Page 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

C allan didn’t know what to think about Benson. He might look like a thug, but he’d sure known how to navigate the laptop.

There’d been a second there when Callan had worried the guy would get past his computer’s defenses.

But the guy hadn’t found the hidden profile. Nor had he discovered the built-in hotspot, which came in handy when Ghazi refused to share the Wi-Fi password and refused to return their phones.

“You can’t be serious!” Callan had launched himself out of the chair. “If I can’t have the password, and I can’t get on my hotspot, how am I supposed to work?”

“I suppose you could go home.” Ghazi’s words had been polite, his expression smug.

“Fat chance.” He’d huffed and settled back down, thankful they’d bought his little act. “I’ll work on reports. It’ll take me all weekend to catch up.”

Ghazi hadn’t even bothered to apologize.

When he was focused on Alyssa and those screens again, Callan navigated to his laptop’s built-in hotspot, connected to the Internet, and sent Malcolm an update.

Molly delivered lunch a little after one o’clock—sandwiches and little bags of chips. Alyssa took hers back to the desk, giving Callan no opportunity to talk to her. Not that he could have with Ghazi in the room.

When the man walked out for a few minutes here and there during the afternoon, Benson or Molly came in.

His laptop screen was nearly impossible to read unless a person were right in front of it, so even if there were cameras, the image would be nothing but gray if picked up by a camera. With his back to the wall of windows, he investigated Dariush Ghazi and the people he did business with.

According to the Agency’s dossier, he didn’t hold to any religious beliefs at all. He became in each situation whatever was necessary for him to achieve his goals. When he was with Muslims, he adhered to Islam. When he was in Israel, he’d gone so far as to don a skull cap.

When he posed as Charles Sanders, he spoke with an aristocratic British accent, the picture of a businessman and entrepreneur.

In Germany the previous fall, he’d been known as Dariush Shahin, a Christian convert, and using that persona, he’d infiltrated a refugee mission. Back then, he’d worked with an Iraqi terrorist named Hasan Mahmoud.

Mahmoud was in custody, but Ghazi had escaped.

Another interesting tidbit… Hasan Mahmoud was uncle to Leila and Jasmine Fayed, who were now married to Michael and Derrick Wright.

That explained how Alyssa had ended up on Ghazi’s radar.

Digging deeper into the operation in Munich, Callan learned Mahmoud had been after WMDs squirreled out of Iraq in the days following the invasion. Had Mahmoud, the head of that operation, intended to use those weapons, or sell them?

Callan sent a private text message to Alyssa’s cousin, asking the question. Michael answered immediately.

According to Mahmoud, they planned to release some at the Xmas market in Munich. The rest, they wanted to sell. He hasn’t given us a name, though we heard the buyer was Russian. Maybe the one whose name Alyssa found? Interrogators will question Mahmoud and get back to us. Maybe Ghazi’s reason for aligning with Mahmoud was to find that name.

Lots of maybes.

Was what happened in Germany last fall related to whatever he had Alyssa doing now?

It was after six o’clock when Molly knocked and then opened the door. “Dinner will be served in ten minutes.”

“Excellent.” Ghazi waited until the so-called housekeeper stepped out and closed the door again before focusing on Callan. “Alyssa and I need to speak privately for a few minutes. Please, make your way to the sunroom. Molly will get you a drink.”

Callan closed his laptop and slid it into the bag, then crossed to the opposite side of Alyssa’s desk. “You must be ready for a break.”

She finished typing something. “Yup.”

Her lips wore a smile that was tight at the corners, and that plus the flash of worry in her eyes had his stomach tightening.

There was nothing to do but play along. “See you downstairs.” He nodded to Ghazi, then, against his will and every ounce of good judgment, left them alone together.

Molly was waiting for him in the hallway. “This way please.”

“I’ll be right down. I’m going to drop this off in our room.” He lifted his laptop bag, then walked to the room she’d indicated.

She stayed at his side. “I’ll wait.”

Of course she would.

He stepped inside and closed the door, then took a quick look around. No thugs were hiding under the bed.

Callan found both his suitcase and Alyssa’s in the closet, empty. Someone had unpacked their things. Ghazi and his people were playing off searching their belongings as if it were an act of hospitality.

He left his leather laptop bag on his bed, easily spied from the hallway, hoping that would indicate that he had nothing to hide. He could squirrel it away somewhere, but if they wanted to find it, they would. And hiding it would only raise suspicions.

He used the bathroom, combed his hair, and washed his face, taking his time and hoping Molly would tire of waiting for him. But five minutes later when he opened the door, the pretend housekeeper pushed off the wall.

“This way.”

“I could probably find it by myself.”

She didn’t bother to respond.

The glassed-in sunroom must have been added onto the original property. Wicker furniture with floral upholstery filled the space, along with potted plants overflowing with vines and flowers. Beyond the windows, the garden sparkled in the twilight beneath strings of café lighting that fanned out from the sunroom to surrounding trees.

Low classical music played over speakers installed overhead. The room held a floral scent that mingled with a hint of rain, the perfect springtime fragrance, courtesy of a scented candle flickering on a side table.

Like everything else in this house, the veneer was just thick enough to prove more lay beneath.

A metal-and-glass cart held a decanter of red wine and a bottle of white, along with various liquors. On the far side, a round café table was set for two. A pair of cream-colored pillar candles had been lit.

It would be romantic, if any of it were real.

But at least this meant he and Alyssa would be given privacy. Or the appearance of privacy.

“What would you like to drink?” Molly asked.

“Red wine.” Which he didn’t care for, but he was playing along.

She poured him a glass, and he sipped it, then smiled. “I think I’m supposed to swirl it and sniff it or something, right?”

Her lips twitched at the corners, though she didn’t give in to the smile. “I won’t tell. Is it all right?”

“Tastes good to me. I can’t tell French from boxed, though, so…” He’d never been a big fan of alcoholic grape juice.

“Your fiancée should be down in a minute.” She gestured to a charcuterie board on a side table. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

After Molly left, Callan grabbed a cracker and a slice of cheese, then perused the room as if fascinated by the plants and decorations. His search for cameras and microphones turned up nothing, though that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He had to be careful not to give away that he suspected their so-called private dinner was being surveilled.

He’d eaten a handful of olives, at least as many grapes, and half of the cheese and crackers by the time Alyssa stepped into the room.

She’d pulled her hair out of its ponytail, and it fanned around her shoulders and halfway down her back. If he wasn’t mistaken, she’d freshened up her makeup. Not for him, he was sure, but to sell the story.

Story or not, she was gorgeous.

Molly poured her a glass of white wine.

Alyssa took it, swirled it, smelled it, and sipped.

Molly gave Callan a furtive look, and he winked, enjoying the private joke. Or wanting her to think so, anyway.

“Excellent. Thank you.” Alyssa gave a dismissive nod.

“Dinner will be served in a few minutes,” Molly said. “Help yourself to the cheese board while you wait.”

Alyssa waited until she’d left, then turned to Callan.

“It feels like I haven’t seen you in hours.” He crossed the room and pulled her into a hug, whispering, “We have to assume they’re watching.”

She leaned away to face him, eyes wide. “It’s been a day.” Her voice didn’t betray her worry.

Holding her hand, he led her to a loveseat. “I know you can’t tell me what you’re doing, but how’s it going?”

“I think I’ll have what he needs by tomorrow.”

They set the drinks on a low table and sat.

Callan wrapped his arm around her. “In time to get to my parents’ house for dinner?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” She tucked in close to his side, fitting perfectly. Not that he needed to be thinking about that, or about how good she smelled, or about how much he liked her right there, beside him. “How about you? Did you get some work done? I know it’s frustrating that you can’t get online.”

“Hmm.” He allowed frustration into his tone. “Your client is a piece of work. Paranoid beyond belief.”

“I assume he has reason to be.” Alyssa patted Callan’s knee as if to calm him.

The innocent touch did just the opposite, sending his heartbeat into overdrive.

“It’s just for one more day.” She gestured to the room, the romantic table, the lights beyond the windows. “At least we have the evening together. This is nice.”

“Finally.” He kissed the top of her head like a real fiancé would do, picking up hints of vanilla and jasmine.

He reminded himself that this was all fake. Pretend. Not real, despite the way her nearness made his body go haywire and his thoughts drift far from the operation.

He whispered in her ear, “You need to use the restroom.”

She leaned back, eyebrows high. Her mouth opened—a protest, he guessed, but she said, “I’ll be right back.” She pushed up and walked into the living room. Her voice carried through the sunroom door. “I need a bathroom. Should I go upstairs or?—?”

“I’ll take you.” Benson peeked his head in. “Stay here.”

Callan lifted his glass of wine in a sort of salute, then wandered to the doorway and watched as Alyssa and the guard turned down a hallway toward the kitchen.

After counting to ten, Callan meandered through the living room and toward the front of the house, moving slowly, looking around as if he were bored, not searching.

In the foyer, noises drifted up the stairs from the basement. Men’s voices, at least two, maybe three. One of them was Ghazi.

They were speaking English, some accented with Arabic, he thought. Not talking about anything important.

Even though he was probably being watched, he moved up the stairs quickly and silently. The hallway lights were off, the space dim as he turned away from the office where they’d spent the afternoon. He opened his own bedroom door. He stepped inside, then, keeping it open, ducked as low as his six-foot-something body would allow and crept to the end of the hallway.

If the camera he’d seen earlier was a fisheye, then he wasn’t fooling anybody. But he was betting it wasn’t.

He guessed the master bedroom was on the back corner of the house. When he reached that door, he opened it and slipped inside before flicking the light on.

Fancy room, like all the others. King-sized bed, poorly made, probably not by the fake housekeeper but the room’s occupant.

Personal items on the bureau—a handful of coins, a couple of envelopes. Nothing unusual.

Except for one photograph.

It was a little faded in a cheap, thin frame that showed wear on the edges. It displayed a young couple grinning at the photographer. The woman was beautiful with dark skin and fashionably curled silky black hair.

The man had his arm slung around her shoulders. In his other hand, he showed off a lighter in an open box. The same lighter he'd used to light the fire earlier.

It had been a gift.

Dariush Ghazi, at least twenty years younger, looked both casual and content.

They were seated at an outdoor café. The buildings on the far side of the road behind them were a stark contrast to the bright blue sky overhead. Based on the shape and design of the buildings, the dusty landscape, and the people in the background—many of whom wore thobes and hijabs—the photo had been taken somewhere in the Middle East, probably Iraq, since Ghazi had grown up there.

Cursing his lack of a camera, Callan committed the image to memory.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs down the hall.

Callan flicked off the light, crouched low, and slipped out of the room.

Two men reached the top of the staircase just as Callan made it to his own bedroom door. He slid inside, rounded the bed in the dark space, and entered the bathroom, where he flushed the toilet.

Just to be on the safe side.

Then washed his hands, taking his time. Hoping the men would move along.

He returned to the hallway and closed the door behind him, then turned toward the stairs.

And froze. “Oh, hey. You startled me.”

The men were standing ten feet away. They each wore casual clothes, one significantly taller than the other. It was too hard to tell their age in the dim light.

Had they seen him creep into his bedroom? Did they know he’d been snooping?

If so, he was in for a world of hurt. Literally.

He doubted it, though. If they’d seen him, they wouldn’t have waited politely in the hall outside his room before confronting him.

“What are you doing up here?” The shorter of the two spoke, his voice low—a warning tone. And also…low in volume, as if he feared Callan’s getting caught even more than Callan did.

“Uh, Alyssa went to the bathroom, so I figured I would, too, since we’re still waiting on dinner.”

“You are not to wander around unaccompanied.”

The other man whispered in Arabic, though loudly enough for Callan to hear and translate.

“He lies.”

Callan did his best to look confused. “Sorry, guys. I’m not used to needing an escort everywhere I go. Your boss is wicked paranoid.”

The shorter man spoke to the taller, again in Arabic.

“Take him.”

Looking between them, Callan said, “What is that? Farsi? I used to have a friend?—”

“Now.”

The taller one moved forward, and Callan braced himself. Though there was nothing he could do. If this guy decided to hurt him, he’d have to take it.

Computer hardware salesmen weren’t known for being adept at self-defense, and he didn’t want to blow his cover.

“Look, I didn’t mean to cause trouble.” He lifted his hands and backed up. “I’m just trying to?—”

“Silence.” The tall one grabbed his arm and tugged. “Try to shut up for two minutes.”

The shorter man continued up to the third floor as the taller one practically dragged Callan downstairs.

When they reached the landing, he was certain they’d continue to the basement.

Bad things happened in basements.

But he was manhandled toward the living room.

“Ooh.” Alyssa’s voice carried from the hallway where she and the guard had disappeared. “This is lovely. Have you ever seen the original?”

“No.” Benson wasn’t exactly a stellar conversationalist.

Alyssa responded, but Callan didn’t pick up her words as the guard dragged Callan across the living room and shoved him toward the sunroom, hissing, “Stay there. Tell no one you left.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Do not wander again or you will be sorry.” The man swiveled and hurried back to the staircase.

Callan settled on the loveseat again, his heartbeat racing. He’d gotten lucky. Had one or both of those guys been assigned to watch the video feed? Or to watch him specifically? They were afraid enough of Ghazi to not admit their failure.

His snooping had paid off.

Though Ghazi’s dossier indicated no wife or girlfriend, there was a woman in his past he cared about enough to carry her photograph—and the lighter she’d given him—wherever he went.