Howell said slowly, “Yes, that has occurred to me. But that’s my job, not his. And who’s this woman?”

“He’s gotten some help.”

“Yes,” Howell said. “And who would bother to help Sam, and why?”

Howell and August took a flight to Amsterdam, hurried to a Company safe house that lay in a stately home along the Herengracht canal, and set up a communications point, waiting to hear. Waiting. Because someone was going to see or find Sam Capra in the next day. Sam was not going to be hiding; Sam was going to be looking for the people who had grabbed his wife. Howell felt certain.

August Holdwine stood at the window watching the rain hit the bridge and the canal and thought, You dumbass, your only hope is if we find you and you are willing to talk to me. If you don’t, you’re going to jail for the rest of your life.

And a jet-lagged Howell lay awake, listening to the rain patter against the canal and the roof’s shingles and thought, They won’t risk another embarrassment back at headquarters. They won’t care what he’s doing, even if it’s right. Now I have to find out what he knows and then I will have to kill him.

34

THERE IS A MAN TRYING to infiltrate our group,” Piet said. “Nic told me about him. He is a former intelligence agent. He has been seeking a means to get close to me, and presumably to you. I’m pretty sure he’s tied to your little bitch’s daddy.”

Edward had just gotten off a plane, his flight delayed by bad weather, and he was tired and irritable. His stomach rumbled. The lunch he’d eaten in Budapest disagreed with him. The fish, he thought. That would teach him to eat seafood in a landlocked country. And he’d gotten word that Simon, his man dispatched on a critical errand in Brooklyn, had failed. Which meant Sam Capra was alive. This was a bad night. But he would not be afraid. Fear was for fools.

“Where is he now?” Edward asked. He put down his suitcase. He took a calming breath.

“Earlier he was at a bar. Nic can tell us.”

“And he wants to see me?” Edward said. “Bring him to me. I will put him to good use.”

“And your little bitch?”

“If anyone is my little bitch, Piet,” Edward said, “it’s you. You will undo my work if you speak of her that way. She’s one of us now. Be nice.”

Piet sucked in air and crossed his arms. Edward hated him. But Piet was necessary.

“You better be getting what you need to get out of her,” Piet said. His voice was a low growl. “Otherwise, you’ve risked us all for nothing. And nothing doesn’t pay my bills.”

“Life is getting what you want, and I’m better at life than you are, Piet.”

“Her father caved?”

“Caved, collapsed, avalanched.”

“You’re overconfident,” Piet said. “Bahjat Zaid is behind this infiltration; he is trying to outflank you.” He had his plaything, the wakizashi sword, pulled free from the custom holster on his pants. “Let me go van Gogh on her ear, send it to him. He’ll behave.”

“You don’t touch her. Ever.”

“I’m starting to think you have feelings for the little bitch—”

On the last word, ignoring the short sword in Piet’s hand, Edward seized Piet by the throat and pushed him, almost gently, back into the wall. Piet brought the sword up quickly, the edge of it touching Edward’s wrist.

“You know if you cut me, you’re dead,” Edward said. “The sword is a stupid prop, Piet. Carrying it, you look like a refugee from a bad samurai film. Now put your toy down or I’ll yell out and my friends will come up here and kill you with their bare hands. That’s their loyalty to me.”

After a long moment, Piet lowered the sword.

Edward released his grip. Piet was afraid of losing respect, of face. Easy to manipulate.

“The routes to get my goods—you did an excellent job. The pickup in Budapest went very smoothly.” It had been so hard to leave his treasures behind and get on the plane back to Amsterdam, but now the treasures were on their way, hidden in Piet’s smuggling route. They would be in the Netherlands soon enough. “Let’s have a look at this spy and make him useful. Get the cameras set up. Please.”

The modicum of respect worked. Piet left with a curt nod and Edward went to Yasmin’s room. He touched the place where the sword had lain against his wrist; he could still feel the edge of the blade. Piet was starting to be more of a problem than he was worth, but Edward needed him right now. Everything was lining up: the money, the goods, his future.

Yasmin lay on the bed—that was her privilege now.

Edward was proud of his fair lady, the woman he’d modeled from raw clay into a killer. He stood over her as she slept in an uneasy drowse.

After she’d dropped the backpack behind a book display inside the small magazine store in the train station, they’d hurried her out to a van two blocks away and driven off. She had not panicked or freaked out or tried to flee. She had followed her orders without question. Without fear.

Edward could see the admiration for his work in the eyes of the others.

That night they had moved her to the attic. Edward brought her favorite food, cinnamon pastries. He told her she had done a wonderful job, that she had done great good today.

“You eliminated a serious problem for us today.” He began to unbutton her blouse. “You are a heroine to me, Yasmin.”

“Are they listening?” she whispered.

“No. You are one of us now. You proved that at the station. No one is listening to us. It is only you and me here, little bird.”

He slipped her blouse from her shoulders; she did not resist. He held up a small wooden dove. “I saw this on a street vendor’s table at the Albert Cuyp Market and thought of you. Beauty, strength. And wood can be shaped… into so many things, Yasmin.” He eased off the skirt they’d put her in; she lay nude and shivering on the narrow bed.

“There is no going back now, Yasmin. The bombing went well. You did your part exactly as we asked.”

Bombing. She didn’t blink at the word.

“Your old dirty life is done.” He put the wooden carving—a dove—around her throat. It hung on a leather thong and he tightened the string, almost unconsciously, as he put it against her flesh. He felt the pulse of her throat through his fingertips.

Edward stood and undressed. His body was lean and muscular. He lay down on her and kissed her throat, her face, with gentleness. She did not kiss back. She lay still.

“You’re troubled by what you did?” he asked. “We went through this a thousand times.”

She didn’t resist his kisses. He took her, with urgency. She closed her eyes. He finished, lay next to her, then took her again, this time with gentleness. She lay as though not feeling his touch. He didn’t care.

The whole time, he whispered, “This is how you stay alive, Yasmin. Do what I say and you live.”

Now he sat and he watched her, thinking, until he heard a commotion, a struggle downstairs, and he knew Piet had readied the show for the cameras.

He woke her. “Yasmin? Wake up.”

The first thing she saw was the gun he was holding.

“Is that one of the—?” she began, and then she blinked past the bleariness of sleep.

“No. No, it’s not.”

She blinked and sat up from the pillow.

He sat next to her on the mattress. “Listen. I have a duty for you, but one you will like. Would you like a shower? Some food?”

She nodded.

He led her to a bathroom, and fresh soap and shampoo and a toothbrush. When she started to take off the dove, he stopped her. “No. I want you to wear it always. A hope for peace.”

He gave her fresh pants, a shirt, underwear. Demi brought up bread and fruit for breakfast. He thanked Demi, and so did Yasmin. Demi gave her a surprised glance as she went back downstairs.