"Who signed for his release?" Dodson asked, in a calmer voice to avoid disturbing his two dozing generals.

"Un instant, je vous en prie. One moment."

Waiting, Dodson walked across the room and gazed down at Jefferson and Davis bundled up in their powder blue blankets. It was hard not to lean over and give each a kiss on the cheek. Gone barely two days and he had missed them like the dickens.

Learning that Gavallan had been detained and incarcerated by the Swiss gendarmes, Dodson had returned to Washington the night before. It had turned out Gavallan was their man after all. He owned a gun similar to that used in the Cornerstone shooting. The gun was missing- ergo, he had taken it with him. He'd received training as an elite commando. And of course, he had every reason to want Luca dead. Though as yet circumstantial, the evidence was overwhelming.

In Geneva, the slippery voice returned to the phone. "A lawyer named Merlotti signed for Mr. Gavallan."

"And he's with the government?" Dodson asked.

"Non, non. You misunderstand. He's a private citizen, of course. A prominent attorney, actually."

"But you said Mr. Gavallan was released to the government."

"Non, non. You misunderstand," the man said again in his singsong voice. "I say that the government permitted Mr. Gavallan to be released to Mr. Merlotti."

"And for whom does Mr. Merlotti work?"

"That I do not know."

Of course not, Dodson grumbled inwardly. No doubt it would constitute a violation of your canons of secrecy, confidentiality, and inbred chicanery. "I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't get your name yet?"

"LeClerc. Georges LeClerc."

"Well, Mr. LeClerc," Dodson said, "if I cannot speak with Mr. Gavallan, would you be so kind as to connect me with your own Detective Sergeant Panetti?"

"That is not possible. Sergeant Panetti is on holiday."

"Will he be back tomorrow?"

"Non, non. You misunderstand. He is on summer holiday. He will return in three weeks."

If Howell Dodson "misunderstood" one more time, he vowed to himself, he was going to catch the next plane to Geneva and beat LeClerc over the head with the phone until he understood that the FBI meant business. Then the words sunk in.

"Three weeks!" Dodson shouted, losing his cool, then checking his voice and darting a glance at the twins. Jefferson stirred and began to cry. "You've got to be-"

The light went on in his head, and he stopped arguing. It was a put-up job. LeClerc was running interference for some very powerful, very nasty shit who'd pulled some strings high up in the Swiss government to have Jett Gavallan released. Some VVIP who did not want anyone knowing his identity.

"And that's it?" Dodson picked up the wailing infant and held him to his shoulder. Patting his boy on the back, bouncing lightly as he walked the room, he wondered if this officious Swiss prick actually expected the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation, the goddamned finest law enforcement outfit on Earth, to give up searching for a fugitive wanted for capital murder as easy as that. The mere suggestion infuriated him.

"I'm afraid we cannot help. Mr. Gavallan is no longer in the country."

"Isn't he?" asked Dodson. For once they were getting somewhere. "Has he returned to America?"

"I'm afraid I cannot say where he has gone."

Of course not. "Just one last thing," said Dodson, as Davis began to stir in his carriage. "The girl who was with him? Miss Magnus? Where is she?"

"They leave together," LeClerc replied promptly, eager to be free of his responsibilities to international justice.

"That's what I thought," said Dodson. "Au revoir."

Asshole, he added silently, in a most ungentlemanly tone.

They cannot do that," declared Roy DiGenovese unequivocally. "If a suspect is detained on the basis of an international warrant, he may be released only to the custody of the government that issued the warrant, and then only if he's waived his right to fight extradition. It's a mistake. Has to be. He must have been transferred to a different jail, maybe to a federal prison. There's one near Bern. It makes sense. He'd be nearer our embassy."

DiGenovese had rushed back from San Francisco, arriving at six that morning. Still glowing from his triumph, he was dressed in a sports shirt and blazer, his black hair neatly combed. Dutifully, he held young Jefferson in his arms, cradling him back and forth.

"That's what I aim to find out," Dodson stated. "I'm as appalled as you are."

The phone rang and he picked it up. It was the international operator with the private number of a Mr. Silvio Panetti. Jotting down the phone number on his blotter, he thanked the operator, then called Panetti.

The detective answered on the third ring. Dodson introduced himself and asked what in the world was going on with Gavallan.

"Business as usual," answered Panetti, sounding half in the bag. "We pick up your Mr. Gavallan Saturday afternoon. A formal arrest on the Interpol mandate cannot be filed until Monday. Through their contacts, Mr. Gavallan's lawyers were able to secure his release before the charges were ever filed. Officially, Gavallan was never apprehended. It is a triumph of technicalities."

Dodson thought it was a crock of shit, pardon his French, and he planned on filing a formal complaint. "Any idea where he went, Detective Sergeant?"

"You know, Monsieur Dodson, I am on vacation," Panetti protested perfunctorily. "I am not supposed to discuss official police business. On the other hand, I was not planning on taking this vacation, so what the hell, I tell you. After leaving the station, Gavallan drive directly to the aeroport. Please understand, I did not see him, not with my eyes, but my friend say he climb on a private jet."

"Was Miss Magnus with him?"

"Yes. She go, too."

"Any destination?"

"Je ne sais pas. I don't know and I don't ask. I am already too much involved, I think. I am smart, Mr. Dodson, not brave. You want to know where Gavallan go? You find out for yourself."

"Surely you can phone the airport…"

"Surely you can, too. Au revoir, Monsieur. Bonne chance."

Dodson hung up the phone.

"Where is he?" asked DiGenovese. "Is he headed back this way?"

"Gone," said Dodson, taking Jefferson from his assistant and laying him on his shoulder. "Vanished into the night."

50

The plane touched down at Moscow Sheremetyevo Airport just after midnight. A light rain fell, collecting into greasy puddles on the tarmac. The air smelled stubbornly of smoke and exhaust. Deplaning, they were led to a convoy of black Chevrolet Suburbans. A corps of rugged, sloe-eyed men in navy tracksuits lined the path. One waved his hand at Gavallan, pointing the way to an opened door. A funeral cortege, thought Gavallan as he slid into the backseat. A day or two and the same cars will be taking me to the cemetery.

The ride into the city took forty minutes. Cate sat up front, sandwiched between the driver and Boris. Tatiana slouched next to Gavallan, sullen and listless after the flight. The driver turned on the radio and a mishmash of wailing voices, discordant guitars, and arrhythmic tambourines filled the car. Top 40 from the Muslim republics to the south, Gavallan thought. It was brash, unsettling, and foreign, and it made him feel alone and abandoned. Stretching an arm forward, he found Cate's shoulder. A moment later, she took his hand, intertwining her fingers with his.

For a time they drove dead straight along a quiet four-lane highway. Billboards advertising a variety of products kept them company. Samsung. Volvo. Fisherman's Friend. Cate asked the driver a question and he answered politely, as if she were a guest, not a prisoner. She'd picked up two languages in a day: French, now Russian. Waiting for her translation, he thought, This is the real Cate, and I don't know her at all.