“Do you know Daniel Killian?” he asked, giving her heart another start.

“Uh…yes.” She returned the statue to the table.

“Is he a criminal, mob connected, cartel connected?”

“No,” she said.

He gave another small shrug, as if he didn’t believe her, and then he checked his watch.

“There were four buyers at Remy Beranger’s yesterday afternoon. Ponce was there for his father. Levi Asher was there for himself. You were there for the DIA, at least you haven’t denied it, and someone was there for Erich Warner,” he said. “Daniel Killian is the only one left.”

A startling conclusion, if he was right, which he wasn’t. A number of the buyers on the DIA’s list had not shown up at Beranger’s.

“What makes you think it’s not me? What changed your mind?”

“Instinct.” He poured more coffee into his cup, and as the steam curled up around his right hand, she noticed a tremor run through it, strong enough to make his hand shake. Some of the coffee spilled onto the table, and he carefully put the urn back down. He was missing half of his ring finger, and she was not going to ask how, or why, but her heart just broke.

What had happened to him?

“And your phone,” he finished. “You have a couple of interesting numbers in it and not much more.”

Her phone, dammit.

“Can I have it back?” She’d looked for her fanny pack first thing when she had awakened, knowing it contained her two best chances for escape: her 9mm and her phone. But she hadn’t been able to find it and would have been shocked if she had.

“No,” he said. “Not yet. Not until after Erich Warner is dead. Then you can have it all, even the Sphinx.”

Her eyebrows lifted as she absorbed that surprising offer.

“Thank you.” It was the only appropriate thing to say. It was also exactly how she felt-thank you very, very much, Mr. Conroy Farrel. Erich Warner dead was a big favor to everybody.

He reached for his coffee, revealing the inside of his right arm. It was a tragedy of scars. Another tremor rippled up the inside of his forearm even as she was looking at it, and when she glanced up to his face, she saw him wince.

J.T., my God, J.T.-he’d been on a mission, like dozens of missions he’d gone on before, down into Colombia, and he’d been killed there. That’s what they all thought, what they’d all thought for six years.

But here he was, his memory gone, his body a testament to the suffering he’d borne, and she was overwhelmed by it all. She didn’t know where to begin to help him, or if she should even try. He didn’t even know who she was, and sometimes it was better not to fix things but to let them lie-and she had no idea what would be best for John Thomas Chronopolous.

It made her feel so helpless, and when she looked at him, she wanted to tell him.

But he’d kidnapped her and was holding her hostage, and she needed to be smarter than to trust him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Creedence Clearwater Revival, CCR, those were Creed’s boys, the guys with his theme song-”Run Through the Jungle.”

Like a cat.

A hundred yards from Dylan and Hawkins’s OP, Creed cut down through the trees to the river. He could hear the boat getting louder, coming nearer, but he needed eyes-on ID. They’d seen two fishing boats already today, and if it was another one, all the better. If not, the boss was going to have to make a few more command decisions.

At two hundred yards, Creed knelt in the brush at the shoreline, concealed behind a dense layer of trees and vegetation, sweat running down the greasepaint camouflaging his face.

Yeah, he could see it. A gunboat had entered the mouth of the Tambo River and was cruising along the far shore, about a hundred yards downstream and headed his way.

Creed took out his binoculars and keyed his radio.

“Cartel cowboys in an RPB,” he said when he heard Dylan’s beep, letting him know it was a river patrol boat. “Twenty or so, well armed. One woman, Asian, a gringo in a fedora-yeah, you heard me right-and sonuvabitch.”

“Continue,” Dylan ordered.

“I-” Creed stopped the transmission, looked harder at the boat crew. He didn’t want to make any mistakes, but hell no, it wasn’t a mistake. He keyed his radio again. “I found Waldo.”

“Again.” The order came back at him.

“Killian. He’s on the boat.”

Creed didn’t actually hear Dylan cussing, but he knew exactly what couple of words were coming out of the boss’s mouth.

In their business, surprises sucked. On the other hand, it was good to have a friend in the enemy camp. Creed had worked with Dax on the streets of Denver, stealing cars, and once in Afghanistan three years ago, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind whose side the man was on. Suzi’s for sure-and he had to wonder, really, when did the art game get so damn dangerous?

He keyed his radio again. “Maybe it’s time to make a trade.”

“Roger. I want you and Zach back at your OP. If Farrel wants his girl back, he’ll deal with us before the boat party arrives.”

“Roger.”

Suzi gently turned the Sphinx on its side and looked for any marks on the bottom of the statue. There were a couple of scratches in the granite, and she duly notated them in the notebook Con had given her. Sure, he’d said she could have the ancient artifact, a mind-boggling idea, but she was a long way from home, and a lot of other people wanted this thing. Quite frankly, she wouldn’t have put five bucks on the chance of her being the one to get it out of Paraguay.

Not that she wasn’t going to give it her best shot.

Conroy Farrel was pacing. He was very quiet about it, walking from one door to the next, looking outside. Looking for the girl, Scout? Suzi wondered. She hadn’t seen her since last night.

“There’s a scanner in my fanny pack,” she said. He had it clipped through a couple of belt loops on his BDU pants. “May I have it?”

He didn’t hesitate to pull it out, look it over, then walk over and hand it to her.

She wished he’d give her the whole damn fanny pack, but she wasn’t going to hold her breath on that. Her phone had rung three times, and each time he’d answered it and given a set of directions. Nothing more.

Somebody was coming, Erich Warner at the least-and Suzi couldn’t imagine that was going to be good for her.

She picked up the scanner and let out a short breath. If nothing else, she would at least know if the damn thing worked, and if it did, Dax’s farfetched theory about the Faraday cages in Beranger’s basement would be true. She hoped to hell she got a chance to tell him.

Without further ado, she turned the scanner on, and it lit up, clear as day. So simple, and after a moment it beeped in the completion of the GPS locator function, and that was that.

Well. Somehow she felt better, like she’d done her job-found the damn thing and locked in its location.

Great.

She was sure there would be a bonus in there somewhere, if she could just get out of this damn country alive.

She set the scanner aside and went back to cataloguing every little thing there was to catalogue about the great Maned Sphinx of Sesostris III, a.k.a. the Memphis Sphinx. Howard Carter himself had discovered this thing. He’d held it in his hands. He’d drawn it-and Suzi could feel it all, the depth of the statue’s history, the power of the legend. In Grant’s office, she’d scoffed at the idea of the Sphinx having occult powers, but holding it in her hands was enough to make a believer out of her-almost.

The gold mane framed a regally serene face and draped down onto the black granite shoulders of a lion. The rock-crystal eyes were small and elegant, set into the granite eye sockets like a pair of stars, no bigger than the irises would have been. The thing was beautiful, the lion’s paws placed firmly and squarely on the statue’s base, the beast’s tail curled precisely around its body, the animal emanating an innate power, an unexpected suppleness of form. It was an amazing piece of art, the golden mane luminous, the crystal eyes catching the sunlight-a magnificent sphinx.