of guy doesn't come to a place like this, especially during the daytime?"

I waited.

"Blind guys."

He walked away. I made my way toward Berleand and the bar. The soundtrack blasted Beyoncé singing to her boyfriend that he must not know about her, that she could have another man in a minute, that he was replaceable. This indignation was kind of silly. You're Beyoncé, for crying out loud. You're gorgeous, you're famous, you're rich, you're buying your boyfriend expensive cars and clothes. Gee, yeah, it will be impossible for you to land another guy. Girl power.

The topless dancer onstage had moves that I would describe as "languid" if she dialed it up several notches. Her bored expression made me think she was watching C-SPAN 2, the pole not so much a tool of the dance trade as something that kept her upright. I don't want to sound prudish, but I don't quite get the appeal of topless places. They simply don't do it for me. It isn't that the women are unappealing-some are, some aren't. I discussed this once with Win, always a mistake when it comes to anything involving the opposite sex, and concluded that I can't quite buy into the fantasy. It may be a weakness in my character but I need to believe that the lady is really, truly into me. Win could care less, of course. I do get the merely physical, but my ego doesn't like sexual encounters to be mixed with commerce, resentment, and class warfare.

Label me old-fashioned.

Berleand wore his shiny gray Members Only jacket. He kept pushing his dorky glasses up and smiling up at the bored dancer. I sat next to him. He turned, did his hand-rub-wash thing, and studied me for a moment.

"You look terrible," he said.

"Yeah," I said, "but you look great. New moisturizer?"

He tossed back a few beer nuts.

"So this is your secret locale?"

He shrugged.

"Why here?" Then, thinking about it: "Wait, I get it. Because it's so off the radar, right?"

"That," Berleand agreed, "and I like looking at naked women."

He turned back to the dancer. I'd already had enough.

"Is Terese alive?" I asked.

"I don't know."

We sat there. I started chewing a fingernail.

"You warned me," I said. "You said it was more than I could handle."

He watched the dancer.

"I should have listened."

"It wouldn't have mattered. They would have killed Karen Tower and Mario Contuzzi anyway."

"But not Terese."

"You, at least, put a stop to it. It was their screwup, not yours."

"Whose screwup?"

"Well, mine in part." Berleand took off the too-big glasses and rubbed his face. "We go by many names. Homeland Security is probably the most well-known. As you may have surmised, I am a French liaison working for what your government termed the war on terror. The British equivalent should have been watching closer."

The busty waitress came over wearing a neckline that plunged to somewhere just above her knee. "Want some champagne?"

"That's not champagne," Berleand said to her.

"Huh?"

"It's from California."

"So?"

" Champagne can only be French. You see, Champagne is a place, not merely a beverage. That bottle in your hand is what those who lack taste buds dub 'sparkling wine.' "

She rolled her eyes. "Want some sparkling wine?"

"My dear, that stuff shouldn't be used as a gargle for a dog." He held up his empty glass. "Please get me another tremendously watered-down whiskey." He turned to me. "Myron?"

I didn't think they would have Yoo-hoo here. "Diet Coke." When she sauntered away, I said, "So what's going on?"

"As far as my people go, the case is over. Rick Collins stumbled across a terrorist plot. He was murdered in Paris by the terrorists. They killed two more people connected with Collins in London -before being killed themselves. By you, no less."

"I didn't see my name in any of the papers."

"Were you looking for credit?"

"Hardly. But I do wonder why they kept my name out."

"Think about it."

The waitress came back. "Korbel calls it champagne, Mr. Smarty Pants. And they're from California."

"Korbel should call it septic-tank droppings. That would be closer to the truth."

She dropped our drinks down and went away.

"Government forces aren't trying to hog the credit," he said. "There are two reasons to leave your name out. First off, your safety. From what I understand, Mohammad Matar made it personal with you. You took out one of his men in Paris. He wanted to make you watch Karen Tower and Terese Collins die-before killing you. If it somehow gets out that you killed Dr. Death, there are people who will seek retribution on you and your family." Berleand smiled at the dancer and held his palm out toward me. "Do you have any singles?"

I dug into my wallet. "And the second reason?"

"If you weren't there-if you weren't at the scene of the killings in London-then the government doesn't have to explain where you've been for the past two-plus weeks."

The antsy feeling came back. I shook my leg, looked around, wanted to get up. Berleand just watched me.

I said, "Do you know where I've been?"

"I have an idea, yes. So do you."

I shook my head. "I don't."

"You have absolutely no memory of the past two weeks?"

I said nothing. My chest tightened. I found it hard to catch my breath. I grabbed my Diet Coke and started taking little sips.

"You're shaking," he said.

"So?"

"Last night. Did you have bad dreams? Nightmares?"

"Of course. I was in a hospital. Why?"

"Do you know what twilight sleep is?"

I thought about it. "Doesn't it have something to do with pregnancy?"

"Childbirth actually. It was quite popular in the fifties and sixties. The theory was, why should a mother have to suffer through the horrible pain of childbirth? So they would give the mother a combination of morphine and scopolamine. In some cases it would knock the mother out. Other times-the end goal-the morphine would lessen the pain while the combination would make it so she didn't remember. Medical amnesia-or twilight sleep. The practice was stopped because, one, the babies would often come out in something of a drug stupor, and two, there was the whole experience-the-moment movement. I don't get that second one exactly, but I'm not a woman."

"Is there a point?"

"There is. That was way back in the fifties or sixties. More than half a century ago. Now we have other drugs and we've had lots of time to fiddle with them. Imagine the tool if we could perfect what they were able to do more than fifty years ago. You could theoretically hold someone for an extended length of time and they'd never remember it."

He waited. I wasn't that slow a study.

"And this is what happened to me?"

"I don't know what happened to you. You've heard of CIA black sites."

"Sure."

"Do you think they exist?"

"Places where the CIA takes prisoners and doesn't tell anyone? Sure, I guess."

"Guess? Don't be naпve. Bush admitted we had some. But they didn't start with 9/11 and they didn't end when Congress held a few hearings. Think about what you could do there if you simply put prisoners into extended twilight sleep. It made women forget the pain of childbirth-the worst pain there is. They could interrogate you for hours, get you to say and do whatever, and then you'd forget it."

My leg started jackhammering in place. "Pretty diabolical."

"Is it? Let's say you captured a terrorist. You know the old debate about if you know another bomb is about to go off, is it right to torture him to save lives? Well, here you wipe the slate clean. He doesn't remember. Does that make the act more ethical? You, my dear friend, were probably interrogated harshly, maybe tortured. You don't remember it. So did it happen?"

"Like a tree falling in the woods when nobody's around," I said.

"Precisely."

"You French and your philosophizing."

"We're about more than Sartre's little death."

"Too bad." I shifted in my seat. "I'm having trouble believing this."

"I'm not sure I believe it either. But think about it. Think about people who suddenly vanish and never reappear. Think about people who are productive and healthy and suddenly they are suicidal or homeless or mentally ill. Think about the people-people who always seemed fine and normal-who suddenly claim alien abductions or start suffering post-traumatic stress syndrome."

"Let it go…"

Breathing was a struggle again. I felt my chest hitch and get caught.

"Can't be that simple," I said.

"It isn't. Like I said, think about people who suddenly become psychotic or the rational people who suddenly claim religious rapture or alien hallucinations. And again the moral question-is trauma okay, for the greater good, if it is immediately forgotten? The men who run these places aren't evildoers. They feel they are making it more ethical."

I lifted my hand to my face. Tears were running down my cheeks. I didn't know why.

"Look at it from their viewpoint. The man you killed in Paris, the one working with Mohammad Matar. The government thought he was about to turn and provide us with inside information. There is a lot of infighting with these groups. Why were you in the middle of it? You killed Matar-yes, in self-defense, but maybe, just maybe, you were sent to kill him. Do you see? It was reasonable to conclude that you knew something that could save lives."

"So"-I stopped-"they tortured me?"

He pushed the glasses back up his nose, said nothing.

"Wouldn't someone remember, if this was really going on?" I asked. "Wouldn't someone tell?"

"Tell what? You may start remembering. What are you going to do about it? You don't know where you were. You don't know who held you. And you're terrified because you know in your heart of hearts they can grab you again."

"Your mom and dad…"

"So you'll stay quiet because you have no choice. And maybe, just maybe, what they are doing is saving lives. Don't you ever wonder how we break up so many terrorist plots before they hatch?"

"By torturing people and making them forget?"

Berleand gave me an elaborate shoulder shrug.

"If this is so effective," I said, "why didn't they use it on, say, Khalid Sheik Mohammad or some of the other al Qaeda terrorists?"

"Who says they haven't? To date, despite all the talk, the US government has only admitted water boarding three times and none since 2003. Do you really believe that to be the case? And in the case of Khalid, the world was watching. That was the mistake your government learned from Gitmo. You don't do it where everyone can see."

I took another sip of the Diet Coke. I looked around. The place wasn't packed, but it wasn't empty either. I saw business suits and guys in T-shirts and jeans. I saw white men, black men, Latino men. No blind men. Anthony the bouncer was right.

"So what now?" I said.

"The cell is broken up-and so too, most figure, is whatever plot they had planned."

"You don't think so."

"I don't."

"Why?"

"Because Rick Collins seemed to think he was on to something huge. Something long-term and far-reaching. The coalition I work with was upset I showed you the picture of Matar. Fair enough, that's why I'm on the outs."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. They are searching for the next cell and plot. I'm not. I want to keep investigating this one. I have friends who want to help."

"What friends?"

"You met them."

I thought about it. "The Mossad."

He nodded. "Collins had enlisted their help too."

"That's why they were following me?"

"At first they thought maybe you murdered him. I assured them that you had not. Collins clearly knew something, but he wouldn't say exactly what. He played all sides against the middle-it's hard to say by the end where his loyalties lay. According to Mossad, he stopped contacting them and vanished a week before he died."

"Any idea why?"

"None."

Berleand's eyes dropped to his glass. He stirred his drink with his finger.

"So why are you here now?" I asked.

"I flew over when they found you."

"Why?"

He took another deep swallow. "Enough questions for today."

"What are you talking about?"

He rose.

"Where are you going?"

"I explained to you the situation."

"Right, got it. We have work to do."

"We? You have no role in this anymore."

"You're kidding, right? I need to find Terese, for one."

He smiled down at me. "May I be blunt?"

"No, I'd rather you keep beating around the bush."

"I say that because I'm not good with delivering bad news."

"You seem pretty good at it so far."

"But not like this." Berleand kept his eyes off me and on the stage, but I don't think he was looking at the dancer anymore. "You Americans call it a reality check. So here it comes: Terese is either dead, in which case you can't help her. Or like you, she is being held at a black site, in which case you're helpless."

"I'm not helpless," I said in a voice that couldn't have sounded more feeble.

"Yes, my friend, you are. Even before I contacted him, Win knew to keep everyone quiet about your disappearance. Why? Because he knew that if anyone-your parents, whoever-made a stink you'd maybe never come home. They'd stage a car accident and you'd be dead. Or a suicide. With Terese Collins, it is even easier. They could kill her and bury her and say she is back hiding in Angola. Or they can stage a suicide and say her daughter's death became too much for her. There is nothing you can do for her."

I sat back.

"You need to take care of yourself," he said.

"You want me to stay out of this?"

"Yes. And while I meant it when I said you're not to blame, I warned you once before. You chose not to listen."

He had a point.

"One last question," I said.

He waited.

"Why tell me all this?"

"About the black site?"

"Yes."

"Because despite what they think the medications will do, I don't believe you can totally forget. You need help, Myron. Please get it."

HERE was how I found out that maybe Berleand was right.

When I came back to the office, I called some clients. Esperanza ordered in sandwiches from Lenny's. We all ate at the desk. Esperanza talked about her baby boy, Hector. I realize that there are few bigger clichés than saying that motherhood changes a woman, but in the case of Esperanza the changes seemed particularly startling and not all that appealing.

When we were done, I went back into my office and closed the door. I left the light off. I sat at my desk for a very long time. We all have our moments of contemplation and depression, but this was something different, something more profound and deeper and heavier. I could not move. My limbs felt heavy. I have gotten into my share of scrapes over the years, so I keep a weapon in my office.

A.38 Smith amp; Wesson to be more exact.

I opened the bottom drawer, took out the gun, and held it in my hand. Tears ran down my face.

I know how melodramatic this must sound. This image of poor, pitiful me, sitting alone at my desk, feeling depressed, a gun in my hand-it's laughable when you think about it. If there had been a photograph of Terese on my desk, I could have picked it up а la Mel Gibson in the first Lethal Weapon movie and jammed the barrel into my mouth.

I didn't do that.

But I had thoughts.

When the doorknob on my office door started to turn-no one knocks here, especially Esperanza-I moved fast, dropping the gun back into the drawer. Esperanza walked in and looked at me.

"What are you up to?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"What were you just doing?"

"Nothing."

She looked at me. "Were you pleasuring yourself under the desk?"

"Caught me."

"You still look terrible."

"That's the word on the street, yeah."

"I would tell you to go home, but you've missed enough days and I don't think wallowing around by yourself is going to do you much good."

"Agreed. Was there a reason you intruded?"

"Does there need to be?"

"Never been one in the past," I said. "By the way, what's up with Win?"

"That's why I intruded. He's on the Batphone." She gestured for me to turn around.

On the credenza behind my desk there is a red phone that sits under what looks like a glass cake cover. If you saw the original Batman TV show, you know why. The red phone was blinking. Win. I picked it up and said, "Where are you?"

" Bangkok," Win said, his tone a tad too upbeat, "which is really an ironic name for this place when you stop and think about it."

"Since when?" I asked.

"Is that important?"

"Just seems like weird timing," I said. Then remembering: "What happened with that DNA sample we took from Miriam's grave?"

"Confiscated."

"By?"

"Men with shiny badges and shinier suits."

"How did they find out about it?"

Silence.

That wave of shame. Then I said, "Me?"

He did not bother replying. "Did you speak with Captain Berleand?"

"I did. What do you think?"

"I think," Win said, "that his hypothesis has merit."

"I don't get it. Why are you in Bangkok?"

"Where should I be?"

"Here, home, I don't know."

"That's probably not a very good idea right now."

I thought about it.

"Is this line safe?" I asked.

"Very. And your office was swept this morning."

"So what happened in London?"

"You saw me kill Tweedledee and Tweedledum?"

"Yes."

"You know the rest then. Officials crashed in. There was no way I could get you out, so I decided that it would be best for me to depart. I immediately headed out of the country. Why? Because I, as I just stated, believe Berleand's tale has merit. I thus did not think it would behoove either of us for me to be taken into custody too. Do you understand?"

"I do. So what's your plan now?"

"To stay hidden just a little while longer."

"Best way to make everyone safe is to get to the bottom of this."

"True dat, dawg," Win said.

I love it when he talks street.

"To that end, I'm putting out some feelers. I'm hoping to get someone to tell me the fate of Ms. Collins. To put it bluntly-and, yes, I know you have feelings for her-if Terese was killed, this is pretty much over for us. Our interests are gone."

"What about finding her daughter?"

"If Terese is dead, what would be the point?"

I thought about that. He made sense. I had wanted to help Terese here. I had wanted to-man, it still sounded so crazy to think it-reunite her with her deceased daughter. What indeed would be the point, if Terese was dead?

I looked down and realized that again I was chewing on a fingernail.

"So what now?" I asked.

"Esperanza says you're a mess."

"You're going to patronize me too?"

Silence.

"Win?"

Win was the best at keeping his voice steady, but for maybe the second time since I've known him, I heard a crack. "The last sixteen days were difficult."

"I know, pal."

"I scorched the earth looking for you."

I said nothing.

"I did some things you would never approve of."

I waited.

"And I still couldn't find you."

I understood what he meant. Win has sources like no one else I know. Win has money and influence-and the truth is, he loves me. Not much scares him. But I knew that he'd had a tough sixteen days.

"I'm okay now," I said. "Come home when you think you can."

26

"HAVE another dumpling," Mom said to me.

"I've had enough, Mom, thanks."

"One more. You're much too skinny. Try the pork one."

"I really don't like them."

"You what?" Mom gave me shocked. "But you used to love them at Fong's Garden."

"Mom, Fong's Garden closed when I was eight years old."

"I know. But still."

But still. The great Mom debate ender. One might understandably attribute her Fong's Garden recollection to an aging brain. One would be wrong. Mom had been making the same comment about my no longer liking dumplings since I was nine.

We sat in the kitchen of my childhood home in Livingston, New Jersey. Currently I split my nights between this abode and Win's lush apartment in the Dakota on West Seventy-second Street and Central Park West. When my parents moved down to Miami a few years back, I bought this house from them. You could rightly wonder about the psychology of buying the property-I had lived here with my parents well into my thirties and still, in fact, sleep in the basement bedroom I'd set up in high school-but in the end I rarely stayed here. Livingston is a town for families raising kids, not single men working in Manhattan. Win's place is far more conveniently located and only slightly smaller, square-footage-wise, than an average European principality.

But Mom and Dad were back in town, so here we were.

I came from the Blame Generation where we all supposedly disliked our parents and found in their actions all the reasons why we ourselves are unhappy adults. I love my mother and father. I love being with them. I didn't live in that basement well into my adult years out of financial necessity. I did it because I liked it here, with them.

We finished dinner, threw away the takeout boxes, rinsed off the utensils. We talked a little about my brother and sister. When Mom mentioned Brad's work in South America, I felt a small but sharp pang-something akin to déjа vu but far less pleasant. My stomach clenched. The nail-biting began again. My parents exchanged a glance.

Mom was tired. She gets that way a lot now. I kissed her cheek and watched her trudge up the stairs. She leaned on the banister. I flashed back to past days, of watching her take the steps with a hop and a bouncing ponytail, her hand nowhere near that damn banister. I looked back at Dad. He said nothing, but I think that he was flashing back too.

Dad and I moved to the den. He flipped on the TV. When I was little, Dad had a BarcaLounger recliner of hideous maroon. The vinyl-dressed-as-leather tore at the seams, and something metallic stuck out. My dad, not the handiest man in town, kept it together with duct tape. I know people criticize the hours Americans spend watching television, and with good reason, but some of my best memories were in this room, at night, him lounging on the duct-taped recliner, me on the couch. Anyone else remember that classic Saturday night prime-time CBS lineup? All in the Family, MASH, Mary Tyler Moore, The Bob Newhart Show, and The Carol Burnett Show. My dad would laugh so hard at something Archie Bunker would say, and his laugh was so contagious I would guffaw in kind, even though I didn't get a lot of the jokes.

Al Bolitar had worked hard in his factory in Newark. He wasn't a man who liked to play poker or hang with the boys or go to bars. Home was his solace. He liked relaxing with his family. He started very poor and was whip smart and probably had dreams beyond that Newark factory-great, grand dreams-but he never shared them with me. I was his son. You don't burden your child with stuff like that, not for anything.

On this night, he fell asleep during a Seinfeld repeat. I watched his chest rise and fall, his stubble coming in white. After a while I quietly rose, went down to the basement, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

My chest started hitching again. Panic swept through me. My eyes did not want to close. When they did, when I managed to start a nocturnal voyage of any kind, nightmares would jerk me back to consciousness. I could not recall the dreams, but the fear stayed behind. Sweat covered me. I sat in the dark, terrified, like a child.

At three in the morning, a bolt of memory flashed across my brain. Underwater. Not able to breathe. It lasted less than a second, this image, no more, and was quickly replaced with another, aural one.

"Al-sabr wal-sayf…"

My heart pounded as if it were trying to break free.

At three thirty AM, I tiptoed up the stairs and sat in the kitchen. I tried to be as quiet as possible, but I knew. My father was the world's lightest sleeper. As a kid, I would try to sneak past his door late at night, just to make a quick bathroom trip, and he'd startle awake as though someone had dropped a Popsicle on his crotch. So now, as a full-grown middle-aged adult, a man who considered himself braver than most, I knew what would happen if I tiptoed into the kitchen:

"Myron?"

I turned as he made his way down the stairs. "I didn't mean to wake you, Dad."

"Oh, I was awake anyway," he said. Dad wore boxers that had seen better days and a threadbare gray Duke T-shirt two sizes too large. "You want me to make us some scrambled eggs?"

"Sure."

He did. We sat and talked about nothing. He tried not to look too concerned, which only made me feel even more cared for. More memories came back. My eyes would well up and then I would blink the tears away. Emotions swirled to the point where I couldn't really tell how I felt. I was in for a lot of bad nights. I could see that now. But I just knew one thing for certain: I couldn't stand still any longer.

When the morning came I called Esperanza and said, "Before I disappeared, you were looking up some stuff for me."

"Good morning to you, too."

"Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. You were saying?"

"You were checking into Sam Collins's suicide and that opal code and the Save the Angels charity," I said.

"Right."

"I want to know what you found."

For a moment I expected an argument, but Esperanza must have heard something in my tone. "Okay, let's meet in an hour. I can show you what I got."

"SORRY I'm late," Esperanza said, "but Hector spit up on my blouse and I had to change it and then the babysitter started talking to me about a raise and Hector started clinging to me-"

"Don't worry about it," I said.

Esperanza's office still semi-reflected her colorful past. There were photographs of her in the skimpy suede costume of Little Pocahontas, the "Indian Princess," played by a Latina. Her Intercontinental Tag Team Championship Belt, a gaudy thing that if actually wrapped around Esperanza's waist would probably run from her rib cage to just above her knee, was framed behind her desk. The walls were painted periwinkle and some other shade of purple-I could never remember the name of it. The desk was ornate and serious oak, found in an antique shop by Big Cyndi, and even though I was here when they delivered it, I still don't know how it fit through the doorway.

But now the dominant theme in this room, to quote the politician's handbook, was change. Photographs of Esperanza's infant son, Hector, poses so ordinary and obvious they bordered on the cliché, lined the desk and credenza. There were the standard kid portraits-the swirling rainbow background а la Sears Portrait Studio-along with the on-Santa's-lap image and the colored-egg Easter Bunny. There was a photograph of Esperanza and her husband, Tom, holding a white-clad Hector at his baptism, and one with some Disney character I didn't recognize. The most prominent photograph featured Esperanza and Hector on some little kiddie ride, a miniature fire truck maybe, with Esperanza looking up at the camera with the widest, most dumbstruck smile I had ever seen on her.

Esperanza had been the freest of free spirits. She'd been a promiscuous bisexual, proudly dating a man, then a woman, then another man, not caring what anyone thought. She had gone into wrestling because it was a fun buck, and when she got tired of that, she put herself through law school at night while working as my assistant during the day. This will sound awfully uncharitable, but motherhood had smothered some of that spirit. I had seen it before, of course, with other female friends. I get it a little. I didn't know about my own son until he was almost full grown, so I have never experienced that transforming moment when your baby is born and suddenly your entire world shrinks down to a six-pound, fifteen-ounce mass. That was what had happened with Esperanza. Was she happier now? I don't know. But our relationship had changed, as it was bound to, and because I am self-absorbed, I didn't like it.

"Here's the time line," Esperanza said. "Sam Collins, Rick's father, is diagnosed with Huntington's disease approximately four months ago. He commits suicide a few weeks later."

"Definitely a suicide?"

"According to the police report. Nothing suspicious."

"Okay, go on."

"After the suicide, Rick Collins visited Dr. Freida Schneider, his father's geneticist. There are several phone calls to her office too. I took the liberty of calling Dr. Schneider's office. She is rather busy, but she'll give us fifteen minutes during her lunch break today. Twelve thirty sharp."

"How did you wrangle that?"

"MB Reps is making a large donation to Terence Cardinal Cooke Health Care Center."

"Fair enough."

"It's coming out of your bonus."

"Fine, what else?"

"Rick Collins called the CryoHope Center near New York- Presbyterian. They do a lot with cord blood and embryonic storage and stem cells. Five doctors from a variety of specialties run it, so it's impossible to know which one he was dealing with. He also called the Save the Angels charity several times. So here is the chronology: First he speaks to Dr. Schneider, four times over the course of two weeks. Then he speaks to CryoHope. That somehow leads to Save the Angels."

"Okay," I said. "Can we get an appointment with CryoHope?"

"With whom?"

"One of the doctors."

"There's an ob-gyn," Esperanza said. "Should I tell him you need a pap smear?"

"I'm serious."

"I know you are, but I'm not sure who to try. I'm trying to figure out which doctor he called."

" Maybe Dr. Schneider can help."

"Could be."

"Oh, did you come up with anything on that opal to-do note?"

"No. I Googled all the letters. Opal of course had a million hits. When I Googled 'HHK,' the first thing that came up is a publicly traded health-care company. They deal with cancer investments."

"Cancer?"

"Yep."

"I don't see how that fits."

Esperanza frowned.

"What?"

"I don't see how any of this fits," she said. "This seems, in fact, like a colossal waste of time."

"How so?"

"What exactly do you hope to find here? The doctor treated an old man for Huntington's disease. What could it possibly have to do with terrorists murdering people in Paris and London?"

"I have no idea."

"Not a clue?"

"None."

"Probably no connection at all," she said.

"Probably."

"But we have nothing better to do?"

"This is what we do. We flail until something gives. This whole thing started with a car crash a decade ago. Then we have nothing until Rick Collins found out his father has Huntington 's. I don't know what the connection is, so the only thing I can think to do is go back and follow his path."

Esperanza crossed her legs, started twirling a free lock of hair. Esperanza had very dark hair, black-blue, that always had that just-mussed thing going on. When she twirled a hair, it meant something was bugging her.

"What?"

"I never called Ali while you were missing," she said.

I nodded. "And she never called me, right?"

"So you two are done?" Esperanza asked.

"Apparently."

"Did you use my favorite dumping line?"

"I forget it."

Esperanza sighed. "Welcome to Dumpsville. Population: you."

"Uh, no. Might be more apt to say, 'Population: me.'"

"Oh." We sat there. "Sorry," she said.

"It's okay."

"Win said you did the sheet mambo with Terese."

I almost said, Win did the sheet mambo with Mee, but I worried that Esperanza might misinterpret.

"I don't see the relevance," I said.

"You wouldn't do the mambo-sheet thing, especially when you're ending with someone else, unless you really care about Terese. A lot."

I sat back. "So?"

"So we need to go full blast, if that will help. But we also need to understand the truth."

"Which is?"

"Terese is probably dead."

I said nothing.

"I've been there when you've lost loved ones," Esperanza said. "You don't take it well."

"Who does?"

"Good point. But you're also dealing with whatever else happened to you. It's a lot."

"I'll be fine. Anything else?"

"Yes," she said. "Those two guys you and Win beat up."

Coach Bobby and Assistant Coach Pat. "What about them?"

"The Kasselton police have been by a few times. You're supposed to call when you get back. You know that the guy Win popped belongs to the force, right?"

"Win told me."

"He had knee surgery and is recuperating. The other guy, the one who started it, used to own a small chain of appliance stores. He got knocked out of business by the big boys and now works as floor manager at Best Buy in Paramus."

I stood. "Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"We have time before we meet up with Dr. Schneider. Let's head out to Best Buy."

27

THE Best Buy employee blue polo shirt stretched across the beer belly of Coach Bobby. He was leaning on a TV, talking to an Asian couple. I looked for remnants of the beating and saw none.

Esperanza was with me. As we crossed the store a man wearing a logger flannel shirt ran over to her. "Excuse me," he said, his face alight like a child's on Christmas morn. "But, oh my God, aren't you Little Pocahontas?"

I stifled a smile. It never fails to shock me how many people still remember her. She shot me a glare and turned to her fan.

"I am."

"Wow. Oh, I can't believe this. I mean, double wow. It's such a pleasure to meet you."

"Thanks."

"I used to have your poster in my bedroom. When I was like sixteen."

"I'm flattered-" she began.

"Got some stains on that poster too," he said with a wink, "if you know what I mean."

"-and nauseous." She finger-waved and walked away. "Bye now."

I followed her. "Stains," I said. "You have to be a little touched."

"Sadly, I kind of am," she said.

Forget what I said before about motherhood smothering her spirit. Esperanza was still the best.

We moved past Mr. Waaaay Too Much Information and toward Coach Bobby. I heard the Asian man ask what the difference was between a plasma TV and an LCD TV. Coach Bobby puffed out his chest and gave the pros and cons, none of which I understood. The man then asked about the DLP televisions. Coach Bobby liked DLPs. He started explaining why.

I waited.

Esperanza gestured with her head toward Coach Bobby. "Sounds like he deserved what he got."

"No," I said. "You don't fight people to teach them a lesson-you fight for survival or self-protection only."

Esperanza made a face.

"What?"

"Win is right. You can be such a little girl sometimes."

Coach Bobby smiled at the Asian couple and said, "Take your time, I'll be right back and we can discuss free delivery."

He came over to me and held my gaze. "What do you want?"

"To say I'm sorry."

Coach Bobby didn't move. Three seconds of silence. Then: "There, you said it."

He spun around and headed back over to his customers.

Esperanza slapped me on the back. "Boy, that was cleansing."

DR. Freida Schneider was short and stocky with a big trusting smile. She was an Orthodox Jew, complete with modest dress and beret. I met her in the cafeteria at Terence Cardinal Cooke Health Care Center on Fifth Avenue by 103rd Street. Esperanza was out front making some calls. Dr. Schneider asked me if I wanted anything to eat. I declined. She ordered a complicated sandwich. We sat down. She said a prayer to herself and began to devour said sandwich as though it had called her a bad name.

"I only have ten minutes," she said by way of explanation.

"I thought it was fifteen."

"I changed my mind. Thanks for the donation."

"I need to ask you some questions about Sam Collins."

Schneider swallowed the bite. "So your colleague said. You know all about patient-client confidentiality, right? So I can skip that speech?"

"Please."

"He's dead, so maybe you should tell me your interest in him."

"I understand he committed suicide."

"You don't need me to tell you that."

"Is that common in patients with Huntington 's?"

"Do you know what Huntington's disease is?"

"I know it's genetic."

"It's an inherited genetic neurological disorder." She said this between bites. "The disease does not kill you directly, but as the disorder progresses, it leads to a great deal of life-ending complications like pneumonia and heart failure and you-don't-want-to-know. HD messes with the physical, the psychological, the cognitive. It is not a pretty disorder. So, yes, suicide is not uncommon. Some studies show that one in four give it a try with about seven percent being successful, ironic as the term 'successful' is when discussing suicide."

"And that was the case with Sam Collins?"

"He had depression before being diagnosed. It's hard to say what came first. HD usually begins with a physical disorder, but there are plenty of times it starts with the psychiatric or cognitive. So his depression could have actually been the first signs of HD misdiagnosed. Doesn't really matter. Either way he is dead due to HD-suicide is just another life-ending complication."

"I understand that Huntington 's has to be inherited."

"Yes."

"And that if one of the parents has it, the child has a fifty-fifty chance."

"To keep it simple, I will say, yes, that's accurate."

"And if the parent doesn't have it, the offspring won't either. That's it. The family line is clean."

"Go on."

"So that means one of Sam Collins's parents had it."

"That's correct. His mother lived to be in her eighties with no signs of Huntington 's, so it probably came from his father, who died young and thus never had a chance to display any symptoms."

I leaned closer. "Did you test Sam Collins's children?"

"That's not really your concern."

"I'm speaking specifically of Rick Collins. Who is also dead. Murdered, in fact."

"At the hands of a terrorist, according to the news reports."

"Yes."

"Yet you think his father's diagnosis with Huntington's disease has something to do with his murder?"

"I do."

Freida Schneider took another bite and shook her head.

"Rick Collins has a son," I said.

"I'm aware of that."

"And he may have a daughter."

That stopped her mid-bite. "Excuse me?"

I wasn't sure how to play this. "Rick Collins may not have known she was alive."

"You want to elaborate?"

"Not really," I said. "We only have ten minutes."

"True."

"So?"

She sighed. "Rick Collins was tested, yes."

"And?"

"The blood test shows the number of CAG repeats in each of the HTT alleles."

I just looked at her.

"Right, never mind. In short, the results sadly were positive. We don't consider the blood test a diagnosis because it could be years, decades even, before the onset of symptoms. But Rick Collins was already exhibiting chorea-basically, jerky movements you can't really control. He asked us to keep it confidential. We of course agreed."

I thought about that. Rick had Huntington 's. He had symptoms already-what would his last years have looked like? His father had asked himself that question and ended his life.

"Was Rick's son tested?"

"Yes, Rick insisted, which I confess is a bit unconventional. There is a lot of debate over testing, especially with a child. I mean, let's say you find out that a young boy will eventually contract this disorder-isn't that a terrible burden to live with? Or is it better to know now so you live life to the fullest? And if you're positive for HD, should you have children yourself who will have a fifty-fifty chance of contracting the illness-and even if you know that, isn't it still a life worth leading? The ethics are fairly mind-boggling."

"But Rick tested his son?"

"Yes. Rick was a reporter through and through. He didn't believe in not knowing. The son, thankfully, was negative."

"That must have been a relief to him."

"Yes."

"Do you know the CryoHope Center?"

She thought about it. "They do research and storage, I think. Mostly stem cell banking and the like, right?"

"After Rick Collins came to see you, he visited them. Any clue why?"

"No."

"How about the Save the Angels charity? Have you heard of it?"

Schneider shook her head.

"There is no cure for HD, correct?" I said.

"Correct."

"How about through stem cell research?"

"Wait, Mr. Bolitar, let's back up. You said Rick Collins may have a daughter."

"Yes."

"Do you mind explaining that to me?"

"Did he tell you that he had a daughter who died ten years ago in a car crash?"

"No. Why would he?"

I mulled that over. "When Rick's body was found in Paris, there was blood at the scene. The DNA test showed it belonged to a daughter."

"But you just said his daughter is dead. I'm not following."

"Neither am I yet. But tell me about stem cell research."

She shrugged. "Highly speculative at this stage. You could theoretically replace damaged neurons in the brain by transplanting stem cells from cord blood. We've seen some encouraging signs in animals, but it hasn't been subject to human clinical trials."

"Still. If you're dying and desperate…"

A woman came into the cafeteria. "Dr. Schneider?"

She held up a finger, downed the last bite of sandwich, rose. "For the dying and desperate, yes, anything is possible. Everything from miracle cures to, well, suicide. That's your ten minutes, Mr. Bolitar. Come back sometime and I'll give you a tour of the facility. You'll be surprised by the strength and good work. Thank you for the donation, and good luck with whatever you're trying to do."

28

THE CryoHope Center gleamed, like, well, the ideal blend of a cutting-edge medical facility and an upscale bank. The reception desk was high and made of dark wood. I sidled up to it, Esperanza by my side. I noticed that the receptionist, a corn-fed cutie, was not wearing a wedding band. I debated changing plans. A single woman. I could turn on the charm, and she would fall under my spell and answer all my questions. Esperanza knew what I was thinking and just gave me the look. I shrugged. The receptionist probably didn't know anything anyway.

"My wife is expecting," I said, nodding toward Esperanza. "We would like to see someone about storing our baby's umbilical cord blood."

The corn-fed receptionist gave me a practiced smile. She handed us a bunch of four-color brochures on thick-stock paper and ushered us into a room with plush seating. There were large, artistic photographs of children on the wall, and one of those diagrams of the human body that makes you think of ninth-grade biology class. We filled out a form on a CryoHope clipboard. They asked for my name. I was tempted to go with either I. P. Daily or Wink Martindale, but I stuck with Mark Kadison because he was a friend of mine and if they called, he'd just laugh.

"Well, hello!"

A man stepped in wearing a white lab coat, tie, and the same dark-framed glasses actors use when they want to look smart. He shook both our hands and sat in the other plush chair.

"So," he said, "how far along are you?"

I looked at Esperanza.

"Three months," she said with a frown.

"Congratulations. Is this your first?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm glad you're doing the mature thing by looking into storing your baby's umbilical cord blood."

"Can you tell us the fee?" I asked.

"One thousand dollars for processing and shipping. Then there are yearly storage fees. I know that may sound expensive, but this is a one-time opportunity. Cord blood contains stem cells that save lives. Simple as that. They can treat anemias and leukemias. They can fight infection and help with certain kinds of cancer. We are on the edge of research that may lead to treatments for heart disease, Parkinson's, diabetes. No, we can't cure them yet. But who knows what will happen in a few years' time? Are you familiar with bone marrow transplants?"

"Somewhat," I said.

"Cord blood transplants work better and are, of course, safer-no surgical procedure to harvest it. You need an eighty-three percent HLA match to work with bone marrow. You only need a sixty-seven percent match with cord blood. That's now-right now. We are saving lives today with those stem cell transplants. Are you following me?"

We both nodded.

"Because here's the key fact: The only opportunity to store cord blood is right after your baby is born. That's it. You can't decide to do it when the child is three years old, or maybe, God forbid, when a sibling gets sick down the line."

"So how does it work exactly?" I asked.

"It is painless and easy. When you have your baby, the blood is collected from the umbilical cord. We separate out the stem cells and deep-freeze them."

"Where are the stem cells kept?"

He spread his arms. "Right here, in a safe, secure environment. We have guards and backup generators and a safe room. Like you'd find in any bank. The option we work with mostly-and what I would highly recommend for you-is called family banking. In short, you store your baby's stem cells for your use. Your baby might need it. A sibling. Even one of you or maybe an uncle or aunt. Whatever."

"How do you know the cord blood will be a match?"

"There are no guarantees. You should know that. But of course the odds are greatly improved you'll find a match. Plus-well, it looks like you are a couple of mixed heritage. It's harder to find matches, so this issue may be particularly important for you. Oh, and let me point out that the stem cells we are talking about are from cord blood-they have nothing to do with the controversies you've read about involving embryonic stem cells."

"You don't store embryos?"

"Oh, we do, but that's something totally separate from what you're interested in. That's for infertility issues and the like. No embryos are harmed in cord-blood stem cell research or storage. I just wanted to make that clear."

He had a wide smile.

"Are you a doctor?" I asked.

The smile faltered just a wee bit. "No, but we have five on staff."

"What kinds of doctors?"

"CryoHope has leaders in all the fields." He handed me a brochure and pointed to the list of five doctors. "We have a geneticist who works with inherited diseases. We have a hematologist who works on the transplant side of things. We have an obstetrician-gynecologist who is a pioneer in the area of infertility. We have a pediatric oncologist who is doing research with stem cells to find cancer treatments for children."

"So," I said, "let me ask you a hypothetical."

He leaned forward.

"I store my baby's cord blood. Years pass. Now I get sick with something. Maybe you don't have a cure yet, but I want to try something experimental. Could I use the cord blood?"

"It's yours, Mr. Kadison. You can do with it what you want."

I had no idea where to go with this. I looked at Esperanza. She offered up nothing.

"May I talk to one of your doctors?" I asked.

"Are there any questions I haven't been able to answer?"

I tried to think of another avenue. "Do you have a client named Rick Collins?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Rick Collins. He's a friend of mine, recommended you. I wanted to make sure he's a client."

"That information would be confidential. I'm sure you understand. If someone were to ask about you, I would say the same thing."

Nowhere.

"Have you ever heard of a charity named Save the Angels?" I asked.

His face shut down.

"Have you?"

"What is this?" he asked.

"I just asked a question."

"I explained to you the process," he said, rising. "I suggest you read the literature. We hope that you choose CryoHope. Best of luck to you both."

OUT on the curb I said, "The bum's rush."

"Yep."

"Win had a theory early on that maybe the blood they found at the murder scene was cord blood."

"It would explain a lot," Esperanza said.

"Except I don't see how. Let's say Rick Collins did store his daughter Miriam's blood. So then what? He comes here, has it-what?-unfrozen, brings it to Paris, and it gets spilled on the floor when he's murdered?"

"No," she said.

"Then what?"

"We're missing something obviously. A step or a few steps. Maybe he had the frozen sample sent to Paris. Maybe he was working with some doctors in an experimental program, human testing, that our government wouldn't approve of. I don't know, but again-does it make more sense that the girl survived this car accident and has been hiding for ten years?"

"Did you see his face when we mentioned Save the Angels?"

"Hardly surprising. They're a group that protests abortions and embryonic stem cell research. Did you notice how his rehearsed spiel stressed that cord blood has nothing to do with the stem cell controversy?"

I mulled that over. "Either way, we need to look into Save the Angels."

"No one answers their phones," she said.

"Do you have an address for them?"

"They're in New Jersey," she said. "But."

"But what?"

"We're running in circles here. We've learned nothing. And reality check: Our clients deserve better than this. We gave them our word we would work hard for them. And we're not."

I stood there.

"You are the best agent ever," she said. "I'm good at what I do. I'm very good. I'm a better negotiator than you'll ever be, and I know how to find more money-making venues for our clients than you do. But we get clients because they trust you. Because what they really want is for their agent to care about them-and you're good at that."

She shrugged, waited.

"I get what you're saying," I said. "Most of the time I get us into these messes to protect a client. But this time it's bigger. Much bigger. You guys want me to stay focused on our personal interests. I get that. But I need to see this through."

"You have a hero complex," she said.

"Duh. That's hardly a news flash."

"It makes you fly blind sometimes. You do the most good when you know where you're going."

"Right now," I said, "I'm going to New Jersey. You go back to the office."

"I can take a ride with you."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Too bad, you got one. We go to Save the Angels. If that's a dead end, we go back to the office and work all night. Deal?"

"Deal," I said.

29

A major dead end. Literally.

We followed the car's GPS to the office building located in Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey, at the end of a dead-end street. There was Ed's Body Shop, a karate studio called Eagle's Talon, and a super-cheesy storefront photo studio called the Official Photography of Albin Laramie. I pointed at the stenciled-glass lettering as we walked past.

"Official," I said. "Because, really, you wouldn't want Albin Laramie's unofficial photographs."

There were wedding shots using a lens so blurry it was hard to tell where groom began and bride ended. There were provocative model poses, mostly of women in bikinis. There were the most garish baby photographs in brown sepia tones that were faux Victorian. The babies were dressed in flowing gowns and looked creepy. Whenever I see a real Victorian baby picture I can't help thinking, "Whoever is in this picture is now dead and buried." Maybe I am more morose than most, but who wants such overly affected pictures?

We entered the ground floor and checked the directory. Save the Angels was supposed to be in suite 3B, but the door was locked. We could see the discoloration on the door where a nameplate had once been.

The closest office was for a CPA named Bruno and Associates. We asked about the charity next door.

"Oh, they've been gone for months," the receptionist told us. Her nameplate said "Minerva." I didn't know if that was her first name or last. "They moved out right after the break-in."

I arched an eyebrow and leaned closer. "Break-in?" I said.

I'm good with the probing interrogatories.

"Yep. They got cleaned out. Must have been"-she scrunched up her face-"hey, Bob, when was that break-in next door?"

"Three months ago."

That was pretty much all Minerva and Bob could tell us. On TV, the detectives always ask if the inhabitant left a "forwarding address." I have never seen a person in real life do that. We went back and stared at the Save the Angels door another second. The door had nothing to say.

"You ready to go back to work?" Esperanza asked.

I nodded. We headed back outside. I blinked into the sunlight and heard Esperanza say, "Well, hello."

"What?"

She pointed at a car across the street. "Look at the decal on the back bumper."

You've seen them. They are white ovals with black lettering in them to show where you've been. It started, I think, with European cities. A tourist would return from a trip to Italy and put ROM on the back of his car. Now every town seems to have their own, a way to show civic pride or something.

This decal read: "HHK."

"Ho-Ho-Kus," I said.

"Yep."

I thought back to that code. "Opal in Ho-Ho-Kus. Maybe the four-seven-one-two is a house number."

"Opal could be a person's name."

We turned toward where we had parked, and another surprise greeted us. A black Cadillac Escalade was parked behind ours, blocking us in. I saw a heavyset man in a brown vice principal's suit start toward us. He had a buzz cut and a big, angular face, and he looked like a Green Bay Packer offensive lineman from 1953.

"Mr. Bolitar?"

I recognized the voice. I had heard it twice before. Once on the phone when I called Berleand-and once in London, seconds before I passed out.

Esperanza stepped in front of me, as if to offer protection. I put a gentle hand on her shoulder to let her know that I was fine.

"Special Agent Jones," I said.

Two men, other agents I figured, got out of the Escalade. They stood with the door open and leaned against the side. Both men wore sunglasses.

"I'm going to need you to come with me," he said.

"Am I under arrest?" I asked.

"Not yet. But you really should come with me."

"Let's wait for the arrest warrant," I said. "I'll bring my attorney too. Keep it all on the up and up."

Jones moved a step closer. "I would rather not bring formal charges. But I know for a fact that you've committed crimes."

"You're a witness, no?"

Jones shrugged.

"Where did you take me after I passed out?" I asked.

He faked a sigh. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. But neither of us have time for this. Let's go for a ride, okay?"

As he reached out for my arm, Esperanza said, "Special Agent Jones?"

He looked at her.

"I have a call for you," she said.

Esperanza handed him her cell phone. He frowned but took it from her. I frowned too and looked at her. Her face gave me nothing.

"Hello?" Jones said.

The phone was set loud enough so that I could hear the voice on the other end clearly. The voice said: "Chrome, military style, with the Gucci logo engraved on the lower left-hand corner."

It was Win.

Jones said, "Huh?"

"I can see your belt buckle through my rifle scope, though I'm aiming three inches lower," Win said. "Perhaps two inches would be more apropos in your case."

My eyes dropped toward the guy's buckle. Sure enough. I had no idea what military-style chrome meant, but there was a Gucci logo engraved on the lower left-hand corner.

Win said, "Gucci on a government salary? It has to be a knock-off."

Jones kept the phone against his ear, started looking around. "I assume this is Mr. Windsor Horne Lockwood."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"What do you want?"

"Simple. Mr. Bolitar is not going with you."

"You're threatening a federal officer. That's a capital offense."

"I'm commenting on your fashion sense," Win said. "And since your belt is black and your shoes are brown, the only one committing a crime here is you."

Jones's eyes lifted and met mine. There was a strange calm in them for a guy with a rifle aimed at his groin. I glanced at Esperanza. She didn't meet my gaze. I realized something rather obvious: Win was not in Bangkok. He had lied to me.

"I don't want a scene," Jones said. He raised both hands. "So, okay, no one is forcing anything here. Have a good day."

He turned and began to walk back to his car.

"Jones?" I called out.

He looked back at me, shielding his eyes from the sun.

"Do you know what happened to Terese Collins?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

"If you come with me," he said.

I looked at Esperanza. She handed the cell phone back to Jones.

Win said, "Just so we're clear. You won't be able to hide. Your family won't be able to hide. If something happens to him, it is total destruction. Everything you love or care about. And, no, that's not a threat."

The phone went dead.

Jones looked at me. "Sweet guy."

"You have no idea."

"You ready to go?"

I followed him to the Escalade and got in.

30

WE drove over the George Washington Bridge and back into Manhattan. Jones introduced me to the two agents in the front seat, but I didn't remember their names. The Escalade exited at West Seventy-ninth Street. A few minutes later it stopped by Central Park West. Jones opened the door, grabbed his briefcase, and said, "Let's take a walk."

I slid out. The sun was still bright.

"What happened to Terese?" I asked.

"You need to know the rest first."

I really didn't, but there was no point in pushing too much. He would tell me in his own time. Jones took off his brown suit jacket and laid it on the backseat. I waited for the other two agents to park and get out, but Jones slapped the top of the car and it took off.

"Just us?" I said.

"Just us."

His briefcase was from another era, perfectly rectangular with number locks on both bolts. My dad used to have one like it, carrying his contracts and bills and pens and a tiny tape recorder to and from his office in that Newark factory.

Jones started into the park on West Sixty-seventh Street. We passed Tavern on the Green, the lights on the trees dim. I caught up to him and said, "This seems a little cloak 'n' dagger."

"It's a precaution. Probably unnecessary. But when you deal with what I do, you sometimes like to see why."

I found this a tad melodramatic, but again I didn't want to push it. Jones was suddenly somber and reflective, and I didn't have a clue why. He watched the joggers, the Rollerbladers, the bike riders, the moms with designer-name strollers.

"I know it's corny," he said, "but they skate and run and work and love and laugh and throw Frisbees and they don't have a clue as to how fragile it all is."

I made a face. "But let me guess-you, Special Agent Jones, are the silent sentinel who protects them, the one who sacrifices his own humanity so the citizenry can sleep well at night. That about it?"

He smiled. "Guess I deserved that."

"What happened to Terese?"

Jones kept walking.

I said, "When we were in London, you took me into custody."

"Yes."

"And then?"

He shrugged. "It's compartmentalized. I don't know. I hand you over to someone from another department. My part is over."

"Morally convenient," I said.

He winced but kept walking.

"What do you know about Mohammad Matar?" he asked.

"Just what I read in the paper," I said. "He was, I assume, a serious bad guy."

"The baddest of the bad. A highly educated, radical extremist who made other radical terrorists wet their bed in fear. Matar loved torture. He believed that the only way to kill the infidels was to infiltrate and live among them. He started up a terrorist organization called Green Death. Their motto is: 'Al-sabr wal-sayf sawf yudammir al-kafirun.' "

A spasm ripped through me:

"Al-sabr wal-sayf."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"'Patience and the sword will destroy the sinners.' "

I shook my head, trying to clear it.

"Mohammad Matar spent almost his entire life in the West. He grew up in Spain mostly, but spent some time in France and England as well. And Dr. Death is more than a nickname-he went to medical school at Georgetown and did his residency right here in New York City. Spent twelve years in the United States under various assumed names. Guess what day he left the United States?"

"I'm not really in the mood for guessing."

"September tenth, 2001."

We both stopped talking for a moment, almost subconsciously turning south. No, we wouldn't be able to see those towers, even if they still stood. But respect had to be paid. Always and hopefully forever.

"Are you saying he was involved in that?"

"Involved? Hard to say. But Mohammad knew about it. His departure wasn't a coincidence. We have a witness who places him at the Pink Pony earlier that month. That name ring a bell?"

"Isn't that the strip club the terrorists went to before September eleventh?"

Jones nodded. A class trip crossed in front of us. The children-they looked about ten or eleven years old-all wore matching bright green shirts with the school name emblazoned on the front. One adult took the front, another the rear.

"You killed a major terrorist leader," Jones said. "Do you have any idea what his followers would do to you if they found out the truth?"

"And that's why you took credit for killing him?"

"That's why we kept your name out."

"I'm really grateful."

"Is that sarcasm?"

I wasn't really sure myself.

"If you keep stumbling around, the truth is going to come out. You'll kick a beehive and a bunch of jihadists will be there."

"Suppose I'm not afraid of them."

"Then you're demented."

"What happened to Terese?"

We stopped at a bench. Still standing, he put one knee on the seat and used it to balance his briefcase. He fumbled through it. "The night before you killed Mohammad Matar, you dug up the remains of Miriam Collins's grave for the purposes of a DNA test."

"Are you hoping for a confession?"

Jones shook his head. "You don't get it."

"Don't get what?"

"We confiscated the remains. You probably knew that."

I waited.

Jones pulled a manila folder out of the briefcase. "Here are the DNA test results you wanted."

I reached out. Jones played coy for a moment, as if debating whether he should let me see it or not. But we both knew. This was why I was here. He handed me the manila folder. I opened it. On top was a photograph of the bone sample Win and I had collected that night. I turned the page, but Jones was already walking.

"The tests were conclusive. The bones you dug up belong to Miriam Collins. The DNA matches Rick Collins as the father and Terese Collins as the mother. Furthermore, the bones matched the approximate size and development for a seven-year-old girl."

I read the report. Jones kept walking.

"This could be faked," I said.

"It could," Jones agreed.

"How do you explain the blood found at the murder scene in Paris?"

"You just raised an interesting possibility," he said.

"That being?"

"Maybe those results were faked."

I stopped.

"You just said that maybe I faked a DNA blood test. But wouldn't it be more rational to assume that the French did?"

"Berleand?"

He shrugged.

"Why would he do that?"

"Why would I? But don't take my word for it. In this briefcase, I have your original bone sample. When we are done, I will give it to you. You can test it for yourself, if you wish."

My head swam. He kept walking. This made sense. If Berleand lied, everything else fell into place. Removing emotion and want from the equation, which seemed more likely-that Miriam Collins had actually survived the crash and ended up in her murdered father's room, or that Berleand was lying about the test results?

"You got involved in this because you wanted to find Miriam Collins," Jones said. "Now you have. The rest you should leave to us. Whatever else is going on here, you now know for certain that Miriam Collins is dead. This bone sample will give you all the proof you need."

I shook my head. "There's too much smoke for there to be no fire."

"Like what? The terrorists? Almost all of your so-called smoke can be attributed to Rick Collins's attempt to infiltrate the cell."

"The blond girl."

"What about her?"

"Did you capture her in London?"

"No. She was gone by the time we arrived. We know you saw her. We have a witness from Mario Contuzzi's apartment, a neighbor, who says he saw you chase her."

"So who was she?"

"A member of the cell."

I arched an eyebrow. "A blond teen jihadist?"

"Sure. The cells are always a mix. Disenfranchised immigrants, Arab nationals, and, yes, a few crazy Westerners. We know that the terror cells are stepping up the effort to recruit Caucasian Westerners, especially women. The reason is pretty obvious-a cute blonde can go places an Arab man can't. Most of the time the girl has serious daddy issues. You know the deal-some girls turn to porn, some sleep with radicals."

I wasn't sure I bought that.

A small grin played on his lips. "Why don't you tell me what else is bothering you?"

"A lot of things," I said.

He shook his head. "Not really, Myron. It's pretty much down to one thing now, isn't it? You're wondering about the car accident."

"The official version is a lie," I said. "I talked to Karen Tower before she was murdered. I talked to Nigel Manderson. The accident didn't happen the way they said."

"That's your smoke?"

"It is."

"So if I clear that smoke, you will drop this?"

"They were covering something up that night."

"And if I clear that smoke, you will drop this?" Jones said again.

"I guess," I said.

"Okay, so let's discuss alternate theories." Jones kept walking. "The car accident ten years ago. You think what really happened is…" He stopped and turned to me. "Well, no, you tell me. What do you think they were covering up?"

I said nothing.

"The car crashed-I guess that you buy that part. Terese was rushed to the hospital. I guess you buy that part too. So where does it go wrong for you? You think-help me here, Myron-that a cabal involving Terese Collins's best friend and at least one or two cops hid her seven-year-old daughter for some odd reason, raised her in hiding all these years… And then?"

I still said nothing.

"And this conspiracy of yours assumes that I'm lying about the DNA test, which you can now learn independently I'm not."

"They were covering up something," I said.

"Yes," he said. "They were."

I waited. We headed down past the park's carousel.

"The crash happened pretty much as you were told. A truck bounded down A-Forty. Ms. Collins spun her steering wheel, and well, that was that. Disaster. You know the backstory too. She was home. She got a call to come in so that she could anchor prime time. She hadn't planned on going out that night, so I guess in some ways it's understandable."

"What is?"

"There is a Greek expression: The humpback never sees the hump in his own back."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Maybe nothing. That expression is talking about flaws. We are quick to find flaws in others. We aren't so good with ourselves. We are also poor judges of our own abilities, especially when there is a nice carrot in front of us."

"You're not making any sense."

"Sure I am. You want to know what was covered up-but it's so obvious. With her daughter dead, hadn't Terese Collins been punished enough? I don't know if they were worried so much about the legal ramifications or just the guilt a mother would load on herself. But Terese Collins was drunk that night. Could she have avoided the accident if she was sober? Who knows-the truck driver was at fault but maybe if her reaction time was a little faster…"

I tried to take this in. "Terese was drunk?"

"Her blood test showed she was over the legal limit, yes."

"And that was the cover-up?"

"It was."

Lies have a certain smell. So does truth.

"Who knew?" I asked.

"Her husband. So did Karen Tower. They covered it up because they feared the truth would destroy her."

The truth may have done that anyway, I thought. A weight filled my chest as I realized yet another truth: Terese probably knew. On some level, she knew about her culpability. Any mother would be devastated by a tragedy like that, but here it was, ten years later, and Terese was still trying to make amends.

How had Terese put it to me when she called from Paris? She didn't want to rebuild.

She knew. Maybe subconsciously. But she knew.

I stopped walking.

"What happened to Terese?"

"Does that clear the smoke, Myron?"

"What happened to her?" I asked again.

Jones turned and faced me full. "I need you to let this go, okay? I'm not much of an ends-justify-means sort of guy. I know all the arguments against torture and I agree with them. But the issue is murky. Let's say you catch a terrorist who has already killed thousands-and right now he has a bomb hidden that will kill millions of children. Would you punch him in the face to get the answer and save those children? Of course you would. Would you punch him twice? Suppose it was only a thousand children or a hundred or ten? Anyone who doesn't get it at all… well, I would be wary of such a person. That's an extremist too."

"What's your point?"

"I want you to have your life back." Jones's voice was soft now, almost a plea. "I know you don't buy that. But I don't like what happened to you. That's why I'm telling you this. I'm protected. Jones isn't even my real name, and we are here in this park because I don't have an office. Even your friend Win would have trouble locating me. I know everything about you now. I know your past. I know how you destroyed your knee and how you tried to move past it. You don't get many second chances. I'm giving you one right now."

Jones looked off into the distance. "You need to let this go and move on with your life. For your sake." He gestured with his chin. "And hers."

For a moment I was afraid to look. I followed his gaze, my eyes sweeping left to right, when I suddenly froze. My hand fluttered toward my mouth. I tried to take the blow standing, felt something blow across my chest.

Standing across the expanse of green, staring back at me with tears in her eyes but looking as achingly beautiful as ever, was Terese.

31

DURING the attack in London, Terese had been shot in the neck.

I was back at that lovely shoulder, kissing it gently, when I saw the scar. No, she had not been drugged or taken to a black site. She had been kept in a hospital outside of London and then flown to New York. Her injuries had been more severe than mine. She had lost blood. She was still in a great deal of pain and moved gingerly.

We were back at Win's Dakota apartment, in my bedroom, holding each other and looking up at the ceiling. She rested her head on my chest. I could feel my heart beating against her.

"Do you believe what Jones said?" I asked her.

"Yes."

I ran my hand down the curve of her back and pulled her closer. I felt her shake a little. I didn't want her out of my sight.

"Part of me always knew that I was deceiving myself," she said. "I wanted it so badly. This chance at redemption, you know? Like my long-lost child was out there and I had a chance to rescue her."

I understood the feeling.

"So what do we do now?" I asked.

"I want to lie here with you and just be. Can we do that?"

"We can." I kept my eyes on the ceiling's wainscoting. Then, because I can never leave well enough alone: "When Miriam was born, did you and Rick store her cord blood?"

"No."

Dead end.

I asked, "Do you still want us to run the DNA test to be sure?"

"What do you think?"

"I think we should," I said.

"Then let's do that."

"You'll have to give a DNA sample," I said. "So we have something to compare it with. We don't have Rick's DNA, but if we confirm the child was yours, well, I assume you only gave birth that one time?"

Silence.

"Terese?"

"I only gave birth that one time," she said.

More silence.

"Myron?"

"Yes?"

"I can't have any more children."

I said nothing.

"It was a miracle that Miriam was born. But right after I gave birth, they had to do an emergency hysterectomy because I had fibroids. I can't have more children."

I closed my eyes. I wanted to say something comforting, but it all sounded so patronizing or superfluous. So I pulled her in a little closer. I didn't want to look ahead. I wanted to just lay here and hold her.

The Yiddish expression came back to me yet again: Man plans, God laughs.

I could feel her start to move away from me. I pulled her back to me.

"Too early for this talk?" she said.

I thought about it. "Probably too late."

"Meaning?"

"Right now," I said, "I want to lie here with you and just be."

TERESE was asleep when I heard the key in the front door. I glanced at the bedroom clock. One AM.

I threw on a robe as Win and Mee entered. Mee gave me a little wave and said, "Hi, Myron."

"Hi, Mee."

She headed into the next room. When she was gone, Win said, "When it comes to sex, I like to take a 'Mee first' approach."

I just looked at him.

"And the great thing is, it really doesn't take much to keep Mee satisfied."

"Please stop," I said.

Win stepped forward and hugged me hard. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

"Do you want to know something weird?"

"What?" I said.

"This is the longest we've been apart since our days at Duke."

I nodded, waited for the hug to subside, pulled back. "You lied about Bangkok," I said.

"No, I didn't. I do think the name is rather ironic. Bang. Cock. All the sex clubs."

I shook my head. We headed into a Louis-the-Something-type room with heavy woods and ornate sculptures and busts of guys with long hair. We sat in leather club chairs in front of the marble fireplace. Win tossed me a Yoo-hoo and poured himself an expensive scotch out of a decanter.

"I was going to have coffee," Win said, "but that keeps Mee up all night."

I nodded. "Almost out of Mee jokes?"

"God, I hope so."

"Why did you lie about Bangkok?"

"Why do you think?" he asked.

But the answer was obvious. I felt the wave of shame crash over me again. "I gave you up, didn't I?"

"Yes."

I felt the tears, the fear, the now-familiar shortness of breath. My right leg started doing the restless shake.

"You were afraid they might grab me again," I said. "And if they did, if they broke me again, I would give them wrong information."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You have nothing to be sorry about."

"I thought… I guess I figured I'd be stronger."

Win took a sip of his drink. "You are the strongest man I have ever known."

I waited a beat and then, because I couldn't help myself, I said, "Stronger than Mee?"

"Stronger. But not nearly as flexible."

We sat in the comfortable silence.

"Are you remembering at all?" he asked.

"It's vague."

"You'll need help with it."

"I know."

"You have the bone sample for the purposes of DNA?"

I nodded.

"And if it confirms what this Jones fellow told you, will this be over?"

"Jones answered most of my questions."

"I hear a but."

"There are several buts, actually."

"I'm listening."

"I called that number Berleand gave me," I said. "No answer."

"That's hardly a but."

"You know about his theory on Mohammad Matar's plot?"

"That it lives on after him? Yes."

"If that's true, that plot is a danger to everyone. We have a responsibility to help."

Win tilted his head back and forth and said, "Eh."

"Jones thinks if Matar's followers find out what I did, they'll come after me. I don't feel like waiting around or living in fear."

Win liked that reasoning better. "You'd rather take a proactive stance?"

"I think I would."

Win nodded. "What else?"

I took another deep swig. "I saw that blond girl. I saw her walk. I saw her face."

"Ah," Win said. "And as you stated before, you noticed similarities, perhaps genetic, between her and the delectable Ms. Collins?"

I drank the Yoo-hoo.

Win said, "Do you remember the optical illusion games we used to play when we were children? You'd look at a picture and you could see either an old witch or a pretty young girl? Or there was one that could be either a rabbit or a duck."

"That's not what happened here."

"Ask yourself this: Suppose Terese hadn't called you in Paris. Suppose you were walking on the street to your office and that blond girl walked past you. Would you have stopped and thought, 'Gee, that girl has to be Terese's daughter'? "

"No."

"So it's situational. Do you see that?"

"I do."

We sat in silence a little while longer.

"Of course," Win said, "just because something is situational, doesn't mean it isn't true."

"There's that."

"And it might be fun to bag a major terrorist."

"Are you with me?"

"Not yet," he said. "But after I finish this drink and go into my bedroom, I will be."

32

THE mind can be pretty goofy and ornery.

Logic is never linear. It dashes to and fro and bounces off walls and makes hairpin turns and gets lost during detours. Anything can be a catalyst, usually something unrelated to the task at hand, ricocheting your thoughts into an unexpected direction-a direction that inevitably leads to a solution linear thinking could never have approached.

That was what happened to me. That was how I started to put this all together.

Terese stirred when I returned to the bedroom. I didn't tell her my thoughts on the blond girl, situational or otherwise. I didn't want to keep anything from her, but there was no reason to tell her yet. She was trying to heal. Why rip out those sutures until I knew more?

She drifted back to sleep. I held her and closed my eyes. I realized how little I had slept since returning from my sixteen-day hiatus. I slipped into nightmare world and woke up with a start at about three in the morning. My heart pounded. There were tears in my eyes. I only remembered the sensation of something pressing down hard on me, pinning me down, something so heavy I couldn't breathe. I got out of bed. Terese was still asleep. I bent down and kissed her gently.

There was a laptop in the room off the bedroom. I signed on to the Internet and searched for Save the Angels. The Web site came up. On the top was a banner that read SAVE THE ANGELS and in smaller print, CHRISTIAN SOLUTIONS. The language spoke of life and love and God. It talked about replacing the word "choice" with the word "solutions." There were testimonials from women who had gone with the "adoption solution" rather than "murder." There were couples who'd had infertility issues talking about how the government wanted to "cruelly experiment" on their "preborns" while Save the Angels could help a frozen embryo "realize its ultimate purpose-life" through the Christian solution of helping another infertile couple.

I had heard such arguments before, remembered Mario Contuzzi briefly addressing them. He said that the group seemed somewhat right-wing but not extreme. I tended to agree. I kept surfing. There was a mission statement about sharing God's love and saving "pre-born children." There was a statement of faith that began with a belief in the Bible, that it is "the complete, inspired word of God without error," and moved into the sanctity of life. There were buttons to click on adoption care, on rights, on upcoming events, on resources for birth mothers.

I clicked the FAQ section, seeing how they answered the hows and whys, supporting unwed mothers, matching infertile couples to frozen embryos, forms to fill out, costs, how you can donate, how you can join the Save the Angels team. It was all pretty impressive. The Picture Gallery was next. I clicked on page one. There were pictures of two rather glorious mansions that were used for unwed mothers. One looked like something you'd see on a Georgian plantation, all white with marble columns and enormous weeping willow trees surrounding it. The other home looked like the perfect bed-and-breakfast-a picturesque, almost overly done Victorian home with turrets, towers, stained-glass windows, a lemonade porch, and a blue-gray mansard roof. The captions stressed the confidentiality of both the location and the inhabitants-no names, no address-while the postcardlike photographs almost made you long to be knocked up.

I clicked on Gallery page two-and that was when I had my goofy-ornery-nonlinear-catalyst moment.

There were photographs of babies. The images were beautiful and adorable and heartbreaking, the sort of pictures designed to elicit wonder and awe in anyone with a pulse.

My ornery mind likes to play the contrast game. You watch a terrible stand-up comic, you think of how great Chris Rock is. You watch a movie that tries to scare you with excessive Technicolor gore, you think of how Hitchcock kept you riveted, even in black and white. Right now, as I stared at the "saved angels," I thought about how perfect these images were compared with those creepy Victorian photographs I had seen in that cheesy storefront earlier in the day. That reminded me of what else I had learned there, the HHK, the possibility of that meaning Ho-Ho-Kus, and how Esperanza had come up with that.

Again the human brain-billions of random synapses cracking, popping, mixing, twisting, and sparking. You can't really get a grip on it, but here was how it must have gone inside my head: Official Photography, HHK, Esperanza, how we first met, her wrestling days, FLOW, the acronym for the Fabulous Ladies of Wrestling.

Suddenly it all came together. Well, maybe not all of it. But some. Enough so that I knew where I would be headed the next morning:

To that cheesy storefront in Ho-Ho-Kus. To the Official Photography of Albin Laramie, or, as it might be known if you were jotting down an acronym, OPAL.

THE man behind the counter at the Official Photography of Albin Laramie had to be Albin. He wore a cape. A shiny cape. Like he was Batman or Zorro. The facial hair looked Etch-A-Sketched, his hair was a tangled yet calculated mess, and his whole persona screamed that he was not merely an artist, but an "artiste!" He was talking on the phone and scowling when I entered.

I started toward him. He signaled me to wait with a finger. "He doesn't get it, Leopold. What can I tell you? The man doesn't get angles or texture or coloring. He has no eye."

He held up his finger again for me to wait another minute. I did. When he hung up the phone, he sighed theatrically. "May I help you?"

"Hi," I said. "My name is Bernie Worley."

"And I," he said, hand to heart, "am Albin Laramie."

He made this pronouncement with great pride and flair. It reminded me of Mandy Patinkin in The Princess Bride; I half expected him to tell me that I had killed his father, prepare to die.

I gave him the world-weary smile. "My wife asked me to pick up some photographs."

"Do you have your claim stub?"

"I lost it."

Albin frowned.

"But I have the order number, if that will help."

"It may." He pulled over a keyboard, got his fingers ready, turned back to me. "Well?"

"Four-seven-one-two."

He looked at me as though I were the dumbest thing on God's green earth. "That's not an order number."

"Oh. Are you sure?"

"That's a session number."

"A session number?"

He pushed the cape back with both hands like a bird might before spreading its wings. "As in photo session."

The phone rang and he turned away as though dismissing me. I was losing him. I took a step back and did my own theatrics. I blinked and made my mouth into a perfect O. Myron Bolitar, Awestruck Ingénue. He was watching me with curiosity now. I circled the store and kept the awestruck look on my face.

"Is there a problem?" he asked me.

"Your work," I said. "It's breathtaking."

He preened. You don't often see an adult man preen in real life. For the next ten minutes or so I snowed him with a bit more about his work, asking him about inspiration and letting him prattle on about hue and tone and style and lighting and other stuff.

"Marge and I have a baby," I said, shaking my head in admiration at the hideous Victorian monstrosity that made an otherwise cute baby look like my uncle Morty with a case of shingles. "We should set up a time to bring her in."

Albin continued to preen in his cape. Preening, I thought, was meant for a man in a cape. We discussed price, which was absolutely ridiculous and would require a second mortgage. I played along. Finally, I said, "Look, that's the number my wife gave me. The session number. She said that if I saw those photographs it would simply blow me away. Do you think I could see the shots from session four-seven-one-two?"

If it struck him as odd that I had originally come in claiming to pick up photographs and now wanted to look at pictures from a session, the note hadn't sounded over the din of true genius.

"Yes, of course, it's on the computer here. I must tell you. I don't like digital photography. For your little girl, I want to use a classic box camera. There is such a texture to the work."

"That'd be super."

"Still, I use the digital for Web storage." He began typing and hit return. "Well, these aren't baby pictures, that's for sure. Here you are."

Albin turned the monitor toward me. A bunch of thumbnails loaded onto the screen. I felt my chest tighten even before he clicked on one, making the image large enough to fill the entire monitor. No doubt about it.

It was the blond girl.

I tried to play it cool. "I'll need a copy of that."

"What size?"

"Whatever, eight-by-ten would be great."

"It will be ready a week from Tuesday."

"I need it now."

"Impossible."

"Your computer is hooked up into the color printer over there," I said.

"Yes, but that hardly produces photo quality."

No time to explain. I took out my wallet. "I'll give you two hundred dollars for a computer printout of that picture."

His eyes narrowed, but only for a second. It was finally dawning on him that something was up, but he was a photographer, not a lawyer or doctor. There was no confidentiality agreement here. I handed him the two hundred dollars. He started for the printer. I noticed a link that said Personal Info. I clicked it as he pulled the photograph from the printer.

"Pardon me?" Albin said.

I backed off, but I had seen enough. The girl's name was only listed as a first: Carrie. Her address?

Right next door. Care of the Save the Angels Foundation.

ALBIN did not know Carrie's last name. When I pressed him, he let me know he took pictures for Save the Angels, that was all. They gave him first names only. I took the printout and went next door. Save the Angels was still locked up. No surprise. I found Minerva, my favorite receptionist, at Bruno and Associates and showed her the picture of the blond Carrie.

"Do you know her?"

Minerva looked up at me.

"She's missing," I said. "I'm trying to find her."

"Are you like a private eye?"

"I am." It was easier than explaining.

"Cool."

"Yeah. Her first name is Carrie. Do you recognize her?"

"She worked there."

"At Save the Angels?"

"Well, not worked. She was one of the interns. Was here for a few weeks last summer."

"Can you tell me anything about her?"

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

I said nothing.

"I never knew her name. She wasn't very nice. None of their interns were, truthfully. Plenty of love for God, I guess, but not real people. Anyway, our offices share a bathroom down the hall. I would say hi. She would look through me. You know what I mean?"

I thanked Minerva and headed back to suite 3B. I stood in front of it and stared at the door for Save the Angels. Again: the mind. I started letting the pieces tumble through ye olde brain cavity like socks in a dryer. I thought about the Web site I had surfed through last night, about the very name of this organization. I looked down at the photograph in my hand. The blond hair. The beautiful face. The blue eyes with that gold ring around each pupil, and yet I saw exactly what Minerva meant.

No mistake.

Sometimes you see strong genetic similarities in a face, like the gold ring around the pupil-and sometimes you also see something more like an echo. That was what I saw on this girl's face. An echo.

An echo, I was certain, of her mother.

I looked again at the door. I looked again at the photograph. And as the realization sank in, I felt the coldness seep into my bones.

Berleand hadn't lied.

My cell phone rang. It was Win.

"The DNA test on those bones has been completed."

"Don't tell me," I said. "It's a match for Terese as mother. Jones was telling the truth."

"Yes."

I stared at the picture some more.

"Myron?"

"I think I get it now," I said. "I think I know what's going on."

33

I drove back to New York City-more specifically, to the offices of CryoHope.

This can't be.

That was the thought that kept rambling through my mind. I didn't know if I hoped that I was right or wrong-but like I said, truth has a certain smell to it. And as far as the "can't be" aspect, I again bring up the Sherlock Holmes axiom: When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

I was tempted to call Special Agent Jones. I had the girl's picture now. This Carrie was probably a terrorist or a sympathizer or maybe-best-case scenario-she was being held against her will. But it was too early for that. I could talk to Terese, run this possibility by her, but that, too, felt premature.

I needed to know for sure before I got Terese's hopes up-or down.

CryoHope had valet parking. I gave the keys to the man and started inside. Immediately after Rick Collins found out that he had Huntington's disease, he had come here. It made sense on the surface. CryoHope was a leader in cutting-edge research with stem cells. It was natural to think that he had visited here in hopes of finding that something might save him from his genetic fate.

But that hadn't been it.

I remembered the name of the doctor from the brochure. "I want to see Dr. Sloan," I said to the receptionist.

"Your name?"

"Myron Bolitar. Tell him it's about Rick Collins. And a girl named Carrie."

WHEN I came back out, Win was waiting by the front door, leaning against the wall with the ease of Dino at the Sands. His limo was outside, but he stayed with me.

"So?" he said.

I told him everything. He listened without interrupting or asking any follow-up questions. When I was done, he said, "Next step?"

"I tell Terese."

"Any thoughts on how she'll react?"

"None."

"You could wait. Do more research."

"On what?"

He picked up the photograph. "The girl."

"We will. But I need to tell Terese now."

My cell phone chirped. The caller ID showed me Unknown Number. I flipped on the speakerphone setting and said, "Hello?"

"Miss me?"

It was Berleand. "You didn't call me back," I said.

"You were supposed to stay out of it. Calling you back may have encouraged you to rejoin the investigation."

"So why are you calling now?"

"Because you have a very big problem," he said.

"I'm listening."

"Am I on speakerphone?"

"Yes."

"Is Win there with you?"

Win said, "I am."

"So what's the problem?" I asked.

"We've been picking up some dangerous chatter coming out of Paterson, New Jersey. Terese's name was mentioned."

"Terese's," I said, "but not mine?"

"It may have been alluded to. This is chatter. It isn't always clear."

"But you think they know about us?"

"It seems likely, yes."

"Any idea how?"

"None. The agents involved with Jones, the ones who took you into custody, are the best. None of them would have talked."

"One must have," I said.

"Are you sure about that?"

I ran it through my head. I thought about who else was there that day in London, who might have told other jihadists that I had killed their leader Mohammad Matar. I glanced at Win. He held up the photograph of Carrie and arched an eyebrow.

When you eliminate the impossible…

Win said, "Call your parents. We'll move them to the Lockwood compound in Palm Beach. We'll add the best security for Esperanza-maybe Zorra is available or that Carl guy from Philadelphia. Is your brother still on dig in Peru?"

I nodded.

"He should be safe then."

I knew that Win would stay with Terese and me. Win started making calls. I picked up the phone, taking it off speaker. "Berleand?"

"Yes."

"Jones implied that you might have been lying about that DNA test in Paris."

Berleand said nothing.

"I know you were telling the truth," I said.

"How?"

But I had already said too much. "I have some calls to make. I'll call you back."

I hung up and called my parents. I was hoping my father would answer, so naturally my mother picked up.

"Mom, it's me."

"Hello, darling." Mom sounded tired. "I'm just back from the doctor."

"Are you okay?"

"You can read about it on my blog tonight," Mom said.

"Hold up, you just got back from the doctor, right?"

Mom sighed. "I just said that, didn't I?"

"Right, so I'm asking about your health."

"That's going to be my blog topic. If you want to know more, read it."

"You won't tell me?"

"Don't take it personally, sweetie. This way I don't have to repeat myself when someone else asks."

"So you blog about it instead?"

"It increases traffic to my site. See, now you're interested, am I right? So I'll get more hits."

My mother, ladies and gentlemen.

"I didn't even know you had a blog."

"Oh, sure, I'm very now, very today, very hip. I'm on MyFace too."

I heard my father in the background shout out, "It's MySpace, Ellen."

"What?"

"It's called MySpace."

"I thought it was MyFace."

"That's Facebook. You have one of those too. And MySpace."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Listen to Mr. Billy Gates back there. Knows everything about the Internet all of a sudden."

"And your mother is fine," Dad yelled out.

"Don't tell him," she whined. "Now he won't click my blog."

"Mom, this is important. Can I talk to Dad for a minute?"

Dad came on. I explained quickly and with as little detail as possible. Again Dad got it. He didn't question or argue. I had just finished explaining about how we'd get someone to pick them up and take them to the compound when my call waiting beeped in another call. It was Terese.

I finished up with my father and switched over.

"I'm about two minutes from you," I said to Terese. "Stay inside until I get there."

Silence.

"Terese?"

"She called."

I heard the sob in her voice.

"Who called?"

"Miriam. I just got off the phone with her."

34

I met her at the door.

"Tell me what happened."

Her whole body shook. She moved close to me and I held her and closed my eyes. This conversation, I knew, would be devastating. I got it now. I got why Rick Collins told her to be prepared. I got why he warned that what he would say would change her entire life.

"My phone rang. I picked it up and a girl on the other end said, 'Mommy?' "

I tried to imagine the moment, hearing that word from your own child, believing it was someone you loved more than anything else in the world and that you had a hand in killing.

"What else did she say?"

"They were holding her hostage."

"Who?"

"Terrorists. She said not to tell anyone."

I said nothing.

"A man with a thick accent took the phone away from her then. He said he'd call back with demands."

I just held her.

"Myron?"

We managed to find our way to the couch. She looked at me with hope and-I know how this will sound-love. My heart was cracking in my chest as I handed her the photograph.

"This is the blond girl I saw in Paris and London," I said.

She studied the picture for a full minute without speaking. Then: "I don't understand."

I wasn't sure what to say here. I wondered if she saw the resemblance, if maybe some of the pieces were coming together for her too.

"Myron?"

"That's the girl I saw," I said again.

She shook her head.

I knew the answer, but I asked the question anyway: "What's wrong?"

"That's not Miriam," she said.

She looked down again, wiped her eyes. "Maybe, I don't know, maybe if Miriam had some facial surgery and it's been a lot of years. Looks change, right? She was seven the last time I saw her…"

Her eyes jumped back to my face, hoping to find some reassurance. I offered her none. I realized that the time had come, dived in headfirst.

"Miriam is dead," I said.

The blood slowly drained from her face. My heart shattered anew. I wanted to reach out to her, but I knew that it would be the wrong move. She swam through it, tried to stay rational, knew how important this all was. "But that phone call…?"

"Your name has come up in some chatter. My guess is, they're trying to draw you out."

She looked back down at the picture. "So it was all a hoax?"

"No."

"But you just said…" Terese was trying so hard to stay with me. I tried to think of the best way to say this and realized that there was none. I would have to let her see it the way I had.

"Let's go back a few months," I said, "when Rick found out he had Huntington's disease."

She just looked at me.

"What would he have done first?" I asked.

"Have his son tested."

"Right."

"So?"

"So he also went to CryoHope. I kept thinking that he went there to find a cure."

"He didn't?"

"No," I said. "Do you know a Dr. Everett Sloan?"

"No. Wait, I saw the name on the brochure. He works for CryoHope."

"Right," I said. "He also took over the practice of Dr. Aaron Cox."

She said nothing.

"I just found out his name," I said. "But Cox was your ob-gyn. When you and Rick had Miriam."

Terese just stared at me.

"You and Rick had serious fertility issues. You told me about how difficult it was until, well, what you called a medical miracle, though it's rather common. In vitro fertilization."

She still wouldn't or couldn't talk.

"In vitro, by definition, is where eggs are fertilized by sperm outside the womb and then the embryo is transferred into the woman's uterus. You mentioned taking Pergonal to up your egg count. This happens in almost every instance. And then there are the extra embryos. For the past twenty-plus years, the embryos have been frozen. Sometimes they were thawed for use in stem cell research. Sometimes they were used when the couple wanted to try again. Sometimes, when one spouse died, the other would use it, or if you've just found out you have cancer and still want a kid. You know all this. There are complex legal issues involving divorce and custody, and many embryos are simply destroyed or stay frozen while a couple decides."

I swallowed because by now she had to see where I was going with this. "What happened to your extra embryos?"

"It was our fourth try," Terese said. "None of the embryos had taken. You can't imagine how crushing that was. And when it finally worked, it was such a wonderful happy surprise…" Her voice drifted off. "We only had two more embryos. We were going to save them in case we wanted to try again, but then my fibroids came up and, well, there was no way I could get pregnant again. Dr. Cox told me that the embryos hadn't survived the freezing process anyway."

"He lied," I said.

She looked back at the picture of the blond girl.

"There is a charity called Save the Angels. They are against any sort of embryonic stem cell research or destruction of embryos in any way, shape, or form. For nearly two decades they've lobbied for the embryos to be adopted, if you will. It makes sense. There are hundreds of thousands of stored embryos, and there are couples who could conceive with those embryos and give them a life. The legal issues are complicated. Most states don't allow embryo adoptions because, in a sense, the birth mother is no more than a surrogate. Save the Angels wants the stored embryos implanted in infertile women."

She saw it now. "Oh my God…"

"I don't know all the details. One of Dr. Cox's residents was a big supporter of Save the Angels, I guess. Do you remember a Dr. Jiménez?"

Terese shook her head.

"Save the Angels pressured Cox just as he was starting up CryoHope. I don't know if he didn't want the press or if there was a payoff or if he was sympathetic to the Save the Angels cause. Cox probably realized that there were embryos that had no chance of being used, so, well, why not? Why let them stay frozen or be destroyed? So he gave them up for adoption."

"So this girl"-her eyes stayed on the picture-"this is my daughter?"

"Biologically speaking, yes."

She just stared at the face, not moving.

"When Dr. Sloan took over six years ago, he found out what had been done. He was in a tough spot. For a while he debated just keeping quiet but felt that was both illegal and medically unethical. So he took something of an in-between route. He contacted Rick and asked permission to allow the embryos to be adopted. I don't know what must have gone through Rick's mind, but I guess when the choice was having embryos destroyed or giving them a chance at life, he chose life."

"Wouldn't they have to contact me too?"

"You had already given that permission way back when. Rick hadn't. And no one knew where you were. So Rick signed off on it. I don't know if it was legal or not. But the deed had already been done anyway. Dr. Sloan was just trying to clean up the mess now, in case there was something out there that screening might help with. And in this case, there was. When Rick found out he had Huntington's disease, he wanted to make sure the family who'd adopted the embryos knew about his medical condition. So he went to CryoHope. Dr. Sloan told him the truth-that the actual embryos had been implanted years ago via Save the Angels. He didn't know who the adoptive parents were, so he told Rick that he would make a request to get the information with Save the Angels. My guess is, Rick didn't want to wait."

"You think he broke into their offices?"

"It adds up," I said.

She finally wrested her eyes off the photograph. "So where is she now?"

"I don't know."

"She's my daughter."

"Biologically."

Something crossed her face. "Don't hand me that. You found out about Jeremy when he was fourteen. You still consider him your son."

I wanted to say that my situation was different, but she had a point. Jeremy was biologically my son, but he had never known me as his father. I had found out about him too late to make a significant difference in his upbringing-but I was now still a part of his life. Was this situation any different?

"What's her name?" Terese asked. "Who raised her? Where does she live?"

"Her first name might be Carrie, but I can't say for sure. The rest of it I don't know yet."

She lowered the photograph onto her lap.

"We need to tell Jones about this," I said.

"No."

"If your daughter was kidnapped-"

"You don't believe that, do you?"

"I don't know."

"Come on, be honest with me. You think she's involved with these monsters-that she's one of those girls Jones talked about, with daddy issues."

"I don't know. But if she is innocent-"

"She's innocent either way. She can't be more than seventeen. If she somehow got caught up in this because she was young and impressionable, Jones and his pals at Homeland Security will never understand. Her life will be over. You saw what they did to you."

I said nothing.

"I don't know why she's with them," Terese said. "Maybe it's Stockholm syndrome. Maybe she had terrible parents or is a rebellious teenager-hell, I know I was. Doesn't matter. She's just a kid. And she's my daughter, Myron. Do you get that? It's not Miriam, but I have a second chance here. I can't turn my back on her. Please."

I still said nothing.

"I can help her. It's like… it's like it was meant to be. Rick died trying to save her. Now it's my turn. The call said not to tell anyone but you. Please, Myron. I'm begging you. Please help me rescue my daughter."

35

WITH Terese still beside me, I called Berleand back.

"Jones implied that you somehow lied or doctored the DNA test," I said.

"I know."

"You do?"

"He wanted you off the case. I did too. That was why I didn't return your call."

"But you called before."

"To warn you. That's all. You should still stay out of it."

"I can't."

Berleand sighed. I thought about that first meeting, at the airport, the tired hair, the glasses with the oversize frames, the way he took me out on that roof at 36 quai des Orfévres and how much I liked him.

"Myron?"

"Yes."

"Before, you said you knew that I didn't lie about the DNA test."

"Right," I said.

"Is this something you deduced because I have a trustworthy face and almost supernatural charisma?"

"That would be a no."

"Then please enlighten me."

I looked over at Terese. "I need you to promise me something."

"Uh-oh."

"I have information you'll find valuable. You probably have information I will find valuable."

"And you'd like to make an exchange."

"For starters."

"Starters," he repeated. "Then before I agree, why don't you fill me in on the main course?"

"We team up. We work on this together. We keep Jones and the rest of the task force out of it."

"What about my Mossad contacts?"

"Just us."

"I see. Oh, wait, no, I don't see."

Terese moved closer so she could hear what he was saying.

"If Matar's plot is ongoing," I said, "I want us to bring it down. Not them."

"Because?"

"Because I want to keep the blond girl out of it."

There was a pause. Then Berleand said, "Jones told you that he tested the bone samples from Miriam Collins's grave."

"He did."

"And that it's a match for Miriam Collins."

"I know."

"So forgive me but I'm confused. Why then would you be interested in protecting this probably hardened terrorist?"

"I can't tell you unless you agree to work with me."

"And keep Jones out of it?"

"Yes."

"Because you want to protect the blond girl who probably had a role in the murders of Karen Tower and Mario Contuzzi?"

"As you said, probably."

"That's why we have courts."

"I don't want her to see the inside of one. You'll understand why after I tell you what I know."

Berleand went quiet again.

"Do we have a deal?" I asked.

"Up to a point."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that once again you are thinking small-time. You are worried about one person. I understand that. I assume that you will tell me why she is important to you in a moment. But what we are dealing with could involve thousands of lives. Thousands of fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters. The chatter I heard suggests something huge is in play, not just one strike, but a variety of attacks over the course of many months. I don't really care about one girl-not against the thousands that might be slaughtered."

"So what exactly are you promising?"

"You didn't let me finish. My not caring about the girl cuts both ways. I don't care if she gets caught-and I don't care if she escapes prosecution. So, yes, I am with you. We will try to solve this ourselves-something I've been doing pretty much anyway. But if we are outmanned or outgunned, I reserve the right to call in Jones. I will keep my word and help you protect the girl. But the priority here has to be stopping the jihadists from carrying out their mission. One life is not worth thousands."

I wondered about that. "Do you have any children, Berleand?"

"No. But please don't play that paternal-bond card with me. It is insulting." Then: "Wait, are you telling me that the blond girl is Terese Collins's daughter?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Explain."

"We have a deal?" I said.

"Yes. With the caveats I just laid out. Tell me what you know."

I ran him through it, my visits to Save the Angels, to the Official Photography of Albin Laramie, to the discovery of the embryo adoptions, to the "Mommy" phone call Terese had just received. He interrupted several times with questions. I answered them as best I could. When I finished he dived in.

"First, we need to find the identity of the girl. We'll make copies of the picture. I'll e-mail one over to Lefebvre. If she's American, maybe she was in Paris on some kind of exchange program. He can show it around."

"Okay," I said.

"You said the call came in on Terese's cell phone?"

"Yes."

"I assume the incoming number was blocked?"

I hadn't even thought to ask. I looked at Terese. She nodded. I said, "Yes."

"What time exactly?"

I looked at Terese. She checked her phone log and told me the time.

"I will call you back in five minutes," Berleand said. He hung up.

Win came in and said, "All well?"

"Peachy."

"Your parents are taken care of. Same with Esperanza and the office."

I nodded. The phone rang again. It was Berleand.

"I may have something," he said.

"Go ahead."

"The call to Terese came from a throwaway phone purchased with cash in Danbury, Connecticut."

"That's a pretty big city."

"Maybe I can shrink it down then. I told you we heard chatter coming from a possible cell in Paterson, New Jersey."

"Right."

"Most of the communications went or came from overseas, but we have seen some that stayed here in the United States. You know that criminal elements often communicate via e-mail?"

"I guess it makes sense."

"Because it's somewhat anonymous. They set up an account with a free provider and use that. What many people don't know is that we can now tell where the e-mail account was created. It doesn't help much. Most of the time it's created on a public computer, at the library or an Internet café, something like that."

"And in this case?"

"The chatter involved an e-mail address created eight months ago at the Mark Twain Library in Redding, Connecticut, less than ten miles from Danbury."

I thought about it. "It's a link."

"Yes. More than that, the library is used by the local coed prep school, Carver Academy. We could get lucky. Your 'Carrie' could be a student there."

"You can check?"

"I have a call in now. In the meantime, Redding is only about an hour and a half from here. We could take a ride up and show the picture around."

"Want me to drive?"

Berleand said, "I think that would be best."

36

I persuaded Terese to stay behind, no easy task, in case we needed something in the city. I promised her that we would call the moment we knew something. She grudgingly agreed. We didn't need all of us up there, spreading our resources. Win would stay nearby, mostly for Terese's protection, but the two of them could try to investigate other avenues too. The key was probably Save the Angels. If we could locate their records, we could find Carrie's full name and address, track down her adoptive or surrogate or whatever-you-call-them parents, and see if we could locate her that way.

On the drive up, Berleand asked, "Have you ever been married?"

"Nope. You?"

He smiled. "Four times."

"Wow."

"All ended in divorce. I don't regret a single one."

"Would your ex-wives say the same?"

"I doubt it. But we're friends now. I'm not good with keeping women, just getting them."

I smiled. "Wouldn't expect you to be the type."

"Because I'm not handsome?"

I shrugged.

"Looks are overrated," he said. "Do you know what I do have?"

"Don't tell me. A great sense of humor, right? According to women's magazines, a sense of humor is the most important quality in a man."

"Sure, of course, and the check is in the mail," Berleand said.

"So that's not it."

"I am a very funny man," he said. "But that's not it."

"What then?" I asked.

"I told you before."

"Tell me again."

"Charisma," Berleand said. "I have charisma on an almost supernatural level."

I smiled. "Hard to argue with that."

Redding was more rural than I'd expected, a sleepy, unassuming town of New England-Puritan architecture, postmodern suburban McMansions, roadside antique shops, aging farmland. Above the green door of the modest library, a plaque read:

MARK TWAIN LIBRARY

and then in slightly smaller print:

GIFT OF SAMUEL L. CLEMENS.

I found that curious, but now was hardly the time. We headed to the librarian's desk.

Since Berleand had the official badge, even if we were way out of his district, I let him take the lead. "Hello," he said to the librarian. Her nameplate read "Paige Wesson." She looked up with jaded eyes, as if Berleand were returning an overdue book and offering up a lame excuse she had heard a million times before. "We are looking for this missing girl. Have you seen her?"

He held out his badge in one hand, the blonde's picture in the other. The librarian looked at the badge first.

"You're from Paris," she said.

"Yes."

"Does this look like Paris?"

"Not even close," Berleand agreed. "But the case has international implications. The girl was last seen under duress in my jurisdiction. We believe that she may have used the computers at this library."

She picked up the picture. "I don't think I've seen her."

"Are you sure?"

"No, I'm not sure. Look around you." We did. There were teens at nearly every table. "Tons of kids come in here every day. I'm not saying she has never been in here. I'm just saying I don't know her."

"Could you check in your computers, see if you have a card registered to anyone with the first name Carrie?"

"Do you have a court order?" Paige asked.

"Could we look at your computer sign-up logs from eight months ago?"

"Same question."

Berleand smiled at her. "Have a pleasant day."

"You too."

We moved away from Paige Wesson and started for the door. My phone buzzed. It was Esperanza.

"I was able to get through to someone at Carver Academy," Esperanza said. "They have no student registered with the first name Carrie."

"Bummer," I said. I thanked her, hung up, filled in Berleand.

Berleand said, "Any suggestions?"

"We split up and show her picture to the students in here," I said.

I scanned the room and saw a table with three teenage boys in the corner. Two wore varsity jackets, the kind with the name stenciled on the front and the pleather sleeves, the same kind I'd worn when I was at Livingston High. The third was pure prep boy-the set jaw, the fine bone structure, the collared polo shirt, the expensive khaki pants. I decided to start with them.

I showed them the picture.

"Do you know her?"

Prep Boy did the talking. "I think her name is Carrie."

Pay dirt.

"Do you know her last name?"

Three head shakes.

"Does she go to your school?"

"No," Prep Boy said. "She's a townie, I assume. We've seen her around."

Varsity Jacket One said, "She's hot."

Prep Boy with the set jaw nodded his agreement. "And she has a terrific ass."

I frowned. Meet Mini-Win, I thought.

Berleand looked over at me. I signaled that I might have something. He joined us.

"Do you know where she lives?" I asked.

"No. But Kenbo had her."

"Who?"

"Ken Borman. He had her."

Berleand said, "Had her?"

I looked at him. Berleand said, "Oh. Had her."

"Where can we find Kenbo?" I asked.

"He's in the weight room on campus."

They gave us directions and we were on our way.

37

I expected Kenbo to be bigger.

When you hear a nickname like Kenbo and you hear he's had the hot blonde and that he's in the weight room, a certain image of a muscle-headed pretty boy sort of rises to the surface. That wasn't the case here. Kenbo had hair so dark and straight it had to be colored and ironed. It hung over one eye like a heavy black curtain. His complexion was pale, his arms reedy, his fingernails polished black. We called this look "goth" way back in my day.

When I handed him the photograph, I saw his eye-I could see only one because the other was covered by the hair-widen. He looked up at us and I could see fear on his face.

"You know her," I said.

Kenbo stood up, backed up a few steps, turned, and then suddenly sprinted away. I looked at Berleand. He said, "You don't expect me to chase him, do you?"

I took off after him. Kenbo was outside now, dashing across the rather spacious Carver Academy campus. The gunshot wound ached but not enough to slow me down. There were very few students out and about, no teachers that I could see, but someone was bound to call the authorities. This couldn't be good.

"Wait!" I shouted.

He didn't. He spun left and disappeared behind a brick building. He wore his pants fashionably loose, too loose, and that helped. He had to keep hitching them up. I followed, closing the gap. I felt an ache in my knee, a reminder of my old injury, and leapt a wire-mesh fence. He ran across a sports field made of artificial turf. I didn't bother calling out again. That would only waste strength and time. He was heading to the outskirts of campus, away from witnesses, and I took this as a positive thing.

When he reached an opening near the woods, I dived for his feet, wrapped my arms around his leg in a manner that would have made any NFL defensive back envious, and drove him to the ground. He fell harder than I would have liked, spinning away from me, trying to kick me off.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I shouted.

"Just leave me alone."

I actually straddled his chest and pinned his arms, as if I were his big brother. "Calm down."

"Get off me!"

"I'm just trying to find this girl."

"I don't know anything."

"Ken-"

"Get off me!"

"Promise you won't run?"

"Get off. Please!"

I was pinning down a helpless, terrified high school kid. What would I do for an encore? Drown a kitten? I rolled off him.

"I'm trying to help this girl," I said.

He sat up. There were tears on his face. He wiped them away and hid his face in his arm.

"Ken?"

"What?"

"This girl is missing and probably in serious danger."

He looked up at me.

"I'm trying to find her."

"You don't know her?"

I shook my head. Berleand was finally in view.

"Are you cops?"

"He is. I'm working on this for a personal reason."

"What reason?"

"I'm trying to help"-I didn't see any other way to say it-"I'm trying to help her birth mother locate her. Carrie is missing, and she may be in serious trouble."

"I don't understand. Why come to me?"

"Your friends told us you dated her."

He lowered his head again.

"In fact, they said you did more than just date her."

He shrugged. "So?"

"So what's her full name?"

"You don't know that either?"

"She's in trouble, Ken."

Berleand had caught up to us. He was breathing heavily. He reached into his pocket-I thought for a pencil-and pulled out a cigarette. Yeah, that should help.

"Carrie Steward," he said.

I looked at Berleand. He nodded, wheezed, managed to say: "I'll call it in."

He grabbed his phone and started walking, phone in the air, searching for service.

"I don't understand why you ran," I said.

"I lied," he said. "To my friends, okay? I never slept with her. I just said that."

I waited.

"We met at the library, actually. I mean, she was so beautiful, you know? And she was surrounded by these two other blondes, all staring off like something out of Children of the Corn. It was spooky. Anyway I'm watching her for like three days and she finally goes off by herself and I walk up and say hi. She totally ignores me at first. I mean, I've been given the cold shoulder but this chick is giving me chills. But I figure, what have I got to lose? So I keep talking and I have my iPod, right, so I ask her what music she likes and she says she doesn't like music. I couldn't believe it, so I play her something from Blue October. I can see her face change. The power of music, right?"

He stopped. I looked over. Berleand was on the phone. I texted the name "Carrie Steward" to both Esperanza and Terese. Let them start digging into her too. I kept waiting for someone from the school to start over toward us, but so far, no one had. We both sat on the grass now, facing back toward the campus. The sun was beginning to dip down, painting the sky burnt orange.

"So what happened?" I asked.

"We started talking. She told me her name was Carrie. She wanted to hear other songs. But she kept looking around, like she was afraid her friends would see her hanging out with me. Made me feel like a loser, but maybe it was a townie-versus-preppy thing, I don't know. That's what I thought anyway. At first. We met a few more times after that. She would be at the library with her friends and then we'd sneak out in the back and just talk and listen to music. One day I told her about a band that was playing in Nor-walk. I asked her if she wanted to go. Her face turned white. She looked so scared. I said, no big deal, but Carrie said, maybe we could try. I said I could pick her up at her house. She freaked. I mean, really freaked."

The air was getting cool. Berleand finished on the phone. He looked back at me, saw our faces, knew it was best to stay away.

"So what happened next?"

"So she tells me to park at the end of Duck Run Road. She said she'd meet me there at nine o'clock. So I park there a few minutes before nine. It's dark out. I'm just sitting there. There's no light on the road or anything. I'm waiting. It's nine fifteen now. I hear a noise and then suddenly my car door opens and I'm being pulled out."

Ken stopped. There were more tears on his face. He wiped them away.

"Someone punches me straight in the mouth. Knocks out two teeth." He showed me. "They drag me out of the car. I don't know how many of them. Four, maybe five, and they're kicking me. I just cover up, you know, put my hands over my head, and I think I'm going to die. Then I'm rolled onto my back. And held down. I still can't see any faces-and man, I don't want to. One of them puts a knife right in front of me. He says, 'She doesn't want you to talk to her again. If you say a word about this, we kill your family.' "

Ken and I sat there and said nothing for a few moments. I looked over at Berleand. He shook his head. Nothing on Carrie Steward.

"That's it," he said. "I never saw her again. Or any of those kids she hung out with. It's like they disappeared."

"Did you tell anyone?"

He shook his head.

"How did you explain your injuries?"

"I said I got jumped outside the concert. You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"I won't tell anyone," I said. "But we need to find her, Ken. Do you have any clue where Carrie might be?"

He said nothing.

"Ken?"

"I asked her where she lived. She wouldn't tell me."

I waited.

"But one day"-he stopped, took a deep breath-"I followed her after she left the library."

Ken looked away and blinked.

"So you know where she lives?"

He shrugged. "Maybe, I don't know. I don't think so."

"Can you show me where you followed her to?"

Ken shook his head. "I can give you directions," he said. "But I don't want to go with you, okay? Right now I just want to go home."

38

THE chain that blocked our way had a sign on it that read: PRIVATE ROAD.

We pulled ahead and parked around the corner. There was nothing in view but crop fields and woods. So far, our various sources had come up with nothing on any Carrie Steward. The name may have been a pseudonym, but everyone was still searching. Esperanza called me and said, "I have something that might interest you."

"Go ahead."

"You mentioned a Dr. Jiménez, a young resident who worked with Dr. Cox when he was starting up CryoHope?"

"Right."

"Jiménez is also connected to Save the Angels. He attended a retreat that they sponsored sixteen years ago. I'm going to run a search on him, see if he can give us some information on the embryo adoption."

"Okay, good."

"Is Carrie short for anything?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe Caroline?"

"I'll check and get back to you when I know something."

"One more thing." I gave her the closest intersection. "Can you Google the address and see what you come up with?"

"Nothing coming up under the address in terms of who lives there. Looks like you're on farmland or something. No idea who owns it. Want me to look into it?"

"Please."

"Back to you as soon as I can."

I hung up. Berleand said, "Take a look."

He pointed at a tree near the front of the road. A security camera was aimed at the entrance.

"Strict security," he said, "for a farm."

"Ken told us about the private road. He said Carrie walked up it."

"If we do that, we will most certainly be seen."

"If the camera is even in use. It could be just a prop."

"No," Berleand said. "A prop would be more in plain sight."

He had a point.

"We could simply walk up the road anyway," I said.

"Trespassing," Berleand added.

"Big deal. We need to do something here, right? There must be a farmhouse or something up the drive." Then I thought about something. "Wait a second."

I called Esperanza back.

"You're in front of the computer, right?"

"Right," she said.

"Google-map the location I just gave you."

Quick typing. "Okay, got it."

"Now click the Satellite Photo option and zoom in."

"Hold on… okay, it's up."

"What's up that small road on the right side of the road?"

"Lots of green and what looks like a pretty big house from the top. Maybe two hundred yards from where you are, no more. It's all alone up there."

"Thanks."

I hung up. "There's a big house."

Berleand took off his glasses, cleaned them, held them up to the light, cleaned them some more. "What do we think is going on here exactly?"

"Truth?"

"Preferably."

"I don't have a clue."

"Do you think Carrie Steward is in that big house?" he asked.

"Only one way to find out," I said.

WITH the chain blocking the driveway, we decided to take it on foot. I called Win and filled him in on everything that was going on in case something went very wrong. He decided to come up after he checked on Terese one more time. Berleand and I debated and concluded that we might as well try just going up to the door and ringing the bell.

There was still light, but the sun was in its death throes. We stepped over the chain, started up the middle of the road, past the security camera. There were trees on either side of us. It seemed at least half of them had a NO TRESPASSING sign stapled to them. The road wasn't paved but it seemed to be in pretty good shape. In some spots there was gravel, but for the most part it was loose dirt. Berleand made a face and walked on tiptoes. He kept wiping his hands against the sides of his legs and licking his lips.

"I don't like this," he said.

"Don't like what?"

"Dirt, the woods, bugs. It all feels so unclean."

"Right," I said, "but that strip joint, Upscale Pleasures, that was sanitary."

"Hey, that was a classy gentlemen's club. Didn't you read the sign?"

Up ahead, I saw a line of shrubs and over that, a little bit in the distance, I could make out a gray-blue mansard roof.

A little ding sounded in my head. I picked up my pace.

"Myron?"

Behind us I heard the chain drop to the ground and a car come up. I moved faster, wanting to get a better look. I glanced behind me as a county police car pulled up. Berleand stopped. I didn't.

"Sir? You're trespassing on private property."

I rounded the corner. There was a fence surrounding the property. More security. But now, from this vantage point, I could see the mansion straight on.

"Stop right there. That's far enough."

I did stop. I looked ahead at the mansion. The sight confirmed what I'd suspected the moment I had seen the mansard roof. The house looked like the perfect bed-and-breakfast-a picturesque, almost overdone Victorian home with turrets, towers, stained-glass windows, a lemonade porch, and yep, a blue-gray mansard roof.

I had seen the house on the Save the Angels Web site.

It was one of their homes for unwed mothers.

TWO police officers got out of the car.

They were young and muscle-bloated and had the cocky cop-stride. They also wore Mountie hats. Mountie hats, I thought, looked silly and seemed counterproductive to law enforcement activities, but I kept that to myself.

"Something we can do for you gentlemen?" one of the officers said.

He was the taller of the two, his shirtsleeves cutting into his biceps like two tourniquets. His name tag said " Taylor."

Berleand took out the photograph. "We are looking for this girl."

The officer took the photograph, glanced at it, handed it to his partner with the name tag "Erickson." Taylor said, "And you are?"

"Captain Berleand from the Brigade Criminelle in Paris."

Berleand handed Taylor his badge and identification. Taylor took it with two fingers as though Berleand had handed him a paper bag full of steaming dog poo. He studied the ID for a moment and then gestured toward me with his chin. "And who's your friend here?"

I waved. "Myron Bolitar," I said. "Nice to meet you."

"How are you involved in this, Mr. Bolitar?"

I was going to say, long story, but thought that maybe it wasn't really that complicated: "The girl we're looking for may be the daughter of my girlfriend."

"May be?" Taylor turned back to Berleand. "Okay, Inspector Clouseau, you want to tell me what you're doing here?"

"'Inspector Clouseau,'" Berleand repeated. "That's very funny. Because I'm French, right?"

Taylor just stared at him.

"I'm working on a case involving international terrorism," Berleand said.

"That a fact?"

"Yes. This girl's name has come up. We believe she lives here."

"Do you have a warrant?"

"Time is of the essence."

"I will take that as a no." Taylor sighed, glanced at his partner Erickson. Erickson chewed gum, showed nothing. Taylor looked over at me. "This true, Mr. Bolitar?"

"It is."

"So your girlfriend's maybe daughter is somehow mixed up with an international terrorist investigation?"

"Yes," I said.

He scratched an itch on his baby-faced cheek. I tried to guess their ages. Probably still in their twenties, though they could pass for high schoolers. When did cops start looking so damn young?

"Do you know what this place is?" Taylor asked.

Berleand started shaking his head, even as I said, "It's a home for unwed mothers."

Taylor pointed at me, nodded. "That's supposed to be confidential."

"I know," I said.

"But you're exactly right. So you can see how they might be touchy about their privacy."

"We do," I said.

"If a place like this isn't a safe haven, well, what is? They come here to escape prying eyes."

"I get that."

"And you're sure your girlfriend's maybe daughter isn't just here because she's pregnant?"

Now that I thought about it, that was a fair question. "That's irrelevant. Captain Berleand can tell you. This is about a terror plot. If she's pregnant or not, it makes no difference."

"The people who run this place. They've never caused any trouble."

"I understand that."

"And this is still the United States of America. If they don't want you on their property, you have no right to be here without a warrant."

"I understand that too," I said. Looking at the mansion, I asked, "Were they the ones who called you?"

Taylor squinted at me then, and I figured he was about to tell me that was none of my business. Instead he too looked toward the house and said, "Strangely enough, no. Normally they do. When kids trespass, whatever. We found out about you from Paige Wesson at the library and then someone else saw you chasing a kid over at Carver Academy."

Taylor kept looking at the house as if it had just materialized.

Berleand said, "Please listen to me. This case is very important."

"This is still America," Taylor said again. "If they don't want to speak to you, you have to honor that. That said…" Taylor looked back at Erickson. "You see any reason not to knock on the door and show them this picture?"

Erickson thought about it a moment. Then he shook his head.

"Both of you stay here."

They sauntered past us, opened the gate, headed toward the front door. I heard an engine in the background. I turned. Nothing. Might have been a car passing from the main road. The sun was gone now, the sky darkening. I looked at the house. It was still. I hadn't seen any movement at all, not once since we arrived.

I heard another car engine, this time coming from the general direction of the house. Again I saw nothing. Berleand moved closer to me.

"Do you have a bad feeling here?" he asked.

"I don't have a good one."

"I think we should call Jones."

My cell phone buzzed just as Taylor and Erickson reached the porch steps. It was Esperanza.

"I have something you need to see."

"Oh?"

"Remember I told you Dr. Jiménez attended a Save the Angels retreat?"

"Yes."

"I found some other people who did too. I visited their Facebook pages. One of them has a whole gallery up on the retreat. I'm sending one of the photos to you now. It's a group shot, but Dr. Jiménez is standing on the far right."

"Okay, let me get off the line."

I hung up, and the BlackBerry began to hum. I opened the e-mail from Esperanza and clicked the attachment. The picture loaded slowly. Berleand looked over my shoulder.

Taylor and Erickson reached the front door. Taylor rang the bell. A blond teenage boy answered the door. I wasn't close enough to hear. Taylor said something. The boy said something back.

The picture loaded on my BlackBerry. The screen was so small, and so too were the faces. I clicked the zoom option, moved the cursor to the right, hit zoom again. The picture came in closer, but now it was blurry. I hit enhance. An hourglass appeared as the picture started to focus.

I glanced back at the front door of the Victorian home. Taylor stepped forward, as if he wanted to go in. The blond boy held up his hand. Taylor looked at Erickson. I could see surprise on his face. Now I heard Erickson. He sounded angry. The teenage boy looked scared. Still waiting for the photo enhancement to take effect, I stepped closer.

The picture came into focus. I looked down, saw the face of Dr. Jiménez, and nearly dropped my phone. It was a shock, and yet, remembering what Jones had told me, things were starting to click in a horrible, horrible way.

Dr. Jiménez-clever to use a Spanish name and probably identity for a dark-skinned man-was Mohammad Matar.

Before I could process what it all meant, the teenage boy shouted, "You can't come in!"

Erickson: "Son, step aside."

"No!"

Erickson didn't like that answer. He put his arms up as though preparing to push this blond teenager to the side. The teenager suddenly had a knife in his hand. Before anyone could move, he raised it overhead and jammed it deep into Erickson's chest.

Oh no…

I stuck my phone into my pocket as I started running toward the door. A sudden burst of noise made me stop cold.

Gunfire.

Erickson was hit. He spun around with the knife still in his chest and then dropped to the ground. Taylor started reaching for his gun, but he had no chance. More gunfire shattered the night. Taylor 's body jerked once, then twice, then collapsed into a heap.

I heard the engines again now, a car roaring up the drive, another coming from behind the house. I looked for Berleand. He was sprinting toward me.

"Run to the woods!" I shouted.

Tires shrieking to a stop. Another burst of gunfire.

I ran toward the trees and dark, away from both the house and the private road. The woods, I thought. If we could make it to the woods, we could hide. A car sped across the grounds, its headlights searching for us. There were random barrages of bullets. I didn't look back to see where they were coming from. I found a rock and ducked behind it. I turned and saw Berleand still in view.

More gunfire. And Berleand went down.

I rose from behind the rock, but Berleand was too far away from me. Two men were on him. Three others jumped out of a Jeep, all armed. They ran toward Berleand, firing blindly into the woods. One bullet smacked the tree behind me. I ducked back down as another volley went past in a wave.

For a moment there was nothing. Then: "Come out now!"

The man's voice had a heavy Middle Eastern accent. Staying low I glanced out. It was dark, night making more of its claim with each passing moment, but I could make out that at least two of the men had dark hair and dark skin and full beards. Several wore green bandanas around their neck, the kind you could pull up to cover your face. They shouted at one another in a language I didn't understand but figured had to be Arabic.

What the hell was going on?

"Show yourself or we will hurt your friend."

The man saying that appeared to be the leader. He barked out orders and pointed right and left. Two men started circling toward me. One man got back into the car and used his headlights to sweep the woods. I stayed low, my cheek against the ground. My heart pounded in my chest.

I hadn't brought a weapon. Stupid. So goddamn stupid.

I dug into my pocket and tried to get my phone.

The leader called out: "Last chance! I will begin by shooting his knees."

Berleand shouted, "Don't listen to him!"

My fingers found the phone just as a single bullet blast exploded through the night air.

Berleand screamed.

The leader: "Come out now!"

I fumbled with the phone and hit Win's speed dial. Berleand was whimpering now. I closed my eyes, tried to wish it away, needed to think.

Then Berleand's voice fighting through tears: "Don't listen to him!"

"The other knee!"

Another gunshot.

Berleand screamed in obvious agony. The sound ripped at me, shredded my insides. I knew that I couldn't give up. If I showed myself, we would both be dead. Win would have heard what was going on by now. He'd call Jones and law enforcement. It wouldn't be long.

I could hear Berleand crying.

Then one more time, weaker this time, Berleand's voice: "Don't… listen… to… him!"

I heard men in the woods, not far from me. No choice. Had to make a move. I looked at the Victorian mansion on my right. My fingers wrapped themselves around a large rock as something close to a plan started running through my head.

The leader: "I have a knife. I'm going to cut out his eyes now."

There was movement in the house now. I could see it through the window. Not much time. I got up, my knees bent, ready to spring into action.

I heaved the rock as hard as I could in the direction opposite the house. The rock landed against a tree with a thud.

The leader's head turned toward the sound. The men moving through the woods started in that direction too, firing their weapons. The Jeep veered away from me and toward where the rock had landed.

At least, that was what I hoped was happening.

I didn't wait and watch. As soon as the rock left my hand, I dashed through the trees toward the side of the house. I was moving farther away from Berleand's cries and the men who were trying to kill me. It was darker now, almost impossible to see, but I didn't let that stop me. Branches whipped my face. I didn't care. I knew I had only seconds. Time was everything now, but it seemed to be taking me too long to get close to the house.

Without breaking stride, I picked up another rock.

The leader: "I'm taking out an eye now!"

I heard Berleand shout "No!"-and then he began to shriek.

Time was up.

Still running, I used my momentum to hurl the rock toward the house. I gave the throw everything I had, nearly dislocating my shoulder. Through the darkness I saw the rock move in an upward arc. On the right side of the house-the side I was on-there was a beautiful picture window. I followed the rock's trajectory, thinking it was going to land short.

It didn't.

The rock crashed through the window, shattering it into small shards of glass. Panic erupted. It was what I had counted on. I doubled back into the woods as the armed men ran toward the house. I saw two blond teenagers-one male, one female-come toward the broken window from the inside. Part of me wondered if the girl was Carrie, but there was no time to take a second look. The men shouted something in Arabic. I didn't see what happened next. I was circling back, moving as fast as I could, using the diversion to get behind the leader.

I saw the man in the Jeep stop and get out. He ran toward the smashed window too. That was their main job here: protect the house. I had broken through their perimeter. They were scattering and trying to regroup. Confusion set in.

Staying out of sight and not wasting any time, I had managed to move back down, past my original hiding place. The leader had his back to me now, facing the house. I was maybe sixty, seventy yards away from him.

How long until help came?

Too long.

The leader was shouting out orders. Berleand was on the ground by his feet. Motionless. And worse, Berleand was silent. No more cries. No more whimpers.

Had to get to him.

I wasn't sure how. Once I stepped out from behind this tree I would be in the open and ridiculously vulnerable. But there was no choice now.

I started sprinting toward the leader.

I had moved maybe three steps when I heard someone shout out a warning. The leader turned toward me. I was still forty yards away. My legs pumped fast, but everything else slowed down. The leader too wore a green bandana around his neck, like an outlaw in an old Western. His beard was thick. He was taller than the others, maybe six two, and stocky. There was a knife in one hand, a gun in the other. He raised the gun toward me. I debated dropping to the ground or veering to the side, anything to avoid the shot, but my mind quickly sized up the situation and I realized that a sudden shift wouldn't work here. Yes, he might miss with the first bullet, but then I would be totally exposed. The second shot would certainly not miss. Plus my diversion was over. The other men were already coming back toward us. They would fire too.

I had to hope that he'd panic and miss me.

He aimed the gun. I met his eyes and saw the calm that simple moral certainty brings a man. I had no chance. I could see that now. He would not miss. And then, right before he pulled the trigger, I heard him howl in pain and saw him look down.

Berleand was biting his calf, holding on with his teeth like an angry Rottweiler.

The leader's gun hand dropped to his side, aiming at the top of Berleand's head. With a surge of adrenaline, I launched myself at the leader, arms in front of me. But before I could get there, I heard the blast and saw the gun recoil. Berleand's body jerked as I reached the leader. I wrapped my arms around the son of a bitch, kept my momentum going. As we toppled toward the ground, I positioned my forearm against the leader's nose. We landed hard, my full body weight behind the forearm. His nose exploded like a water balloon. Blood smacked me in the face. It felt warm against my skin. He cried out, but he still had a lot of fight in him. So did I. I dodged a head butt. He tried to get me in a bear hug. A fatal move. I let his arms encircle me. When he started to squeeze, I quickly snaked my arms free. Now the leader was totally vulnerable. I did not hesitate. I thought about Berleand, about how this man had made my friend suffer.

Time to end this.

The fingers of my right hand formed a claw. I didn't go for the eyes or the nose or any other soft target to disable or maim. At the base of the throat, right above the thoracic cage, sits a hollowed area where the trachea isn't protected. With two fingers and my thumb, I dug full force into the opening and grabbed his throat in a talonlike grip. I was crying as I jerked his windpipe toward me, screaming like an animal while a man died by my hand.

I plucked the gun from his still hand.

The men were running back toward us. They hadn't yet shot for fear of hitting their leader. I rolled toward the body on my right.

"Berleand?"

But he was dead. I could see that now. His dorky glasses with those oversize frames were askew on that soft, malleable face. I wanted to cry. I wanted to just give up and hold him and cry.

The men were getting closer. I looked up. They were having trouble seeing me, but the lights from the house behind them made them perfect silhouettes. I raised the gun and fired. One man went down. I turned the gun to the left. I fired again. Another man went down. Now they started firing back. I rolled back toward the leader and used his body as a shield. I fired again. Another man went down.

Sirens.

I kept low and sprinted toward the house. Cop cars came rushing up. I heard a helicopter, maybe more than one, above us. More gunfire. I would let them handle it. I wanted to get into that house now.

I ran past Taylor. Dead. The door was still open. Erickson's body was on the front porch next to it, the knife still deep in his chest. I stepped over him and dived into the foyer.

Silence.

I didn't like that.

I still had the leader's gun in my hand. I pushed my back against the wall. The place was in total disrepair. The wallpaper was peeling. The light was on. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw someone sprint by, heard footsteps going down the stairs. Had to be a lower level. A basement.

Outside I could hear gunfire. I could hear someone calling through a bullhorn for surrender. Might have been Jones. I should wait now. There was no chance I was going to get Carrie out of here anyway. I should sit tight, cover the door, not let anyone in or out. That was the smart play here. Wait it out.

I might have done that. I might have just stayed right there and never gone into that basement if the blond boy hadn't come racing down the stairs.

I called him a boy. That wasn't fair. He looked to be about seventeen, maybe eighteen, not much younger than the dark-haired men I had just shot without hesitation. But when this teenager with the blond hair and khaki pants and dress shirt came tearing down the stairs-a gun in his hand-I didn't shoot right away.

"Freeze!" I shouted. "Drop the gun."

The boy's face twisted into some kind of hideous death mask. His gun hand rose toward me, and he took aim. I jumped, rolled to the left, and came up firing. I didn't go for the death shot, as opposed to what I had been like outside. I went for his legs. I fired low. The teen screamed and fell. He still held the gun though, still had the twisted death-mask expression. He aimed for me again.

I jumped out of the foyer and into the hallway-where I came face-to-face with the basement door.

The blond teen had been hit in the leg. There was no way he could follow me down. I caught my breath, grabbed the knob with my free hand, and opened the door.

Total darkness.

I kept my gun against my chest. Pressed myself against the wall to make myself a smaller target. I slowly started down the stairs, feeling my way with my front foot. One hand held the gun, the other searched for a light switch. I couldn't find one. With my body still turned to the side, I took the steps slowly, left foot down a step, right foot meets up with it. I wondered about ammunition. How many bullets did I have left? No idea.

I heard whispers below.

No doubt about it. The lights might be off, but someone was down in the darkness. Probably more than one someone. Again I debated doing the wise thing-just stopping, staying still, moving back to the top of the stairs, waiting for reinforcements. The gunfire outside had stopped. Jones and his men, I was sure, had secured the premises.

But I didn't do that.

My left foot reached the bottom step. I heard a scuffling sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My free hand felt along the wall until I found the light switch. Or to be more precise, switches. Three in a row. I put my hand underneath them, got my gun ready, took one deep breath, and then I flipped up all three at the same time.

Later I would remember the other details: the Arabic graffiti spray-painted on the walls, the green flags with the blood-soaked crescent moon, the posters of martyrs in battle fatigues carrying assault weapons. Later I would remember the portraits of Mohammad Matar during many different stages of his life, including the time when he worked as a medical resident named Jiménez.

But right now, all of that was little more than backdrop.

Because there, in the far corner of the basement, I saw something that made my heart stop. I blinked my eyes, looked again, couldn't believe it, and yet maybe it made perfect sense after all.

A group of blond teenagers and children were huddled against a pregnant woman in a black burqa. Their eyes were ice blue, and they all stared at me with hatred. They began to make a noise, a snarl maybe, as one, and then I realized that it wasn't a snarl. These were words, repeated over and over…

"Al-sabr wal-sayf."

I backed away from them, shaking my head.

"Al-sabr wal-sayf."

The brain started doing the synapse thing again: the blond hair. The blue eyes. CryoHope. Dr. Jiménez being Mohammad Matar. Patience. The sword.

Patience.

I bit back a scream as the truth rained down on me: Save the Angels hadn't used the embryos to help infertile couples. They had used them to create the ultimate weapon of terror, to infiltrate, to get ready for global jihad.

Patience and the sword will defeat the sinners.

The blonds started coming toward me, even though I was the one with the gun. Some kept chanting. Some just shrieked. Some dived back behind the burqa-clad pregnant woman, looking terrified. I moved faster, heading up the stairs. From above, I heard a familiar voice call my name.

"Bolitar? Bolitar?"

I turned my back on the ice blue, hell-spawned monstrosity below me, scrambled to the top of the stairs, dived through the basement door, slammed it closed behind me. Like that might help. Like that might make it all go away.

Jones was there. So were his men in bulletproof vests. Jones saw the look on my face.

"What is it?" he asked me. "What's down there?"

But I couldn't even speak, couldn't make out words. I ran outside, toward Berleand. I collapsed next to his still body. I was hoping for a reprieve, hoping that maybe in the confusion, I had made a mistake. I hadn't. Berleand, the poor beautiful bastard, was dead. I held him for just for a second, maybe two. No more than that.

The job wasn't over. Berleand would have been the first to tell me that.

I still needed to find Carrie.

As I ran back to the house, I called Terese. No answer.

I quickly joined the house search. Jones and his men were in the basement already. The blonds were brought upstairs. I looked at them, at their hate-filled eyes. None was Carrie. We found two more women dressed in face-covering, traditional black burqas. Both were pregnant. As his men started bringing the captives outside, Jones looked at me in horror and disbelief. I looked back and nodded. These women weren't mothers. They were incubators-embryo carriers.

We searched some more, opened up all the closets, found training manuals and film clips, laptops, horror upon horror. But no Carrie.

I took out my phone and tried Terese again. Still no answer. Not on her cell. Not at the apartment at the Dakota.

I staggered outside. Win had arrived. He stood on the porch, waiting for me. Our eyes met.

"Terese?" I ask.

Win shook his head. "She's gone."

Again.

39

CABINDA PROVINCE

ANGOLA, AFRICA

THREE WEEKS LATER

WE have been driving in this pickup truck for more than eight hours now through the craziest terrain. I hadn't seen a person or even a building in more than six. I have been to remote areas before, but this took remote to the tenth power.

When we reach the hut, the driver pulls over and turns off the engine. He opens the door for me and hands me a backpack. He shows me the walking path. There is a phone in the hut, he tells me. When I want to return, I should call him on it. He will come and get me. I thank him and start down the path.

Four miles later, I see the clearing.

Terese is there. Her back is to me. When I returned to the Dakota that night, she was, as Win had said, gone. She had left a simple note behind:

"I love you so very much."

That was it.

Terese's hair is dyed black now. The better to keep her hidden, I assume. Blondes would stand out, even here. I like her hair this way. I watch her walking away from me, and I can't help but smile. Her head held high, her shoulders back, the perfect posture. I flash back to that surveillance tape, the way I could see that Carrie had that same perfect posture, that same confident walk.

Terese is surrounded by three black women in colorful garb. I start toward them. One of the women spots me and whispers something. Terese turns, curious. When her eyes land on me, her entire face lights up. So, I guess, does mine. She drops the basket in her hand and sprints in my direction. There is no hesitation at all. I run to meet her. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me close.

"God, I missed you," she says.

I hug her back. That's all. I don't want to say anything. Not yet. I want to melt into this hug. I want to disappear into it and stay in her arms forever. I know deep in my soul that this is where I belong, holding her, and for just a few moments, I want and need that peace.

Finally I ask, "Where is Carrie?"

She takes my hand and walks me to the corner of the opening. She points up the field, to another small clearing. A hundred yards away, Carrie sits with two black girls about her age. They are all working on something. I can't tell what it is. Peeling or picking. The black girls are laughing. Carrie is not.

Carrie's hair too is black.

I turn back to Terese. I look at her eyes of blue with the gold ring around the pupils. Her daughter had the same gold ring. I saw it in that picture. The confident walk, the gold ring. The unmistakable genetic echo.

What else, I wondered, had been passed down?

"Please understand why I had to run," Terese says. "She's my daughter."

"I know."

"I had to save her."

I nod. "She gave you her phone number the first time she called."

"Yes."

"You could have told me."

"I know. But I heard Berleand. She isn't worth thousands of lives to anyone but me."

The mention of Berleand causes a sharp pang. I wonder what to say next. I shade my eyes and look back toward Carrie. "Do you understand what her life has been like?"

Terese does not look, does not blink. "She was raised by terrorists."

"It's worse than that. Mohammad Matar did his medical residency at Columbia-Presbyterian, right when in vitro fertilization and embryonic storage were becoming big. He saw an opportunity for a crushing blow-patience and the sword. Save the Angels was a radical terrorist group disguising itself as right-wing Christians. He used coercion and lies to get embryos. He didn't give them to infertile couples. He used Muslim women sympathetic to his cause as surrogates-like a storage facility until the embryos were born. Then he and his followers raised the offspring to be terrorists from day one. Nothing else. Carrie wasn't allowed to bond with anyone. She never knew love, not even as an infant. Never knew tenderness. No one held her. No one comforted her when she cried in her sleep. She and the others were indoctrinated every day of their lives to kill infidels. That was it. Nothing else. They were raised to be the ultimate weapons, to fit in as one of us and be ready for the ultimate holy war. Imagine. Matar sought out embryos from parents who were blond and blue-eyed. His weapons could go anywhere because who would suspect them?"

I wait for Terese to react, to wince. She does not. "Did you capture them all?"

"Not me. I broke up the main group in Connecticut. Jones found more information inside that house-and, I assume, some of the surviving terrorists were interrogated." I didn't want to think about how-or maybe I did, I don't know anymore. "Green Death had another camp outside of Paris. It was raided within hours. Mossad and the Israelis air-raided a larger training compound on the Syrian-Iranian border."

"What happened to the children?"

"Some were killed. Others are in custody."

She began to walk back down the hill. "You think because Carrie never knew love before that she should never know love now?"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"Sounds like it."

"I'm telling you the reality."

"You have friends who raised children, don't you?" she asked.

"Of course."

"What is the first thing they'll tell you? That their children come out a certain way. Hardwired. Nature over nurture. Parents can steer them and try to keep them on the right road, but in the end, they are little more than caregivers. Some children will end up being sweet no matter what. Others will end up psychotic. You know friends who have raised their kids identically. One kid is outgoing, one is quiet, one is miserable, one is generous. Parents quickly learn that their influence is limited."

"She's never known any love at all, Terese."

"And now she will."

"You don't know what's she capable of."

"I don't know what anyone is capable of."

"That's not an answer," I said.

"What else do you expect me to do? She's my daughter. I will watch her. Because that's what a parent does. I will also protect her. And you're wrong. You met Ken Borman, right? The prep school kid?"

I nod.

"Carrie was drawn to him. Despite the unspeakable hell she lived with every single day, she somehow still felt a connection. She tried to break away. That's why she was with Matar in Paris. To be retrained."

"Was she there when Rick was murdered?"

"Yes."

"Her blood was on the scene."

"She said she tried to defend him."

"Do you believe that?"

Terese smiles at me. "I lost a daughter. I would do anything, anything, to get her back. Do you get that? You could tell me, for example, that Miriam had survived and was now a horrible monster. It wouldn't change that."

"Carrie is not Miriam."

"But she's still my daughter. I'm not giving up on her."

Behind Terese, her daughter rises and starts down the hill. She stops and looks toward us. Terese smiles and waves. Carrie waves back. She might be smiling too, but I can't say for sure. And I can't say for sure that Terese is wrong here. But I wonder. I wonder about that blond teenager coming down the stairs to shoot me, about why I hesitated. Nature versus nurture. If the girl up on that hill had been genetically Matar's, if a child conceived and then raised by crazy extremists becomes a crazy extremist, we will kill him or her without thought. Is it different because of genetics? Because of blond hair and blue eyes?

I don't know. I'm too damn tired to think about it.

Carrie had never known any love. Now she would. Suppose you and I had been raised like Carrie. Would it be best if we were simply destroyed like so much damaged goods? Or would some of that basic humanity win out in the end?

"Myron?"

I look at Terese's beautiful face.

"I wouldn't give up on your child. Please don't give up on mine."

I say nothing. I take her beautiful face in my hands, pull her to me, kiss her forehead, hold my lips there, close my eyes. I feel her arms around me.

"Take care of yourself," I say.

I pull back. There are tears in her eyes. I start back toward the path.

"I didn't have to come back to Angola," she says.

I stop and turn toward her.

"I could have gotten to Myanmar or Laos or someplace where you would have never found me."

"So why did you choose here?"

"Because I wanted you to find me."

Now the tears are in my eyes too.

"Please don't leave," she says.

I am so very tired. I don't sleep anymore. The faces of the dead are there when I close my eyes. The ice blue eyes stare at me. Nightmares haunt my dreams, and when I wake up, I am alone.

Terese walks toward me. "Please stay with me. Just for tonight, okay?"

I want to say something, but I can't. The tears come faster now. She pulls me to her, and I try so very hard not to break down. My head falls onto her shoulder. She strokes my hair and shushes me.

"It's okay," Terese whispers. "It's over now."

And as long as she holds me in her arms, I believe it.

BUT on this same day, somewhere in the United States, a chartered bus pulls up to a crowded national monument. The bus is carrying a group of sixteen-year-olds on a cross-country teen tour. Today is day three of their journey. The sun is shining. The skies are clear.

The bus door swings open. The giggling, gum-chewing teens spill out.

The last teen to get off the bus is a boy with blond hair.

He has blue eyes with a gold ring around each pupil.

And though he wears a heavy backpack, he walks into the crowd with his head held high, his shoulders back, and his posture perfect.