“Do you understand me?”

She nodded.

Court decided he needed to be more explicit. “I have a gun. As I said, I won’t hurt you, and I won’t hurt Jamal, but I will kill anyone else who gets in my way.”

Yasmin began nodding emphatically under Court’s hand.

“You want to leave tonight?”

Another nod.

“Good. I am going to take my hand off your mouth. Please don’t make any noise, because if you do, you will be in danger from those who will come.”

As soon as he took his hand away, Yasmin did speak. She kept her voice in a whisper. “Please speak slower, monsieur. Your French . . . it is not so good. How do I know Bianca really sent you?”

Court ignored the slight because he knew she was right. He slowed down a little. “She told me to remind you of the day Jamal was born when it was just the three of you in the room at the hospital, and you sang to him. Bianca told you that you have a beautiful voice, and she asked you to sing to him every day. You promised you would. She wants to know if you’ve been keeping your promise while she’s been away.”

Yasmin nodded slowly.

“As soon as we’re out of here you can talk to her; she’s waiting for me to call and tell her I have you and the boy.”

Yasmin closed her eyes and nodded, still lying there in the bed. She was terrified, Court knew, but she would also know by now there was no way she could stop him from taking the child, and there was also no way she was going to remain behind if he did so.

“You need to get dressed. You will only take your clothes, and things you need for the baby on the trip.”

“How long is the trip?”

Good question, thought Court. He gave her the optimal version. “We will travel tonight to the Jordanian border and slip over before dawn.” And then he added, “But I don’t know what happens immediately on the other side of the border, so bring enough food, diapers, and clothing for him in case we are delayed.”

“Okay.”

Now Court said, “I have a car, but it is several blocks away. Do you have a vehicle?”

She shook her head no. “Bianca has a Range Rover. It’s out front. The keys are in the kitchen.”

Court nodded.

“But,” she asked, confusion on her face, “why don’t the others just pick us up?”

“What others?”

“The other people helping you.”

Oh, yeah. All those guys, Court thought. “They’re out there, but we have to do this part alone.” He meant they were way out there, as in France, but he didn’t get specific.

She nodded again. “So you can really kill ten men?”

Court cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“There are ten men in the house.”

“You mean . . . right now?”

“Oui. Since Ahmed came the day before yesterday. He doubled the guard.”

Bianca had told him five. He’d killed two already, a third man walked the grounds, and a fourth sat on the roof. He’d seen a fifth in the alcove near the stairs, and he’d heard two men talking in the living room.

That was seven. Court wondered if there could really be three more armed men in the house he didn’t know about.

“Where do the guards congregate at this time of the night?” he asked the girl.

“Usually a group of them sit in the living room and watch TV or look at their phones. I have to get the keys and Jamal’s formula out of the kitchen; it’s right next to the living room.”

“Formula?”

Yasmin blinked in surprise at this. “Food.”

Court just stared at her.

“It’s what a baby eats,” she said.

Court nodded his head. “Right. There’s no formula here?”

She went over to a small refrigerator in the room and looked inside. She pulled out one bottle. “It’s not very much. Two feedings at most.”

Court cocked his head. “Two feedings . . . what’s that, about a day?”

Yasmin looked at the stranger with confusion. “A day? No . . . three or four hours, maybe.”

“Shit,” Court said, looking at the tiny human lying asleep in the crib. “Can you get his formula at night without the guards being suspicious?”

Again she gave him a funny look. “I do it all night, every night. Do you know anything about infants?”

“Look . . . until we get to Paris, the baby is your department. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“Oui. I think that would be best for Jamal.”

CHAPTER 46

Vincent Voland opened the door to the hearth room and was surprised by what he saw. Sebastian Drexler stood in the middle of the room talking to Boyer, and the former Legionnaire wore his submachine gun hanging down over his back, not pointed at the prisoner.

Voland said, “What is going on here?”

Boyer said, “Look, Vincent . . . This isn’t our cause. When you hired us, you said an agent not aligned with the Syrian embassy might come with some bent French police officers to try to take the woman back. You definitely didn’t say anything about tier-one Syrian government paramilitaries being involved. We’re surrounded, and it’s suicide to hold our ground. I’ve made a deal with Drexler, and I’ve ordered my men to lower our weapons.”

Voland nodded solemnly. “I understand, Paul. You may consider yourself and your men released from duty.”

Tarek Halaby had entered from the kitchen, and he’d heard this. He looked at Voland like he’d lost his mind. “What? What are you saying? We agreed we would not surrender!”

Voland turned to the Syrian doctor. “And that was the wrong decision even when we did have four top-level security men on our side. Now . . . there is absolutely no chance.”

Tarek Halaby pulled the radio off his belt, triggered the mic, and spoke into it in Arabic. “The Legionnaires have surrendered! For Syria, we will never give in to—”

Vincent Voland pulled the Walther pistol out from under his jacket and held it to Tarek Halaby’s right temple. “I’m so sorry, Doctor, this is not what I want. I am doing this for your own good. For your wife, as well. Put the radio down.”

Tarek lowered the radio to his side, but at the same time he turned his head slowly to the Frenchman. “Bastard!”

Voland said, “I am saving your life with this gun, Tarek.” He turned to Boyer now. “Let them in.”

Boyer stepped to the door of the hearth room and opened it. On the other side, Malik and three of his men stood there, dressed in black, their short-barreled rifles at the ready. Novak was with them, too, but he had already been disarmed.

Clearly Drexler had convinced Novak and Boyer to allow the Syrians to advance up to the building while Voland was talking to the Halabys.

The men in black flooded into the room, but as they did so, Tarek Halaby swept his walkie-talkie up and into Vincent Voland’s pistol, knocking it away from his temple.

He reached down with his other hand and grabbed his own gun out of his belt, and he began raising it towards the Syrians.

Malik shot Tarek Halaby twice through the heart at a range of ten feet.

The fifty-five-year-old Syrian doctor stumbled backwards, then fell onto the cold tile floor as Syrian government commandos flooded through the room, racing for the door to the kitchen. Boyer was disarmed, as well as Voland, and Sebastian Drexler was handed Voland’s pistol.

Boyer immediately radioed his two men at the front driveway and told them to leave the property.

While this was going on, Drexler took Vincent Voland by the arm. “Where is Medina?”

Voland did not reply. He just stared down at Tarek Halaby’s dead body, tears forming in his eyes.

“Tell me and you walk out right now! Don’t tell me and I shoot you dead!”

Voland replied with, “Promise me you won’t hurt Rima Halaby!”

“If she’s as foolish as her husband, I will make no promises.” He repeated, “Where is Bianca Medina?”

“Off the kitchen there is a stairwell that leads down to a wine cellar. In the back of it are two doors. One leads to storage, the other to a servant’s quarters. She’s in the servant’s quarters, the door on the right. She’s locked in. You will not hurt a hair on her head!”

Malik and his men had already moved as a team to the door that led to the kitchen. Drexler gave Voland a menacing look and waved the pistol in his hand. “Why would I hurt Mademoiselle Medina? I only want to return her to her home.”

Voland understood that there was a dynamic here between Malik and Drexler. The Syrian did not know that the Swiss intelligence officer had been, initially at least, planning on killing Medina. Voland only had to tell Malik about Drexler’s work for Shakira with the ISIS cell, and there was a chance the Syrian would shoot Drexler here on the spot. But there was also a chance he would not and, Voland knew, Drexler would shoot him immediately for incriminating him.

So Voland said nothing.

Malik called from the door to the kitchen. “How many Free Syria Exile personnel are on the property?”

“Other than Rima and Tarek, six more.”

Drexler said, “Bon. You and the Legionnaires may leave now, just walk away. After tonight you no longer work for FSEU. If you work at all . . . you work for me.”