Tarek stopped. His shoulders sagged. “No.”

“She was absolutely panicked,” Rima said. “The baby is real. Her predicament is real.”

Tarek looked to Voland, now seated at the kitchen table across from Rima. “Monsieur Voland, this is something your contacts should have known.”

The Frenchman shook his head. “I am your man in Europe. Yes, we identified Bianca as being Ahmed’s mistress, but that was from electronic eavesdropping. I told you from the beginning that we do not have an agent in place in Damascus. Your organization has more contacts inside Syria than I do.”

Rima said, “The question is, what do we do now?”

Tarek replied, “Assuming this is true, it’s going to be difficult to get this woman to work for our cause. She will see anything she does against Azzam as a direct threat to her child. He knows, presumably, where his baby is, after all. She goes public to reveal the Tehran meeting, and Ahmed could harm the baby as retribution.”

Voland said, “Certainly as long as her baby is in Syria, she will not willingly give us information. But the one thing we must not do is let that woman return to Damascus. Our operation to take her worked beautifully. We have come too far to turn back now. We will find a way to exploit this.”

Rima’s forehead furrowed. “How?”

The Frenchman held his hands up on the table. “The baby changes nothing. We encourage Mademoiselle Medina to go public with details of her Tehran trip.”

“And by ‘encourage,’ you mean . . . torture?”

Voland shrugged in a uniquely French way, shoulders high to his ears with his head dropping into his neck like a turtle. “Not at first. Yes, of course we must consider enhanced interrogation techniques, methods that will be uncomfortable to her, mostly psychologically, but somewhat physically, as well. But we begin gently, and only adopt the more extreme measures if forced to do so.”

Rima stood up from the table and paced the living room now. “We want her help. We need her help.”

“And we will get it.” Voland said it coolly, as if his enhanced interrogation techniques caused him no personal stress at all.

“But . . . we aren’t torturers,” the redheaded woman replied.

Voland motioned to the back bedroom. “Madame, let us not forget who that is sitting in there. Medina is having an affair with Ahmed al-Azzam. A man responsible for five hundred thousand deaths in seven years. While your nation was burning to the ground, while your friends . . . your . . . your family members were dying, she was living the high life in Damascus, enjoying the finest foods, and sleeping with the Monster of the Middle East.”

Rima snapped back. “Don’t you dare lecture me on the crimes of Ahmed Azzam! Tarek and I are well aware. No one here in Paris needs to remind me of the situation on the ground there.”

“But of course,” Voland said with an apologetic bow. “I merely state that no measure that will happen to Medina by my hand will approach the misery faced by the dead, wounded, and displaced. We can’t squander this opportunity because we don’t have the stomachs to go forward.” And then he shrugged again. “Neither of you needs to be around when my people and I interrogate Mademoiselle Medina.”

Tarek said, “If you torture her, you will get lies, obfuscations. She won’t comply.”

“I can see through lies. We make her tell us things we know as if we do not know them. When I am satisfied we are getting the truth, we reach for that which we do not have.” When neither of the Halabys spoke, Voland asked, “What other choice is there?”

Rima was adamant. “I will not allow you to torture that woman. No matter who she is sleeping with. I don’t believe that’s the best option.”

“Then tell me another!” Voland shouted. When she did not answer, he turned to her husband. “Clearly, Doctor, your wife does not have the fortitude for our mission. We have one opportunity to exploit the president’s mistress, and Rima will not allow us to adopt the measures we need to—”

“My wife and I speak with one voice, Monsieur Voland. The woman is not to be harmed.”

Rima and Tarek reached for each other’s hands and held them across the table.

Voland leaned forward. “Well, then. I suppose we should just let her go. Call her a taxi. Wish her a bon voyage on her flight back home to the arms of Azzam.”

Rima repeated herself: “We will not turn into the monsters we are fighting against!”

Tarek interrupted. “Maybe if we show her evidence about Azzam’s crimes, perhaps over time, this will help persuade her.”

Rima shook her head. “Impossible. She cares only for her child, as any mother would. Look. We have connections to the rebels in Damascus. They can retrieve the child and bring him up here.”

Voland shook his head. “The rebels won’t get within a kilometer of the president’s son, wherever he is. These men you speak of haven’t even been able to attack a two-man guard post outside the city library without suffering losses. Sending them for the child would be a disaster.”

Tarek thought for a moment. “There is another way. We can send someone with real skill to get the baby. To bring him up here. Then we will earn her compliance. With both Medina and her son here, she will be motivated to speak out against Azzam.”

Vincent Voland and Rima Halaby both looked at Tarek in confusion. Voland asked, “And whom do you suggest we ask to go to Syria?”

“The American asset. You told us he was one of the best in the world at this sort of thing. Obviously the work he did tonight proved you to be correct.”

The Frenchman shook his head. “My dear doctor. The American asset is brilliant, true, but that’s the problem. What you need to find is a fool, because what you are proposing, going into Syria to take the child of the president, is a fool’s errand.”

Tarek countered, “Rima and I have other contacts in Damascus, inside the medical community mostly, who would assist him if we asked.”

Voland wasn’t buying it. “Untrained contacts. Listen to me. As I told you before, this American is at the top of his trade. He knows what he is doing. His work tonight was stellar, but one man cannot possibly accomplish what we would need in order to bring that child out of Syria. Plus, the American will have already destroyed the phone he used in tonight’s operation. I found him via a special secret clearinghouse for people of his . . . talents, and I could reach out in the same manner as before, but there is no guarantee he will be checking in with the middleman for days, weeks, or months. I have no other way to get in contact with him in the meantime.”

Rima added, “Tarek, you said he told you he would not work with us again after what happened tonight. That bridge is burned.”

Tarek replied, “Perhaps he won’t work with us, but we can ask.”

The silver-haired Frenchman took a few slow breaths. He did not hide the fact that he thought he was dealing with fools. “Again, we have no way of reaching him.”

“I have a way,” said Tarek.

Voland cocked his head and turned in his chair to the older man. “How?”

“We owe him a lot of money. He said if we didn’t pay by dawn, he’d come find us.” With a little shrug he said, “We simply do not pay him.”

Voland raised an eyebrow. “This plan of yours will ensure that he sees you again . . . not that you will see him.”

Rima let go of her husband’s hand now and grasped him by the arm as the implications of what Voland was saying sank in.

Tarek said, “If we don’t pay, I’m sure he’ll reach out.”

Voland spoke with authority. “I’m sure he will, too. In fact, I’ve seen numerous crime scene photos showing what it looks like when this man ‘reaches out.’ Your plan to provoke a violent contract killer is disapproved.”

Halaby put his hand on his wife’s hand and pulled on it so she eased off the viselike hold on his arm. “We do not work for you. You work for us.”

“And I have provided you no greater service since our collaboration began than by suggesting you leave this American asset alone. Trust me and my interrogations of Bianca Medina. I will not use any measures that are violent. Only gently psychological pressure.” He smiled a little. “Give me time, and I will get you the results you seek.”

CHAPTER 13

At the New Shaab Presidential Palace on the hill overlooking western Damascus, the first lady sat in the near darkness of her private apartment, still watching the news from Paris, even though she knew the violence described by the reporters and the images of flashing lights did not translate to a successful conclusion to her mission there.

She looked at the clock and saw that Drexler had been gone for a half hour, but just then a gentle rap at her door announced his return. He let himself in again and sat down across from her in the sitting area. He didn’t bother trying to kiss her, and one look at him and the expression on his face made her even more certain that this evening that she had been so looking forward to had turned into a disaster.