"It's a woman," the colonel said.
"Yes. My friend Katrina. She has kept me occupied while I waited for you."
"Is she alive?"
Jawhar let go of the colonel and looked at the bed. "Yes."
The bed was soaked with blood from the body. Long slices crisscrossed Katrina's body. Some were still slowly oozing blood, others had scabbed over already.
"What is that?" The colonel pointed at a bag attached to a coat hanger looped over the top stanchion of the headboard. A tube ran from the bag to the woman's neck.
"Plasma. I wouldn't want her to bleed out on me," Jawhar said. "It cost me quite a bit on the black market, but fortunately everything is for sale here." He took a step closer to the bed. "As I cut, I replace what comes out. This can go on for a very long time."
The Ukranian colonel was a hard man, but his face was white.
Jawhar held out his knife. "Would you like to contribute to my work in progress?"
"No." The colonel cocked his head as he heard a faint mewling noise.
"Her screams." Jawhar held up a glass from the nightstand. There was something floating in it. "Her tongue. I removed it first to keep working conditions tolerable and the neighbors from investigating."
The colonel stepped back. "But the police—"
"Oh, come, now," Jawhar said. "You know as well as I do that the police will not care about some prostitute. Besides, I will be long gone before she is found, will I not?"
"But I am associated with this room." The colonel couldn't take his eyes off the woman on the bed.
"Certainly this is very minor compared to what you are doing for me," Jawhar said. "I wouldn't think you'd be hanging around after we conclude our deal. I understand South America. Colombia, to be exact?"
"But we have yet—"
Jawhar put down the glass holding her tongue. "You do not have it?"
"It takes time."
"You've had time."
"I must get you out of here," the colonel said. "We have to be more secure. There are spies everywhere. Have you wired the additional money?"
"I would be a fool to pay you again and have yet to receive anything in return," Jawhar said. "And you would be a fool if you came here without checking your account and knowing that the money has not been wired."
"We must leave now. I will take you to a safe place."
Jawhar stared at the colonel for several seconds, then reluctantly nodded. "All right. Give me a few minutes to pack, then I will join you downstairs."
The colonel paused at the door. "The girl—"
"Do not concern yourself," Jawhar pushed the door shut in his face. Then he turned toward the bed. He leaned over and smiled into the girl's pain-filled eyes as he removed the IV from her neck. "Pleasant dreams," he whispered.
Chapter Twenty-two
Terri had listened, but other than the food being brought, she didn't hear Mary being returned to her cell. Every time she woke from a fitful sleep, she went to her door and called out for the girl. Her voice echoed down the corridor in vain. The other girls had stopped talking or answering — in fear of the same fate that had befallen Mary.
Leslie and Cathy were still in their cells and they hadn't been taken out again. A doctor had come to see them, checking the wound on their sides, removing the stitches, all without saying a word. Both girls had no idea what had been done to them. But Leslie confirmed there was something hard under her skin, in her right side.
Terri had taken to sitting with her back pressed into the farthest corner of her cell, knees tight up against her chest, eyes focused on the door. She held on to one thing — her dad would come for her. She knew that as firmly as she could feel the concrete against her back.
Chapter Twenty-three
Hancock unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap. He waited as the waiter poured a cup of coffee for him and the man seated across the table.
"Gereg's having me surveilled," Hancock said as soon as the waiter moved away.
The other man laughed. "Ah, the Man with One Red Shoe strikes again," he said, referring to the Tom Hanks comedy about the CIA. "Shall we stand in the middle of a lawn with the sprinklers on to have a private conversation?"
"Laser resonators could pick up such a conversation," Hancock noted.
"Ah, Karl, you are always so serious."
"It's my nature," Hancock acknowledged. Of course, the man across from him had much more reason at the moment to be serious. William Hill, the former national security adviser to the President, was currently under sixteen different indictments and a special prosecutor had been assigned to the case by the Justice Department. The only reason the media wasn't having a field day with the story was that everything involved was classified and the investigation was being done very quietly.
"I should have listened to you about Kilten," Hill said, the smile disappearing from his face.
"To a certain extent Kilten was predictable," Hancock said. "His plan was elaborate and worked well as far as he could take it before he was killed by McKenzie."
"It's not over yet," Hill said.
"No, it's not. No game is over until checkmate or one side resigns."
Hill's eyes shifted around the restaurant, even though they both knew they would not be able to spot their surveillance and that every word they were saying was being picked up and recorded.
"So how's your game?" Hill asked.
"Quite good."
"The latest match?"
"Progressing quite well. As usual, when a game develops, the board needs a little thinning, but I'm taking care of that. Cleaning up loose ends that are no longer needed, that sort of thing."
Hill leaned forward. "I'm trusting you this time."
"And well you should. Here comes our breakfast."
"I still think we should go to the authorities," Parker said.
"What authorities?" Dublowski asked. They were driving on post, heading back to the Delta Ranch after a trip to the BOQ so Parker could pick up her gear. Dublowski had recommended she stay in the guest quarters on the Ranch for security reasons.
Dublowski made a right turn. "Who has authority in this case? You were there at the oil rig. You're the counterterrorist POC at the Pentagon. You know SEAL Team Six has an anti-pirating mission and has actually conducted several live operations in that field around the world. Because there is no authority on the high seas. Here we are, at the end of the twentieth century, and we still have pirates running around the oceans."
"This is the same thing. Once people cross international boundaries with their crimes, who's responsible for catching them if their own country protects them? Who's responsible when crimes are committed in places where the local government doesn't care?"
"Mike's going into a foreign country all alone — what's he going to be able to do?"
Dublowski was watching the rearview mirror. "He'll do whatever he can." He turned left off the paved road onto a one-lane dirt road.
"Where are we going?" Parker asked.
"Anzio Drop Zone."
"Why?"
"So we can nail the asshole who's following us."
Parker looked back over the bed of the pickup. "I don't see anyone."
"He's holding back." The road came out of the trees and a vast expanse of open space lay in front of them, the far tree line over a mile and a half away. To the left it was clear as far as they could see along the rolling terrain. The ground was sandy, with clumps of waist-high grass here and there.
"But when we don't come back down the road in a minute, he's going to have to have to come forward." Dublowski hit the accelerator and the rear tires kicked up a plume of sand as he raced across the drop zone. A flash of light glinted in the rearview mirror. "He's at the edge of the woods," Dublowski said.