Reckless

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

They arrived at Heathrow midday Saturday.

This time Naomi had alerted a contact with Scotland Yard that she wanted to speak with a Saudi residing in London about his involvement in a case she was working on. The official asked if she needed any support while she was there and she said she would advise. She also registered her firearm with the authorities. The last people she wanted to piss off were the British government. They weren’t in Serbia anymore.

She and Hauck booked rooms in a boutique hotel in Kensington called Number 29, a reconverted row of town houses that Naomi had stayed in before. On the way, they had their taxi pass by Marty al-Bashir’s home-a stately town house on Chesterfield Mews in Mayfair amid a quiet row of Georgian homes.

“There’s number sixty there,” the driver said, pointing out a three-story white façade with a roof terrace and coffered red door.

“Not exactly shabby,” Hauck remarked as they passed. It looked as impressive as any on the street.

“Ought not to be,” Naomi said. “This guy runs the largest investment fund in the world.”

Leaving, they had to wind through the maze of one-way streets of charming, tree-lined homes, embassies, and hotels to get back to Knightsbridge, the main thoroughfare back to the hotel. They checked in. Naomi went upstairs to shower and call her boss. Hauck turned on the news and unpacked his Dopp kit and went into the bathroom to shave. He thought about calling Annie. He’d left only a single message on her machine from Novi Pazar to tell her he was okay. He checked the time and thought maybe she’d still be sleeping. Friday nights were always late ones at the café. He knew he had withheld quite a bit from her. About April, and why he was even here. There were things he’d have to answer to when he got back. He knew he was avoiding it.

The BBC news report talked about the fear of the world banking collapse. While they were in Serbia, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac had gone under. The Fed would have to step in to bail them out. The insurance giant AIG was also said to be reeling. Not to mention JP Morgan and Reynolds Reid. All were selling for a fraction of what they had two months before.

The mood was darkening.

Around two, he and Naomi met back in the lobby for a coffee. Naomi told him what she knew about al-Bashir. “He’s young. Smart. Western. Very media friendly. He’s got an MBA from the University of Chicago. Did stints at Reynolds and Blackstone. You may have seen him on CNBC.”

“I don’t watch CNBC,” Hauck said.

“Stick around. This afternoon may have a positive effect on you.”

Hauck smiled, took a sip of his black coffee. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

Naomi nodded. “I talked to my boss. We’re prepared to offer him a deal. We’re going to take him in.”

“You think he’s really going to bite? People who live in homes like that usually don’t cave in to the government without a fight.”

“My guess is it’ll beat where his next home might end up being.” She put down her coffee and slung her case over her shoulder. “Ready?”

They took another cab back to Mayfair. Chesterfield Mews was a couple of blocks from Hyde Park. They got out a block away and waited on the street, keeping an eye on the posh white Georgian. Hauck looked around. It didn’t appear anyone else was watching the house. They agreed that if they didn’t see any signs of activity they would knock on the door.

It was important to catch al-Bashir off guard away from the office.

A short time later the front door opened. Naomi nudged Hauck to look. Two young boys stepped out onto the limestone landing. They had dark, Middle Eastern features and were maybe around seven and five. The older one had on a striped Manchester United soccer jersey. The younger one was in a David Beckham T-shirt and sneakers. They could have been kids from anywhere. Following after them was an attractive thirtysomething woman in jeans, a baseball cap, and a hooded cashmere sweater. An expensive purse was slung over her shoulder.

She waited at the red door, holding it open. Soon after, a man came out dressed in khakis, a red knit shirt, and leather driving moccasins. He had short, dark hair and wore wire-rim glasses. He held a soccer ball in one arm and the lead of a King Charles spaniel with the other.

He looked like any dad taking his wife and kids out on a Saturday-afternoon stroll.

Naomi nodded. “That’s him.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

The al-Bashirs walked a couple of blocks toward Park Lane. It looked like they were heading into the park. The dog pulled the dad along and the kids went ahead, the older one tossing the soccer ball.

Hauck and Naomi fell in behind them.

The mom taking her kids’ hands, they crossed Park Lane, which was bustling with traffic, and headed into Hyde Park, London’s largest. It was a beautiful weekend afternoon. The park was packed. Couples strolling or on blankets. Street musicians playing. Young couples with strollers. Kids kicking soccer balls around. Lots of dogs.

Al-Bashir and his family walked along the path. The older boy started to play keep-away with the soccer ball; the younger one whined. Their mom kept after them, urging them not to bother the pedestrians and take their game onto a field. Marty al-Bashir let the dog wander onto the grass, sniffing some others.

Hauck and Naomi followed about fifty yards behind.

At some point al-Bashir’s cell phone rang, and he handed the spaniel off to his wife. The call took only a couple of minutes.

When he hung up, Naomi said to Hauck, “Let’s go.”

They went up to him just as he was about to rejoin his wife. “Marty al-Bashir?”

Surprised, he looked at Naomi. “Yes.”

She took out her ID. “My name is Naomi Blum. I’m a federal agent with the U.S. Department of the Treasury. Would you mind if we talked?”

“Talked? Here?” He glanced at his wife, looking both confused and a little irritated. “It’s a Saturday, Ms. Blum. I’m with my family. Why don’t you call my office and-”

“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Naomi said. “I’m sorry about the interruption. But I think it will be worth your while.”

Hauck heard a bit of a tremor in her voice and knew Naomi had to be nervous. This was a big fish, and how she finessed the situation would mean everything.

“It concerns a friend of yours,” she said. “Hassan ibn Hassani.”

The annoyance in Marty al-Bashir’s expression suddenly shifted to concern.

“I can come Monday with an agent from the Exchequer, if you like. But I don’t see how that’s preferable…”

One of the kids called out, “Dad, c’mon, see if you can score…”

“I’ll just be a minute.” He waved back. “Start without me.”

His wife came over, a bit concerned. “Marty, is everything alright?”

“Of course everything’s alright. These people just need to ask me a few questions. I’ll be right along.”

They moved down the path to a small grove of cherry trees, the Wellington Arch behind them. “Alright.” He turned back, not hiding his annoyance. “You’ve got five minutes, Ms. Blum. What is it that couldn’t wait until Monday?”

“This is Ty Hauck,” she said. “He’s a partner in a security firm in Greenwich, Connecticut.”

Al-Bashir nodded dismissively, not offering his hand. “Okay…”

When it became clear that that was about as formal a greeting as they were going to get, Naomi said, “You know Mr. Hassani, do you not?”

“I don’t know. I may. The name is familiar. What does it matter anyway?”

“To refresh your memory, Mr. Hassani is a native Bahraini who is a principal in a number of businesses. Among them a United Arab Emirates firm named Ascot Capital Partners. I believe you have some experience with them at your firm.”

“Yes, yes, I know the firm.” Al-Bashir rolled his hand impatiently, shifting his gaze back and forth from Hauck to Naomi, trying to read what was in their eyes. He glanced at his watch. “So what? Can’t this wait?”

“You should be used to this kind of interruption to your weekends, Mr. al-Bashir.” Naomi met his eyes. “It was on a Sunday, the eighth of February; you took a call from Mr. Hassani. From Dubai. The subject matter was all very vague, of course. Investment strategies, the worrisome market…” She opened her satchel. “I happen to have a transcript of that conversation if it will help.”

“I don’t need a transcript,” he snapped. “I still don’t see the point. Mr. Hassani and I shared a business conversation. A private conversation, to be exact. How in the world are you in possession of-”

“Mr. Hassani is a person of interest for several matters related to U.S. national security,” Naomi said, cutting him off and squinting at him. “And as such, unfortunately, Mr. al-Bashir, so are you.”

The Saudi’s eyes grew narrow. He took off his glasses. “I don’t understand…”

She stared at him unflinchingly. Hauck was impressed. “Did you know Mr. Hassani was a figure who had attracted the attention of the United States government, Mr. al-Bashir?”

“No.” The Saudi shifted on his feet. “I did not. He is also a person who has helped facilitate a six-billion mezzanine financing tier from the king of Bahrain for one of your largest banks.”

“Mr. Hassani has also brokered sales of weapons from Chechnya that have found their way to the Taliban in Pakistan. He has siphoned money for the Islamic American Cultural Foundation, a sham organization that has set up madrassas that train terrorists all over the world, some right here in Britain, and is on the terrorist watch list.”

“Terrorist!” The Saudi blinked nervously. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

Al-Bashir’s wife moved closer. “Marty, is everything alright?”

“Yes, everything’s alright, Sheera,” he snapped, his mood shifting. “Stay with the boys. I’ll be there soon.”

Naomi said, “Getting back to that conversation, Mr. al-Bashir, directly after it, you altered the investment strategy of your firm, did you not?”

“What do you mean I altered our investment strategy?”

“The very next day, Monday, February ninth, your fund began liquidating most of your financial interests in the United States markets. In fact, across the globe. Just to be clear, you’d call those interests sizable, would you not, sir?”

“Yes, of course, they’re sizable. We’re a significant fund. But whether or not you say it was a result of any conversation-”

“In fact, you began shorting the stock of many of the largest financial entities in the market. Citicorp, Goldman, Bank of America, AIG…”

“I’m not sure of the exact date.”

“Lehman Brothers, Beeston…,” Naomi went on, her eyes locked on his shifting gaze. “Wertheimer Grant.”

The Saudi’s complexion grew pale.

“If you don’t mind me asking, was Mr. Hassani some kind of partner in your firm, Mr. al-Bashir? Or one of the lead investors?”

“You seem to know very well who the partners are in my firm, Ms. Blum,” the Saudi reacted with irritation.

“Just to be clear, sir, it’s Agent Blum.” She stared at him and continued. “But he was someone from whom you took investment advice?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. We were just two people discussing their views.”

“Yet you immediately altered course after that conversation. Why?”

“I think this has gone far enough, Agent Blum. I suggest this may be something you would want to take up with our attorneys, if you’re alleging there is something I’ve done wrong. Whatever it is you are trying to prove, it’s not for this location or this time. I think your five minutes are up.”

“I’m pretty sure this is something you would definitely not want me to run by your attorneys, Mr. al-Bashir. Do the names Marc Glassman and James Donovan mean anything to you?”

The Saudi blinked, now seeing where the conversation was leading. “I believe they were those two financial traders who died suddenly in the U.S. One was a home break-in. The other a suicide…”

“That’s correct, Mr. al-Bashir,” Naomi said, “except for one thing. There was no suicide. Mr. Hauck here has proved that. Both were murdered.”

“I didn’t know that,” the Saudi said. He glanced uneasily at Hauck, concerned about where this was going.

Naomi pressed on. “That sudden shift in strategy certainly changed the price of a lot of stocks, didn’t it, Mr. al-Bashir?”

He shrugged. “Anyone could see the financials were ready for a tumble. We were simply early on that one.”

“Yes, they did tumble, didn’t they, sir? Royal Saudi is one of the largest players in the market. Its support or withdrawal can move an entire sector, can it not? As it did.”

“I think the verdict is already in on that one, Agent Blum. But I still don’t know where you’re going-”

“Where I’m going, Mr. al-Bashir”-Naomi’s gray eyes fastened on him-“where the U.S. government is going, is that shortly after that shift in strategy, after their firms’ stocks had already been cut by more than two-thirds in the past year, Mr. Glassman and Mr. Donovan were both murdered. After their deaths it was discovered each secretly had lost billions in trading and concealed those results from their firms, making their companies’ balance sheets all the more fragile. These were considered the last straws, so to speak, in driving these firms into insolvency, correct?”

Al-Bashir nodded blankly.

“Dragging down the rest of the market, wouldn’t you say? Like a chain of dominoes.”

“Along with several other causes,” al-Bashir replied. “You have heard the words ‘subprime mortgage mess’ at Treasury, haven’t you? Or ‘credit-default swaps’? Or maybe, ‘reckless’?”

“Yes, they’ve come up. What if I could make the case, Mr. al-Bashir, that both Mr. Glassman and Mr. Donovan had been receiving substantial outside payments to commit such actions? And that those payments could be tied directly to Mr. Hassani? And, through another of his associates, tied to their murders as well?”

Al-Bashir’s face knotted tighter. He put his glasses back on, his face pale. “I’m going to walk away now, Agent Blum. I think I’ve had enough of this.”

“Before you do,” Naomi said, “two more quick things. One, does the name Dani Thibault ring a bell with you?”

The Saudi blinked. Hauck kept his gaze on him, measuring his reaction.

Clearly, it did.

“And the second…” Naomi squinted. “If you don’t mind answering, sir, just what did it mean, the parting phrase of your conversation with Mr. Hassani: ‘The planes are in the air’?”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

All at once, the defiance in Marty al-Bashir’s face seemed to drain. The Saudi blinked, removed his glasses again. Trying to gather his composure. “What?”

Naomi had sucked him along like an expert prosecutor. Like a barracuda, Hauck thought with admiration, fixed on her prey. Hauck had seen this moment many times. The most hardened deniers begin to crack. Seemingly calm outside, but inside their brains revved frantically, trying to decide what to do. He couldn’t have done it better himself.

“I think you heard me, Mr. al-Bashir.” Naomi continued to gaze at him, knowing she had set him back. “What did it mean when Mr. Hassani said to you, ‘The planes are in the air’?”

“It meant nothing.” The Saudi cleared his throat and glared at her. He was an investment manager, hardly used to having to defend himself this way. “It was simply a phrase. A business conversation between two professionals. Mr. Hassani is a well-known figure. He has facilitated a mezzanine financing tier for Reynolds Reid with the Bahraini royal family, for God’s sake.”

“Then it shouldn’t be an issue to you if I share the transcript of that phone conversation with your employers, the Saudi royal family,” Naomi said, sensing the kill.

“Look…” The young investment manager shook his head, seeing the arc of his life falling apart.

“Your career is over, Mr. al-Bashir. You conspired with a person who has known terrorist ties to defraud the already shaky world financial markets. You’ve made billions of dollars illegally. Investment managers were lured to commit financial fraud against their banks and take those firms over the edge. At best, it’s a conspiracy to manipulate the markets. At worst, it’s an act of terrorism, adjudicable under Homeland Security laws. Regardless, Mr. al-Bashir, when do you think is the next time we can expect to see your face on CNBC?

“Not to mention,” Naomi continued to look at him without letting him respond, “that as a result of this, four innocent people have been murdered.”

Al-Bashir’s color drained. He glanced toward his wife, who now was looking at him with concern, then took a few steps farther along the path, away from his family. He spoke back in a hushed tone, almost a whisper, but with a measure of desperation in it. “What is it you want from me, Agent Blum?”

“I want to know what was behind that phone call, Mr. al-Bashir, and how it ties into a plot to recruit Marc Glassman and James Donovan in an effort to destabilize the United States economy. The United States government wants to know.”

“I had nothing to do with any of that. All I did was merely shift our portfolio.”

“Oh, I think you did have something very much to do with that, Mr. al-Bashir. I think you had something to do with it the minute you bedded down with individuals like this. But unfortunately”-Naomi shrugged and inhaled a breath-“that’s not even your biggest problem right now.”

He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “What are you talking about?”

Naomi glanced over at the Saudi’s wife, now huddled with her boys, clearly worried about what was going on. “You have a lovely family, Mr. al-Bashir. I’m sure, like any husband and father, you would do whatever you could to keep them from harm.”

The Saudi’s gaze darkened. “What are you talking about?”

“Dani Thibault was murdered yesterday. He was shot, execution style. In Serbia. In a remote village we had traced him to. Thibault had recruited Glassman and Donovan with a series of payments that we can tie to Mr. Hassani. We believe his death was ordered by Mr. Hassani, to cover it up.”

Al-Bashir’s cheeks twitched. He swallowed and did his best to sound bold. “I still don’t know what that has to do with me, Agent Blum.”

“Well, it’s this: All the players in this plot, Mr. al-Bashir, are dead. Glassman, Donovan, now Thibault. All but one, Mr. al-Bashir…,” Naomi said, staring at him. “You. Puts a whole new meaning to the word, ‘reckless,’ doesn’t it, sir?”

“Listen,” the Saudi said, sweat on his brow, “I sold stocks, that’s all. That’s the extent of what I did. I adjusted our positions, as any money manager might do. That happens as a matter of course many times in a year. There’s not a jury in the world that would convict me of anything illegal. There’s nothing, nothing at all, to connect me to any of these horrible crimes.”

Hauck finally intervened. “This has nothing at all to do with any jury, Mr. al-Bashir. This woman is trying to save your life. Your family’s life. Don’t you understand?”

The Saudi glared back at him, about to challenge him. But the fight seemed to go out of him.

Naomi took his arm. “If I wanted to have you arrested, we’d already be having this conversation in a cell, Mr. al-Bashir. You have no way out. You’ve put yourself and your family at great risk. But what you don’t want,” she said, her tone softening, “is for there to be no way out and for you to end up dead.”

A cast of recognition settled over the Saudi investment manager’s face. He grew sullen. He ran his hand through his hair and glanced, seemingly out of answers, toward his wife and kids.

“What if I just walk away? Do nothing?”

“Then I’ll do nothing.” Naomi shrugged. “Other than maybe make sure that the transcript of that conversation I referred to gets in the hands of your employers. They may not feel the same way, I suspect, when it comes to how their investments are being handled. We’ll also let it be known that we had this conversation. About Mr. Hassani. Considering what just happened to Mr. Thibault, are you really willing to take that chance?”

The Saudi wiped his mouth. He released a long, deflating breath as the full measure of his predicament seemed to fall on him.

“I’m giving you a way out, Mr. al-Bashir. In our protective custody. For your cooperation. You can hold on to the majority of your assets. Those that were rightfully earned. But what we want to know, sir, is what was the extent of this plot? Who was involved? Where does it lead?”

He shook his head. “I need time.”

“You have no time, sir. Go back home. Talk it over. I’ve arranged a car from Scotland Yard to be stationed outside your house. I’m sorry for all this, sir, but the time to answer is now.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Behind the closed doors of their study, Sheera looked at her husband, aghast.

He had told her everything. How his roots with Hassani went back many years. To when he was a young student. Not even in the U.S. At the university in Riyadh. How they had singled him out. Educated him. Groomed him. For a purpose. For one day.

How his sensibilities had been so different back then.

“How could you possibly have gotten in with people like this?” His wife tearfully shook her head.

“I never thought about them for twenty years,” al-Bashir said. “It was before I went to the U.S. Before I met you. As time passed, I thought they had forgotten the debts. I thought life had let me be free of them.”

“These types of debts are never forgotten. Life will never let you be free of them.” Sheera sat forlornly on the couch. She looked at him, something angry and judgmental in her eyes. “You should have refused, Marty. You should have gone to the police.”

“They would have killed me, Sheera, if I didn’t comply.”

“And they will kill you now that you have.”

He wanted to go over and sit next to her, his wife for all these years, the most treasured thing in his life. But he was sure she would just pull away. This had drawn a line between them. Maybe forever. “I’m so sorry. We’ll get to keep much of what we have. I know what it is to give this up.”

“To give this up?” She lifted her eyes and regarded him as if she was horrified. “You think for one second this is what I care about giving up? This house? Your fancy position? The things it has brought us?” From out in the hall, they heard the sounds of their boys playing. “It’s them. Amir and Ghassan. It’s their lives that matter to me. Will they now be targets? Will we live in fear the rest of our lives? Wherever we are…These are debts that don’t get forgiven, Marty.”

He glanced, empty of all hope, out the window. There was an unmarked car parked across the quiet street. “I’ll call Arthur,” he said, closing the drape. Their lawyer. “He can arrange some kind of deal.”

“It’s not about lawyers, Marty. Not this time.” She picked up one of Amir’s Transformer robots from the floor. She smiled and looked up at him. Resigned. Even forgiving. Tears flooding Sheera’s eyes, she held out the toy. “I think we made our choices long ago.”

Marty al-Bashir nodded. Tears in his eyes too. Tears of shame. Of fading hope for them. “We did, didn’t we, Sheera.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Annie Fletcher picked out the set of spare keys to Ty’s house from where she knew he always left them, along the side of the house behind some flower tubs in a fake rock. She went up the stairs and let herself in.

The alarm signal beeped. She pressed in the code, 70794.

His daughter Jessie’s birthday.

Annie knew he wouldn’t mind. She’d let herself in many times before. The place looked clean and smelled fresh. It was a Saturday, and Elena, his cleaning lady, would have been in the day before. She was trying to find her gold hoop earnings, which were missing. She seemed to remember last leaving them on his night table when she’d stayed over a few nights before.

Before there suddenly seemed to be a widening gulf between them.

Maybe it had first begun with the attack on Jared. Ty had said maybe it was best if they kept apart for a while, for her safety, but Annie somehow felt that was Ty being Ty, maybe not wanting to face the truth, being noble. Or maybe, if she was honest, it had started some time well before. Maybe it went back to when they woke up in bed that Monday to the newscast of that family who was killed in town.

I knew her, he had said.

It was like something had changed in him since then.

She’d never pried. She’d never asked how. Or why. Never pushed him. That wasn’t her style. The last thing Annie would ever want was for someone to say that she was clingy. After all, they’d both agreed to keep things light.

From around town, he had told her. That was enough for her. He didn’t have to share everything with her. Though she may, in truth, have hoped that he would. She held a lot of things in herself-she’d left her own son out west until she could make a place for him here-and the truth was, while maybe she had fallen in love with Ty, just a bit, they weren’t exactly engaged.

He’d been away for four days, and she’d barely heard from him in that time. He said it was best that she didn’t know where he was going. But she had a clue. She had asked him, What are you getting involved in, Ty?

She had wanted to say, Okay, you don’t have to justify it with me, but in her heart, she worried. Worried something had happened. Somewhere. She worried he was getting himself into something over his head. He did that.

She worried something might have come between them. Something she couldn’t fight. Or even understand.

She went into the kitchen. Unable to help herself-what was it?-she put away a few dishes that Elena had left on the counter to dry. She almost tripped over a pair of running shoes. Then she went upstairs.

In the bedroom, she went over to the night table on the side of the bed she usually slept on, looking for her hoops. Damn. There was nothing on top. Where she thought they might be. Just a picture of Jessie and his boat, which Ty had just gotten out of dry dock-the Merrily.

She opened the drawer.

Nothing again. She sighed in disappointment. She had been sure they were there.

The room gave off an eerie feeling; it looked just like it had the last time she’d been there, a couple of nights before he’d left. They hadn’t made love that night. She’d felt something, distant, growing, separating them. And now he was gone.

Maybe it was just a stupid feeling. C’mon, Annie, what are you, ten?

It suddenly hit her that she should check on his dresser. There was a messy pile of photos, credit card receipts. Mail. Bills. Whatever came in, that’s where Ty threw it! If she didn’t want to intrude on his space, she would have organized it a hundred times.

In an ashtray, along with some loose change, were her gold hoops.

Hooray!

Annie wrapped them in a tissue and put them in her jacket. She was about to leave when something on the dresser caught her eye.

A voice inside her said to leave it alone. It’s Ty’s. Snooping’s not allowed. Another little voice urged her to take a look.

It was a photo. Left under the ashtray. Annie picked it up.

Her heart sank at what she saw.

Not so much because of who it was-it was a long time ago, and somehow, inside, she’d always had her suspicions.

As much as it was their relationship drifting away.

Her trust.

The photo was of Ty, smiling, a look on his face she had never seen when he was with her. On a bench. In a park. Other people around.

And next to him someone she recognized. Her head on his shoulder. Her hands wrapped around his arm. It didn’t make Annie jealous.

As much as it just hurt.

The woman’s face had been burned into her mind since the first day she saw it. On the TV. It was the one who had been killed. At that house.

April Glassman.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

The car that came to take al-Bashir and his family into custody arrived at just before nine the next morning.

Overnight, Naomi had been on the phone with her team back in DC. The plan was to get him to a safe house in the country, where he would be debriefed by Naomi and representatives from the British government, then flown out of the country. They needed to do this quickly and without notice, before Hassani or anyone else could intervene.

Hauck and Naomi arrived at the house in Mayfair a half hour early. An unmarked car from Scotland Yard was stationed across the square, having watched over al-Bashir’s house during the night. Otherwise, the street was empty. Like any quiet Sunday morning. Robins chirped in the trees. One or two families stepped out, dressed up, on their way to church.

The fewer people involved, the better.

Naomi flashed her ID by the two policemen in the car. Then she went up the stairs and knocked on the red paneled door. Hauck stayed on the steps, watching the square. A few houses down, a mother was dragging her cranky, whining son into the family BMW 330i for what seemed like a Sunday outing.

Sheera al-Bashir answered the door. She was dressed in a black blazer and designer jeans. It was hard, Hauck thought, not to feel sadness for her and her family. They had done nothing wrong. She could have been any modern, attractive young mom, dragged into a whirlwind in just a day. Now everything was about to change for them. Until Hassani was in custody-and maybe even well beyond that-they would always have to live in fear that people would find them.

Naomi smiled at her as best she could and glanced at her watch. “The car should be here anytime. Are you ready?”

“Shortly,” Sheera al-Bashir replied. She didn’t have any makeup on and her eyes looked drawn from a very difficult night. She managed a reluctant smile. “We’re just packing up a few of the boys’ toys.”

Naomi nodded. “Sure.”

Fifteen minutes. Naomi came over and sat next to Hauck, smiling, partly philosophically, acknowledging that there were no winners in this kind of thing, and partly with a glimmer of satisfaction that they would finally be able to get to the truth. People plotting against the United States. And who was behind the murders of Marc Glassman and James Donovan?

“You did good.” Hauck winked, proud.

“Thanks.” She exhaled nervously, as if there was some small detail she hadn’t checked. Or double-checked. But there wasn’t.

“Quite the three days, huh?” He grinned. “Be sure and let me know when you’re planning your next vacation.”

“I’ll do that,” Naomi said, with a smirk.

“The south of France would be nice. If there’s ever anything going on there…”

She glanced at her watch again. “Maybe I should check in with my contact at the Exchequer…”

“Relax,” Hauck said with a squeeze of her arm.

Then she pointed up the block. “There it is.”

A black Mercedes SUV with darkened windows had come into the mew from the direction of Knightsbridge. It drove around the square and pulled to a stop in front of the house.

Naomi was relieved.

The driver’s window rolled down. One of the police guards stepped out of the car and checked the driver’s ID. He nodded in confirmation up at Naomi.

She sucked in a breath. “Let’s get this done.” She went up and knocked on the door again. This time a housekeeper answered. “The car’s here.”

A short time later the door opened back up and Sheera came back out, a tote bag over her shoulder, clasping the hands of her two young sons. The little one was still in his pj’s and obviously had been crying, forced to leave his home. He clutched a stuffed bear. A few suitcases were dragged out to the doorstep. A second agent jumped out of the Mercedes. He looked up and down the street, then quickly went up the stairs, taking the bags, and loaded them into the back of the SUV.

“Don’t forget the ski bag,” Sheera said, pointing back inside. “It has some things for the kids in it.”

The agent nodded agreeably. “We should have room, ma’am.”

Seconds later, Marty al-Bashir came out onto the steps. He was dressed in an open plaid shirt, blazer, khakis. A bulletproof vest he had been given the night before. The second agent put himself in the line of fire. Al-Bashir’s demeanor was sullen and resigned. Yesterday, he had been running the largest investment fund in the world. Today, his fate was in the state’s hands. A computer case was slung over his shoulder. He stepped up to Naomi. “Can you tell us where we’re going?”

“You should hurry,” she said. The agent stowed the last case in the trunk. Al-Bashir followed him down. “Everything will be made clear on the way.”

Before he got in, he looked at Naomi with a final, deflated smile. “You called it ‘jihad,’” he said. “It was never about terrorism. You’ll see. This was much larger than terrorism.”

Naomi pushed him into the car. “You better get on.”

He climbed into the backseat next to his wife. The accompanying agent shut the door, waved officiously to the policemen. He hopped in front, and then, without a siren, as if it were just a normal limo on its way to the airport, the Mercedes circled the mew and drove off through the grid of one-way streets back out to the main road.

It was done.

As it drove away, Hauck caught sight of the face of their youngest boy through the rear window, turning back a final time, grabbing one last look at his home.

Naomi exhaled. “That wasn’t exactly easy.” She nudged Hauck and they headed back down the street to their cab.

“Never is.”

His role was over now. She and the Feds would take it from here. He’d probably head back to the States that afternoon. He had a life to resume and a lot of things to explain.

Naomi’s cell phone rang. She checked out the display, saying to Hauck, “My contact at the Exchequer…”

She listened, then stopped, her face suddenly turning ashen. She looked back at Hauck, the blood rushing out of her face.

“What’s wrong?”

Naomi’s jaw fell open. “She said the government’s Range Rover is close by. It’ll be here in three minutes.”

Hauck’s heart stopped. He ran into the street, straining to find the black Mercedes moving away up the block.

He caught only the rear taillights as it disappeared around the corner.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

T hat wasn’t them! That wasn’t them!”

Naomi sprinted over to the detectives from Scotland Yard. “It wasn’t them. The car was bogus. Did anyone get a look at the plates?”

The two policemen looked at them, completely stunned. Then they jumped in their car, one with his cell phone out, the other spinning it around, siren beeping, and took off after the Mercedes.

Naomi started in after.

“No.” Hauck grabbed her by the arm. He remembered the maze of one-way streets that led out to Park Lane. The SUV could be on any of them. “Come with me!” He pulled her in the other direction. “This way!”

He took off in the opposite direction, Naomi running a stride behind. Toward Hyde Park, out of the quiet mews. How could this have happened? Everything had been tightly controlled. Only insiders knew. It was like with Thibault all over again. He just knew they had to get to that car before it disappeared into traffic. Or they’d never see the al-Bashir family again.

They shot around the corner. It led to a short residential row of Georgians that intersected Chesterfield on the diagonal. Mayfair Terrace. Hauck stopped, frantically tried to reconstruct the labyrinth of streets and squares and how they led back onto the main road. He realized he had only minutes. He pointed toward a street. “Down here!”

They ran down it, his pulse on overdrive, as if his own daughter was in that car.

Naomi took out her gun. She kept up stride for stride. They got to the end of the street. It led to two more streets, each splitting off in a different direction. Hauck had no idea where they led. He scanned both ways, trying to calculate where the Mercedes would have to intersect back with Park Lane.

Naomi looked in both directions, white with fear. “We can’t lose them, Ty!”

“Down here!” He chose left and prayed. The street was like a replica of Chesterfield Mews. More expensive homes. There was a fancy, small hotel across the street. Ahead of them a family stepped out on the sidewalk with a stroller. “Federal agents,” Naomi yelled, almost barreling into them as they ran by.

At the corner they both stopped, looked around in frustration. “Are you sure?”

“No,” he said. He scanned around frantically for some sign of the car. “I’m not sure!”

He didn’t see it! He knew they had only about a minute to find the car, maybe seconds, and then it would disappear into traffic. There could be dozens of black Mercedes SUVs around the city.

Without a read on the plates, they could be anywhere.

His heart was pounding.

His gaze turned to a small street that cut off on a diagonal in the direction of Park Lane, a church on the corner. His instincts said go. The bell was tolling. People milled around in front. Past them, Hauck could see that it seemed to connect with a larger street up ahead. He spotted traffic, people crossing by.

Naomi took off ahead of him. “Up here!”

This was going to be their one and only chance. He took off, praying what they saw up ahead was Park Lane. Praying even harder the Mercedes hadn’t gotten there first. He recalled how they had to weave around through the grid to get out of there earlier. Sweat was coming through his clothes, soaking him.

He caught up to Naomi as they neared the end. They both came to a stop, huffing. The lane fed into the main thoroughfare. Thank God. The Mercedes would have to have come through here. It had to wind around. That’s what they had done the day before. But there could have been many ways out of the mews.

“This is it!”

They got to the corner, praying they weren’t too late. Feverishly, they looked around in every direction.

Naomi shook her head in frustration. “I don’t see it! Damn it, where is it, Ty?”

Then, about a block ahead, he caught sight of the front grille of a black vehicle, about to turn, pulled up at a light.

It was his only option. He ran toward it.

The car turned onto Park Lane. A Mercedes SUV.

His heart sprang with hope. “There it is!”

He sprinted after it, praying it was the same vehicle. Naomi kept up a couple of lengths behind.

There was no sight of the Scotland Yard car. They ran into the middle of the busy street, dodging through traffic. A cabbie stopped and angrily blew his horn at Hauck.

The distance between them and the black Mercedes began to narrow. Please, be it, Hauck begged.

Park Lane was a bustling thoroughfare. Six lanes. People everywhere. Obstructing them.

Hyde Park was to their right. Up ahead, the Mercedes pulled up at an intersection. Onto Piccadilly. It had its signal on, about to turn. Piccadilly was a long, traffic-free straightaway.

This was their only chance.

Holding up his palms, knifing in between oncoming cars, Hauck ran across the street. His lungs were bursting now as he pursued as fast as he could.

Naomi stayed right with him. “Get there before it turns, Ty…”

Hauck ran through the middle of the crowded street, searching for a policeman but not seeing one. A car pulled out from behind the Mercedes’s lane and now they had a clear shot.

Thirty yards ahead.

Twenty. The vehicle in front of the Mercedes made its turn.

The Mercedes lurched. They were out of time.

Hauck heard Naomi’s voice shout from behind. “Get out of the way!” She stopped and kneeled into a shooting position. She had a clear shot, no pedestrians in front of them.

She extended her gun.

She squeezed off three quick shots, aiming for the Mercedes’s tires.

Two skidded off the asphalt; the third clanged uselessly into the underbelly of the vehicle.

None of them seemed to find its mark.

“Shit!”

Suddenly people everywhere began to scream.

The Mercedes’s tires screeched and the vehicle jerked into a sharp turn. It forced its way through the onrushing traffic. Hauck chased it in the oncoming lane, ten yards behind.

Five.

Damn it-it was turning. Naomi’s shots hadn’t struck home.

In his one last chance, just as the vehicle jolted forward, he dove.

He felt his hands scratch against the driver’s-side rear window, then make contact with the door. He clung desperately to hold on to the metal handle. He squeezed, trying to open it, his only hope.

The sonovabitch was locked.

The SUV sped up on Piccadilly, starting to pull away.

Hauck held on, one hand on the handle, his other groping for the luggage rack above. His feet dangled against the pavement as he was dragged along. He caught a view of the startled family inside-Marty, his wife-suddenly realizing what was happening to them. Screaming at the driver. Somehow Hauck had to pry the door open.

He had to stop this car.

The vehicle picked up speed and wove between lanes in an effort to shake him off. If he could just get his other hand on the luggage rack, he could stay on. Someone would have to see them. A policeman. See what was going on.

Stop them.

His heart bursting through his chest, he lunged with both hands for the rack. The Mercedes lurched to the side with a jerk. He tried to pull himself up, every muscle in his body straining. Hold it, Ty…Now, just a second more…

The SUV jerked to the right. His fingers slid off. No…

He hit the road, screaming inside.

The Mercedes accelerated sharply along the straightaway, no traffic to obstruct it now.

Helpless, Hauck watched it drive away, prone. He sank his head against his arm, mashing his fist into the road.

The frightened face of al-Bashir’s youngest son looked back through the darkened window as it sped away.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Empty, dejected, Hauck found his way back to Naomi, who was waiting, ashen faced, at the corner of the park.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He wiped off his clothes and looked at his hands, which were imprinted with deep, red marks from his attempt to hold on to the car.

Her eyes glistened with tears of blame and disbelief, and she gritted her teeth. “We lost them, Ty.”

“Not entirely. I got the plates. HZ-36PAB. We can track them.” London had the most advanced network of street surveillance cameras in the world. That gave a ray of hope. One might pick them up.

Suddenly, they heard the clamor of sirens wailing everywhere. Police vans screeched to a halt around them. Uniformed security personnel ran up, weapons drawn.

“Here’s trouble,” Hauck said.

They both put up their hands, Naomi flashing her ID, identifying herself as a U.S. government agent.

“Get down on your knees!” a security agent in riot gear shouted in her face, thrusting a submachine gun at them. “Put your hands in the air!”

“We’re United States government agents,” Naomi declared, getting down, holding up her ID. Hauck did the same. Police were screaming at them like they were terrorists and he understood. Lights flashed everywhere. On the sidewalks, a ring of bystanders had formed. “We were chasing a suspect who kidnapped a government witness-”

“Put up your hands!”

It took a full ten minutes and two phone calls to the authorities before they finally let them go.

Naomi pulled out her cell and frantically called her contact at MI5. He said a full alert for the black Mercedes was already under way. Ten minutes too late, she read him the plate number.

Then she called her boss at Treasury. It was four in the morning back in DC. He seemed to be waiting. She desperately pushed back her hair and, pacing, gave him the bad news. Hauck could almost hear him barking through the phone. He could feel Naomi’s bitter frustration.

“How the hell could anyone have known, Rob? How?”

Finally, she said she’d keep him informed. They clicked off, and for a second, all Naomi could do was just stand there numbly, the hopelessness of the situation becoming clear. Al-Bashir was gone. He had been their last real lead. Without him they had nothing-nothing to tie in Hassani. All the elation of what minutes before had seemed a successful completion to their mission had now turned into anguish and self-reproach.

“Maybe the cameras will pick them up,” Hauck said, putting his arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her.

She spun out of his grasp, slapping her palm with force against a nearby light post. Staring out at the police lights, the gathered crowd, the long straightaway that led away from the park, she shook her head in rage. “They’re gone, Ty…”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

By the time they made it back to al-Bashir’s town house, a throng of police and investigative officials were already on the scene.

The housekeeper let them in.

Over half an hour had passed. There had been no report of any sightings of the Mercedes. That wasn’t a good sign. Hauck knew whoever had taken them would have had a plan. They would have known the security cam situation better than anyone. Even if the vehicle turned up, the more time elapsed, the less it boded well for the al-Bashirs.

Naomi did her best to hold it together and oversee the scene. But inside, Hauck saw, she was dying. She was on the phone back to DC, to British security. They had set up a coordinated local command-traffic police, Scotland Yard. The counterterrorism unit, SO15. Every passing minute throbbed with tension. It only made their likely fate more clear.

At some point, the grim finality setting in, Naomi stepped outside. She was a desk agent, not a field supervisor; this was her big case, and the pressure of losing the al-Bashirs, seeing them whisked away in front of their eyes, even being party to it, was a hard one to take. Even for a seasoned agent.

Hauck gave her a few moments alone, then went out after her. He found her on the landing, staring blankly at the square, her eyes moist and her fists clenched. She tapped them against the limestone railing in frustration.

“They were my responsibility, Ty.”

He went up and put his hand on her shoulder. “No, it was al-Bashir who was responsible for whatever happened to him, not you. He was a dead man the minute he got into bed with these people. You did everything you could.”

“I keep seeing that kid,” she said, her teeth clenched. “It’s like that one in Iraq all over again. Looking back at us through the rear window. You saw it too, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Hauck said. He pulled her toward him and she sank against his chest. “I saw it.”

“He was mine to protect, Ty. That kid didn’t do anything wrong. They were mine.”

Tears dampened his shirt. He squeezed her close. Hauck, whose own dreams were haunted by many such faces and scenes, did his best to make her feel it was okay. He remembered how she had told him about the boy with the open chest in Iraq, who she tried so hard to breathe life back into after the ambush. He stroked the back of her hair.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffed back guilty tears. “I know this isn’t exactly out of the procedure manual. I’ve been in combat, for chrissakes…”

“Don’t worry about the manual,” Hauck said, letting her stay. “It’s in my manual. It’s okay.”

Finally, Naomi pulled back and looked up at him, nodding.

“You’re still in charge.” He winked. “With me.”

She smiled a bit and cleared her throat. “Thanks.” She turned back to the house and wiped away the tears. “There’s got to be something here…Al-Bashir took his computer. But he had to leave something behind.” She seemed to say it more out of a need to believe it than out of any actual hope. She sucked in a deep breath. “I have to do something, Ty.”

“I know.”

They went back inside. The lavish house was decorated as if money was no object. Beautiful moldings. Ornate rugs. Polished antique tables. Each room bore the mark of the family that had just disappeared. Naomi kept checking her watch, calling central command, hoping they’d hear some word.

It was like the SUV had just disappeared.

More in desperation than anything, they both started searching throughout the house. The dining room on the second floor, with a view of the park. There was a modern media room. A huge Sony screen built into the walnut bookshelves. Reminders of the family were everywhere-photos, clothing they had elected not to take, the kids’ games and toys.

While Hauck spoke with one of the inspectors, Naomi found the investment manager’s study. The large cherry desk was piled high with fund brochures, old copies of the Financial Times and Forbes. Reams of annual reports and analysts’ opinions. Naomi was able to access his desktop computer. The password was simple. Sheera. Mostly, what was there was all personal. Gmail messaging and various investment sites. She reconstructed a history of al-Bashir’s most recent Google searches. Wine buying, travel sites. All perfectly legit. Naomi pushed away from the desk in frustration.

Whatever al-Bashir had that might have incriminated Hassani was lost on his laptop.

It had been an hour now. No word. She searched the drawers for some kind of flash drive, anything he might have downloaded that could’ve been left behind.

Nothing. Her heart beat with the realization that now there was not much hope. Desperate, she leafed randomly through the piles of papers stacked about.

Again, nothing.

Nothing related to Thibault or Hassani or Ascot. Nothing on Donovan or Glassman. Or on any matter connected to al-Bashir’s involvement in the case.

She wheeled back from the desk, riddled with anger. She’d felt so close to making a case against Hassani-al-Bashir had basically admitted it! Now, how would she make him answer for what he’d done? Six people were dead. Now you could add to the list the al-Bashirs. Never before had she wanted to prove something as badly as she wanted to implicate Hassani. She felt the same sense of drive and intensity as when she’d seen her brother in the hospital after he lost both his legs and she enlisted herself the very next day.

Find something, Naomi. Find something! It’s here…

Within hours, British government agents would be plowing through every inch of this room. Every sliver of RAM on his computers. She got up and walked around. It’s here. I feel it. Her blood was hot with blame. This was her case. She had felt the whole thing from the start. Now she had screwed up. She didn’t want to lose it. Not now.

She spotted a kid’s Transformer on the carpet. Sadly, Naomi picked it up. She held the toy in her hand, her mind flashing through a hundred scenarios. Out of answers, she sank back on al-Bashir’s couch.

She put the toy on the glass coffee table.

Something met her eye.

It hit home immediately, a spark of hope, recognition, firing up inside. Can’t be.

She reached forward. There was a stack of art and coffee table books on the glass tabletop. One was from the New Tate Museum. Another was on the Gauguin and Picasso exhibition from a couple of years ago. Naomi had seen it in DC.

But it was the third book, underneath, that, like some kind of superconducting magnet, held her stare.

Yes, it can.

Naomi removed it from the pile. It was a travel book, about a destination the al-Bashirs might have once visited.

The thing was, she had seen the very same destination just two days before.

On the ski-lift ticket at Dani Thibault’s farmhouse. In Serbia.

She fixed on the cover. A snowcapped mountain rising from a valley bathed in amber light. It couldn’t be a coincidence. At this stage, there were no coincidences. Her heart started to beat like crazy. She had found it. She had found the link that bound them together.

Gstaad.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Naomi motioned Hauck inside with a concealed wave, closing the door behind him. She showed him what she had found.

“Two days ago,” she explained. Her voice was hushed yet driven with renewed emotion. “In Thibault’s farmhouse. I didn’t think it meant anything. Just one of the things I found searching through his possessions. A ski-lift ticket.” Naomi’s eyes twinkled. “To Gstaad.”

“Okay.” Hauck nodded, picking up the book and staring at the cover.

“It’s a ski resort,” Naomi said. “In Switzerland.”

“I know it’s a ski resort,” Hauck replied.

“Sorry. Just check out what’s inside.”

He leafed through the glossy pages. It was filled with scenic photos of ski runs, the snow-covered mountains in winter, and in summer, the picturesque village. He found a bookmark inside. On the highlighted page, one side had a description of one of the resort’s most treacherous runs, the Chute; the other had a shot of beautiful people in expensive ski clothes sunning themselves on a deck at lunch. At a fashionable restaurant, high on the mountain.

Christina’s.

In the margin, someone had scrawled some words. Maybe al-Bashir. Hauck tried to make it out.

“It says, ‘The Gstaad Gang,’” said Naomi, who already had.

“The Gstaad Gang?”

“Something took place there.” Naomi’s eyes were bright. “This isn’t just some tourist book. Thibault and al-Bashir, both there. It can’t just be a coincidence. What do you want to bet Hassani’s been to Gstaad too?”

Hauck looked at the book. He felt it too. The throbbing in his chest. “What we have to find out is when al-Bashir might have been there and see if Hassani was there at the same time.”

“We can do better than that,” Naomi said. “Lift tickets have dates on them.”

“If we happened to have it,” Hauck agreed.

“We do. It’s in my camera.” She lit up in a grin. “I photographed everything there.”

Her face now shone with renewed purpose. If they could connect everyone there at the same time, they might have a reason to go at Hassani. He’d be a slippery one to latch on to, maybe protected by the Bahraini or Emirates government, but this was the best they had.

“We can track his movements through immigration,” Naomi said. “Through credit card records.”

She was right. No way this was just a coincidence. Something had happened there. Between Thibault and al-Bashir. And maybe Hassani. He stared at the hand-scrawled margin note. Underlined. A surge of optimism coursed through Hauck as well.

The Gstaad Gang.

“Who knew about this?” he asked Naomi. “I’m talking about the arrangements around al-Bashir.”

She shrugged. “Gavin Toller of MI5. Linda Maxwell, my counterpart at the office of the Exchequer.” Britain’s treasury department. “Obviously, it was passed along to the police.”

“Who else?” Hauck asked, his gaze fixed on her. He meant back home.

“Rob Whyte, my boss. I’m sure he ran it up the line. Just what are you saying, Ty?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying. Except that someone knew Thibault was Kostavic and in Novi Pazar, which was something we fell upon only by accident. Now al-Bashir…I have a suggestion, Naomi. Actually, it’s not so much a suggestion as it is something that would be really, really smart and might end up keeping us alive.”

“What’s that?” Naomi asked, her look darkening.

“Until we find out where this goes”-Hauck held the Gstaad book in his hand-“don’t call this in.”