The bearded man did as instructed, and Court escorted both Bianca and the security man inside.

Court found himself in a small but well-appointed apartment full of crackling firelight. This space had been built in the 1950s for a wealthy antiques dealer, and the furnishings and feel were a striking departure from the simple masonry warehouse facade of the building. The fireplace warmed the living room, and a middle-aged woman in a sweater and slacks sat in front of it. Two young men wearing black jackets and jeans leaned on the wall by the draped windows, and an older man stood by the fire, his hand propped on the ornate mantel as if he were posing for a photo.

The middle-aged woman had attractive red hair and olive skin; she was clearly Middle Eastern. And the man standing at the fireplace, Court saw, was Dr. Tarek Halaby, the man he’d met in the cemetery that morning.

When Court saw Halaby, he said, “This clown was in the stairwell. My instructions were clear to the Frenchman I spoke with on the phone. I didn’t want any armed men in my way when I arrived.”

“I apologize for the miscommunication. This man is with us.”

Court holstered his weapon. “And I almost turned his head into a canoe. You guys can’t follow instructions?”

Halaby started to answer, but Bianca spoke up now, in English, to the middle-aged couple by the fire. “Who are you people? I don’t know you.”

The redheaded woman stood. Her manners were gentle and stately, and there was a calm smile on her face that belied the situation.

She answered Bianca in Arabic. “If you will follow me, daughter, all will be explained. We have tea prepared, some clothes for you to change into, and a private place for us to sit and talk awhile.”

Bianca did not reply at first, and when she finally did, she said, “Speak English, French, or Spanish, or don’t talk to me at all.”

The redhead furrowed her eyebrows, then repeated herself in effortless English.

Bianca said, “I want you to tell me what is going on right now.”

The woman by the fireplace smiled. “My name is Rima Halaby. This is my husband, Tarek Halaby.”

Medina shrugged. “These names mean nothing to me.”

“We are both medical doctors, surgeons, living here in Paris.”

“And?”

“And we are Syrian exiles.”

Bianca Medina blinked. Swallowed. After a moment’s hesitation, she furrowed her thin eyebrows. “So?”

Rima smiled at her like she was dealing with a petulant child. “As I said . . . come this way. I will answer all your questions.”

The raven-haired Spanish woman was a quarter century younger and nearly a full head taller than the redhead. Rima put a gentle hand on Bianca’s arm and turned to usher her down a hallway that led to the rear of the apartment.

The man Court had pushed into the room had moved to a position between the windows, but he took a step forward now, as if to shepherd the model along if she did not comply. But Bianca didn’t need the hint; without further protest she followed the redhead.

Bianca looked back over her shoulder to the American as she did so, but said nothing, and soon she disappeared in the darkness behind the older woman.

The bearded guard followed behind them, along with one of the other men who’d been standing near the windows. Court could see the print of a pistol on the man’s hip under his jacket. The other man by the window—Court imagined he was armed, as well—just receded back against the wall, looking on.

Court took these men for security. Court knew what this organization was up against, and a few guys with guns loitering around this safe house didn’t seem like much of a defensive setup.

He shook his head in disgust, and he glared at Tarek Halaby.

CHAPTER 8

The doctor standing by the fireplace surveyed the American he’d hired for tonight’s work. The asset had some scratches on his face, but more notable than the superficial wounds was the man’s unmistakable anger.

And Halaby was sure he knew why. Tarek’s wife, Rima, had warned him against dealing in person with this dangerous man, and Rima, as usual, had been right. But Tarek had insisted on interacting directly with the asset.

Now Halaby could not help but wish the Frenchman who’d connected him with the American operator were here, in his shoes, instead of waiting in the back room of this apartment.

It had been the Frenchman’s idea that he remain hidden from the asset. Tarek assumed the man had his reasons, because the Frenchman had experience in these matters, and he clearly knew what he was doing.

Halaby waited to hear the door close down the hall before addressing his new guest. “We are monitoring police channels. Through them we understand Daesh chose tonight to come for Mademoiselle Medina. Of course we were aware they had an operation planned against her, as we informed you, but our intelligence indicated it would happen tomorrow when she was on the way to the airport.” He motioned to the chairs in front of the fireplace, but when the American did not move to sit, Halaby decided to remain standing next to the mantel.

The American replied, “Yeah, that’s what you told me.”

“I’m truly sorry. We were going on information we received from—”

“You said four gunners. Five, maybe.”

“Correct. That’s what I was told. How many did you encounter?”

“Seven, minimum. Could have been more.”

Halaby considered this, then said, “We knew she would be a prime target for them. But this Islamic State cell was from Brussels, and we did not know for sure how many would come to Paris. I’m sorry the numbers were off from what we expected.”

“You wanted that woman’s help, and you wanted to save her life so she’d be more inclined to give you the help. The ISIS hitters showed up right when I was making my move, so I’d say everything worked out in your favor tonight.” With an angry glare the American added, “I guess that just makes you one lucky son of a bitch?”

Tarek Halaby heard the sarcasm, and he saw the irritation, but he had no reply that would convince the American operative that he had not misled him. So he changed the subject. “Did anyone see you?”

The man seemed to take a few breaths to control his rage, then replied, “No one who is around to talk about it. I avoided hotel cameras. The car is clean.” He looked around at the room. “But still . . . a little free advice, because you guys look like you could use it. Do your organization a favor. Consider this safe house burned. Move your operation as soon as you can. Triple your security, even if you have to hire goons paid by the hour.”

“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”

The American rolled his eyes. “Or die. It’s up to you. Seriously, dude. This isn’t Band-Aids and biscuits anymore. You do realize you guys are fighting a war, don’t you?”

“We are not soldiers. My wife and I . . . we are doctors. Healers. We spent the first six years of the war raising relief supplies. Twice a year we would go over the Turkish border into northern Syria with our son and daughter, also doctors, to run health clinics, to perform surgery on wounded civilians. We are not violent people. But we have been forced into a life we did not choose to lead, actions we are not comfortable with, because we know our nation requires—”

“Skip it. Forget I asked.”

After a time, Halaby said, “Nevertheless . . . despite the difficulties tonight, you did exactly as you were told. Thank you.”

The American moved towards the door. “I wanted to help, but now . . . this is just business. You will transfer the rest of the money into my account by dawn or I’ll come looking for you.” He looked at his watch. “You have three and a half hours.”

“It will be done well within your time frame. Of course.”

The American turned for the door again, but Halaby called out to him.

“Monsieur . . . I know you are angry. But remember. We have resources. Donations from all over the world. A man of your skills, of your discretion. There might be more work for you in the future. Opportunities on the horizon involving our struggle.”

“You had one chance to show me how you operate. You kept key information from me, and you almost got me killed.” He opened the door. “You guys are on your own.”

Tarek Halaby watched the asset leave without another word.

* * *

? ? ?

“She’s in the bathroom throwing up,” Rima Halaby said as she entered the living room, startling her husband, who was still facing the door and thinking about what the American had said.

Tarek was embarrassed to be caught in a moment of self-doubt and reflection. He said, “To be expected. We’ll give her a few minutes, but we don’t have much time to make this work.”

Rima herself looked to the doorway now. “The American. Any problems?”

“He’s furious. He thinks we knew Daesh was coming tonight.”

“Then he’s crazy. Why would we lie about the danger? Our entire operation depended on the survival of Bianca Medina.”

“Yes . . . but the information about Daesh attacking wasn’t our intelligence, it was intelligence we were given. Do you think it’s possible we’re being manipulated in all this?”