Reckless

CHAPTER FIFTY

The international airport at Belgrade in Serbia looked like any other modern European terminal-sweeping curves of glass and digital flight boards. Hauck barely dozed on the flight over, his anticipation running wild.

He had told the people at Talon that he needed a couple of days off, and that ran into Memorial Day weekend. So he kept what he was doing to himself. All he told Annie was that he wouldn’t be around for a few days. And she only asked back, a little helplessly, What are you getting involved in, Ty?

Thibault had fled through Paris. Hauck felt pretty certain that if Thibault needed to disappear, if he needed to blend into a backdrop where the outside world would never find him, he knew where he would be.

Richard Snell had traced wire transfers every month from Thibault’s RBS account in the UK to a local branch of AstraBanca in a town called Novi Pazar in southern Serbia. The recipient’s name was Maria Radisovic. That had to be Thibault’s family back home, Hauck figured, a sister or his mother. It seemed right that no one would judge him where he had grown up in Serbia for what he had done in the war. He would have family to protect him. He could blend back into his roots.

On the flight over, Naomi mapped out how tricky and sensitive this all was. He couldn’t help but notice how cute she looked out of work clothes, in slim-fitting jeans, a white T-shirt, and a loose lavender sweater. She explained that even if they were able to locate Thibault, the last people the government wanted to get involved were the Serbian police or their security arm, the BIA. First, there was no acting extradition treaty between the two countries. There was some Serbian basketball player who had assaulted a fellow student while in college in the U.S. The legal battle to get him back to stand trial had gone on for years. And if it got wrapped up in the fight to bring back someone who had been part of atrocities in the Kosovo War, the story would be in headlines all over the world. The Serbian government would never back down. The press there would go crazy if they let a suspected war criminal be ushered back to the U.S. for a lesser crime. Naomi’s team would lose whatever leverage they had against him.

The plan, as she mapped it out, was first to simply see if they could locate him. The next step would be determined then. They might try to bargain with him. Use the threat of turning him over to the Serbian government to be prosecuted for war crimes as leverage.

Then there was always the next option, which Naomi didn’t seem inclined to talk about. This was a U.S. government action. The stakes were high. This was looked at as a Homeland Security issue. Thibault was a vital person of interest. There were professionals who could be brought in-to interrogate him or to whisk him surreptitiously out of the country.

But the first step was to see if he was even there.

Upon landing, they passed through immigration on a diplomatic visa. They registered their firearms. Hauck was surprised and impressed that Naomi even carried one. They got their bags and rented a midsize Ford diesel. They got directions to the central highway south, the E75; plugged their hotel, the Vrbak in Novi Pazar, into the GPS; and drove past the industrial areas that ringed the city, into the flat Balkan countryside, which became picturesque green hills and small, rustic villages for the three-hour drive.

Hauck took the wheel, excitement fending off the jet lag. He prayed his instincts were right and that he hadn’t dragged both of them on a senseless wild-goose chase. But Naomi (and her superiors) agreed it was worth the bet. They got to know each other a little along the way. “Hauck” and “Agent Blum” turned into “Ty” and “Naomi.” She told him how she had first gotten involved in working for the Treasury. How she had started out studying music at Princeton.

“Music theory,” she said, noticing his surprise, but brushed past it so as not to bore him. “Sort of academic stuff.”

She told him how her brother had enlisted out of college after 9/11 and then had the training accident that had cost him his legs. She told him how she felt compelled to follow in his steps. How she had ended up in the investigative corps, worked the Nisoor Square and Tabitha shooting incidents, which ended up as army whitewashes. Fighting off sleep, she shared the story of how one of the convoys she had been riding in had been ambushed, a small child by the side of the road struck by shrapnel from the IED. How with small-arms fire raging all around, she had crawled over and had to bag the kid with a makeshift ventilator while the medics attended to their own. She told him how fire was whizzing back and forth pretty heavily, how she didn’t know if she was going to be hit. “I just blew and blew into the kid’s chest, everything going on around me, until reinforcements finally came, and then I stopped, sitting there on the dusty road, his blood all over me. I realized he had died.

“His name was Ahmed. He had this Michael Jackson T-shirt on.” Naomi shrugged. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.”

“You did what you could,” Hauck replied, watching her gaze drift out the window. “What you did was brave. You can’t ask for more.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not into any more whitewashes, Ty; you understand that. You can always do more.” Then, switching subjects, she said, “What do you think, we have maybe another two hours?”

Sixty kilometers south, they crossed back west, onto more local roads, cutting through steeper, mountainous valleys and through centuries-old hillside towns. The roofs were always red and clung to the slopes, the churches old and stone with Serbian Orthodox markings, and old men in caps towed goats or cattle out of the way of young people scooting by on mopeds. The local signs were generally in Serbian, but Hauck always recognized a “taverna” by its signs for Jemel beer, Pepsi, and Jugopetrol.

It was around three in the afternoon when they finally made it to the outskirts of Novi Pazar. It was a larger commercial center of red roofs and white stucco houses clustered in the pit of a green, sloping valley. Spring flowers were just starting to bloom. The city was built on both sides of the narrow Raska River. Hauck got off and followed the GPS through narrow boulevards crowded with modern stores and Western brands to the city center. They were staying at the Vrbak, a drab four-story hotel, built in a style somewhere between quaint and industrial, that was probably the best in town. It straddled both sides of the flowing river.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached the hotel and settled into adjoining rooms on the fourth floor. Too late to do anything. Hauck asked if she wanted to meet later for dinner.

Naomi wasn’t sure if she was up to it. “I may just hang and make some calls, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

He went inside. Hauck’s room was sixties modern and spartan, a minimalist style. It had a flat teak platform bed and a down bedspread with a matching teak desk and chair. Drab local art hung on the walls.

He went to the window and opened the curtains. The red roofs of the town sprawled out, and in the distance there were green, rolling hills. Everything was quaint and friendly, but fifteen years ago, in this town set near the Kosovar border, the tensions between the Serbs and Muslims would have been running high.

Every family might have had a Dani Thibault in it. And would do whatever they could to protect him.

He looked out at the hills in the gray, dissolving light. He felt wired, too wound up to rest. Maybe he’d go for a run, try to locate the AstraBanca, which was near the city center. Or find the address they had for Maria Radisovic.

His blood rushed with anticipation, like the river running below.

He felt something, something in himself he recognized, like a familiar face. Something he hadn’t felt in months.

Alive.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The next day Hauck was having breakfast around seven in the dining room overlooking the river when Naomi came in, in a tight tank and black running leggings, sweaty from a run.

“Hey.” Hauck pushed out a chair for her. “I knocked on your door.”

“Morning,” Naomi said, taking a seat. “I was up. Went out for an early run.”

“You sleep okay?”

“A little restless,” she admitted. She shook out her short ponytail. “I was up in the night doing some work.” She took out a city map from a fanny pack and unfolded it. “I checked out Market Street. Where the AstraBanca branch is. Then I was wired. I figured what the hell. I kept on going to Zinak Street.” Maria Radisovic’s street.

“Small apartment house. Interior courtyard. Butcher across the street.”

Naomi widened her eyes.

Hauck grinned. “I did the same route last night. Pretty good distance.” He nodded admiringly. “Four miles.”

“Usually get in six,” Naomi snapped defensively, as if trying not to be outdone.

Hauck couldn’t help but notice that she looked pretty tight in her heather-gray T-back Under Armour top. On her right shoulder he spotted a small tattoo. A sword with a lightning bolt running through it. Underneath, the initial “J.”

The logo of her brother’s unit-the Special Forces Airborne.

Music theory… Hauck laughed to himself. No telling how tough this gal is.

“C’mon, have something to eat,” he said, prodding her. “It’s going to be a long day. My tab.”

“Accepted.” Naomi smiled. She dropped an orange file on the tablecloth.

A waitress came up and Naomi ordered a yogurt and some cereal. “I printed out some e-mails I received during the night. You want to hear?”

Hauck nodded. “Of course.”

“I have people trying to trace the history of the money going in and out of Thibault’s bank accounts. The payments to James Donovan’s Cayman Islands account came from something called the VRV Development Trust. It was a payment for a real estate sale on a property Donovan had bought just thirty days before on the island of Antigua. Three weeks later he flipped it-to VRV-for five times the price.”

“Not a bad rate of return,” Hauck mused cynically.

“I guess. VRV turns out to be a shell company based out of the Bahamas. It was set up about a year ago. The principals are all a bunch of local functionaries, lawyers, local officials, designed to shield what it does. Block anyone checking into who controls the funds.”

Hauck had had some experience with this kind of hocus-pocus while trying to track money flows in the Grand Central bombing case.

“But the Antiguan government is cooperating. There’s a new banking transparency around the world.” She pulled another page out. A corporate document. VRV letterhead. “This is one of the articles of incorporation. It’s a power of attorney. Granted to an Edwin Cahill, Esq., a lawyer there. Check out the grantee…”

Hauck took the document. The signature was scratchy at the bottom. But it clearly read Dieter Thibault. “So that’s how he paid him. Donovan.”

Naomi’s eyes shone in confirmation. “I suspect we’ll find a similar pattern when we dig into the affairs of Marc Glassman. But right now we don’t have the time.”

“So how do we find out where the eight mil originated from?”

“Here’s a start.” She placed another photocopy out on the tablecloth. “According to the Caribe Sun Trust, it came by way of wire from the Bank of Nova Scotia in Canada. A firm named Crescent Bay Partners. Crescent Bay is a real estate holding company, investing in plush resort properties-you know, these partial-ownership franchises. It has properties in Mexico, Costa Rica, all throughout the Caribbean. Legitimate properties. Just the kind of thing Dani Thibault looked to put together.

“On the surface, it looks like a standard real estate investment-except at five times the price. Its financing is pretty murky. It seems to come from a variety of sources, some rich Europeans, also some investment funds out of the Middle East. The funds in question seem to have been filtered through the KronenBank in Lichtenstein.”

Hauck raised his eyes. “KronenBank. Didn’t Thibault work there for a stint?”

“He did,” Naomi said, nodding, “and this is where it starts to get good. You remember I told you about the Bahraini businessman that investment manager in London was overheard talking to? Hassani?”

Hauck nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, he has his own investment portfolio as well. A private partnership out of Dubai. It’s a large source of funding to private equity groups-here in the U.S. and in London. Ascot Capital.”

Naomi slid a fastened document across the table to Hauck. He put down his coffee. It was photocopies of a marketing brochure for Ascot. The first pages listed Hassan ibn Hassani among the many company directors. Others were recognizable names from finance and business, even an ex-U.S. president.

On a separate page, listed among the many companies Ascot maintained investments in, was Crescent Bay Partners.

Naomi’s face seemed to glow with pride. “I can’t quite prove Donovan’s specific eight million came from there, but it ties Thibault to Hassani and thereby to al-Bashir in London. We’re onto something here, Ty…” She tapped her finger on the pamphlet. “We tie what went in to what went out, we have a plot that leads straight to a conspiracy. One way is to pierce this transfer of funds all the way back through Lichtenstein.”

Hauck let out a breath. “Which would take time.”

“And having to show cause,” she added skeptically, “when we don’t know anything right now. And that gets the rest of the whole frigging world involved. Not to mention the bankers in Dubai and Lichtenstein would just say our issue is with those back in Canada or the U.S., not them.

“The other option…” She met Hauck’s gaze. “The other option is to see what we find with Thibault. He knows where the money came from. Who orchestrated the funds. You ready?” Naomi’s eyes gleamed in anticipation.

Hauck got up. “Let’s just hope he’s here.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

They decided the best approach was to stake out the address they had for the only person in Novi Pazar with a name that matched that of the AstraBanca account holder.

An “M. Radisovic” was located on Zinak Street, a winding road on the outskirts of town. The embassy in Belgrade had cooperated without Naomi’s divulging too much and found that the address matched the one on record with the bank. They didn’t have a clue what Maria Radisovic looked like. They didn’t even know for sure if she was, in fact, related to Thibault. Had her husband died and she reverted back to her family name? Had she re-married?

The location was a drab five-story apartment building with an interior courtyard centered around a nonworking stone fountain. An iron front gate was open. Novi Pazar was a small town and security didn’t seem the main concern. It was a damp May morning. People rode by on bikes on their way to work; old men in drab clothes and tweed caps gabbed on the street; teenage boys went by in Nikes and American sports jerseys. Teenage girls were going to school in jeans and sweatshirts like girls in any American town.

Hauck and Naomi went up and looked at the tenant board. A buzzer with a handwritten card next to it had an “M. Radisovic” on the fourth floor.

“Ready?” Hauck asked with a wink of support.

Naomi nodded back. “Let’s go.”

They went inside and climbed the wide staircase to the fourth floor. The paint was chipped, the stairs asphalt and worn. There was a tiny elevator. They found Maria Radisovic’s apartment near the staircase at the end of the hall. They heard a dog barking.

A noise came from above them. Two people, a man talking loudly in Serbian, his teenage daughter chattering right back at him. They came down the stairs and passed Hauck and Naomi on the staircase, greeting them with a quick “Dobro jutro” as they passed. Good morning. Naomi waved back politely.

They agreed Naomi would take the first shift. A woman there would attract less attention. She took a seat on the stairs, hidden from view but still in sight of Maria Radisovic’s apartment. It was just after eight A.M. They had each other’s cell numbers already programmed into their phones.

“I’ll be right outside,” Hauck said. “Call at the first sign.”

“Talk soon.” Naomi winked. She took out a tourist guidebook to act as cover. “At least I hope so.”

Hauck headed back down the stairs and perched himself near a tobacconist’s shop across the street. He called back upstairs to check the connection. It was fine. He settled in. No telling how long it would take. While the high-tech wheels churned ceaselessly back home, all there was to do here was wait.

An hour passed. No one came out. Who knew if M. Radisovic was even related to Thibault? If Thibault was even there? He found a USA Today at a newsstand and read through. Twice. Around 9:20, he called upstairs. “Anything happening?”

“Nothing,” Naomi replied, disappointed. “Just people coming down the stairs, staring at me. I think I’m starting to look suspicious. Wait a minute,” she suddenly said in a hushed whisper. “The door just opened…”

Hauck held on-Naomi covering the phone-as maybe thirty seconds passed. Finally she came back on. “A woman just left. Definitely not Thibault’s mother. Too young. Around forty. She has dark hair. She’s wearing a red nylon parka and a white beret. She should be coming out any second…”

Hauck stepped around the corner, hiding himself from view. He saw the woman come through the gate, start to walk along the sidewalk. “I have her.”

“Wait for me,” Naomi said, excited. “I’ll come down.”

“No, you stay there,” Hauck said. “There might be someone else inside. I’ll stay with her. I’ll let you know if it leads anywhere.”

“Whatever you do, don’t make contact with anyone if I’m not there,” Naomi warned him with an edge of concern.

“Don’t worry. Bye.”

The woman in the red jacket headed down the street. Hauck rolled up the newspaper and followed from the other side. At the corner she turned and headed toward the city center. It led down a hill and onto a commercial boulevard. Pilic Street. Hauck stayed about twenty yards behind.

The woman stopped at a corner where a small queue of pedestrians was huddled up and checked her cell phone. After a minute or two a streetcar came, the old electric kind, wide doors in both the front and rear. The woman climbed on in front. She put out some kind of a card. The driver clipped it. A few others boarded through the rear door. Hauck stepped on with them.

An old conductor, with white hair and a rumpled navy-blue uniform, made his way back, people flashing their transit cards. Hauck didn’t have one and didn’t want to attract any attention. He squeezed through a couple of commuters and opened his paper. He caught the eye of a young boy, maybe eight, who seemed to have noticed. Most everyone else was in the standard early-morning commuter daze. He kept sight of the woman, who had taken a seat up front. He settled back and glanced at his paper. The bus wound its way through town. People got on and off, and at some point the boy and his mother got up, and the kid cast a knowing grin at him.

Hauck winked back at him, as if this would be their buried secret forever.

It took around ten minutes for the bus to weave its way to the other end of town. It was a more upscale neighborhood. It reminded Hauck of where they had come off the main road. Finally he saw the woman in red stand up to get off. The bus stopped. At the back of the bus Hauck stepped off onto the street. The woman jumped off at the front and started to walk.

Hauck fell into step behind her.

A short way ahead she crossed the street and Hauck watched her go into a small shop. A cosmetics store. He came up and saw her wave hello and chat with one or two of the people in there. Not customers, but salespeople. She took off her jacket and placed her bag on a shelf underneath a counter.

It was clear the woman worked there. She wasn’t leading him to anyone now. Damn.

That was when his cell phone sounded. Naomi. “Any luck?” she asked.

“No.” He sighed, dejected. “I got dragged clear across the city on a dead end.”

“Well, things are better back here.” Her voice held excitement in it. “Get back! I think we’ve got her, Ty!”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

A woman whom Naomi pegged as around seventy, in a gray skirt and blue Shetland sweater, had come out of the apartment just before ten, locking the front door behind her.

Maria Radisovic.

Naomi followed her down the stairs and onto the street. Her first stop was a butcher store down the block, where she spent several minutes. Then a liquor store across the street, where she came out with a package. Then she picked up two newspapers from a stand. One a USA Today. Bundles in hand, she headed back up the block and stopped at the tobacconist.

By that time Hauck had flagged a taxi and in minutes made it back across the street from the apartment house. As he jumped out, Naomi waved him over.

“I think it’s her,” she said, pointing to the gray-haired woman visible through the tobacco shop window. “She picked up some meat at the butcher, some booze, and now she’s in the tobacco shop. She’s shopping for something…”

“Let’s hope it’s not just Sunday dinner,” Hauck said.

They remained across the street and watched. Four or five minutes later, they spotted the woman emerging. Naomi tapped Hauck on the elbow. “That’s her.”

Hauck could see she did have a possible resemblance to Thibault. She had the same dark features, the heavy jaw; her hair still was thick and probably once black. But a lot of people bore those features here.

Clutching her packages, the woman headed back up the block toward her building. A wave of disappointment traveled through Hauck. She seemed to be going back in. In itself, that didn’t mean much, other than now they’d have to wait all day, maybe into the night, maybe even until tomorrow, to see if Thibault happened to show up.

But to his excitement, she continued past the front gate.

The woman glanced around once, then turned into a narrow alley behind the building with her supplies.

Hauck said, “Stay here.” He waited for a car to pass. “I’ll go see.”

He crossed after her, following her down the narrow alleyway. Around the back of the building, the small road opened up.

A car parking lot.

Maria Radisovic was depositing her parcels into the rear of a small blue Opel. Then, taking a last look around, as if she felt Hauck watching, she got in.

The instincts that had guided Hauck all these years suddenly kicked in. Blood pumping, he ran back out of the alley and signaled Naomi over to their Ford, parked on the side of the street.

“Get in!” he shouted, throwing the driver’s door open.

Naomi hopped in beside him as he turned on the engine. “What?”

“We’re in business!”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Maria Radisovic’s blue Opel pulled out of the small alleyway and turned left on Zinak Street, heading out of town.

Hauck waited until the car disappeared around a bend, then pulled out after her. He felt confident that the woman, supplies in tow, was leading them somewhere promising.

About a mile ahead, tracking the river, the road widened and the commercial shops and apartment dwellings gave way to warehouses, gas stations, even a local power facility. Hauck followed, keeping a couple of hundred yards behind.

A road sign read SEBECEVO, 8 KM.

A couple of miles beyond town, the road they were on started to wind and climb. It narrowed, cutting through the dark hills surrounding the valley Novi Pazar was situated in. Traffic was sparse. Radisovic chugged along at a modest pace. Hauck had to work at it to remain so far behind. Every once in a while a commercial truck zoomed past them.

Neither he nor Naomi had much to say. They both seemed to feel the same anticipation that Maria was going to lead them to something. As the road climbed, the little Opel slowed and Hauck had to keep his diesel in second gear to remain an appropriate distance behind.

SEBECEVO, 3 KM.

As the road crested and started to descend into a wide valley, the Opel’s turn signal began to flash. It was remote terrain. Hauck glanced at Naomi.

They had arrived somewhere.

An unpaved road came into view, marked only by a telephone pole with a sign, SISTENA R, the river. The car ahead made a right turn. It slowed and chugged along the dirt road, and coming upon it, Hauck drove by, glancing at Maria Radisovic bouncing along the rutted terrain. “I don’t want her to spot us turning.”

About a quarter of a mile down the main road he turned onto the shoulder. He spun back around and stopped before the turnoff. They could no longer see Maria Radisovic’s car.

“This is it.” He eyed Naomi expectantly. “Last chance to pull out.”

She shook her head. Anticipation shone in her eyes. “Let’s see what she’s up to.”

They turned down the gravelly road. It cut through a fallow field and wound through a dense thatch of woods, steadily rising. Hauck’s pulse seemed to bump along in the same rhythm as the car.

They passed a tree-shaded cottage, barely more than a hut, with a few farm animals in pens. A dog ran out at them, barking.

No sign of Maria’s Opel.

Around a bend, the road cleared the woods and led them into a wide valley. Hills rose up in front of them. Hauck could see a couple of houses dotting the hillside ahead.

“I’m pulling off for a second,” he said. “I can’t take the chance she’ll spot us following her.”

He slowed onto the side of the dirt road and threw the car into park. Hauck reached into the back and took out a pair of binoculars from his canvas bag. Focusing, he made a wide sweep of the hills. About a mile ahead, he spotted the Opel climbing a steep ridge and, following its path and the valley beyond, came upon the outline of a dwelling, the brightness of a red tiled roof.

Naomi asked, “What do you see?”

The Opel drove down the road and came to a stop in front of the white, red-roofed farmhouse.

“I think I see pay dirt,” Hauck replied.

They drove past the ridge and left the car hidden behind a cluster of trees where it wouldn’t be spotted. Hauck grabbed the bag and took the binocs, some bottled water, a Nikon camera, and his Sig 9 mm, just in case.

“You’re sure you’re up for this?” he asked Naomi one last time, a little playfulness behind it. “Desk detail is over.”

She tied her hair in a ponytail and zipped her Windbreaker. “Let me know if I go too fast for you,” she answered.

They decided to climb the adjoining ridge and look over the house Maria Radisovic had driven up to. Naomi strapped on her government-issue Colt.

“You even recall how to use that thing?” Hauck asked with a teasing grin.

“I think I can still conjure up the image,” Naomi said, locking in the magazine and brushing past him.

The terrain up the hill was steep, with tall grasses that led to a drier brush as they climbed above the trees. The sun had come out and made the climb hot. And steep. Hauck felt a little out of breath. His leg throbbed a bit, still stiff from the bullet in the thigh he’d taken eighteen months ago.

Naomi, leading the way, never even slowed.

They finally made it to the top. They kneeled down on a rock and looked over the ridge Maria Radisovic had driven up to.

“Look!” Hauck pointed to a stucco farmhouse. Some animal pens built along a sloping hillside, maybe for sheep or oxen, but no sign of any livestock around. An earthen well dug along the side of the house.

White smoke rose from the chimney.

“Someone’s there.”

A black Audi was parked along the side of the house in back, almost hidden from view.

The cargo hatch open, Maria Radisovic’s Opel was pulled up in front.

Hauck peered through the binoculars. She had unpacked the car and gone inside. He guessed he was gazing at an abandoned farm. Maybe in the family or something they had rented. He muttered to Naomi, “What would you be thinking about why an elderly women needs to bring stuff way out in the sticks like this? Food. Booze. Tobacco.”

“I’d be thinking maybe it’s for someone she wants to hide,” Naomi said, watching over the ridge.

They had to wait a few minutes. Fifteen or twenty. The sun made it hot up there, and they opened up some water.

Finally, the front door of the farmhouse opened back up.

Maria came out first. She was followed by a figure Hauck recognized instantly. He zoomed in with the binoculars. The man was dressed in a blue plaid shirt, rumpled pants, and leather work boots. He was heavyset and broad shouldered. He looked like any anonymous worker from the town.

Except that Hauck saw his face.

“And I’d be thinking you’re right,” he said, rolling over and passing the binoculars to Naomi. “Agent Blum, say hi to Dani Thibault.” He grinned triumphantly.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Inside the farmhouse, Dani Thibault was going crazy.

He’d been cooped up at the old family farm for a week, unable to communicate with anyone, nervous to even show his face in town, even though he’d hadn’t been there for fifteen years. He was virtually in prison, yet he knew he had to remain there, at least for a while, until things calmed down.

He went out for a smoke and looked around the foggy valley. It was a perfect hiding spot. He was in one of the most remote mountain regions in Europe, and having driven through the EU from Paris under an identity no one could trace, there was no way anyone would have tracked him here. He was sure he had gotten out before anyone would have known he was missing. He had communicated only through a private e-mail address with his mother. Franko Kostavic had disappeared fifteen years ago. And if it did somehow come out, if some old-timer recognized his face and put it together, in his family’s old village, surrounded by friends who felt the same way, he would be celebrated as a hero for what he’d done in the war, not turned in.

But it wasn’t the police or the U.S. government he was primarily worried about. No…

On his way there, in Germany, he had stopped and e-mailed the man who had recruited him at a designated cyber address. Thibault wrote that the trail of money he had received and recordings he had made of their communications were in the secure possession of a lawyer in Switzerland with instructions to share it with the U.S. government should Thibault not be around to call in and instruct him not to every six months. A simple plan, he had to admit, but a safe one. All he wanted was his freedom in return for what he had done. His silence was guaranteed.

Ultimately, Thibault knew, there were places he could go where no one would ever find him and new aliases he could adopt. Just like he had done before. He possessed all the funds he would ever need. He knew how to sniff out people, vulnerable people. The instinct came to him like the scent of a hare to a hound.

His only regret was that he couldn’t get even with Merrill. To make her pay for her betrayal. That was driving him nuts. She was a horny little bitch and his only amusement now was the knowledge that he had let free urges from deep inside her she would not so easily satisfy with someone else.

Unfortunately, the thought of her brought his own physical urges to the surface. Up there, what prospects could there be? Filthy barmaids or mountainous old farmer’s wives. He was used to having the most desirable women in the world. Maybe he would go into Novi Pazar. No one knew him there. There were places he could go. Women found him instantly attractive. He knew he radiated something mysterious to them, a side he had played up his whole life. Using women had never been a difficult thing for him.

The stupid old Bahraini had said it. It was his dick that would get him into trouble.

Yes, he was going crazy there. So be it, Thibault thought. He stared up at the hills. It was like he felt someone watching him, but he knew that was impossible. They’d held in secrets for centuries.

He stamped out his cigarette. His was just one more.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

They watched Thibault for another day from the same hillside, perched high on the ridge. Naomi snapped several photos. Thibault. His car. Its plates. She sent them immediately back to Washington.

They deliberated about what to do.

Thibault never strayed far from the cottage. Once or twice he came out for a smoke or to bring in wood from a shack, as the nights were still cool. Once he took a short walk along a nearby brook. The next day, Maria Radisovic came back around noon. This time Hauck and Naomi were there ahead of her. She brought along a suitcase that seemed stuffed with clothes, and Thibault came out of the farmhouse and took it in for her. He puffed on a cigar and stamped it into the ground. Before going in, he gazed around the secluded valley-almost directly at the spot where he and Naomi were located, making Hauck duck back. It was almost as if Thibault had sensed someone was watching him.

Then he went back inside.

The options they faced were complicated. They could arrest Thibault themselves, but that would mean bringing in the Serbian police. Anything else would be unlawful. Which no one wanted. That would only create a public legal battle over extradition. Without a formal treaty and with local lawyers dragging it out, a thing like that could go on forever. And once the government became aware Thibault was actually Kostavic, who knew how that would play out? They might lose whatever negotiating leverage they had.

The next best option was something more clandestine. Bring in professionals. Call in a team that could subdue Thibault, disable him, and sneak him out of the country across the border with Romania or even Macedonia. Back into U.S. hands. The new international antiterrorist accords gave them broad powers. But apprehending a Serb in his home country, doing a covert abduction in a friendly state-that would never fly. That wasn’t exactly part of the current U.S. presidential administration’s foreign policy theme.

They had found him. But time was running out and they felt their viable options slowly drifting away.

“What’s the goal here?” Hauck asked atop the ridge, swigging water as the day grew hot and long.

He had come to a decision on his own.

“Apprehend him,” Naomi said. “Find out what he knows.”

“You can always apprehend him. We know what car he’s driving, what name he’s traveling under. You can always petition the local government to hand him over. Whatever the case, he’ll be facing serious charges here. And you’ll know where he is.”

Naomi stared at him quizzically. “So where are you heading, Ty?”

“You want to find out where this leads, right? What’s important is discovering what’s behind those murders?”

She nodded, going along.

“What we need to do is get inside that farmhouse.”

He turned and focused back on the house, not elaborating further. He could see Naomi weighing what he’d said in her mind. She wasn’t a field agent. She worked behind a desk. Her job was to fit together the threads of financial conspiracy and assess the threat. In the army, she’d been an investigator. Going in there, on the fly, without the backing of her bosses in DC, like some kind of operative-that definitely wasn’t the way careers were made in Washington. She’d be crossing a huge line.

Some time later, after Hauck figured she’d stowed the idea away as a bad one, she turned. “How do we do that?” she asked.

Hauck grinned. He’d been waiting for her to reply, “Over my dead body!”

“Thibault’s used to being a public person. He’s going to have to leave that farmhouse sometime.”

She sat back against the ledge and nodded, not so much in agreement as in coming to grips with the idea. Finally she replied, without turning, “Anyway, if anyone’s going in that farmhouse, it’s going to be me. I know what I’m looking for.”

He waited a moment. “You ever done anything like that before?”

She looked at him without answering.

“I’m just saying, this isn’t exactly music theory at Princeton, Naomi.”

“Any more than it’s handing out traffic tickets in Greenwich.” Her glare suggested there wouldn’t be much negotiating on this.

“Okay.” Hauck turned back to the binoculars, suppressing a smile.

Naomi said, “I thought this was just about your friend. The one who was murdered. You don’t have to do this either. We found Thibault.”

“What can I tell you?” Hauck said. “I’m learning to multitask.”

Now she was the one hiding her smile.

They watched a little longer. Hauck’s cell phone began to vibrate. It was Steve Chrisafoulis, he noticed, relieved it wasn’t Annie.

“Steve.”

“Where am I catching you?” the detective asked. The reception made it sound as if he was a block away.

“Just doing a bit of house-hunting,” Hauck said, rolling a few yards down the rise. He’d have liked to hear the guy’s reaction if he divulged he was on a hilltop in frigging Serbia.

“House-hunting…? We got something interesting back on James Merced. You remember your skating partner?”

“Yeah, Steve, I recall. I’m listening.”

“Turns out he came back stateside after receiving a get-out-of-jail card from Iraq. Seemed he had a few social problems with the enlisted women over there. Harassment. Assault. Attempted rape…They gave him a less-than-honorable discharge.”

“You don’t have to try hard to convince me, Steve.”

“When he got home, he knocked around a bit in California and Michigan, digging pools. Then he tried to hook on as a private contractor with a security outfit back in Iraq. Global Threat Management. You familiar with that company, Ty?”

“Yeah, I’m familiar.”

“That’s part of your outfit, isn’t it, Ty? Talon?”

Hauck felt a tremor tighten in his chest. “It is.”

“Apparently they shipped his ass right back out, soon as they found out about his record. I spoke with the employment director there. Still, quite a little coincidence, don’t you think? You and he, tied to the same firm…”

“You think that’s why he was trying to kill me, Steve?”

Hauck thanked him, and Steve said he’d keep him posted. They signed off. House-hunting…If he only knew…

Hauck crawled back up to the ridge.

“What was that?” Naomi asked.

“Real estate thing,” he said. She stared back at him. “Nothing…” He retook the binoculars. But it wasn’t nothing. It was the second time in a month he had doubts about his own firm, thought they might somehow be involved.

The sun was out. It was hot on this hilltop in Serbia. His brow was sweating. So why did he have the disturbing feeling that he was walking on thin ice?

“You know, I never handed out traffic tickets,” he said, focusing back on Thibault’s farmhouse. “Least not in Greenwich.”

“That’s okay,” Naomi said. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

They waited until almost dark. For a while, in the late afternoon, Thibault came out and walked around, smoking. He leaned against the wooden fence of the animal pen, staring up at the hills.

He had to have a plan.

Then he went back inside.

At the onset of dark, about seven, they went back down the hill. They’d come to a decision.

In the car, Hauck turned onto the main road and headed back toward town.

A gray delivery van pulled out on the road behind them, the driver waiting before they’d gone around a bend to turn on its lights. There were two men in the front who’d been sitting for most of the day. One had short, dark hair, long sideburns, and a heavy mustache.

“To je u njima,” he said in Serbian. That’s them.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Look!”

It was the next day, Friday, in the late afternoon. Naomi pointed toward the farmhouse. They’d been watching it all day. The sun was just beginning to set and they were about to pack it up and head back into town.

Hauck took the glasses from her and zoomed in.

Thibault stepped outside. He was wearing a black leather jacket and tossed a duffel bag in the backseat of the Audi. He was heading somewhere. He locked the front door.

Hauck put down the binoculars and looked at Naomi. This was their chance.

They had talked it over for most of the day. They had already passed back the license number of the rented Audi, and they knew for certain what identity Thibault was traveling under. What name he used to rent the car. They’d decided that if he left, one of them would take their car and follow.

The other would go inside.

That would be her.

“You better get moving.” Naomi stood up and strapped on a pouch that held a Nikon digital SLR, a special computer flash drive, a pen flashlight.

Her gun.

Thibault got into the Audi and started it up.

“Nervous?” Hauck asked. She was a desk agent, not a field agent. What she was putting herself into was definitely crossing that line.

“No,” she answered without hesitating. Then, blowing air through her cheeks, she shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

“Me too. Be careful going in not to trip any wires or safeguards he may have set up. Take a mental picture of how everything looks as soon as you get in. And make sure you leave everything just as you found it.”

“You think you can manage to tail the guy without blowing your cover?” she asked, a little peeved. “But hey,” she betrayed a smile. “Thanks.”

Thibault backed the Audi around and started to make his way down the winding road.

Hauck said, “I better go. Whenever I get to where he’s going, I’ll check in with you.” He squeezed her on the arm. “You be careful in there, okay?”

“You too, Ty. No heroics. Remember, I’m responsible for you.”

With a last wink, Hauck headed down the steep embankment to where they had left the car. Thibault had a bit of a head start, but Hauck knew what he was driving and figured traffic would be light. He finally made it down to the road, hopped into the driver’s seat of their Ford, and did a U-ey in a clearing on the deserted road, starting after the Audi with his headlights off. As he passed through the woods heading back to the road to Novi Pazar, he finally caught sight of it.

Thibault had pulled up for a moment at the turnoff. He stopped too. Then the Audi turned left on the road toward town.

Hauck slowed, and when he got to the intersection, he put on his lights. The Audi was a minute or so ahead of him. But it was starting to get dark and they were the only ones on the road. As they climbed up over the pass, he saw the Audi’s taillights in the distance.

Heading to Novi Pazar.

It took about fifteen minutes to reach the outskirts of town. Hauck narrowed the distance as the main road fed into the town and traffic picked up. At a circle, he let a slower fuel truck and a minivan sneak in between them to conceal his pursuit. At an intersection, Thibault accelerated through a light that was about to change and Hauck had to zip around the truck so as not to lose him, then fell a few car lengths back.

He was pretty sure he hadn’t been spotted. The Audi wove through the main thoroughfare, turned down a side street near the river, and pulled to a stop, parking on the sidewalk. Hauck slowed, passing by, and eyed a brightly lit bar with a frosted glass façade and a sign with old-fashioned American lettering that said O’FLYNN’S CHICAGO-STYLE BAR, like some garish American sports bar. Probably the local hangout. Through his rearview mirror, Hauck saw Thibault climb out, flick the automatic lock of the car, and go inside.

Hauck continued on the narrow side street and squeezed into a spot in front of a brick building that had a yogurt billboard in Serbian with a photo of Ana Ivanovic, the pretty tennis player, on the side of it. He locked the car and stepped around the side to the main street. He pulled his cap down over his brow. In front, a man and woman came out, almost bumping into him, speaking loudly in Serbian. “Izvinite,” Hauck grunted under his breath. Excuse me. He peered inside the frosted windows. A Heineken beer sign. Inside, the bar was dark. And crowded. The din that escaped was loud.

There was always the chance he was walking into a trap. No heroics…

He went around the side. There was a small deck overlooking the river. Six or seven tables on it, mostly young people drinking, eating, under beer umbrellas. Hauck followed a waitress through a rear door. A wave of noise hit him at the entrance.

He made his way inside.

The main bar was raucous and packed with people. Women crowded the wooden bar surrounded by local types. Everyone was smoking. Some looked like businessmen; others hunched over tables, drinking beer, smoking, gesturing at the large TV screen above. A soccer game was on that a lot of people seemed to be watching. When the ball went down one side, the bar seemed to erupt in cheers. The women were laughing, chattering, looking like secretaries out on the make. The local beer, Jemel, was flowing.

Hauck made his way up to the end of the bar and lost himself in a crowd. Just like in New York, he recalled. He looked around for Thibault, searching for his face through the haze of smoke and patrons.

He finally found him sitting alone at a table near the far end of the bar, sipping a beer.

Thibault was looking directly at him.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Naomi wound her way down to the farmhouse. She waited a few minutes to make certain Thibault wasn’t coming back. It had become dark, and the path down was treacherous with sliding rocks and false steps, even with her flashlight, causing her to stumble and almost fall several times along the way.

Thank God Ty was following Thibault.

As she watched the house her blood started to race. The dark silence of the unfamiliar valley and realizing just what she was about to get herself into gave her one of the deepest feelings of loneliness and isolation she had ever felt. She begged her heart to calm down. There was no one there, nothing to be afraid of. She kept telling herself that this was the right thing to do. Still, her heart wouldn’t quite respond. A thought passed through her that would have made her laugh if she wasn’t so afraid: What’ve you gotten yourself involved in, Naomi?

She wasn’t a desk agent anymore.

When she was certain Thibault wasn’t returning, she darted across the mountain road, careful to avoid leaving imprints from her sneakers in the gravel. She moved over to the arched, wood-planked front door. The latch was locked. Shit. She poked her light through a crack in the shuttered window. She couldn’t see much. The lights inside were dimmed.

She hurried around the side. It was a stone and stucco cottage, could have been built a hundred years ago. The brush that crept up to the side of the house was sparse. Cautiously, she peered in through a cracked shutter. She could see an open kitchen with a large stone hearth. She tried the door off the kitchen. The iron latch didn’t budge either. Damn. She continued on around back.

She knew she had the time, the time to sort it all out and be careful, but her heart was thumping and she wanted to get this over with, and she didn’t want to take the chance that someone, anyone, might show up at the house. She peered into what looked like a bedroom window. She knew if she had to she could break the pane of glass. They knew where Thibault was. They knew what car he was driving, what name he was traveling under. They could always find him. Busting the window would blow their secrecy. But what was important was finding out what he knew.

She checked the shuttered windows along the back and, to her elation, saw that one of them was cracked.

She slid her fingers underneath the sill and jerked upward. To her relief, the window lifted. She wiggled a space just wide enough for her body to slip through and climbed inside. She was right; it was a bedroom. In fact, it seemed to be the one Thibault was using. His clothes were strewn haphazardly about a chair; the open suitcase she had seen Maria Radisovic bring in was on the floor. The bed was mussed.

She was in.

In the front room she spotted a breakfast table in a nook outside the kitchen that Thibault seemed to be using as his work space. There was a small TV that was hooked up to a satellite. There was a laptop set up on the table. Some books, papers stacked around. Naomi sat down and inserted a download flash drive in the USB port and tried to log on. Not surprisingly, the prompt came up for a password.

Damn.

Thibault had to have records. Records of who he communicated with. His financial interactions. The money flow. She was certain she’d find all that inside. The thought passed through her that maybe she ought to just take it. That it didn’t matter anymore, this cat-and-mouse. What was important was to track the trail to someone higher. Where this conspiracy led.

She tried to bypass the security but it proved to be futile. Pulse racing, she turned her attention to the papers scattered all over the table. She rifled through the files, mostly financial papers-partnership agreements, corporate documents, deal brochures. She had no idea if these were legitimate or part of Thibault’s illicit doings. But he’d brought them with him, so she assumed they must have some value. She laid them out on the table and snapped pictures of the cover pages, focusing on the corporate logos. There was a stack of business cards bound together by a rubber band. Naomi unfastened them and began to leaf through.

Most seemed like legitimate contacts from around the world. Thibault’s network. JP Morgan, Citi, Reynolds Reid. She even came upon James Donovan’s card and those of other securities traders from different firms, which made her wonder if they might have been more potential victims. She laid them all out on the table, snapping digital shots. She came across one that made her heart come to a stop.

The black, embossed logo of Ascot Capital.

Ascot was the investment partnership in Dubai that was linked to Crescent Bay in Toronto, the company that bought Donovan’s house.

The name on the card was Hassan ibn Hassani.

Her pulse rocketed. Hassani was the contact overheard on the phone with Marty al-Bashir in London. That had started the whole thing rolling.

The planes are in the air.

Thibault knew him. Hassani. Ascot was also a link in the chain of funds that went to pay off James Donovan. Not enough to prove a thing, to seek an indictment. But enough to hand over to the FBI and Interpol. Enough to widen the investigation. Everything was knitting together.

Naomi snapped away.

She wasn’t making any distinctions. Everything there could be important. She shot receipts, plane tickets. Even what looked like a ski-lift ticket. From Gstaad, the posh resort in Switzerland. Naomi took a look at the date: 06/26. The summer before. Maybe just a memento. It cost forty euros.

She snapped it anyway.

With haste, she threw the pack of cards back together, reattaching the rubber band. She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes. She felt comfortable that she had more time. She turned back to the computer and saw the download flash drive had connected and tried to enable the password-busting program to do its work. No way she was going to leave it behind.

That was when she saw a light flash outside and heard a vehicle coming up the road.

Naomi’s blood froze. Oh, shit.

Someone was here.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

The lights were from a car coming up to the house. The sound of the tires on the gravel knifed through Naomi like a heart attack.

Could Thibault somehow be coming back?

Where the hell was Ty?

The thought that Thibault might have somehow ambushed him and had now come back for her sent her heart into a frenzy. Her throat suddenly got very dry and her blood was pumping at what felt like ten times its normal rate. She checked the table one last time. Everything seemed in order. She hastily threw the camera in her pack and headed back into the bedroom.

She pressed against the wall and took out her gun.

She heard the car door slam. Footsteps coming up the walk. Then a loud knock on the door. And a woman’s voice. Which came as a slight relief to her.

“Franko? Franko?”

It was Maria Radisovic. Thibault’s mother. Naomi wasn’t sure what to do. Stay in the house? Leave?

Then suddenly she realized she had left her flash drive connected to Thibault’s laptop.

Oh, God… If Thibault ever saw it, they were completely blown. She made a move to run out and retrieve it, but the door handle started rattling, scaring her.

“Franko?”

Naomi ducked back in.

Suddenly she heard a key in the lock at the front door. The door was pushed open. Naomi squeezed herself against the wall.

The woman stepped into the house. It was Maria. Naomi recognized her instantly from the day before. She was in a light-brown parka against the chill and a cloth hat pulled over her hair, and she was carrying what Naomi took to be a bag of groceries.

“Franko?” she called out one last time. Then she started muttering loudly in Serbian, no doubt upset not to have found him there.

Then Naomi saw she wasn’t alone. She had a dog with her. It looked like a shepherd. Her heart started to pound. She was trapped there now. The woman had gone into the kitchen and was placing the groceries into the fridge. Maria pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. Whoever she was calling didn’t answer. Naomi was sure it was Thibault. Maria flicked it off in disgust.

The dog started exploring around the house, going from room to room, as if it was familiar with the place.

It was only a matter of time before it alighted on her.

Naomi pulled back the action on her Colt. She wasn’t sure what to do. She’d never used it, not like this. Only firing at a faceless, remote enemy in Iraq. Not an old woman.

She felt a chill and realized she had left the bedroom window wide open. There was a draft that went around the entire house. Maria would find her way back there.

Shit.

“Katja, Katja?” The woman was calling the dog. Her voice started to get closer. “Katja…”

Naomi backed inside the room and hurried over to the window. This was one time she was lucky she was small. She lifted her front leg through and adroitly climbed out. Then she leaped to the side and started to lower it gently. Not quite all the way.

She heard the dog come into the room.

Then, shortly after, Maria. “Katja…” A loud sigh. She seemed to look around petulantly, angry at the mess. Naomi backed away, hugging the house. The woman came to the window. Naomi heard her grunt. She pressed herself against the side of the house and tensed her finger on the trigger guard, her heart beating wildly. What would she do? Please, please-she gripped the gun-don’t stick your head out…

Muttering, the woman tried to jam the window shut. She seemed to get it most of the way. Naomi’s pulse started to relax. She didn’t want to back away into the darkness, just in case she was seen. In case the dog might notice. She just stood there, frozen. Her heart beating at a steady pace. For what seemed like an hour.

At some point she heard the front door open again. The woman called the dog into the car. The car engine started up.

Naomi shut her eyes in relief.

As the car drove away, she went back and tried the window. It opened again. Thank God.

Why hadn’t her phone rung?

Where the hell was Ty?

CHAPTER SIXTY

Hauck turned away from Thibault, glancing at the overhead TV, the European soccer match. He ducked back into a huddle of rowdy beer drinkers, who erupted in whoops and cheers every time the attack went down the field their way. He signaled to the bartender and pointed toward a local beer.

Every once in a while he glanced through the bodies to where the Serbian was sitting. Thibault had ordered a meal. He consumed it quickly, what looked like a plate of sausage and sauerkraut, and it seemed whatever attention he may have directed toward Hauck had now been transferred to his dinner. Hauck checked his watch. By now, Naomi was likely done. He ought to check in. He could always pick Thibault up from across the street. He lost himself again inside the crowd of drunken fans.

A minute or two later, he saw Thibault glance at his cell and motion for a check. A young waitress came up and the Serb threw some bills on a tray, chatting flirtatiously; she seemed no older than a college student. Then he took his leather jacket from the chair and headed out through the crowd. He came within a few bodies of Hauck, who turned, taking a swig of his beer. In the frosted mirror he saw that Thibault never looked his way.

Hauck breathed easier. He must’ve been imagining it.

He waited about thirty seconds, threw a few bills on the counter for the beer, then wandered back to the rear and out the rear entrance. He waited a few seconds and made his way around to the front. There were a couple of locals there huddled around, smoking, conversing loudly. Hauck glanced along the street and saw Thibault’s black Audi still parked on the sidewalk.

But Thibault was nowhere to be seen.

Hauck tucked his cap down over his eyes and thought about calling Naomi. There was an alley off to the far side of the bar that seemed to lead down toward a perch over the river. Losing sight of Thibault made him nervous. Maybe he had crossed the street. Maybe he had gone to meet someone. Hauck looked around and didn’t see him. He stepped around the side to the alley and looked down there.

No one.

Then something with the force of a bus collided with the back of his head.

Hauck went down. His brain grew all fuzzy. His eyes glazed over and the next thing he knew he was on his knees. He knew something was deadly wrong, then a second later he felt another rattling blow to the back of his ribs.

The air went out of him. His face hit the ground.

“Who the fuck are you?” a heavily accented voice demanded. In English. Which, through his haze, worried Hauck even more. There was a knee dug into his back and the attacker dragged him up by the collar. “I know you. I’ve seen you somewhere before. Who are you? You’re not from around here.”

To Hauck, the words had the feel of a distant echo, slamming around in his dulled head. Not to mention the pain radiating in his ribs. He pushed himself up off the ground, trying to clear himself, knowing that how he replied and what happened next might mean his life.

How had Thibault found him? How had he been made?

The Serb reared back and kicked him again, this time in the stomach. Hauck doubled over and fell again, the air shooting out of his lungs. Thibault flung him against the brick wall.

“Who are you?” he shouted again. He patted Hauck down before Hauck could fully regain his senses. He found the Sig tucked into Hauck’s waist. The Serb removed it, chuckling a derisive laugh, then pulled back the bolt and thrust the barrel against Hauck’s head. “I don’t forget a face. I know I’ve seen you. Where? Who sent you? You’ve got three seconds to fill me in, or I spill your brains all over this alley.”

“I’m an investigator,” Hauck said, ribs exploding, more of a gasp.

“An investigator? For whom?”

Hauck took a look behind him. He saw no one in sight. Thibault had spoken to him directly in English. Not even a pretense that he was from around here. He now realized his mistake had been made back in New York. At the restaurant he had followed Thibault to. That was where he had first been spotted. Not here.

And he knew he’d better say something that would buy him some time. And fast. “From back in the States.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m looking into the death of Marc Glassman.”

“American?” Thibault turned him around and looked directly into Hauck’s face, more of a sneer. “How did you find me?” He pushed the barrel of the gun into Hauck’s head. “There’s no cavalry here in Serbia, Mr. Investigator. How did you know I was here?”

Hauck knew he had to come up with something. Thibault was an ex-Scorpion. Trained at this. If he had shown no qualms about shooting dozens of innocent townspeople in a ditch, surely he’d have none about pulling the trigger here, with his survival at risk.

“Bank records,” Hauck gasped, straining for breath. He looked the Serb in the eyes. “You sent money here.”

The answer seemed to shock him. Hauck stared, weak-kneed, into the Serb’s glowering eyes. “Bank records, huh?” He sent another hard blow into Hauck’s ribs. Hauck gasped, air rushing out of him, his ribs seeming to cave in.

Thibault yanked him up again by the collar and forced him farther down the alley, away from the street. He flung Hauck over a railing above the river as Hauck desperately tried to catch his breath. He could hear the whoosh of the water rushing below. Thibault took him by the back of his head and cocked the gun against it. Hauck’s insides froze. He looked down. There was some kind of mill close by, and a waterfall. A drop of maybe thirty feet. Hauck realized the roar of the current would conceal the sound of any blast.

He knew he couldn’t fight him. He was defenseless, still reeling from the blows. Any resistance would only earn him a blast from his own gun.

Thibault forced him farther over the edge. “Who sent you, Mr. Investigator? Who else knows I’m here?”

“No one,” Hauck said, the spray from the rushing water splashing onto his face.

“Don’t lie. I smell lies, the way I smelled you. Are you ready to take a swim? You may make it through the current, but I wouldn’t recommend it with a bullet to the back of the head.”

A winch of fear began to tighten in Hauck’s gut. He knew he had only seconds, and whatever he said, it better be the right thing. It better buy him some time.

“Franko Kostavic,” Hauck yelled, shutting his eyes as he waited for the hammer of darkness to bludgeon his brain.

It never came.

A few seconds passed. Thibault jerked him back up. He turned him around, pressing the gun sharply into Hauck’s ribs. His eyes smoldered with determination and anger. “How do you know that name?”

“I traced it. I took your DNA. I followed you in New York. To a restaurant. Alto.” Hauck thought, What does it matter now if it buys me a few seconds? “That’s where you saw me before.”

As it sank in, Thibault smiled. His face had a certain submission and resignation in it. He dug the gun in deeper into Hauck’s gut. “Then you know this is like a walk in the park for me; isn’t that what you Americans say? A slam dunk. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what it is that has brought you all the way to Serbia. What it is you are about to die for.”

A final fear rose up in Hauck. But not for him. For Naomi-whom he had left helpless. He prayed he hadn’t put her in danger. Two other faces came into his mind. It was strange, he thought, who came to mind.

Jessie. A feeling of such terrible sadness. Would she even ever know?

And April. The glint on her proud face. See, I was there for you, he thought.

I kept my promise.

“I’m here to make you pay for what you’ve done,” Hauck said, looking back at him. Over Thibault’s shoulder, he saw two people come into the alley. He looked in his assailant’s eyes and smiled.

“In another life, perhaps,” the Serb said, raising the gun. “But in this one, your job’s done.”

“Not just yet,” Hauck said.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

The two men approaching from down the alley stepped closer. Unsteady, bantering loudly in Serbian, they were probably drunk. Maybe they had come down there to take a piss. Or puke into the river.

Hauck didn’t care. They were the cavalry to him.

Thibault glanced around when it was clear there would be witnesses to what he was about to do. Annoyance crossed his face. They came to a stop about ten feet away when they came across Thibault, who looked to them like he was roughing up a drunken customer.

One of them was short and squat, barrel-chested. In an open striped shirt and a black leather jacket. The other was taller, in a kind of soccer sweatshirt. A shaved head and long sideburns and a rough, Slavic face.

“Hey, what are you doing?” the shorter one muttered in Serbian, gesturing at Thibault in an animated way.

Thibault shouted something back, which Hauck took to be the equivalent of “Get the fuck away,” flashing the gun in his face.

The two men’s eyes widened. Hauck harnessed his strength. Maybe as they went away he could spin Thibault around.

But instead of fleeing, the two men simply raised their hands in a defensive manner, their drunkenness making them seem more annoyed than afraid, still not leaving.

Thibault pressed the gun sharply into Hauck’s ribs. “Don’t think I wouldn’t do it…”

At the end of the alley, another man and a woman poked their heads in to see what all the commotion was about.

Suddenly, there were witnesses. A small crowd.

The two Serbians were shouting at Thibault and waving their arms at him, cursing. Even with the gun, Thibault was no longer in control. He didn’t know what to do. If he shot Hauck, he’d have to do the same to several others. Or leave witnesses. There was no way to escape. And the last thing he needed now was to be on the run from the local police; avoiding that was even more important than killing Hauck.

Hauck realized these people were saving his life. Seizing the moment, in full sight of everyone, he pushed Thibault aside. He met the Serb’s gaze with a victorious grin.

“Go on, get out of here,” the tall one with the sideburns said. In English now. “This is not how we treat visitors in Serbia. This man is clearly drunk. We know what to do with his kind here.”

They thought they were saving some poor tourist from a mugging.

Hauck nodded at the man with gratitude, then glanced back at Thibault, who, he could see, was flashing through his options. Should he kill him? And then, how many? What he was interested in was survival. Enraged, but helpless to do anything about it, he let Hauck pull away.

Relieved, Hauck stepped down the alleyway, quickening his stride and praying Thibault wouldn’t reconsider and put a bullet in his back.

A small crowd had built up at the head of the alley, sensing the altercation. He looked back. Thibault was seething, but the two men were cursing at him brazenly. Taking it out on him like they were from the local chamber of commerce.

Whatever. Hauck let out a grateful breath. For the moment, they had saved his life.

His thoughts flashed to Naomi. She must have been going crazy, wondering where he was. He ran out of the alley, dashed down the street to where he had left the car, jumped in, and pulled out of the side street. He didn’t like leaving Thibault. The man had been behind April’s death. At least three others. Not to mention the poor guy in France whose identity he had taken.

But if Naomi had found something, they could turn him over to the Serbian police now.

He took off down the street, looking back to see Thibault coming out, still trying to get free of his tormentors, shouting after him. He had to get back first. He took his cell phone out and called Naomi.

“Where the hell are you?” she answered, obviously waiting, picking up after the first ring.

“On my way to you. Get back to where we keep the car. I’ll meet you there.”

“You wouldn’t believe what happened,” she blurted in relief. She told him about Thibault’s mother and how she had come to the house.

“Yeah, I’ve been up to my arms in a bit of a hot sink as well,” Hauck said. “With her son.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Hauck raced back through town to Thibault’s farmhouse to pick up Naomi. A flickering reel of questions bombarded him.

Who were the two men who had just intervened and saved him? Just a couple of drunken locals? One had addressed him in English. Had Hauck said something first? Whoever they were, their timing was impeccable, and they had surely saved his ass.

And what had Naomi found? Had she linked Thibault higher up the chain? Part of Hauck ached at leaving the bastard who had orchestrated the murder of four people free. Not to mention what he had done in Bosnia. Thibault might well be coming after him. He could be getting in his car right now.

Mostly, he realized just how lucky he was to simply be alive.

He made the twenty-minute trip to Sebecevo in under fifteen. He found the turnoff and drove his Ford down the bumpy, deserted road, through the wooded glade that was completely dark this time of night, past the steep incline up to Thibault’s farm. He dimmed his lights, just in case the Serb was following him. He found the thicket of trees where they had been hiding their car.

Naomi stepped out of the darkness.

He breathed in, relieved.

She opened the passenger door and hopped in. Her face was taut and nearly white with worry, but seeing Hauck, being in the car, her color began to return.

“You okay?” he asked. He reached out and squeezed her arm.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “You?”

“Yeah,” he said, exhaling, “now.”

Something inside made him almost want to reach over and give her a hug-they had both been through hell-and, in his hesitation, he could see Naomi felt the same way.

Instead, he just asked, “Did you find something?”

She looked back, eyes wide. “Yeah. Enough to tie him to Hassani.”

“Then we better get out of here.” Hauck threw the car back in gear. “Thibault made me. You don’t want to know the details. I’ll tell you about it on the way. I was lucky to even get away. The point is, he knows we’re onto him.”

“Then I have to go back in,” Naomi said, putting her hand on his arm to stop him. “I have to take his computer.”

Hauck shook his head. “No way. He could be on our tail right now. No time.”

He flipped a U-turn, careful not to drive off the embankment, and headed back toward the main road, lights dimmed, praying they wouldn’t run headfirst into Thibault, who might have been heading back to the house.

“Give me the gun,” Hauck said.

“What?” Naomi hesitated, as if this was another veiled slight.

“I don’t want to argue.” His tone was charged with urgency. “Please, just give me the gun.”

Naomi stared, for a second angry, then took it out of her belt and placed it in the cup holder between them. Hauck took it, checking the bolt while he drove. He placed it next to him on the driver’s seat. He proceeded down the rocky road with caution, fearful Thibault might turn in at any time. To his relief, they made it back to the turnoff to Novi Pazar without any sight of him.

Hauck swung a left back toward town. He was starting to feel better now.

For the first time in an hour his heart rate came back to something approximating its normal pace. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. He looked at her and gave her a teasing wink. “I hear these old ladies around here can be pretty tough.”

“I got what I went in for,” Naomi said. “You’re the one who seemed to have the trouble.” Then, seeing he wasn’t amused, she asked, “What happened?”

“Thibault recognized me from New York.” Keeping an eye out for Thibault’s Audi, Hauck took her through how the Serb seemed to catch sight of him in the bar, how he had waited outside, suckered Hauck in the alley.

Then everything after.

Naomi’s eyes widened in horror. There was also a measure of concern in them.

“My God, are you alright?”

“Yeah, I guess I’m alright.” In truth, his adrenaline had stopped and now Hauck’s ribs were aching and the back of his head felt like one big, throbbing knot.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

Hauck breathed in and focused on the road as it climbed the pass. “I know.”

For a while, they drove on in silence. Naomi seemed stunned by his tale, how close he had come to death.

Finally she said, “I found a business card with an e-mail address for Hassani among Thibault’s things. I don’t know what’s behind these killings, but it’s clear Thibault was just the point man who carried them out. They were part of a larger plan. I’m gonna call in when we get back. I’m certain now they’ll issue a warrant through the right channels to pick up Thibault. He may have more in his computer. We know the name he’s using for himself and what car he’s driving. He can’t get far…

“More than that,” Naomi, said, looking at him, “I’m just glad that you’re okay.”

He looked back at her and saw something in her eyes. “Me too.”

They sped back to the outskirts of Novi Pazar. Maybe Thibault was already on the run. He could have gone back to his mother’s, Hauck surmised. He could have exchanged their cars. If so, they already had the license plate number of Maria Radisovic’s Opel. He wouldn’t get far. The guy was in a real bind now. He had to decide whether to stand trial in the U.S. for the murders of four people or waive extradition and be put on trial for war crimes here.

As they neared the city, Hauck noticed lights flashing up ahead. A bevy of police cars to the side of the road.

Hauck slowed as they approached. “What’s that?”

“Probably some drunk driver,” Naomi said. “You saw firsthand, these people here hit it pretty hard.”

“Yeah, they do.”

He tried to make out what was going on. A car had spun into a ditch. Half the police cars of Novi Pazar seemed to have been called in. A gray-clad uniformed policeman was on the road, waving traffic through. Hauck wished he could just lower the window and flash his credentials, like back home, ask what was going on.

Naomi said, “Looks bad.”

As they inched closer, Hauck caught a glimpse of the color of the disabled car, which was pitched forward. Black. Then he saw the make.

Audi.

He turned to meet Naomi’s frozen gaze.

It was Thibault’s car.

He slowed to a virtual stop. Hauck made out the figure of a man slumped over the wheel.

The thick head of black hair. The black leather jacket.

It was Thibault. No doubt.

Naomi uttered, “Oh, my God…”

There seemed to be no visible damage to the car, but a blotch of blood oozed from the side of the lifeless Serb’s head.

This didn’t have the feel of any automobile accident.

As they passed, Hauck saw that two words had been scrawled on the Audi’s rear windshield. In large, bold letters that looked like smeared blood. Thibault’s blood, Hauck realized. Normally he wouldn’t have been able to make out anything written in Serbian, but these two words needed no translation.

DONJE VELKE, the letters read.

The Bosnian town where the massacre Thibault had been accused of overseeing had taken place.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

They drove on past Thibault’s car in silence. Naomi was ashen faced, numb. Even Hauck felt a hole in the pit of his stomach.

Thibault had been executed for what he had done.

Who was responsible? Who had pegged Thibault for Kostavic? What flashed through Hauck’s mind was the scene back at the river, the two drunks who had seemingly wandered up at the right time. They had spoken to him in English. As if they knew.

Donje Velke.

“Who the hell were those people?”

Hauck pulled the car over to the side of the road. He racked his mind to recall exactly how everything had taken place.

“Retribution? The BIA?” Naomi thought out loud. The Serbian secret police.

“I don’t know. They seemed to be drunk. But one of them spoke to me in English. Like he had an idea who I was. But why would Serbs have done this? What happened in Donje Velke took place in Bosnia. To ethnic Albanians. And Kostavic has been “dead” around here for fifteen years. How the hell would anyone have figured out who he was? We only stumbled on it by accident. Thibault kept pushing me: ‘Who sent you?’ He was definitely scared of someone…”

“Hassani?” Naomi said.

“Maybe.” Hauck nodded. “Covering his tracks.”

“If it was Hassani, we’d better get the hell out of here. Now.”

“No.” Hauck shook his head. “I don’t think we’re in any danger. If that was so, they definitely had the chance to eliminate us both. They didn’t seem to have much of a problem sending me on my way.”

“I’m not talking about us, Ty,” Naomi said. “If Hassani was behind these hits-Glassman and Donovan, now this-Thibault’s gone. But there’s someone else who was involved. Someone who’s now become our only link. Who put this whole thing in motion.”

“That guy in London.” Hauck looked at her. “‘The planes are in the air.’”

Naomi nodded. “Marty al-Bashir. If Hassani knows we’re onto him, no way he’s going to let him live.”

Hauck nodded. Without this al-Bashir, who was at the heart of all that had happened, there was nothing they could prove. The conspiracy ended here. With Thibault.

“I need to make some calls,” Naomi said. “I have to set a few things up.”

“You want to go to London?”

“Someone’s trying to wreak havoc on the U.S. economy. Al-Bashir is the only link we have now.”

The flicker of flashing green and red police lights lit up the rearview mirror. Hauck put the car back in gear.

“You’re lucky,” he said, pulling back onto the road. “I just happen to be free.”

Naomi looked out the window with a worried smile. “Whew.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

The young girl trembled a bit, clearly scared.

Hassan ibn Hassani looked her over. She was only fourteen. Often they lied. But this one was truly a goddess. Her breasts were fully formed and he saw them quiver expectantly under her robe. Her hair was thick and soft as sable. Her eyes were dark, perfectly almond. Her lips were small yet full. There was a deepness to her that delighted him. Afraid, and yet intrigued by his attention.

And she had never been touched before.

“Exquisite.” Hassani smiled, signaling to the woman who had brought her that he was truly satisfied. There were twenty thousand euros for her in an envelope on the way out. Twenty thousand euros. For a fraction of that, he could fuck the most beautiful women in the world. Models, beauty pageant contestants, aspiring Bollywood starlets. But this one was a jewel. Unspoiled. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“What’s your name?”

“Sera,” the girl replied tremulously.

Sera. She had come from one of his villages back in the kingdom. A village that his family, sheiks for over two hundred years, still controlled. Her father had gotten into some trouble, built up a world of debts. A trifle to Hassani, who was willing to wipe the slate clean in an instant.

For such a price.

“Are you afraid?” he asked. He sat back in the gilded antique chair at his desk, a Louis XVI. He reached out and touched her hand. Electricity surged through him.

She flinched.

“Don’t be,” he said, letting his fingers fall from her hand and brush against her thigh. He imagined the heave of her delicious breasts underneath, the tautness of her nipples. “You are doing your father a great service. There, you would have nothing. And he would have been ruined. Here, you will have everything you need.”

Here, Hassani thought with pride, was his home on one of the many private islands that had been reclaimed from the sand in Dubai. More of a palace than a home. Modeled after a Venetian palazzo on the Grand Canal. Like a Canaletto painting, of which he possessed two.

Desire and anticipation surged through him. Yes, he lived a complicated life. He had contacts all over the world. He had sold arms. Secrets. He had enabled those who had caused many deaths. In the prophet’s name.

And yet he had also been a great friend to those in need-in the West. He had arranged financing for their most troubled banks. He was a conduit to the greatest wealth in the world, which these companies now needed. He was welcome in boardrooms across the globe. In government houses.

It was necessary to tread in both worlds in these times. To serve several masters. To keep a sense of balance.

And one of his many masters was the desire that rose up in his loins as he imagined the soft purr she would emit as he entered her before any others.

The way Hassani looked at it, he had sent many men on the path to countless virgins in paradise.

He was simply hedging his bet, as always.

He would take his here.

As he admired her, Hassani’s cell phone rang. His attention was so complete, he barely heard it. He looked at the display, disappointed that it was a call he had to take. “I’m sorry.” He sighed sadly. “I’ll need you to wait outside.”

He took the call, imagining the thought of running his hands underneath her robe. Hearing her cry out for the first time. Having her many times, until he dumped her back in her remote village, where she would be looked at as a whore.

“Hello,” Hassani said, lifting the phone and staring across the bay at the majestic Dubai skyline.

“Just letting you know,” the caller said in code, “that that matter of an old debt has been finally taken care of. But I fear there’s another issue. The two bondholders have left.”

“Left?”

“Another interested party, perhaps. Perhaps in London…”

“London,” Hassani said sadly. That would be a shame. He loved that lad like a son.

“See if they make contact,” the Bahraini said. “If they do, let me know.”

Maybe the time had come to close up the loose ends.

It was a complicated time. You had to see things many ways. It was written in the book: destruction first before renewal.

His entertainment would have to wait.

Hassani looked at his watch. A Breguet masterpiece. One of a kind. This little problem had to be shared. With the next level. There were others involved. It was six P.M.-morning in New York. He should just be catching him at his desk.

He pressed the speed dial and waited.

“Hanni,” his contact said when he picked up, six thousand miles across the globe.

Peter Simons. The CEO of Reynolds Reid.