“There’s no place like home,” said Wilson. “There’s no place like home.”

“Screwing you, my friend?” Fouche shouting into a phone somewhere across the Atlantic.

Hardin and Wilson were heading west on 90 toward Elgin, big enough town, not one either of them had ties to, close enough to Chicago to operate, far enough out to keep some of the eyes off of them. Hardin put a call in to Fouche to see if he could reopen channels with the other side.

“Screwing you?” Fouche’s voice still raised, but calming down a little. “A day ago, I’m expecting my cut on this deal. Now I’ve got the Russians I roped in making angry Russian noises. And these are the wrong sorts of Russians, those Eastern Promises types, gonna show up in the sauna, cut my schlong off for me. And you wanna know am I screwing you?”

“Sorry, man,” said Hardin. Reaction he needed. He knew Fouche. If Fouche had played it cool, Hardin would know something was up. “But I had to ask, you know? And I’m getting a little short-tempered over here myself. Second time in a couple of days I’ve had somebody trying to kill me.”

“Somebody’s trying to screw you, it’s that fucker Lafitpour,” said Fouche. “Maybe you should pay him a visit.”

“I already know about Lafitpour,” Hardin said. “But he’s fronting for somebody. I need to know who. I want you to get back to him, tell him I know he tried to fuck me over. Tell him I know he’s playing ball with somebody at Langley or thereabouts. Tell him that’s a nice story they’re selling, this drugs and terrorists bullshit. Tell him I got no problem with that, I love a good story. Tell him I get my money and get out, they can tell whatever story they want. But if I don’t, and quick, then I’m gonna start telling my own story.”

Pause on the line, some transatlantic hum filling the void.

“Drugs and terrorists?” Fouche said. “You want to fill me in here?”

Hardin gave him the quick version.

“So you have some leverage,” said Faust.

“Yep,” said Hardin.

“You don’t mind, then, if I look to move that ten million figure a little, bump up both our ends.”

“Don’t mind at all. Oh, and Pierre?”

“Yeah?”

“Since this is supposed to be some cartel-and-terrorist circus now, if they need some coke, you know, to lend a little verisimilitude to the enterprise, let them know I’ve got a kilo of Hernandez’s blow.”

CHAPTER 59

Munroe admired the view across Adams Street from Lafitpour’s office in the Rookery Building. “Burnham designed this place,” Munroe said. “Pretty revolutionary in its time. Metal framing, elevators. One of the first high-rises, the start of the great architectural Renaissance after the Chicago fire.”

“Who’s Burnham?” asked Hickman.

“The man who was quoted as saying ‘Make no small plans, they have no magic to stir men’s blood,’” answered Lafitpour. “Large or small, however, we need plans. Hardin’s Frenchman has been back in contact.”

“Then I guess we’re in the right place,” Munroe said. “What did Fouche want?”

“Recent events have emboldened our fugitives. Between the rather colorful news coverage and the desultory effort being made to pursue them, they have discerned our plans, at least in broad outline. Hardin knows we need him and his diamonds to make it work. Fouche says that Hardin is happy to play along, but he is having some trust issues.”

“I’d be having some myself,” said Munroe. “We can always buy a little trust. Everything has its price.”

“Price was mentioned. They want $25 million now. It seems they also have a kilogram of Hernandez’s cocaine, and they are willing to throw that in.”

“The blow will help,” Munroe said. “Window dressing on the Hernandez side of things. Push back on the number a little. We cave too easy, it’ll smell funny. But settle for whatever you gotta settle for. Just get us a meet. “

“I thought you were tapped out at fifteen,” said Hickman.

“I am,” Lafitpour said.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Munroe. “Comes down to an actual deal, we show up with the $15 million, they’ll take it, trust me. Right now, I just need them somewhere I can get a scope on them.”

“I will get back to Fouche,” said Lafitpour.

Munroe looked at Hickman. Hickman was looking thoughtful.

“What?” Munroe asked.

“It’s Wilson,” said Hickman, “She may have queered us snatching up Hardin, but putting her in the mix really tightens up our story, especially now that we got her toting some blow around.”

“How?” asked Munroe.

“We got their back story now, her and Hardin. Old lovers. That will all check out, anybody digs into it. Now we got him coming out of Africa with the diamonds, not too hard to make the case for an Al Qaeda connection there. And we have her coming out of the DEA with a kilo of coke, so we can make her dirty, tie her to the cartel. Them running around together, that bakes them right into the deal. They end up dead? Hey, bad guys meet up, and it goes to guns. Shit happens.”

Munroe smiled at Hickman. “So we still pin it on Hernandez, but we paint Hardin and Wilson with the dirty brush, take the sympathy card away. I like it. People think they’re with the bad guys, they’ll dig at it less.” Munroe smiled at Lafitpour. “You were right about this guy, Bahram. He’s our kind of people.”

CHAPTER 60

A small line of blood ran down the boy’s forehead, veering left at the bridge of his nose, dripping from the jaw line onto his T-shirt. Al Din tried to place the character on the shirt. Iron Man, that was it. The movie had been heavily promoted. Al Din waited for the woman to stop struggling against the duct tape that held her to the chair, to stop trying to scream through the gag. The girl’s eyes were still open, but she was not moving. Shock, probably. He saw all the resistance go out of the man’s face. Always start with the boy, al Din had learned. Men had this strange willingness to sacrifice their sons. So he always preserved the illusion that they could save their daughters.

Ringwald lived in a large, modern house on a two-acre lot in Highland Park. The house had very good locks and one of the better electronic home protection systems, but the large lot meant that no one could see al Din from the street, and, with time, locks and electronic systems were meaningless. The large lot also meant the neighbors would not hear what happened in the house. Once al Din had defeated the system and the locks, he gathered the family and duct taped them to the four chairs from the kitchen table, arranging them in a semi-circle, Ringwald on his left, then the daughter, then the wife, Ringwald’s son facing him directly from the right.

Of course Ringwald would not answer the questions at first. Al Din did not expect him to. In fact, did not want him to. Al Din wanted an initial token of resistance that he could meet with complete brutality. That would break the man’s will. Then al Din would know that the man spoke the truth. So, once the family was in place, al Din asked a pointless question, allowed Ringwald to say no.

And then al Din shot the young boy through the forehead.

“Completely unnecessary,” he then said, turning to Ringwald. “Now you have killed your son. Are you ready to answer my questions? If not, do I shoot your wife or your daughter next? Really, no one else has to die. Will you answer my questions now?”

Ringwald nodded.

“You are Mr Corsco’s attorney?”

“Yes,” Ringwald said.

“What is his business with Nick Hardin?”

“Hardin used to work in Africa. They had that big charity thing there for Darfur a few years back?”

“I remember,” said al Din.

“He was the guy that punched Shamus Fenn in the face. Fenn knows Corsco pretty well. When he saw Hardin in Chicago, he snapped. He came to Tony to put a hit out on Hardin.”