Watchlist (43 page)

It was inefficient.

Devras understood that the best way to achieve his goal of Kashmiri independence involved a different, far more potent weapon than thermobaric explosives, snipers or suicide bombers.

That weapon?

Desire, want, craving.

At Cambridge and afterward, Devras Sikari—along with her father and their Indian classmate—had indeed managed to duplicate the copper bracelet technology that had been perfected by the Germans during World War II. She’d lied to Middleton and the others about that.

In fact, the three men went far beyond the original design and created an astonishingly simple and productive system for the creation of heavy water.

But, realizing its potential and how he might exploit it, Devras insisted on patenting only a portion of the technology, leaving out key parts of the science, without which it would be impossible to bring the system online.

In the briefcase she carried now were the encrypted diagrams, formulae and specifications of these core elements omitted from the patents.

This was Devras’s plan: to trade the copper bracelet technology to the major OPEC countries in exchange for their agreement to force India, China and Pakistan into partitioning Kashmir and ultimately granting independence. If the three “occupying” nations didn’t do this, the petroleum producers would start to turn off the spigots of oil, and the factories and utilities and the oh-so-important cheap cars filling the subcontinent would die of thirst.

The Middle Eastern countries craved nukes; China and the Indian subcontinent craved oil.

She would spend the next few hours here meeting one at a time with representatives from these countries, men who were presently praying in the mosque. Their souls longed for spiritual ecstasy, their hearts for fissionable material.

Allah was presumably satisfying the first and Jana would fulfill the second.

She hefted the briefcase onto the table. Inside were six 8-gig thumb drives with the encrypted technology on them. She knew the men would be delighted with what she brought to the table. And what was particularly attractive was that the technology was compact and efficient and the facilities would be largely off the grid, hard to detect by even the sharpest eyes in the sky.

Glancing at her watch. The first of the representatives—from Syria—would be here in three minutes.

What an ecstatic moment this was!

If only Devras were here to experience this with her . . .

She sipped her latte and glanced again at the turbaned fellow nearby, still muttering, his face dark.

The door to the coffee shop jingled open and an Arab in Western clothes entered. She recognized him as the Syrian assistant attaché for Economic Development and Infrastructure Support.

Read: spy.

She noted his shirt, flirtatiously open two buttons, his bare head, a beard vainly trimmed. Such a hypocrite, she thought. In their countries: no alcohol, no pork, no drugs, no women other than the wife or wives. Here, in London, anything went.

Still, she smiled his way: Jana Grover was as efficient a businesswoman as she was a killer.

He glanced at her and smiled an oily flirt her way. He started forward.

At last, Devras. Kashmir will be free . . .

Then the man froze, looking out the window. Police cars were screeching to a halt, men jumping out.

No! What was going on?

He turned to flee, but was stopped by a dapper man in a business suit coming through the door. He shoved the Syrian to the ground.

Jana understood that she’d been discovered, the whole plot had been found out!

She pushed back from the table and rose, going for the High Standard .22 under her blouse.

But a strong arm grabbed her wrist and bent it painfully behind her. The gun fell to the floor.

She glanced back. It was the turbaned Arab, who had shoved a pistol into her neck. She struggled furiously.

“Bloody hell, luv. Special Branch. Give it a rest, why don’t we?”

Sounding just like Ali G.

“She’s all yours,” Harold Middleton said to Ian Barrett-Bone, whose slacks had been badly smudged in the take-down of the Syrian. He brushed with some irritation at a stain.

They were on the sidewalk in front of the Café Nero. Jana Grover was being taken into custody for the drive to New Scotland Yard, where the Metropolitan police’s Anti-Terror Unit, one of the best in the world, would interrogate her.

Middleton was the only Volunteer present at the moment, though Wiki Chang was in MI5’s tech lab on Euston Road, preparing to crack the encryption on the thumb drives.

Which, according to the documents found in Jana’s briefcase, included details on the copper bracelet technology—the secret elements that would make the system operative.

“You were spot on, Harry. Have to ask, how’d you figure it out?”

Middleton considered his answer. “You could say, by looking at what wasn’t in front of us.”

“How’s that?”

“Questions. I kept coming back to unanswered questions. First of all, the email.”

“Which one’s that?”

“From Sikari to Balan. We found it on Balan’s computer, which Sikari and Jana were pretty damn eager to destroy.” He quoted it for Barrett-Bone. “It said, ‘You recall what I have planned for the “Village.” It has to happen soon—before we can move on. We only have a few weeks at the most.’”

“Ah, before we can move on.”

“Exactly. That told me he had something planned
after
the incident at the dam.”

“But how did you connect it here?”

“That was another nagging question: we had a lead to the mosque in the very beginning, but it didn’t pan out. We knew it wasn’t a misdirection because that was on the computer too, the one they blew up. But we couldn’t find any connection when we investigated the first time. That told me it might have something to do with what Sikari had planned
after
the dam.”

“And why did you think it had to do with the heavy-water system?”

“That was speculation, I admit. But I got the idea because of my kind host a few days ago: Mr. No Name—from the Group.”

“Oh, those mad Nazi bastards?”

“Right. They were so adamant about finding the technology that it suggested they knew Sikari had gotten further along in developing a heavy-water system than it seemed. They’d seen the patents and known his copper bracelet wouldn’t work. Then why were they so eager to kidnap me and track down the Scorpion? They suspected that Sikari had withheld some of his research.”

Middleton had then contacted Barrett-Bone, who arranged for increased surveillance around the mosque, easy enough in a city that boasts one CCTV camera for every three residents.

Metropolitan police’s keen-eyed team immediately recognized several cultural or economic affairs representatives from major OPEC nations arriving for prayers. There was no reason for them to be in London, let alone in this neighborhood, unless some operation was going down.

Middleton had a feeling Jana Grover would make an appearance. And, today, finally she had. Circling the mosque and then ducking into Café Nero. A Special Branch agent of Pakistani descent slipped inside for a cuppa, to verify it was she and cover her.

When the operative from the Syrian consulate stepped inside, the trap closed.

Suddenly a woman’s voice raged, “You’ll never beat us!”

Jana Grover was staring at him as she was being slipped into a squad car.

“You’ll never win!”

Seems like we just did, Middleton thought, but didn’t reply.

Barrett-Bone asked, “You’ll want to interrogate her, I assume. I can arrange it.”

The American glanced at his watch. Barrett-Bone, the spy with Patek Philippe taste, couldn’t help a faint frown of pity as he noticed the Timex.

Middleton laughed at his reaction. “Later. I have plans at the moment.” Then he frowned. “But maybe there is something you can do for me, Ian.”

“Whatever it might be, my friend, name it.”

The houselights dimmed.

The concert hall audience slowly fell silent.

But the curtain didn’t rise. And a moment later the lights rose and a voice came over the P.A. system. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention please. The management regrets to inform you that there will be a short delay. The concert will begin in fifteen minutes.”

Felicia Kaminski, standing in the wings, sighed. She hadn’t fully recovered from the kidnapping, the injuries, the psychological horror. Nor from the loss of her beloved Bela Szepessy violin (she now clutched a functional but uninspiring instrument borrowed from a musician with the London Symphony).

Besides she was lonely. She hadn’t seen Harold Middleton since he’d returned to London to arrest the woman who’d kidnapped Felicia. She hadn’t seen Nora Tesla or Charley either.

Felicia knew she needed one hundred fifty percent concentration to give a concert of this sort. Yet, under these circumstances, she wasn’t anywhere close. And now this nonsense with the delayed start, made matters worse.

The concert, she knew, would be a disaster.

What was the delay? she wondered, despairing.

The answer came in the form of a low American voice behind her.

“Hello.”

Felicia turned. She gasped to see Harold Middleton. She set her instrument down and ran to hug him.

“I heard you were all right. But I was so worried.”

Eyes tearing, she regarded cuts and bruises.

“I’m fine,” he said, laughing. He looked her over too. “You seem all right.”

She shrugged.

“You know,” Middleton continued, “we have one thing more in common now.”

“What is that, Harold?”

“We’ve both been kidnapped. And escaped.”

Then she stepped away and dried her eyes. “You are, I suppose, responsible for the delayed start?”

He smiled. “You deduced that.”

She nodded.

“Well, there is a security problem.”

“No! What?” She looked out into the crowded hall.

“Not to them,” he said. “A risk to your heart.”

“What do you mean?”

“You lost your Bela Szepessy at my flat. I’m responsible.”

“Harold, please . . . ”

“You could play on a child’s toy and make angels weep. But I thought you should have an instrument worthy of your talent. I’ve borrowed one for you to use until your Bela is repaired. I asked the management for a delay to let you get used to it.”

He handed her a package. She opened it up. And gasped.

“It’s not . . . oh, my God!” She was holding a violin made by Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesu—the same instrument she’d been listening to in Harold’s flat, when she was kidnapped. Only three hundred or so still exist throughout the world, half the number of those made by the famed Stradivarius. You couldn’t find a Guarneri for under a million dollars.

Playing an instrument like this just once—a dream of all violinists.

“How, Harold? They’re impossible even to find.”

“I made a new friend in the course of the case. A civil servant, believe it or not, but he leads a rather posh life, to use one of his words. He made a few phone calls . . . My only request is that you don’t brain any kidnappers with it.”

“What is ‘brain’? Oh, you mean, hit anyone with it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll only use cricket bats for that from now on, Harold.”

“So, go tune up or do whatever you have to do. The audience is getting restless.”

Felicia held the fragrant wood in her hands, light as a bird. “Oh, Harold.” She took the bow from the case and tightened the horsehair strands and plucked the keys, which she found perfectly tuned and at concert pitch.

She turned to thank him again.

But he was gone.

After ten minutes of practice, she was aware of the houselights dimming again. The orchestra walked on stage and then the conductor. Finally Felicia, the soloist, entered to even louder applause.

She bowed to the audience and then to the conductor and the other players and took her place stage left.

The conductor tapped his baton, leaned forward and the concerto began. As she counted the measures, waiting for her cue, Felicia surveyed the hall.

Finally she saw them, two dozen rows back. Charley, Harold, and Nora Tesla, whose hand he was holding. She gave Harold a slight smile and, despite the spotlight in her eyes, she believed he smiled back.

Then the orchestra’s part grew softer, signaling the approach of hers. She lifted the priceless instrument to her chin.

At a glance from the conductor, Felicia closed her eyes and began to play, abandoning herself completely to the music, which flowed over the audience like a gentle tide.

Copyright © 2009 by International Thriller Writers, Inc.

Published by Vanguard Press
A Member of the Perseus Books Group

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information and inquiries, address Vanguard Press, 387 Park Avenue South, 12th Floor, New York, NY 10016, or call (800) 343-4499.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Watchlist : a serial thriller / based on an idea by Jeffery Deaver.

p. cm.

“Linda Barnes, Brett Battles, Lee Child, David Corbett, Jeffery Deaver, Joseph Finder, Jim Fusilli, John Gilstrap, James Grady, David Hewson, Jon Land, David Liss, Gayle Lynds, John Ramsey Miller, P. J. Parrish, Ralph Pezzullo, James Phelan, S. J. Rozan, Lisa Scottoline, Jenny Siler, Peter Spiegelman, Erica Spindler.”

eISBN : 978-1-593-15619-0

I. Deaver, Jeffery.

PS3600.A1W37 2010

813’.6—dc22

2009038746

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