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  Ash was silent, thinking about what he’d said, trying to figure out how to escape the situation. They warned us . . . the people Edward Rosen had telephoned. The officer’s unshakeable preconception that she was somehow bad meant two things: whoever Rosen had called was in a position of authority, and it was someone connected to Rosen’s recent past rather than his military service. If it had been a Homeland Security alert line, or Department of Defense security team, the local police would not have been dispatched with any preconceived notions about Ash. The person Rosen called knew who she was and had warned the police not to listen to anything she said.

  Her hands were throbbing because Bernard had manacled her too tightly, and her back was starting to ache as the pain of the fall set in. Her neck was sore, but she tried not to think about the scored wound.

  Now why don’t you go ahead and shut up till you ain’t my problem no more . . . He could have been talking about handing her into custody, or he might have been referring to the people Edward Rosen had called.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, and she saw Bernard roll his eyes.

  “Are you dumb? I got nothin’ to say to you.”

  Whatever the Summersville Police Department planned to do with her, the previous attempts on her life left Ash in no doubt that she’d be killed if she stayed in police custody. She couldn’t rely on Wallace to do anything. If he’d understood her signals, he’d have found the journal and would be on his way to New York with the proof Harrell needed to open a full investigation.

  The cruiser pulled into a parking lot beside an imposing two-story building constructed of large caramel-colored stones. The Stars and Stripes fluttered above the entrance and a nearby sign identified this was the Nicholas County Courthouse. She was reminded of her father.

  “Where are you taking me?” she repeated, as Bernard eased the Ford into a parking space.

  “Where they told us to take you,” he replied, switching off the engine.

  Bernard hauled himself from the vehicle, straightened his pants and opened the back door. He grabbed Ash by the arm and pulled her out. She resisted the urge to yelp as the cuffs bit into her wrists, and fell to her knees.

  “Get up,” Bernard commanded, looming over her.

  Ash stood suddenly, using all her strength to drive the top of her head into his chin. She felt the painful but satisfying crunch of bone, and heard Bernard cry out as he toppled backward. He fell on his backside, his eyes dazed and wide, blood oozing from his mouth. His hands pawed ineffectually at his holster, but he was teetering on the verge of unconsciousness, and couldn’t compel his body to do what he wanted.

  Ignoring her own pain, Ash charged him, barging him with her shoulder and knocking him down so that his head hit the asphalt with a heavy thud. He passed out immediately, and Ash turned around and forced her hands into his pocket, searching for the key to the handcuffs. She pulled out his wallet and tossed it aside, before pushing deeper into his pants. As her fingertips touched the cold metal of a keyring, she heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching at speed and craned her neck to see three burly men in black uniforms, sporting the six-pointed stars of county sheriff’s deputies.

  “Stop where you are,” the lead runner yelled.

  Ash tried to get to her feet, but it was a struggle with her wrists bound behind her back, and when she felt strong hands on her shoulders, she realized her escape attempt was over. Two of the deputies grabbed Ash and hauled her to her feet. As they dragged her toward the courthouse, she watched the third man tend to Bernard and radio for an ambulance.

  “I’m really sorry. This is all a mistake. You’ve got to let me make a phone call,” Ash pleaded with the deputies, but they ignored her and manhandled her into the building.

  The automatic doors swung open and the strong men pulled Ash inside. As she felt her feet hit the smooth marble floor, she stopped struggling and hung limp. She knew how this looked: she’d fled the police, assaulted an officer, and tried to escape. She’d find no friends here. She cursed herself for having botched her bid for freedom. As she watched the courthouse doors close, she realized that she might never get a second chance.

  The painkillers had worn off and Ash now felt wrung out. Her head pounded, her neck throbbed, her back ached, and her ribs protested every breath. The deputies had dragged her into the bowels of the building and deposited her in a holding cell. There’d been no custody process, no phone call, no lawyer, and she guessed she was being held until whoever Edward Rosen had called could come to claim her. There was a low bench in the cell, but she resisted the urge to sit, and instead paced the tiny space, counting out her steps as a way of marking time. She’d learned the technique when her father had sentenced her to the disciplinary cells. Robbed of time, people could quickly lose their minds, and counting the passing seconds not only tied her to reality, it distracted her from her predicament. She’d tried hammering on the door, shouting her name, her rank, calling for help, but these local cops had clearly been ordered to ignore her.

  She estimated she’d been in the cell for a little more than three hours when the door finally opened and a sheriff’s deputy stood aside to let a Latino man in a tan suit enter. He had thick black hair that curled around the tops of his ears, neatly clipped stubble flecked with the odd spike of gray, a lean, narrow face, and hard eyes that studied Ash as he drew near. His shirt rippled as tight muscles moved beneath it.

  “My name is Alejandro Luna, I’m with the Bureau’s Pittsburgh office. I’ve been sent to bring you in.”

  Something about the man felt wrong. If this was the guy Rosen had told his grandparents to call, he was almost certainly not someone to be trusted.

  “Don’t let him take me. Don’t let this man take me,” Ash urged the deputy.

  Luna stepped forward calmly. “Please, Agent Ash. I’m here to help.”

  She peered over his shoulder and stared at the sheriff’s deputy.

  “Please. Please don’t do this,” she begged, but her words had no effect and the young man looked away.

  When Luna’s hand touched her arm, Ash jumped back. The same lie. The same lie that destroyed her mother would kill her. This man was pretending to be nice, to be her friend, but he wasn’t. He was here to hurt her, maybe kill her. She wouldn’t let her life end the way her mother’s had. She lashed out, striking Luna in the face. After recovering from the initial shock, he grabbed her firmly.

  “Don’t make this difficult, Agent Ash,” Luna said. “There’s no need. I’m here to take you to safety.”

  Don’t believe the lies, Ash told herself. She planned to make it as difficult as possible. She threw a punch at Luna’s neck, but he was too quick. He blocked the blow and jabbed her in the gut. As she doubled over, he drove his elbow into the back of her head, stepping out of the way as she hit the deck face first.

  “It didn’t have to be like this,” she heard Luna telling the deputy as the edges of her vision frayed. “What the hell was she thinking?”

  “Don’t sweat it. After what she did to Bernie, no one’s gonna miss this bitch.”

  The deputy’s words were the last thing Ash heard before she lost consciousness. The last things she felt were Luna’s hands around her arms as he dragged her toward the cell door. Toward death, she thought before she passed out.

  48

  Bailey felt pressure building in his ears as the plane descended. Geneva was set in a bowl encircled by snow-laden mountains. He wasn’t a skier but he knew that April was the last of the good powder, and, judging by the ski bags his fellow travelers had presented at check-in, the aircraft was full of people desperate for a final week on the slopes. He shifted in his seat and a dull pain gripped his ribs and shot up his spine, but the worst of it quickly died away, numbed by the prescription-strength co-codamol Doctor Death had given him. Salamander had tried to talk him out of making the trip, but, realizing that Bailey was going to do it with or without his help, had managed to persuade his old friend to take a day to re
st, prepare, and at least give them time to get a decent false passport. So Bailey had spent Friday in Salamander’s penthouse while Danny went to obtain the forged document. Bailey had tried not to think about how many laws he was breaking, nor how unsettling it was to see the ease and speed with which such an essential piece of identification could be sourced by the underworld.

  Salamander had sent Frank out to buy clothes, and then called the London Record, posing as Superintendent Cross, and had been able to talk Francis Albright, the beleaguered acting editor, into revealing the name of Melissa Rathlin’s hotel. As day had drifted into night, Salamander had broached the subject of Bailey’s health, eventually steering the conversation to his state of mind. Bailey felt nothing but warmth and affection for Salman Sohota, his oldest and dearest friend, but he hadn’t been able to prevent himself from clamming up. He’d given one-word answers, playing down his anxiety, and had tried to convince his friend that the worst was over.

  In a way it was. He hadn’t suffered a panic attack since being kidnapped, and was starting to believe that the bitter reality of the pain that assaulted his body left no scope for dark imaginings. His mind had been overloaded by his terrible ordeal; the shame and hurt, the puzzle of piecing together what Sylvia Greene had to do with Pendulum, and the desire for revenge, all forced him to rise above himself. It was as though adversity had brought him to life. He shifted again in his seat, and took comfort from his aches. He wondered whether it was sick to believe that real pain would keep his anxiety at bay.

  Salamander had eventually given up probing. He had the good sense to know that Bailey wasn’t going to talk about it. He hadn’t been happy, but he’d left it there, and after a respectable period of idle chat, he’d made his excuses and left, claiming he had business to attend to. Bailey had taken a couple of Doctor Death’s co-codamol and some other pills that the degenerate medic had said would help him sleep. Bailey couldn’t recall losing consciousness, but he did remember how he’d enjoyed the dreamy embrace of the drugs as he’d lain in the master bedroom and looked out over the starry streets of London.

  The following morning, Danny had returned, telling him the passport would take another day. Secretly grateful for the delay, Bailey had spent Saturday mooching around Salamander’s penthouse, willing his body to heal. The following morning, Danny had arrived with a Belgian passport, and the photo that stared out from beneath the digital watermark was Bailey’s, but the document belonged to one Davide Morel. Bailey had been surprised at the passport’s authenticity, and had been even more shocked when Danny had assured him it was bulletproof: the photo would match the one on file. As a police officer, Bailey was unsettled to know that one of their criminal connections had access to the Belgian passport system, but given his situation, all he’d done was to express his gratitude. Danny had already bought a ticket and completed the online check-in. Frank had arrived soon afterward with a small suitcase full of clothes, and they’d waited for Salamander, who’d insisted on driving Bailey to the airport.

  They’d left Frank and Danny at the penthouse and taken the Range Rover. Bailey had assumed that his friend was going to try to continue their conversation of Friday night, and had prepared a catalog of evasive responses. But Salamander had been silent, and Bailey got the sense that something between them had changed.

  “Ya know, we’ve been mates through thick and thin,” Salamander had said finally as they stopped at one of the drop-off bays outside Terminal Five. “We’ve survived ya being a villain, and me being righteous. But this—what this is doing to ya . . .” He trailed off. “It’s the first time I ain’t been able to reach ya, Haybale.”

  His friend had been right. He’d erected a barrier to keep people out, and it was working.

  “Ya need to get ya shit together,” Salamander had added. “And however ya do it, be careful, ya hear me?”

  “Thanks, man,” Bailey had responded sheepishly, clasping his friend’s proffered hand.

  Salamander had patted him gently on the back.

  Bailey had resisted the strong confessional urge to unburden himself of his fears and share his torment with his friend. He’d simply nodded and climbed out of the car, holding the bag full of clothes, not looking back as he’d walked toward the huge glass and steel terminal building.

  The British Airways 767 taxied to its stand at Geneva Airport, and after a final few minutes in the aircraft’s stale recycled air waiting for the gangway to be connected, the passengers were finally released and streamed into the building. The shining expanses of metal-framed glass and anonymous corridors were common to every airport Bailey had visited, giving every arrival the same sense of dull familiarity. Only this one was different, and, as he shuffled toward passport control with a crowd of enthusiastic skiers who were trading optimistic snow forecasts, he felt a slick sheen of perspiration cover his body, a manifestation of pain and stress. His body was shouting at him to sit down, to rest, and his mind was screaming fearful predictions that his fake passport had been flagged at Heathrow and that Swiss police would be waiting to take him into custody. He peeled off from the crowd, took out a packet of co-codamol, and swallowed two pills before taking a moment to focus on his breathing, inhaling deeply until he felt sufficiently relaxed and revived to continue.

  The long queue at passport control was a blessing. By the time Bailey reached the front of the line, the painkillers had taken effect, and he barely registered any nerves as a stern official scanned his passport. Davide Morel survived the scrutiny of the Swiss system, and the humorless man waved Bailey through.

  Bailey’s relieved smile was broadened by the co-codamol, and he made a conscious effort to dial it back as he wandered through baggage reclaim. He found the suitcase Frank had given him and lifted it off the carousel. He extended the handle, grateful for the wheels that would spare his damaged left hand any heavy lifting. Doctor Death had removed the splint and wrapped a semi-solid bandage around it, but it was still unusable.

  The familiarity of arrival continued when Bailey stepped through automatic doors into a hall filled with friends, relatives, and placard-waving drivers. He picked his way past them, following signs for “Taxis.” His legs felt heavy, but even though he seemed to be moving a little slower than usual, each step was painless. When he reached the front of a line of taxis, all of which seemed to have been made in Germany, a stubby man with a bulbous stomach struggled out of a new Mercedes and took Bailey’s bag.

  “Où voulez-vous aller?” he asked, popping the trunk.

  “Merci,” Bailey replied, grateful to be relieved of his load.

  “Where do you want to go?” the driver asked.

  “The Intercontinental.”

  “Jump in.” The driver returned to his seat.

  Bailey eased himself on to soft, black leather. The car pulled out of the taxi stand and rocked gently as it gathered speed, lulling Bailey to sleep.

  “Monsieur?” the man’s moon face was close enough for Bailey to see flakes of dry skin crusting the corners of his mouth.

  He had the back door open and was leaning into the car, gently shaking Bailey by the shoulder.

  “Thanks,” Bailey said, his speech clipped by surprise. “I must have dozed off.”

  “Eighty francs.” The driver stepped back as Bailey staggered out of the vehicle.

  “I’ve only got Euros,” Bailey replied.

  “No problem,” the driver shrugged. “Eighty Euros.”

  Bailey suspected he was being done on the exchange, but thrust his hand into his pocket without complaint and produced the cash Salamander had given him. He peeled off two fifties and took twenty Swiss francs from the driver, who waddled round the car.

  “Your bag,” he said, pointing toward the entrance, where Bailey’s suitcase stood beneath the hotel’s illuminated logo.

  As the Mercedes pulled away, Bailey registered his surroundings. He was standing beneath a high canopy supported by four stone columns. Bamboo reeds were planted between the columns, sprou
ting from a cobbled driveway that ran all the way up to gleaming glass doors. He found his feet after a few hesitant steps and wheeled his suitcase inside.

  A liveried doorman standing in the small antechamber nodded a greeting. “Puis-je vous aider?”

  “I’m OK, thanks,” Bailey replied, stepping into the rotating door that led to the main lobby.

  The vaulted space was clad in cream marble and made Bailey think of a temple designed to impress and inspire. There was a fireplace on his left, behind a cluster of chairs and sofas. Its twin lay to his right, with a matching set of seats, but next to them was a grand piano. Beyond it, Bailey could see shelves of books lining the wall by the hotel bar. The reception desk was at the far end of the deserted lobby, and Bailey’s heels echoed off the walls as he approached the lone receptionist.

  She smiled up at him. “Bonjour.” Her long brown hair was pulled into a neat bun, exposing her smooth neck.

  “Bonjour,” Bailey replied.

  “How can I help you, sir?” the receptionist continued, switching effortlessly to English.

  Bailey couldn’t believe his accent was so terrible that it took only one word to guess his nationality, but apparently that was the case.

  “I’m looking for Melissa Rathlin. I believe she’s staying here.”

  “Let me just check,” she replied, tapping a computer that was concealed behind the leather-topped counter. “Yes. Can I have your name, sir?”

  “Francis Albright,” Bailey said.

  The receptionist lifted a receiver and dialed. She waited patiently, but the call rang out.

  “I’m afraid she isn’t in her room, sir. Would you like me to take a message?”

  “No, it’s OK, I’ll wait,” Bailey replied, backing away. “Thanks,” he added, flashing a smile as he headed toward the sofa nearest the grand piano. It would give him the best view of the entrance and the elevators.