He went straight to voice mail.

“We need to talk ASAP,” he said.

Reid hung up, then made a call with his encrypted satellite phone. When he got voice mail again, he hung up. After sending a text through the secure system—it took forever to hunt and peck the letters—he set the ringers on both his phone and the cell to maximum and went back inside. He pretended to be interested in the treadmills and T-shirts before leaving.

On the way back to the campus, he called Breanna, this time with an encrypted phone. She answered on the second ring.

“Have you seen the overnight update?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“We can’t let the Russians get ahold of this. If a handoff is made to the Russian, they must take him out,” said Reid. “There should be no question.”

“All right. We’ll need a finding.”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Reid.

“Did you speak to the President?” Breanna asked.

“We had a brief session,” he said.

“Anything I should know?”

Reid spent a long moment thinking of what to say before answering.

“There’s nothing that came out that affects us directly,” he said finally.

“Jonathon—is there anything else I can do? Should I come back to D.C.?”

“No, I think I have it under control,” he said finally. “Stay in touch. Keep your phone handy.”

“You sound tired,” she added just before he was about to hang up.

“Well, I guess I am,” he told her before ending the call.

“You’re trying to trump this up into something,” charged Harker when Reid met him in his office. He picked up the coffee cup on his desk, brought it about halfway to his mouth, then in a sudden fit of anger smacked it onto the desktop, splattering some of the liquid. “You want to create a scandal. There’s nothing here, Reid. Nothing.”

“I’m not creating a scandal,” replied Reid. “I’m simply doing my job.”

“Which is what?”

“Getting Raven back. Keeping it from our enemies.”

“I know you’re angling for the DIA slot,” said Harker. “It’s not going to work. Everybody can see through the games you’re playing.”

Reid said nothing. Denying interest in the job—which he had absolutely no intention of taking—would only be interpreted as a lie. In fact, everything he said would be interpreted through Harker’s twisted lens. It was pointless to even talk.

“I only came to you because I’m having trouble speaking to Edmund.” Reid rose. “And I’m concerned about the Russians.”

“Herm doesn’t speak to traitors.”

Reid stared at Harker. The man’s face was beet red.

“This isn’t a question of loyalty to the Agency,” he said.

“Get out of my office,” said Harker.

“Gladly.”

Chapter 5

Duka

Melissa watched Marie Bloom survey the reception room, her hands on her hips. The clinic director turned and looked at her with a worried expression.

“Ordinarily, this room would be full,” she said. “But maybe we should count our blessings.”

“Yes,” said Melissa softly.

They had seen only a small handful of patients since opening at dawn. Now it was past noon.

Bloom sat down on the couch that faced the door. Her face was drawn. “Did you bring these troubles?”

“No,” said Melissa.

“Did the man you’re hunting for?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“One of the people from Sudan First fired on the leader of Meurtre Musique.”

“I know that. What’s really going on?”

“That’s all that I know.”

“The problem with you people . . .”

Bloom let her voice trail off, not bothering to finish the sentence.

“I’ll leave if you want,” said Melissa finally. “I’m only here to help. That’s the only reason.”

“How could I ever believe that?”

The door opened. Melissa felt her body jerking back, automatically preparing to be on the defensive.

A pregnant woman came into the room. In her arms she had a two-year-old boy. The child was listless, clearly sick.

Melissa looked over at Bloom. She had a shell-shocked expression.

“I’ll take this one,” said Melissa, going over to the woman.

She held out her arms. The mother glanced at Bloom, but gave the child over willingly. She said something in African, explaining what was wrong. Melissa could tell just by holding the baby that he had a fever.

“Come,” said Melissa in English. “Inside.”

The woman followed her into the far examining room.

It was an infection, some sort of virus or bacteria causing the fever. Beyond that it was impossible to diagnose, at least for her. The fever was 102.4; high, yet not so high that it would be alarming in a child. There were no rashes or other outward signs of the problem; no injuries, no insect bites. The child seemed to be breathing normally. Its pulse was a little slow, but even that was not particularly abnormal, especially given its overall listless state.

Melissa poured some bottled water on a cloth and rubbed the baby down.

“To cool him off a little,” she said, first in English, then in slower and less steady Arabic. She got a dropper and carefully measured out a dose of acetaminophen. Gesturing, she made the woman understand that she was to give it to the baby. The mother hesitated, then finally agreed.

As she handed over the medicine, Melissa realized that the woman was running a fever herself. She took her thermometer—an electronic one that got its readings from the inner ear—and held it in place while the woman struggled to get her baby to swallow the medicine.

Her fever was 102.8. More serious in an adult.

And what about her baby? The woman looked to be at least eight months pregnant, if not nine.

Melissa took the stethoscope.

“I need to hear your heart,” she said.

She gestured for the woman to take off her long, flowing top. Unsure whether she truly didn’t understand or just didn’t want to be examined, Melissa told her that she was concerned about the baby.

“You have a fever,” she said.

The woman said something and gestured toward the young child on the examining table, who was looking at them with big eyes.

Realizing she was getting nowhere, Melissa went out to the waiting area to get Bloom to help.

Bloom had nodded off. Melissa bent down to wake her. As she did, the pregnant woman came out from the back, carrying her child.

“Wait,” said Melissa, trying to stop her. “Wait!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Bloom, jumping up from the couch.

“She’s sick. Her baby may have a fever, too.”

Bloom spoke in rapid Arabic. The woman answered in her own tongue. Whatever it was she said, Bloom frowned. She answered, speaking less surely. The woman waved her hand and went to the door.

“You have to tell her,” said Melissa.

“I can’t stop her,” said Bloom as the woman left.

“We could at least give her acetaminophen, something for the fever.”

“She won’t take it,” said Bloom. “It’d be a waste.”

“But—”

“If we push too hard, they won’t come back. They have to deal with us at their own pace.”

“If she’s sick, the baby may die.”

“We can’t force her to get better.”

Melissa wanted to argue more—they could have at least made a better argument, at least explained what the dangers were. But her satellite phone rang.

“I—I have to take this,” she said, starting for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Thinking it was Danny calling to tell her what was going on, she hit the Talk button as she went through the door.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Melissa, what’s the situation?” asked Reginald Harker.

“Hold on, Reg. Let me get somewhere I can talk.”