“And figure out who is actually behind this,” Fletcher added. “What company has created this killer bug, and who was moving it in and out of Africa. All we know right now is there’s a man with a British accent involved.”

Mouse nodded, excitement shining in her eyes. “I’ve tracked the money to a shell company with French papers, but it’s going to take some time to unravel exactly where this is coming from.”

Fletcher’s phone rang, jarring them all. He glanced at the screen. “This is the hospital. I asked for updates on Cattafi. Fingers crossed it’s good news.”

Sam watched him answer, and his face drained of color. “Are you sure?” he said. “Son of a bitch. Start running the name, right now. Find out who it is. You hear me? And send me the picture. Call me immediately when you know.”

He hung up. “Cattafi threw a code blue. They’ve managed to bring him back. He’s still in the coma, but he’s breathing. Apparently, a doctor no one recognized came to see him just before he tried to croak. Put her name down as Margaret Preston. Problem is, there isn’t a doctor named Margaret Preston at GW. I’m going to have heads over this.”

“Wait, Fletch. An impostor doctor got in to see Cattafi? How?”

“Marched right in. They’re sending a photo.” His phone dinged. He opened the email.

There was a good shot of the impostor’s face as she exited the room, taken from the nurses’ station. It was grainy, but clear enough to work with. The doctor was small, gray-haired, stooped a bit.

He turned the phone around. “Look familiar?”

Sam had to strip away the hair, the demeanor, the attitude. Once she did, she saw someone she recognized. The hair was wrong, but the face was unmistakable. “That’s Robin Souleyret.”

“Yes, it is,” Fletcher replied. “And she just tried to kill Tommy Cattafi.”

Chapter 38

Foggy Bottom

Dr. David Bromley’s lab

ROBIN SAW THE glint of the weapon, immediately went into a defensive posture, crouched, ready to spring. She didn’t hesitate; her fist struck out, nailing her assailant in the throat. With the other hand, she smashed her wrist against his forearm, knocking the gun loose. She whipped around and planted her left leg behind the gunman’s right knee and shoved. He went over on his back—it was a he, she could smell the acrid scent of his sweat and feel the thick hair on his arms. He scrambled backward and landed heavily on his back with a curse—French, she thought dimly, did he just say putain?—then shot from flat on his back to his feet with breathtaking speed.

He came at her, both hands free now, confident in his skill, not even glancing for the gun she’d held. She took two punches, one to her cheek, one to her forehead, before she could turn to the side and kick him. He went for her leg and missed, but caught her sharply on the neck, right in the notch by her carotid, hard enough to make her see stars.

He had a momentary advantage, and he knew it. He grabbed her by the wrist and flung her against the wall. She caught herself before she slammed headfirst, curled her body for the impact. Hit the wall with a dull thump, pain shooting from her shoulder.

He launched after her, teeth bared, his face so close she could see the small vertical lines that bisected his upper lip. Got his hands on her neck, but that was just where she wanted him. She went limp for a moment, surprising him, then turned in his arms and shoved hard against the wall with her legs, sent them toppling backward across the room. She beat him back to standing, but he was quick, right there. She didn’t stop, turned and crashed an elbow into his throat and, without waiting to see the effect it had, threw her head back in a reverse Glasgow kiss.

She tagged him square in the nose, felt the crunch of the cartilage and a fine mist of blood warm down her back. He started to sag, and she jammed her right heel into his knee, which bent backward in an unholy way.

He screamed. The one-two head-knee combination was enough to stop him in his tracks. She felt him going down, sprang away so he didn’t land on her, and calmly picked up his gun. A Beretta, with suppressor attached. Had it not, she wouldn’t have had the luck she did to disarm him so quickly; the suppressor added just enough weight to make the gun off balance if you weren’t gripping it tightly. She knew; she’d been disarmed once in the same way, not expecting the weight of the weapon to shift in her hand when her arm was hit.

She was breathing hard. It felt like the fight had taken years, not minutes.

The assassin was down, hands around his ruined knee. He wasn’t crying, and she was impressed. She knew he must have been in an incredible amount of pain.

She stood near him, the gun trained on him, listening to a clever assortment of invectives in French. She’d been right; he had called her a putain and a salope, and suggested she do a few rather base things with her mother, father and grandmother.

She kicked him in the nuts and said, “Baise-toi, connard. Who sent you?”

“Nique ta mère.”

She laughed, the adrenaline starting to fade a bit, leaving her light-headed. She spoke in French. “You’re a nasty one, aren’t you? I don’t think I will. Tell me who sent you, or I’ll pull the trigger. And if you know anything at all about me, you know I’m not kidding.”

He shook his head. She debated for only a moment, then smoothly fired. The gun kicked gently in her hand, and the man’s leg erupted in blood. He howled.

“Now both knees are shot. I’ll give you one more chance. Tell me who sent you.”

He was crying now, the pain and the shock of the gunshot too much on top of the fight. She took no pleasure in this conquest. He wasn’t a worthy opponent. She’d taken him down too easily, too quickly.

“Quit crying like a little girl and tell me who you work for.”

He shook his head and she started to move the gun. His eyes tracked it, moving slowly from his leg, to his groin, to right between his eyes.

“Who?”

“Denon,” he said.

“James Denon?”

“Oui. Have mercy, sister.” He was finished. He shut his eyes, ready. His throat convulsed once as he swallowed.

“Merci,” she whispered, and with a small frown pulled the trigger twice more.

* * *

Riley showed up five minutes later. He found Robin sitting on the floor of Bromley’s front office, the suppressed Beretta in her lap, a look of surprise on her face.

He dropped to his knees beside her, gently plucked the gun from her hand. She let him. She was tired. So tired.

Riley looked worried, but she hardly noticed it. She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep. The blood from the man she’d shot smelled of copper and iron, hot smoke, and when she finally relaxed against the wall, allowed herself to step away from warrior mode, she saw the whole lab was coated in a fine yellow smog, like bile.

Seeing the mess, Riley roughed her up, yanked her to her feet, whispering harshly in purple-veined words. “What are you still doing here? You need to leave. Now. You’ve been compromised. The police know you’ve been to see Cattafi. He coded right after you left. You’re a suspect. What the hell were you thinking?”

Riley’s fury brought her back to herself. “I didn’t touch Cattafi. Rather, I touched his hand, but he was already gone. I didn’t do anything else.”

“The police don’t think so. They think you went in disguised and shoved something into his IV. We need to get you safe, right now.”

“It’s fine, Riley. I’ll just tell them what happened.”

“And this?” He swung an arm out and she saw the detritus of the fight clearly for the first time—furniture toppled, paintings askew, the ruined husk of the French assassin on the floor opposite her.