Nemesis

  As Sherlock walked back into the waiting room, Kelly’s cell buzzed. It was the point agent in Boston. Kelly’s heart speeded up. Please, please. She listened, felt her hope die, and punched off.

  “What?” Cal asked her.

  “The Boston Field Office followed up on a Hosni Rahal who lives in Plover, Massachusetts, and has a Syrian brother on the no-fly list. Agents scoured the house for evidence Nasim’s family might have been kept there, or any connection at all, but nada, zilch. The family appears to know nothing about any of this. In fact, Rahal claims he hadn’t spoken to his brother for two years.” She sighed. “At least that’s what he said. They looked at his passport. He hasn’t been out of the country in over five years. But that doesn’t mean much of anything. They’re going to keep him under surveillance.”

  “Sit down before you fall over,” Cal said.

  Kelly shook her head, leaned back against the pale green wall, not wanting to show any weakness, Cal thought. She stretched, trying, he knew, to keep herself upright and together.

  “Really, Giusti. Sit down.”

  She looked back at him. “If I do, I’ll go comatose.” She fell silent, started worrying an opal ring on her thumb. It looked old. A family heirloom?

  “Have you heard from the medical examiner yet?”

  Kelly shook her head again. “It should be soon. I told him to call me the minute he found anything like an embedded GPS chip. I guess Nasim never planned on going through the X-ray machine at JFK. They would have wanded him, maybe found the GPS. But maybe not, if it was mostly plastic.” She looked down at her cell, as if willing the medical examiner to call her. Finally, she slipped it into her jacket pocket. She sighed. “I should have wanded him myself.”

  “Why?” Cal said, an eyebrow going up. “That isn’t something you’d normally do. So why Nasim?”

  “Shut up, McLain. I don’t need logic right now.”

  He studied her pale face, saw the tension, the depression settling on her shoulders like a heavy weight. “I remember when my mom used to hug me when I was younger, telling me it would be okay. I wish she didn’t live all the way over in Oregon. I could use one of her hugs right now.”

  Kelly gave him a small grin. How could he joke like that? She realized it was on purpose and she gave him another grin. It steadied her. “I remember my grandma used to hug me like that,” she said. “After she died, my mom took over the big hugs.” She didn’t mention her college professor ex-husband, no support from him, either, when he’d been around. He’d hated it when she became an agent in the FBI, thought they were a den of right-wingers who wanted to control the world. Last she heard, he was filling all the smart young brains at Berkeley with how Mao had saved China, how he’d been maligned by the West. At least now he was surrounded by like minds.

  Kelly waved her hand at Sherlock, who was staring down at her clasped hands. “I saw your kid on YouTube once.”

  “Along with the rest of the world,” Cal said. “Sean’s a pistol.”

  Sherlock raised her head. “Pistol’s a good name for him, all right.”

  “It shouldn’t have happened, none of it,” Kelly said. “I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

  Cal yawned. “Let me know when you get powers like that so I can bow down.”

  “I was in charge. Nasim is dead. My fault.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I can see that. I’ll be happy to send your boss an e-mail, maybe even write him a letter. And I’m always available for a hug.”

  He heard her hiss, then laugh, not much of one, but it still qualified.

  Sherlock said, “I’m with Cal. A hug would be perfect about now.”

  Jo Hoag appeared in the doorway. “Our shooter’s out of surgery, and stable. The surgeon took pity on us, said if we give it another ten minutes, he’ll let us talk to him briefly in Recovery.

  “Better yet, Kelly, we know who he is. His prints match a Jamil Nazari. Turns out MI5’s got a file on him, but no one knows yet how he got into the country. He’s a thirty-four-year-old Egyptian, at one time a member of the Muslim Brotherhood. He was a muntazim, which roughly means he was an organizer, in touch with the Brotherhood hierarchy. He was with them during the resistance to the military-backed regime. Bombings, kidnappings, they did it all. He’s also a crack shot. He showed up in Algiers three years ago with his two sisters and his mother after his father was killed in a skirmish with government troops. He’s thought to have joined one of the local militant groups. We’ll know more soon about his family, his associates. Oh, yes, he’s known to speak English as well as Arabic, and some French.”

  Sherlock jumped to her feet. “You got your pliers, Kelly?”

  Cal said, “You’re going to pull his tonsils out his ears?”

  Kelly gave them all a manic grin. “Nah, I’m going to use my wiles on him. Come on, guys, let’s go talk to Mr. Nazari.” Kelly was suddenly a woman on a mission, the fire back in her eyes. Good, Cal thought, she’s got her mojo back.

  She laughed as her long-legged stride took her out the door.

  Nurse Betina Marr buzzed them into the PACU and rounded on them. “You’re the FBI, right?” She held out her hand and they took turns giving her their creds. “Okay. You’re here to see Mr. Nazari. Dr. Baker said to let you in for ten minutes, no longer. Mr. Nazari’s beginning to come out of anesthesia—talk about a happy camper, what with all the morphine cruising through him. His thinking’s going to be muddled, so I don’t know how you’re going to get anything useful out of him. He’s really a terrorist?”

  “Yes,” Sherlock said. “He killed a man tonight.”

  Nurse Marr’s tone flattened. “Well, maybe, with all the drugs on board plus the residual effects of the anesthesia, he’s groggy enough to spill something you want to know. We have one other patient in here. If something happens, though, do what we tell you and stay out of the way. Mr. Nazari’s right over there. Good luck.”

  Jamil Nazari’s bed was in the far corner of the room. The other patient was an older woman lying on a narrow bed, her head wrapped in bandages, smiling vacantly up at a nurse who was patting her hand.

  Nazari was lying still, his eyes closed, as if he was asleep, an oxygen cannula in his nose. He looked uncomfortable taking shallow breaths, probably because it hurt to get in enough air with the large plastic bag coming out of his chest, draining pink fluid into some kind of vacuum pump. It was hard to hear him breathe at all over the noise the vacuum made and the hiss of the oxygen.

  They moved around Nazari’s bed, careful not to disturb the IV tubing and monitoring wires connected to his body. Kelly pulled the curtain closed for privacy. It was a tight fit, but she wasn’t about to ask anyone to leave. All of them had a big stake in this. Kelly said quietly, “Please don’t say anything, let me handle this.”

  Kelly shook his shoulders, said next to his ear, “Jamil, open your eyes. It’s me, you lazy baboon, it’s your sister. Wake up!”

  He moaned, blinked his eyes, and frowned up at her. “Jana, I do not feel good, Jana. Where is Mama?” His English was clear, though stilted, his accent heavily Arabic.

  Kelly did her best to mimic him. “She’s at home, you fool. Tell me what you’ve done, Jamil. Tell me right now or I’ll make you very sorry,” and she smacked him again on his shoulder.

  “That hurt. You hurt me when we were young.”

  “You always deserved it. Stop whining and tell me what you did right this minute.”

  “I am thirsty.”

  “Tell me right now and I’ll get you water, all right?”

  “Yes, that would be good.” His brain tripped off into the ether, and he fell silent.

  Kelly shook him again. “Jamil, tell me about the man who sent you to shoot Nasim. Tell me about the Strategist.”

  “Ah, Jana, you always liked Hercule, didn’t you? You wanted to marry him, but he wasn’t interested.”


  “Yes, I liked Hercule. What is he doing now, Jamil? Where does he live?”

  Something clicked in Jamil’s glazed eyes. He blinked up at Kelly. “Wait! You are not Jana, she can barely speak English. You cannot be—I remember. I saw you at the safe house, you are—” Nazari pressed his head against the pillow and yelled, “Help me! Help me!”

  Nurse Marr appeared around the privacy curtain. She looked dispassionately down at Jamil Nazari, whose mouth was still open as he stared up at her. “Help me.”

  “You will have to keep your voice down, Mr. Nazari. You’re disturbing our other patient.”

  “Wait, listen, they are going to kill me—”

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken, Mr. Nazari. It’s the drugs making your mind fuzzy. They’ll wear off soon now. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  The nurse pulled back and Kelly came down close to his face again. “What’s wrong, Jamil? Don’t you want to talk with your sister Jana anymore?”

  “You bitch! I don’t want to talk to you!” Nazari let out another yell for help. Nurse Marr came back in and calmly punched a few buttons on his IV infusion set. In a few seconds, his head fell back and he was asleep.

  “He was with it enough not to cooperate anymore, so I put him out again. Mr. Nazari won’t be talking to anyone for a long while, so you might as well leave now, get a good night’s sleep.” She smiled at Kelly. “I heard what you did. Good work.”

  In the hallway outside Recovery, Kelly grinned madly and high-fived Jo, Cal, and Sherlock.

  “Congrats, Giusti,” Cal said. “We now have a name, and that’s more than MI5 has.”

  “A name, we’ve got a name,” Kelly said. “How many French Algerians can there be with a name like Hercule? And he knows Nazari’s family, his sister Jana. We can have the family questioned, track their contacts.”

  Jo said, “It shouldn’t take too long. Like you said, Kelly, there can’t be many Hercules in Algeria. It’s an odd name. You done good.”

  “At least we’ve got a good solid lead now,” Kelly said.

  “It’s good for your career, too, Giusti,” Cal said. “Hey, you wanna hug?”

  SAVICH HOUSE

  GEORGETOWN

  Friday, nearly midnight

  It was late, after midnight, when Savich closed MAX down for the night. He’d tried every public record he could think of, but MAX had found nothing solid linking the Plackett murder victims, or their killers, other than what he already knew. He needed to do more legwork, speaking directly to people who knew both the killers and the victims. He’d call Sheriff Watson in the morning, see if he’d found anything promising. He lay in bed staring at the dark ceiling, hearing only the occasional settling-in moans the house made, sounds he knew, comforting sounds, but not comforting enough tonight. He missed Sherlock’s head against his shoulder, her hair tickling his nose, her soft, smooth breathing against his skin. He was afraid for her, he’d admitted it to himself the moment her helicopter took off for New York. He hadn’t told her that, but she knew.

  He couldn’t sleep, so he got up to check on Sean. It was something Sherlock would have done if she couldn’t sleep. As he stood over Sean’s single bed in his kid’s room filled with bookshelves and posters of superheroes, he saw the pair of Sean’s sneakers kicked off in the corner near his desk, his jeans tossed over the back of a chair. He could hear Sherlock’s voice telling Sean to put his dirty clothes in the hamper and his shoes in the closet. It hadn’t even occurred to Savich to remind him. Well, he got the taking-a-bath and brushing-his-teeth parts right. Savich had sung a song to Sean while he’d bathed, Sean joining Savich when he belted out “Let It Go.” Savich had learned the words on his way to the Hoover Building that morning. Just in case.

  He looked down at his sleeping son, his face bathed in the moonlight pouring through the window. He felt the familiar surge of love for this small human being, a part of him, a part of Sherlock. Here we both are, Sean, trying to hang in without your mom. He cupped Sean’s cheek. Sean lurched up, gave a sleepy snort, sent Savich a vague smile, and went limp again, snuggling his cheek into the pillow.

  Savich tucked the covers around Sean’s shoulders, lowered the window a bit. Sean liked to sleep warm. He walked back to his bedroom and lay down, pillowed his head in his arms, and willed himself to sleep. When it was clear his will wasn’t doing the job, he turned on the bedside lamp and called John Eiserly with MI5. He had to do something to help Sherlock. The phone was already ringing when he realized it was five a.m. in London.

  To his surprise, John answered his cell immediately, his voice a whisper. “Savich? Hey, it’s past midnight in the colonies. Why aren’t you sleeping? Wait a bit, let me get to my study. I don’t want to wake up Mary Ann, not with our two-month-old daughter wrecking her sleep. I figure we’ve got another hour before Ceci wakes up again, demanding her next meal.”

  A minute later Savich heard John typing on his keyboard. He went through his apology, but John interrupted him. “I missed maybe a half-hour of sleep. I’m e-mailing you a photo of Imam Al-Hädi ibn Mirza so you have a clear face to put to the man. Wait, I’m an idiot, you must already have his picture, probably know as much about him as I do.”

  “Send it along anyway, John.”

  “Give me two seconds,” John said. “Done. As of right now, we don’t have anything for you on the Conklin family, except we’ve verified on our end they’re in the U.S., maybe still around Boston, since that was their destination, but who knows? They could be in Florida by now.”

  Savich’s phone signaled that he’d received an e-mail. He’d already memorized the imam’s face—a compassionate face dominated by soft dark brown eyes that seemed to look right into your soul, a man to trust, to confide in, not the look of a fanatic who supported terrorists. The photo of the imam John sent was different. He wasn’t wearing robes, and it was taken with him unaware and clearly angry at the man he was speaking to. His brown eyes looked hard as agates in the photo, a man you’d be wise to fear more than trust. Savich put the phone back to his ear and heard the sound of a baby crying. “Ceci’s up,” John said. “Mary Ann and I were talking about it today—terrorists going after our cathedrals. It scares and angers everyone. What’s worse, even if we see to it this Bella project fails, they won’t stop, you know that, not ever.”

  “John, you know as well as I do that if we can’t stop the terrorists before they act, then we take care of them after they act, and then we have to move on.”

  “Yes, I know that intellectually, just as I know we can’t live in fear of what they might try next. No, we can’t live in fear. That would mean they’d won. I’ll alert you right away if we find anything for you regarding this Bella project.”

  Savich said, “Do you have anything else new for me? Other than Ceci. Oh, yes, I can hear her. Fine lungs.”

  John laughed. “As for Ceci, she keeps Mary Ann and me at half-mast most days. The doctor assures us she’ll start to sleep through the night soon. I don’t believe it.” He sobered. “You know I’ll alert you right away if we find anything for you.”

  Savich wished him and Mary Ann the best with Ceci, rang off, and settled back against the pillow. He remembered Sean blasting out earsplitting yells at least twice a night, remembered how he and Sherlock had dragged themselves around for the first couple months.

  He thought of St. Patrick’s almost being gutted by a bomb, thought of the scores of mourners who could have died but didn’t, thanks to a little boy who’d been sick to his stomach. He pictured the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, the incredible duomo in Florence, imagined it empty, in ruins.

  He managed to shut it down, finally, and fell deeply asleep.

  At five-thirty in the morning, Griffin called. “Savich, Brakey Alcott is on the move.”

  OUTSIDE REINEKE, VIRGINIA

  Early Saturday morning

  Savich’s P
orsche cruised past the light traffic on I-95, no need for flashers or a siren. Griffin sat next to him, adjusting the map on a tablet in his lap as they approached the flashing red dot that signaled Brakey’s ankle bracelet.

  “I shouldn’t have trusted Brakey to stay put. It was a bad call.”

  “I knew you’d think that, Savich,” Griffin said. “You’d be telling me to move along, to let it go, if it had been my decision.” He paused as Savich passed a huge beer truck, then said, “The signal is hardly moving now. Brakey’s on undeveloped land with very little around it, probably forest, about a quarter-mile from the nearest road, according to this map. There could be a dirt road or a fire road near there, though. It’s the boondocks, and guess what, the Abbott house is only about ten miles away, so he’s staying close to home. But why? What’s he doing in the woods?”

  “Whatever Dalco wants him to.” Savich hoped that wasn’t to murder someone else.

  “Get off at the next exit. Savich, Dalco had to know we were tracking Brakey, didn’t he? He knew we’d find him, knew we’d bring him back. Is he messing with us, showing he’s in control?”

  “I don’t think that’s dramatic enough for Dalco, too pedestrian. He thinks highly of himself, Griffin. He likes to show off.”

  “I’m worried it’s Brakey who’s in danger. Dalco could make him do about anything, even kill himself.” Griffin paused. “Or try to kill us.”

  “He had Brakey wait until it was almost dawn so he could see what he was doing,” Savich said. “Not much need for that if he’d told Brakey to stab himself with an Athame.”

  Savich slowed the Porsche as they turned onto a narrow country road that cut a winding path through the countryside. Houses were set farther and farther apart, mostly hidden by maple and oak trees. It began to rain. That was all they needed.

  Savich turned the wipers on low, and they looked through the rain to the sound of that even metronome. “I hope we don’t find Brakey’s body in the woods, or anyone else’s.” Savich hit his fist against the steering wheel. “Why didn’t Brakey call me?”