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A black-haired man sat on the burgundy sofa, dressed in a navy suit with a pale blue patterned tie. He stubbed out his cigarette in a glass tumbler taken from the bar in the room, then placed the glass on the end table next to the lamp. His steely blue eyes met Roshan’s. “Mr. Haider, what brings you to the United States?”
Roshan’s stomach roiled. Whoever this man was, he was dangerous. “Who are you? Why are you in my room? Get out before I call security.” Maybe he could bluff his way out of this and get the man to leave. As soon as he did, Roshan would check out, find a new hotel, and figure out what to do next.
The man stood. He flashed a warrant card. “Assistant Director Lucas Caldwell, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Perhaps you’ve heard of us.”
“Why are you here?” Sweat beaded Roshan’s underarms and the small of his back. Surely his contact would have warned him if the American authorities had gotten wind of their business arrangement? “I’m a citizen of Great Britain. I’ve done nothing wrong.” He eyed the FBI agent’s jacket closely. These bloody Americans were all armed.
The man gave him a smile that reminded him of a shark. “I heard Jalalabad is nice this time of year. I imagine British intelligence would be surprised and a bit concerned to know you were the guest of Mohammad Razul Khan.”
Roshan’s heart galloped now, the pace of it making him lightheaded. “I was in Jalalabad on other business, and he invited me to tea. It would have been considered a grave offense to turn him down. He’s a powerful man.”
“I see.” Was that a hint of condescension in the American’s voice? “It had nothing to do with finding out who was involved in your sister’s death.”
Roshan could feel the blood drain from his head. He dropped into the brown leather accent chair across from the sofa.
“Here is what’s going to happen.” Assistant Director Caldwell’s voice dropped in temperature and grew even more steely. “I’m going to escort you to Dulles. There’s a flight to London leaving at five-thirty. And,” he stepped around the pedestal table between the couch and the chair to lean into Roshan’s space.
Roshan couldn’t help sinking into the back of the chair.
“I suggest you not return to the States for a while.”
Caldwell straightened, then resumed his seat on the couch and crossed a leg over his knee. He glanced around the spacious room. “Nice place. I’ll wait while you pack.”
Roshan scurried through the French doors into the suite’s bedroom. He took his suitcase out of the closet and threw it onto the king bed, then yanked clothes off hangers and scooped them from drawers, tossing them haphazardly into his luggage. He went into the spacious marble bathroom, closed the door, and pulled out a phone he only used under special circumstances. One that was prepaid and couldn’t be traced to him.
He texted his contact.An FBI agent is in my hotel room, threatening to report me to British intelligence if I don’t return to London.
How inconvenient,came the reply moments later.
Roshan gritted his teeth.I have unfinished business here.
You need to stay under the radar. Go back to London.
What about Mackay?He tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for a reply. The FBI agent was waiting. He’d get suspicious if Roshan was in the bathroom for too long.
The reply came several seconds later.I’ll deal with Mackay.
Roshan’s jaw tightened. He exited the bathroom and stuffed his toiletry bag into his suitcase before closing the lid and giving the zipper a vicious tug. If his contact didn’t finish the job, he’d find a way to return and make sure Mackay spent the rest of his life regretting the day he’d shot down Nadia in cold blood.
Lachlan strode down the corridor of the Ritz-Carlton until he reached room four fifty-two. Nathan’s hacking skills had produced both Haider’s room number and a code to unlock the door, which Lachlan had on an app on his phone. He’d knock first to see if Roshan had the bollocks to open the door once he saw who waited on the other side.
He and Nadia’s brother were connected by a dark moment in a past that didn’t involve Sophia. Roshan might never accept that his sister had been a traitor, but if he threatened Sophia, Lachlan would make damn sure it would be the last thing he ever did.
The bastard wasn’t clever enough to have orchestrated the weapons trafficking scheme. If Haider was involved, he wasn’t the mastermind. But who was? Lachlan would choke it out of him if he had to.
He rapped on Haider’s door and waited. Nothing. He pounded harder. When Haider didn’t come to the door, he stepped closer, flattened his ear to gray-painted metal, and listened. No sounds were coming from inside that he could discern. He texted Nathan.
L: Where’s Sophia?
N: Safe and sound at home.
L: Anyone follow her?
N: Only me.
He glanced in both directions before tugging on a thin pair of leather gloves, then held his mobile to the door’s lock pad. The light flashed green, followed by a mechanical click.
Pocketing the phone, he lifted his pistol from the holster beneath his jacket and eased open the door. A short hall opened to a spacious living room. A burgundy couch and end tables sat in front of floor-to-ceiling windows covered in long, pearl-gray drapes. In front of the couch, a leather accent chair and round pedestal table completed the seating area. A credenza with a K-Cup style coffee machine on its mahogany surface and a mini-fridge beneath backed up to the entrance hall. The room smelled faintly of smoke from the cigarette stubbed out in a glass tumbler on one of the end tables. Glazed French doors led to what he assumed was the sleeping area. Using his left hand, he pushed open one of the doors and pivoted, weapon raised, into the room.