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Home of Ammar Aboud

Horse farm near Plattville, Virginia

Late Friday afternoon

“He’s a horse racing fanatic, spends a good deal of time here in the United States at his horse farm. He has a collection of World War II fighter planes hangared in Damascus, owns and flies a Gulfstream, the big one, a G5. He’s also a gambler, and he rarely loses. He’s been here for the past three months; his wife and children are in Damascus. He bought the Sikorsky twelve years ago from a United Arab Emirates sheik, had it hangared here on his property. We’re coming up to his property now.”

“How may I help you?” she asked in a soft southern accent.

She ushered the four of them into a long narrow room beautifully furnished with early-American antiques, its walls painted a pale green and covered with American paintings. Elizabeth recognized several John Singer Sargent landscapes. Mrs. Maynard left them without another word.

Two minutes later, she was back. “Please come with me. Mr. Aboud will see you.”

The photos of Aboud that Savich had brought up on his phone to show her didn’t begin to capture his aura of power. He was lean, clean shaven, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, his face long and thin. Despite his bespoke Western clothes and his air of elegant sophistication, he looked to Elizabeth like a modern-day Genghis Khan, with his flat dark eyes and thin knife of a mouth, a man used to getting exactly what he wanted and willing to do anything he needed to get it. She didn’t sense any limits in him. “How could you have heard of me, Mr. Aboud?”

He searched her face. “You were not aware your grandfather and mine were friends?”

“Both your grandfather and mine were acquainted with Winston Churchill. It is a pity no one told you.”

Elizabeth wanted to know how this could be, but Savich said, “Mr. Aboud, do you know Lady Elizabeth’s father?”

“The Earl of Camden? No, I have not yet had the pleasure.”

Aboud’s voice was low and deep, betraying a bit of an Arabic accent with an overlay of British public school. “I recognize you, Agent Savich, and you as well, Agent Sherlock—ah, America’s heroine, are you not?” He gave her a winning smile, but Sherlock was well aware of the sneer underlying his words. Because she was pregnant? Because he thought she, a woman, shouldn’t be in a position of authority? Or because she’d killed Basara, a killer, but still a Muslim? She saw Aboud glance at Rome, size him up as he had Dillon.

Aboud stared at Elizabeth. “Someone tried to take you for ransom, Lady Elizabeth? Here in the United States? I find that perplexing and highly unlikely. I know your father is wealthy, but surely not wealthy enough to tempt someone to steal a valuable antique helicopter to try to kidnap his daughter. How can that be? And why are you even in the U.S. in the company of FBI agents? Why are they protecting you? I can make no sense of any of this.”

She said, “I don’t understand why anyone would want to kidnap me either, Mr. Aboud. There have been other attempts as well.”

Aboud held up a graceful hand showing beautifully kept nails. “Ah, but I do understand why you might believe me responsible, since the Sikorsky belongs to me. Let me be very clear so that you may understand fully. If I wanted to kill you, Lady Elizabeth, you would already be dead. If I wanted you taken, you’d be bound and gagged and at my mercy. But I do not. Now, since you’ve made it obvious to me you are not here to assist local law enforcement, I ask that you leave. Musa will show you out.”

Musa moved toward them, his eyes on Savich.