91

ADRENALINE THRUMMED WITH MUSIC, guitars battling under androgynous singing. Most of the crowd was in the building’s courtyard listening to an impossibly trendy band play. I parked the truck behind the bar in the reserved owner’s space and used the private back entrance, carrying Yasmin’s body on my shoulder, keying in the code Mila had given me to open the door. No one saw me. Lucy was still locked inside her windowless room. I left her there; right now if I looked at her I might kill her. I had to stay focused. I locked the doors behind me. The room had been soundproofed but I could still feel the distant beat of the music.

There was medical equipment in a closet, just as in Amsterdam. I found a scalpel. I spread plastic sheeting on the floor and carefully cut into Yasmin’s bullet wounds. I couldn’t shake either the image of the treasured daughter she had been in her father’s eyes, or that of the empty shell she’d become.

I found one of the bullets and carefully pulled it out. I wiped it clean and took it to the table.

The bullet was longer and slimmer than usual. Malformed slightly from the impact on entering Yasmin’s body, it carried a grid on its nose that matched the grid I’d seen on the bomb shrapnel and the gun. I pulled apart the bullet. Inside lay a complex web of miniaturized technology.

I took photos of the dismantled bullet and loaded them onto the computer on the desk.

Then I took one of the phones from the shelf, checked it, and called a number in New York City.

It rang three times. “Howell.”

“It’s Sam Capra.”

“Sam.”

“I have my wife.”

“You what?”

“I have captured my wife.”

A long shocked silence.

“You were right, Howell. She betrayed me, the Company. I have proof.”

“Slow down.”

“Have you intercepted that cigarette shipment?”

“No. The customs people in Rotterdam haven’t tracked it.”

“Listen. Lucy’s connected to a group—your Novem Soles—that has stolen a prototype for some kind of high-tech gun. I want to send you photos of a bullet. I need it analyzed.”

“No, you need to come in, Sam. Do this right.”

“No. I will send you the photos. I think that maybe they’re targeting kids with these guns.”

“Kids?”

“I saw a list of fifty people that I think may be targeted. Mostly kids, a few men and women. Give me an e-mail to send this information to you.”

“Bring in the evidence. Now, Sam.” Howell lowered his voice. “All could be forgiven if you really have Lucy.”

But if I told him everything, I’d have to give him Mila as well. I wasn’t prepared to do that.

“Give me an e-mail. That’s the only way we’re doing this.”

Reluctantly he did. I hung up. I went to the computer and used an anonymizer program to access a series of servers, finally ending up on one in South Africa hosting a popular celebrity gossip site. It was a Company front. I used an inactive account there I’d once had as Peter Samson to send the photos I’d taken. I’d give Howell a couple of hours before I called back.

I changed into dry clothes I found in a closet, then unlocked the soundproofed room. Lucy sat on the floor, chained to the wall.

I looked at her as though she were a complete stranger.