Adrenaline (54 page)

“You all right?” I asked her. She nodded. I felt a tickle of bile at the back of my throat and I swallowed it down.

“You killed them,” Mr. Bell said, gasping. People say the most obvious things when they’re in a daze.

“They sell people,” I said. “They’re worse than I’ll ever be.”

“Who are you?”

I didn’t answer. I’m just a man who wants his stolen child back. My son I’ve never seen, except on this video, being carried by a woman who sells human beings for profit. My child. I was much closer to finding my kid than I’d ever been. And I thought of the times I rested my hand on my wife’s pregnant swell, feeling the bubble of movement beneath the skin, knowing it was a baby but not knowing it was going to be Daniel, this unique and special person who I’d never gotten to see with my own eyes, hold with my own arms.

I’m coming, I told him, my breath like a prayer on the air.

Mr. Bell swallowed; his mouth quivered as he looked at the dead men. “Okay, you can have a baby. Whichever one you want.”

“I want one born on January tenth at a private clinic in Strasbourg called Les Saintes. His birth name on the certificate was Julien Daniel Besson but his real name is Daniel Capra. This woman took him from the clinic. All we’ve been able to find out is that she travels on a Belgian passport under the name of Anna Tremaine. Now, I asked around, and I found out that you work with Anna Tremaine.”

He gave a half-nod. He was scared to death, blinking at the bodies of the muscles.

“Where is my son?” I asked, very quietly.

“I didn’t handle that placement. Anna would know. Oh, God, please don’t hurt me.”

“Don’t lie to us.” Mila held up the watch-garrote, slicked with blood.

“I’m not lying. I’m not.”

I squatted by him, put the silencer—still warm—against his modishly unshaven cheek. “Did Anna know you were suspicious of me?”

“Um, no. We initially reject every adopter—we claim they aren’t suitable, that there’s a hole in their story. Our clients are normally so desperate, they will do almost anything not to be rejected. Usually we can pressure them into ‘qualifying’ by sharing information that is valuable—you know, insider info on a company, or they can render services to us that can be useful later.”

Extortion and blackmail, as if illegal adoption wasn’t enough. What charming people.

“So you meet us. We pass your test. Then what?”

“I call Anna. We set up a meeting. You give her the rest of the money. Then she makes a phone call and the child is brought to you.”

“Has my son been sold?”

“I told you, I don’t know. Please. Please!”

“Watch him,” I said to Mila. I opened the laptop. On the screen was a catalog in PDF format. Pictures of babies. Countries of origin. Description of parents, if known—but no names. The spring catalog featured over two dozen children. Beautiful kids on the auction block. I scanned it quickly. None were listed as being born in France and I didn’t see what the point of lying in the catalog would be.

“You’re going to call Anna Tremaine, and you’re going to set up a meeting.”

Mr. Bell’s lip trembled.

“Where is she based?”

“Her cell phone has a Las Vegas area code. But that’s not where she necessarily meets people,” he added in a little rushed lie.

“Las Vegas will be just fine.” I decided I’d make it extra easy for Anna Tremaine. “You tell her that Mr. and Mrs. Derwatt have checked out and that we’ll be in Vegas tomorrow night to collect our child and pay the money.”

“You have to pick one, then.”

“What?”

“A child. You have to pick a child.”

“This one.” I just pointed to the infant whose picture was on the current page of the digital catalog.

“Okay.” His breathing slowed. “I’ll do it, please don’t kill me.”

“Call her. Now. And if you say a single syllable that I don’t like, I
will
kill you.” And I slipped Mila’s garrote around his throat. The bloodied wire lay against his shirt and I tightened it enough so that the steel lay against his soft throat. I gave him an address in Las Vegas to suggest as a meeting place. He nodded.

He dialed. He waited. I leaned close enough to hear.

“Yes?”

“Anna. It’s Bell. The couple today, the Derwatts, they checked out okay. They’ve made their selection.”

“Which one?”

“Number fourteen.”

I could hear the barest scratch of pen and ink. “All right.”

“They don’t want to meet in New York. I think they would be willing to come to Las Vegas.”

A pause. “All right.”

“Do you know a place called The Canyon Bar, just off the Strip?”

“Oh, wonderful,” she said. “Hipster parents.”

“They suggested meeting there. Tomorrow evening at nine.”

I thought she might suggest her own choice. But any public spot could be put under surveillance. Our locale was as good as any other. “That’s fine,” she said.

“All right, I’ll tell them.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The conversation felt off. Tense. But he hadn’t said anything I could pinpoint as a signal to her.

“The wife and kids all right?”

“Yes, Anna, thanks for asking.” He swallowed against the wire. “Brent starts flag football this weekend. Jared’s joined swim team.”

“Oh, that’s nice. All right, I’ll see the Derwatts tomorrow. How will I know them?”

“She’s very petite, dark-haired. He’s about six foot, wiry, dark blond hair, green eyes. Nice-looking couple.”

“Tell them to get a table, preferably in the back. Order me a martini, three olives, and leave it at the table with a seat for me. I don’t like the look of anything in the bar, I skip the meeting, and no baby.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“Very well,” Anna said. “Bye.”

He hung up the phone and dropped it to the floor. Shivering under the wire, waiting for me to kill him.

Mila knelt to meet his gaze. “You’re not going to die. You’re going to talk. You’re going to tell me everything you know about Novem Soles.”

“Who?”

“Novem Soles, also called Nine Suns.”

“What? I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean the criminal ring that Anna works for.”

“I only know Anna. She’s self-employed.”

I pushed up the sleeves on his shirt. There was no
marking tattoo, a fiery nine transformed into a blazing sun. Novem Soles’s mark of ownership; I’d seen it on too many arms back in Amsterdam. I checked the arms of the two muscles. One had a tattoo, but it was the Chinese symbol for luck. Hadn’t worked.

“She’s not working for herself,” I said. “She works for an incredibly dangerous group of people. They were plotting a mass assassination a month ago. You screw them over, you die.”

Mr. Bell’s lip trembled. He was trying to find his bravery but failing.

“You see them?” Mila pointed at the bodies.

He nodded.

“You’re not going to be like them unless you make trouble. You’re going to be locked up in a room and wait until we’ve taken care of Anna. And you tell my people all you know about Anna Tremaine and her operation,” Mila said. “Everything. And then you’re going to go back and live with your family and you’re going to stay the hell out of illegal activities.”

He nodded.

“Call your wife. Tell her you need to go out of town for a few days. Then call your office.”

He nodded, eager, hopeful he would live.

When he was done, he handed her back the phone. She took a pair of handcuffs off one of the dead men and cuffed Bell. I almost saw him shiver in relief. If she was cuffing him, she wasn’t killing him.

I had the information I needed, finally. I was going to find my son.

Cable Beach, the Bahamas

I
T WAS A BREAKING OF THE RULES
, punishable by death. His project; his failure. His only shield was that he controlled access to many secrets that made their work and their profits possible. He smoothed out the thin strip of blond hair that bisected his scalp, a low-cut mohawk, and tugged at the jacket of his Armani suit. He stood on the porch of the large house and waited for the other eight to arrive in the darkening evening.

Rain slashed the beach, wind whipped the waves. Thunder thrummed the sky and the world appeared to have been smeared with gray paint. Alongside the sodden beach ran an equally sodden road, with a sign marking that it had been closed for repairs. Over the course of two hours, eight cars came down the rain-smeared asphalt and went around the wind-buffeted sign without the slightest hesitation. Each of the Lincoln Navigators, with its windows tinted against prying eyes, had been hired out from a local company that usually specialized in transporting film actors and rock stars around the island.

The passengers in each car, in this case, were not famous, and each liked their anonymity.

The house nestled in a private cove. The drivers helped their passengers inside. Each had packed light and carried a single bag. The drivers—all former military, now security for hire, from a variety of English-speaking nations—then took up stations around the house, to ensure that no one approached via boat, or car, or plane. Shortly after the last passenger arrived, the sky began to break, the clouds parting as if a curtain was rising on a stage, the early evening stars as witnesses.

The house smelled of Italian cooking: a heady mix of oregano, garlic, simmering beef and red wine. The host for this gathering of the Nine Suns, or Novem Soles as it was also known, had spent part of his wandering childhood in Rome. He loved food, and his nanny had taught him how to cook. So for dinner there was salad, grilled fish, hearty pastas, and fine wines imported from Tuscany and Piedmont.

The nine men and women ate and sipped wine and chatted about the world’s events: a financial crisis in South America, the increasing violence between Muslims and Christians in Nigeria, the latest scandal in the American Congress—and the opportunities for expansion that all three presented.

The man with the blond mohawk accepted compliments on the food; he smiled and encouraged the quieter members of the group—quiet, that is, in the way of cobras, observing, considering when to strike—to join the conversations. He had wanted to arrange prostitutes for the visiting group, but had been sternly warned that, given recent events, this was no time for debauchery. He
missed sex; he was reduced to being a spectator nowadays, but even watching, a feeble substitute, was better than nothing.

In these rooms they did not use each other’s names. They were known by their responsibilities: the Banker, the General, the Diplomat, the Courier. Titles passed down through long years, or kept by the original members of the nine. The blond mohawk was called the Watcher; it was a role he’d fought hard to get, and he had no intention of losing it now.

The Watcher waited for the Banker and the General to get into their usual bickering, but for once they did not. He heard English spoken, Russian practiced, the silk of Arabic whispered. These gatherings were always a good chance for everyone to practice their foreign language skills. But the meeting would be conducted in English, the group’s lingua franca.

After supper, the nine gathered in the large den. The Watcher stood at the head of the long table. He took a calming breath that he camouflaged under a welcoming smile. He was the youngest.
Can’t be scared, boy. Be tough
.

“I’m a firm believer in bad news first,” the Watcher said. “As you know, our recent mass assassination plot in the United States failed.”

Silence among the nine. It seemed like all the goodwill engendered by his fine food and wine evaporated like ice on summer concrete.

“A smuggling ring that we used as a cover to get experimental weapons into the United States was destroyed. The ring was infiltrated by a former CIA operative named Sam Capra. He should have died in our bombing of a clandestine CIA office in London dedicated to stopping illicit
transnational activities. His office was part of the Special Projects branch—which, as you know, does the work that even the CIA is not supposed to discuss.” The mention of Special Projects caused a bit of a stir in the room: glances exchanged, water sipped, eyebrows raised. “These days Special Projects is specifically interested in any criminal, non-terrorist activities that can affect American national security.”

He paused; they stared. Waiting. He tapped on the laptop button and a picture of Sam Capra appeared on the screen. Brownish-blond-haired, green-eyed, the lean face of a runner, midtwenties, boyish. “Capra survived only because he walked out of the office before it was bombed, however, and was regarded by the CIA as a likely traitor due to financial irregularities committed by his wife, and the inconvenient fact that his pregnant wife had told him to leave the office right before it was destroyed. Capra escaped from the CIA’s custody, went searching for his wife, infiltrated our group in Amsterdam and disrupted the assassination plots.”

The nine waited while the Watcher took a long drink of water. He studied their faces. Most of them would not have been recognized by any government official, any police department, any journalist, any intelligence service. They were, for the most part, so ordinary. Frighteningly ordinary. The person who might sit next to you on the subway, or stand behind you in the grocery store line, or drop off their child at the same time you did at school. They came from around the world, yet they all seemed to have that same suburban sameness. It was, the Watcher thought, a superior camouflage. Yet they had come so close to delivering a history-changing death blow
to American stability, to bringing the country to a level of chaos that promised an erosion of the rule of law and, in turn, enormous profit.