Page 2 of The 9th Man

He’d checked before arriving and learned online that Genappe was a town of about fifteen thousand whose only claim to fame was as the possible birthplace of a dude called Godfrey of Bouillon, the leader of the First Crusade. It also was only a ten-minute drive from the site of the Battle of Waterloo. That’d be something to see, as he loved military history. Read every book he could on the subject. Would there be time for a visit? That would depend on what he found inside the house two doors down on the opposite side of the road.

Six hours ago he’d received a text from a former acquaintance, Jillian Greenfield Stein.Of the Pennsylvania Greenfields, she liked to say with a smile,not the Virginia ones. They’re way too snobby.Of course, she was not from money. Just a solid, middle-class upbringing in southern Pennsylvania. What she wasn’t was emotional. All business in fact. Cool calm nerves flowing through a taut, fit body. Their exchange had been electronic and brief.

I’ve made a big mistake and need your help.

What kind of mistake?

The kind I can’t take back and they may be coming for me.

Where are you?

Genappe. 18 Rue Emile Hecq.

I can be there in a few hours.

Thanks. God, what have I done, Luke?

That last comment compelled him to call her cell phone number. But all he heard was a voice-mail prompt. Two more calls achieved the same result. One thing seemed clear. She needed help. She’d done something, made a mistake, and was now worriedtheywere coming for her.

He’d been cautious about his exchanges with her for two reasons. One, he had no way to know if Jillian was on the other end. Could be a trap. And two, no active intelligence officer ever gave away their current position haphazardly.Stay in the wind, Malone liked to say. Good advice. Thankfully, though, he’d been enjoying a little downtime in London after an assignment, before heading back to DC. So he’d managed to catch the first flight of the day from Heathrow to Brussels, where he’d rented a Peugeot for the fifteen-mile drive south to Genappe and the address Jillian had provided. Which he’d been watching for the past twenty minutes.

The porch light burned bright, but the front windows loomed dark.

God, what have I done, Luke?

“I’ve waited long enough, Pappy,” he muttered.

And he reached for the door handle.

Suddenly a vehicle turned onto the street behind him, its headlights cutting a bright swath through the darkness. Instinctively, he aborted his exit and slid low in the seat, watching as a white Transit van motored to the curb fifty feet away and stopped.

At this hour?

That could not be good.

The rear doors swung open.

Nothing was visible in the van’s darkened interior. Which made him wonder. Why no dome light? A figure emerged, swung the door partially closed, then crossed to the opposite sidewalk.

The man let out a soft whistle.

Not the casual, whistle-while-you-stroll type, more attention-getting.

After a few more paces the guy did it again.

Luke knew what was happening. He’d used the same tactic himself. Whistler was trolling for barks. A yapping dog could ruin even the best-planned operation. So draw them out beforehand. He wriggled further down and listened to the click of footsteps off the cobbles. Every few seconds came another whistle.

No dogs barked.

The footsteps halted.

The man had come to a stop at one of the tall hedgerows. A hand was lifted to the mouth. A faint burst of static disturbed the silence, then the words, “All clear.”

Another figure emerged from the back of the van, this one in a red ball cap and a matching T-shirt. Two more figures, each dressed in dark coveralls, emerged and trotted across the street in near-perfect synchronization.

Like friggin’ ninjas.

They slipped through the hedges and sprinted toward Jillian’s address, where the pair merged with the shadows along the side wall. Jillian’s frantic texts had smacked of paranoia. But she’d been spot-on.