When Sherlock and Cal returned to the living room it was to see Jo raising a cup to Sherlock. “Well done.”
Giusti was rubbing her hands together. “We’ve already notified MI5 about this nom de guerre—the Strategist. We have nothing in our records about him. I’ve put out a call to find anyone by the name of Hosni Rahal, get us a location.”
She looked at Sherlock. “I’m sorry for Nasim. We won’t let him die, we won’t let that happen, but I fear for his family as much as he does.”
Cal said, “Seems to me Nasim asked the best question—why him? This imam? And why? MI5 needs to do some digging into the imam’s finances, his dead father’s, his mother’s. There’s got to be something there.”
Pip Erwin sipped his iced tea. “I still wonder why Nasim trusted only you, refused to speak to the rest of us. Just you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock said, “I think he wanted to tell someone, and I was the one he felt a connection to. It’s strange, though, how convinced he is he will die soon.”
Giusti nodded. “He clearly does. I don’t think there’s a terrorist within a hundred miles of this place, but I’m tempted to tighten security even so. Perhaps we should keep him in the house tonight.”
“He was so looking forward to being outside,” Sherlock said. “It would be an opportunity for me to talk with him again.”
Cal was standing next to the front window, his arms crossed over his chest. “Come on, you guys can’t really be thinking about taking him outside every night, among all those trees? Have you looked through an infrared sniper scope, like the Ares 6? Attach that to an H-and-K and you’re in business from hundreds of yards away. You can’t take that kind of risk, especially if Sherlock is with him.”
Jo Hoag walked to Cal, put her hand on his shoulder. “Cal, I’ve walked the grounds, and there are only a few spots that would be vulnerable to a sniper. We never let Nasim walk that way.”
“There are people who want Nasim dead, he’s right about that,” Cal said. “He failed them, and he’s a major loose thread, a threat to them. I would be moving him room to room, never on a schedule, and no outside jaunts, ever. As for letting Sherlock out with him, I veto that.”
“Your objection is noted,” Giusti said. “However, McLain, you’re not in charge here, I am.”
Cal got in her face. “My job is to follow my own orders where her safety is concerned.” He looked from Pip Erwin, to Jo Hoag, to Arlo Crocker, and then to Sherlock. “If anything happens to you on my watch, Sherlock, my life won’t be worth spit.”
Sherlock said, “All right, I’ll do as you like, Cal. I owe that to you.” She didn’t want to think about what Dillon would do if something happened to her; she couldn’t think like that. There was always risk. And Kelly was right: who could possibly know about this place? “Everything having to do with Nasim is your call, Kelly. Now, does anyone know where I can find a pencil and paper for Nasim? He wants to write to his family.”
• • •
AN HOUR BEFORE DARK, Sherlock and Cal sat down for dinner with Nasim in his room, the local news on TV turned down low. Nasim had asked for fast food, a hamburger and fries, his favorite food as a tourist, he said. They spoke of family. Sherlock learned Cal had three sisters, half a dozen nieces and nephews, and a mother who tapped her toe at him whenever she saw him. She wanted kids from him as well.
Nasim looked up at the camera and asked to use the bathroom.
Within a minute Agents Hoag and Crocker appeared in the open doorway. A visit to the bathroom after dinner seemed an established routine. Nasim rose.
Sherlock and Jo Hoag followed Crocker, his hand on Nasim’s cuffs, to the end of the hall. Crocker took off the cuffs, opened the bathroom door, checked around the small room, and nodded. Nasim went in and Crocker partially shut the door.
Agent Hoag checked her watch. “Not long before it’s dark enough to take him out to the front porch, if that’s what Kelly decides. That’s where we’ve got the best cover.” They heard the toilet flush, heard water running in the sink.
There was a shot, then another, sharp and very loud—rifle shots.
“No!” Crocker and Hoag were through the bathroom door in an instant. Nasim was leaning over the washbowl, staring at himself in the mirror. It was covered with a spray of blood, his blood. Nasim saw Sherlock’s white face in the mirror and slowly sank to the floor, his hands pressed against his chest. He didn’t speak, but his mouth formed the words Save my family.
Sherlock was on her knees beside him, pressing hard against a gaping wound in his chest. She saw blood pouring out of his shoulder where a second bullet had hit. “Nasim! Don’t you dare die on me. Come on, keep your eyes open, stay with me!” Sherlock was dimly aware of the agents shouting, running, yelling into comm units. She heard more shouts from outside the bathroom window, more loud gunfire, but she wasn’t listening. She was pressing her hands against his chest. But she’d seen his wound and she knew—she eased herself down over him, said quietly to him, “Nasim, you will not die, do you hear me, you can’t die, not after all this. Stay with me!”