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Two years earlierSyria
I put the unfortunate incident with Dr. Omar out of my mind and get to work. I got my dig permit, and following my hunch and the photos I found in Aleppo, and uninfluenced by the prejudices of others in my field, I set out with my small entourage of local desert wanderers eager for decent pay and a hot meal.
We head toward the dead cities, crumbling in the desert-like landscape, cruising along in a four-wheel drive with questionable brakes and a rickety old minibus that needs new tires. It’s the best I can afford after the pat down I got from Dr. Omar, a man who enjoyed eating big green olives while he played with my mind. I’ve heard some men find more stimulation in wielding a mental power over a woman than in taking her to bed. Seems the museum curator is such a man. When Dr. Omar realized he couldn’t intimidate me, he backed down and unlocked the door, though not without berating me and assuring me he’ll be paying me a visit at the site. No doubt I haven’t seen the last of him.
I put all of that behind me. I’m filled with hope and exuberance driving down the bumpy side road past fields of yellow wildf lowers. I travel without thought for comfort, though mindful of danger. Bandits as well as blood feuds between tribes are not unknown in these parts. I carry a gun in my backpack for protection, though I’ve never been awakened by bullets slicing through the canvas of my tent. Using the photos as a guide, I chart a course into the Syrian Desert away from the Euphrates River, following an ancient caravan route past the old Crusader fortress. Luckily, we don’t share the road with anyone except a few cows and a shepherd herding his flock.
About three hours out of the city, we reach an area where old beehive huts bake in the hot desert heat, unchanged for centuries. Are they the same ones I saw in the photos? I don’t know for sure, but we stop, fill our stomachs with tea and bread, then lift up our souls with a spiritual nod to the blazing noon sun beating down on the parched desert.
While my crew set up camp, I go to work. I grab my digital camera and start taking pictures of the site, then compare them to the heavy cardboard sepia-colored photos from so long ago. Disappointment etches its weary lines on my face. Nothing looks the same except the huts. The to-pography has changed in seven decades. It’s flatter, as if the desert winds are also searching for the treasure and have scratched away at the sand in a slow, tedious crawl. Worse yet, I don’t hear the voices, only the whisper of sand gently blowing up from the south.
I pull a map out of my khaki pants pocket, check it, see nothing that indicates I’m anywhere near the now-vanished road where the knightly Crusaders trekked centuries ago, then stuff it into my back pocket and wonder if what I need is strong Arabic coffee, not tea, to rev up my senses.
I head back to camp, pull off my wide-brimmed camel-colored hat and toss it down on my backpack, then lie down on the cot inside my tent, my hair wet from sweat, my mouth dry and wanting. Damn, what if I’m wrong? What if the whole thing is a hoax? The pictures fake? No, I can’t believe that. My gut twists inside me, telling me otherwise. Heinrich Schliemann and Sir Arthur Evans followed their guts, struck out on their own paths and discovered lost cities, tombs and artifacts not touched by human hands for thousands of years.
The pull inside me to know the thrill of discovery doesn’t let up, that sublime moment when the spark of recognition of knowing you’re in the presence of something thousands of years old, unchanged, hits you. It’s as if you’ve done what people have tried to do since that first moment when they realized they had a past. You’ve traveled back through time.
That pull is as strong in me as the sexual urge and just as orgiastic. Or so I want to believe. Thinking about it, a pleasant sensation rolls through me before I can stop it, as I remember the first time I uncovered a skeleton more than two thousand years old, her remains well preserved, her jewelry still intact. I reveled in the feeling.
My yen for romance and adventure led me to study archaeology, but the science keeps me coming back, knowing my work supplies material for a social history of peoples’ lives not experienced through the written word, but transmitted through touch. When I run my fingers up and down the neck of a piece of pottery a thousand years old and rub its belly, I can feel the pulse of the woman carrying it on her shoulder as if it’s my own. I see her swaying her hips on her walk through the village, caressing the long neck of the jar when she fills it with water from the well, then flirting with a passing traveler. Does she offer him a cool drink and invite him into her tent? Pull up her robe so he can mount her? His hard chest crushing her breasts, his hot breath whispering in her ear as his cock finds the sweet pinkness between her legs eager for his thrusts.
Another pubic contraction rudely reminds me I haven’t been with a man for months, while a sudden dizziness tells me I’ve been out in the sun too long. Can I cure both at the same time?
Grabbing cold water to cool off more than my thirst, I guzzle down the icy liquid then slowly begin rubbing my crotch, my mind overflowing with pictures, like the old stereoscopic daguerreotypes with the same photo sitting side by side. I study the photos in the album alongside the ones I took with my digital camera, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t make the images merge into a living, breathing moment. Frustration takes over and my hand moves faster and faster over my throbbing clit until I cry out, letting go of my pent-up emotions before I fall into a dreamless sleep.
I awake to the smell of sweet honey and hot tea left by Ahmed’s wife. I look down. Wetness stains my crotch. A different scent, musky and familiar, rolls over me. My calm has returned. I’m ready to go on.
The desert sun rounds the earth on its daily course, changing color from pale yellow to burnt orange, far too quickly for me. Day after day, my team of diggers set hoe to ground every morning at 5:00 a. m., making a test pit, digging a small hole into the ground with a pick and scooping up samples of earth, but finding nothing more than broken pottery vessels, a few copper and bronze objects and a flint core. It’s impossible to date these objects without setting up an on-site lab, which I have no resources to do, so I sit under the pale green awning on my tent and catalog each object for transportation back to Aleppo. I refuse to show my disappointment to my team, especially Ahmed. I’ve formed strong bonds with these locals in a short time, living and working alongside the desert dwellers. To ease the tension, I compliment his wife on her excellent hummus, a tasty dish consisting of crushed chickpeas, cumin, parsley and olive oil, then I give the children key chains I carry with me to give out as souvenirs and promise to pay the men extra cash if they’ll stay on a few more days. Where I’ll get the money, I don’t know. Call my mother, I guess. Tell her it’s an emergency, but make no mention of the dig. Mom won’t question me, but my sister, Peyton, will. She’s never approved of my traveling around the Near East by myself, asking me if I have to wear a black robe and veil over my head all the time, if they have indoor plumbing in the hotels, and does it smell as bad as she’s heard?
I roll my eyes at her questions, but I try not to blame her. In her world, women play bridge and do lunch at the country club. They don’t trek halfway around the world in search of ancient artifacts, mummies, embalming salts and broken ceramics. They definitely don’t spend their days analyzing small pieces of dried flesh thousands of years old.
Adding to my problem this morning, the Jeep has a flat tire. Who knew no one put air in the tires at the rental agency? I don’t dare take a chance driving it. Worse yet, I have only two days left on my dig permit. Ahmed offers to drive me into town later in the minibus to call home since there’s no cell phone reception out here in the desert. I agree. I have no time to lose. We get started early on the digging, but by the noon meal, we’ve still found nothing but the usual potsherds. After lunch, I wander around the excavation site by myself, making notes, noting that one section in particular keeps drawing me back to it. It’s a mound without a blade of vegetation and occasional camel-thorn, but unlike other tels, we’ve found nothing there, as if the sands of time have formed the hunchback shape, not man building on top of old foundations.
On approaching it closer, I see no trace of a ruin, only the wooden stakes the diggers use to mark the yellow and parched earth. I notice the tattooed Arab woman cleaning up the lunch leftovers of mahshi, baked stuffed eggplant, and baba ghanoush, eggplant dip, while her sons gorge on watermelon and gather dry twigs, teasing each other with adolescent banter before tossing the sticks into the linen bag the older one carries. Ahmed and the other diggers sit around playing cards while loud Arabic pop music blasts on his boom box. The noon breeze has gone into hiding, the air hot and still as if it hangs suspended between the dry earth and the bleached white sky.
Fanning myself with a map, I no longer believe I’ll find anything here but broken pottery, but nevertheless, out of habit, I keep my eye on everything happening around me. I should give the order to dig in another spot, but I tend to remain in one place, especially when the pull is strong in my gut to stay here. I get emotionally attached to my excavation area, foolish perhaps, but it’s my style. Sometimes the whispers trick me, sending me in the wrong direction, but they never fail me.
I stand on the mound with my feet planted firmly, my shoulders straight back, my khaki shirt and pants beginning to show wear and stained with brown dirt, making me blend in with the earth tones surrounding me. Still, it’s a defiant gesture to the spirits to show them I’m not leaving, yet I swear the sun ignores my bland figure, preferring instead to cast its rays on the young boys chasing after each other. I blink as the bright flame of their red scarves flying around their necks in the sparkly glare bounces off my sunglasses.
Smiling, I watch the boys race over the wadi, ravine, toward where the men were digging this morning. As they jump and dodge each other as boys do, their mother is busy at her chore, not realizing they’re playing near the spot where the diggers set up the pointy stakes. I blink, realizing they shouldn’t be playing there. What if they slip and cut themselves on the sharp edges? I’ll never forgive myself.
I’m about to call out to them to be careful when the words catch in my throat. Frantic cries pierce the stillness as I watch the younger boy stumble, his brother grabbing on to his red scarf, pulling on it, but it comes loose and he disappears feet first into the bowels of the earth.
6
Present day
“She looks good enough to eat.”
No sooner did he speak the words did Caine regret them, knowing the Russian would take that as a challenge, using the girl as a receptacle, dispassionate and unfeeling.
He cursed under his breath. He was off his game, bursting in like this, tipping off the Russian. So far, he’d kept his surveillance on the down low, keeping the eyeball on the terrorist without him suspecting he was being tailed. Never once was the rabbit in the black—surveillance-free for more than a few seconds. The man wasn’t easily fooled, seeming to look at no one but keeping his eye out for any attention directed his way. Disguised as a punk with a spiked, black-crow haircut and patch over one eye, Caine had been closer to him than his shadow and he never knew. Until now. And why, why?
Her.
What the hell is she doing here? I thought I’d sent her asspacking. Now she’s lying half-naked across the bed, all melting fleshand big breasts, the smell of her desire driving me crazy.
She’d turned him on in that alley with her sassy attitude and curvaceous body, her breasts spilling out of that tight corset and nearly into his hands. He rubbed his fingers together, remembering jamming his knee between her legs and crushing her breasts against his chest. But that wasn’t what made him change his plans and follow her into the hotel. When she turned her head a certain way and raised up her buttocks, something clicked in his brain, as if he’d seen her somewhere. But his brain failed to connect the time or place when he rubbed up against her, smelled her, touched her.
He couldn’t believe it when she headed for the Russian’s room. He was certain she was walking head-on into a cover stop—a planned diversion by the Russian to cover up his real purpose. The ex-KGB agent would stop at nothing short of murder if she didn’t fit into his plans.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” said the Russian. Taking his time, running his hands over the curve of her buttocks, he snapped the tight red thong separating her cheeks. Her butt jiggled, pleasing Caine’s eye, but she didn’t wince. She didn’t feel the slap of the elastic band.
“Yeah. Primo ass.” Caine swallowed and nodded toward the strutting call girl lying unconscious on the bed as still and quiet as if she were bound and gagged. In spite of the situation, he grinned. Not a bad idea. He’d almost grabbed the hemp rope hanging from her belt earlier with a similar idea in mind. Now he wished he had. She’d be tied up in a rented room and out of danger and waiting for him. “What did you put in her drink? Or did you use a syringe?”
Did the Russian jab her in the thigh with a sleep-inducing drug?It was quick and done so discreetly she wouldn’t have seen it coming.
The Russian gave him a smirking look and he could tell he reveled in his application of tradecraft. “I sprayed a synthetic opioid in her ear.”
Caine tensed. “Fentanyl?”
“Yes. A favorite of mine,” drawled the Russian. “Much more potent than a Valium-type drug.”
Caine darted his eyes again on the gorgeous girl. He was no doctor, but he’d seen army medics administer the drug on the battlefield. It was a powerful anesthetic used in small, controlled doses to manage pain. Its effects were similar to nerve gas or heroin and hundreds of times more potent.
He said, “An overdose is usually fatal.”
“Not always.” The Russian patted his jacket pocket. “I have the overdose kit right here. She’ll survive.”
“Unless you don’t intend to give it to her.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
Caine stared at him. Hard. Was he telling the truth? If not, he didn’t have much time. If the opioid was comparable to what the Mossad used in assassination attempts, she could suffer from respiratory collapse and be dead in a matter of hours. He had no doubt that was exactly what the Russian intended. Why? Something didn’t add up. Yet he didn’t have the time to react to the man’s accusation. He had a job to do, and damn this girl for getting in the way.
“I have no choice but to play along with your sexual diversions.” Caine kept his cool, though a chill ran through him. “What bothers me is the girl might be dead before I take my turn with her.”
The ex-KGB agent shook his head, then smiled with a toothy grin that unnerved Caine, something that rarely happened. “She’ll sleep until I awaken her.” A grunt, then a groan spewed from his mouth. “With my cock.”
His stomach turned and bile rose in his throat as Caine fought back a rising disgust for the terrorist. Instead he said, “Then you’re not going to share her?”
The Russian punched him in the ribs. Hard. “This one is mine. Get your own pussy.”
“Fuck you. I want her.” Caine shoved him back, careful not to push him too hard. He didn’t intend to be on the receiving end of a knuckle blow to the throat. If he allowed his dick to rule, he’d be putting his head in a trap. He was operating in a red zone—enemy territory—and he could expect no mercy if the Russian saw through his disguise. He wore the mask of an operative 24/7, revealing none of his inner thoughts, and, God help him, his feelings. Violence had always been his aphrodisiac, seducing him with its acrid smells and quick adrenaline rush. Now a different scent tempted him, a bouquet tipped with honey, and he liked it.
The Russian’s eyes blazed at him. “You’ve been tailing me. Why?”
“You didn’t know I was on your back until I burst in here five minutes ago.” Caine had only to see the hostile look on the Russian’s face to know he was right. “Admit it, your Cold War days of covering your tracks by dodging around the side streets in the snow or guzzling down vodka in bars are over.”
“I admit nothing,” insisted the Russian, finishing his drink. “You still haven’t explained what you’re doing here.”
Time to play his hole card.
“Sharif sent me,” he said in a conversational tone of voice, though inside he was seething with need. The girl was ruining months of work with her silly game. He had to get his business finished and not worry about her.
Arching an eyebrow, the Russian asked, “What does Sharif want?”
“Did you make contact with—” Caine rattled off the names of several men connected with a sleeper terrorist cell in northern Italy. The Russian was to hook up with these men of Indian and Ethiopian descent in Basel, where France, Switzerland and Germany met. A crossroads. Basel was very useful to anyone in the espionage business. Caine often used a small café near the train station for dead drops. An agent was there for a few hours then he disappeared. It was anyone’s guess where he’d gone, especially if someone was tailing him.
Unless that someone was Caine.
“Ooohhh…” A raspy sound came from the girl’s throat. His pulse raced. She was stirring, but her breathing was ragged. And were her lips turning blue? What if she started vomiting? He couldn’t take her to a hospital. Too many questions.
“Quiet, bitch,” yelled the Russian in his native dialect, then he held a pillow over her face, cutting off her air. Her legs kicked wildly, her hands flailing about, her black nails trying to scratch her assailant.
“You call that pillow talk?” Caine grabbed the pillow and tossed it onto the floor. The girl gasped for air, but she didn’t open her eyes. The effects of the drug kept her prisoner. He leaned over her, wiping the perspiration from her upper lip with his finger. Her closed eyelids shimmered silver and blue and gold like a metallic sunset, and her lips blazed red. He shuddered, imagining those lips giving him pleasure.
Raising his voice, the Russian yelled, “I don’t care if Sharif did send you. Get out!”
“I’m not going anywhere. I have my orders.” Alert and tense, Caine fought back the growing contempt he felt for the Russian. “Since you won’t share her, I’ll watch.”
“So you can report back to Sharif?” The Russian tossed him a smirk. “Or is watching the only way you get off?”
Caine tried a smile. “You’ll have a hard time proving that.”
The Russian ignored his remark and ripped off the girl’s red thong and lifted her pelvis up to his lips, plunging his tongue deep into her, sucking and lapping. Her pulse twitched in her throat, her face numb and without sensation. Caine watched with disgust the desperate attempts of the terrorist to show his sexual mastery. Did the girl feel his rough tonguing? Was she enjoying it?
“You Russians are so crude,” Caine insisted. He hated the way the man licked the girl, then, after wiping his mouth of the salty taste with the back of his hand, he inserted a finger to arouse her. She emitted a low groan and shifted her hips as he pushed his finger deeper inside her, circling her clitoris with rough strokes, gathering her juices on the tips of his fleshy pads. Distaste formed in his mouth as he watched the Russian spread the wetness over her thighs, letting it dribble down over her black and purple stockings, then bending over and sniffing her essence like a dog.
Caine’s right hand curled into a tight fist. The man had no finesse, no idea how to arouse a woman. Why should he expect anything else from the ex-KGB agent? He recalled the terrorist’s background specified that he engaged in bang-and-burn ops. Demolition and sabotage operations.
He had always prided himself on his sensual expertise to turn a woman on with his intellectual abilities to gain her confidence and create intimacy, then using that to his advantage.
“Watch carefully.” The Russian laughed. “You Germans don’t know how to fuck a woman.”
Caine smiled, ignoring his challenge. “Is that the only reason she’s here? Or is she a bargaining chip?”
His opponent’s eyes snapped open. “Mind your own business.”
So he was right. The Russian was a double agent, working for Sharif, but giving information to whoever paid him. He glanced at the U.S. currency stacked on the table. Didn’t the money prove that? Was the girl part of the deal? A little pussy to sweeten the pot? Then kill her?
What happened to the federal agent the Russian was supposed to meet? That had to be the reason for the quick trip to Zurich. Then why had he been so sloppy on this op? Behaving recklessly and leaving a clear trail? Speaking openly on his cell phone and renting a room using a credit card under the name of Ivan Ivanovich? Caine never used the same credit card twice, had access to numerous passports through his prober, an operative who was also a specialist in false documents, and always used cell phones with cloned or stolen numbers.
Before barging into the room, Caine had checked the area, looking for FBI suits hanging around the hotel. Nada. He had seen a blue van parked a block away. Three federal agents were probably inside, going crazy trying to figure out why the bug they planted wasn’t working. He grinned. Figuring the FBI was operating somewhere in the vicinity, he’d removed the receiver from the planter in the bar and dismantled it. Those FBI boys had no imagination. They’d been using the same old hiding place on every op since the Nixon days. He couldn’t take the chance on anyone taping him and burning him. Compromising him.
As he did with every disguise, Caine spent a lot of time perfecting his legend, creating a German street thug in need of cash and excitement. The Teutonic accent wasn’t difficult for him to master since he spoke fluent German. The clothes were flea market glitz. His weapons procured through old contacts. To complete his disguise, he’d changed his gait and added a black eye patch with a pinhole in the middle to see through so it wouldn’t alter his depth perception.
To prove himself, Sharif had been only too happy to let him demonstrate his capability with a Beretta 92 in the assassination of a Yemeni sheikh terrorist-turned-informant. Caine prided himself on his skill with weapons. When he was a teen, his father got a job as a security guard at a strip bar and legal brothel in the Nevada desert. His mother did the accounting. When he wasn’t peeking through the windows of the whorehouse watching the action going on, Caine spent his free time teaching himself marksmanship by shooting the heads off rattlesnakes. He could cock his weapon, fire and hit his target in under two seconds. This was vital to his survival since he worked moment to moment on pure instinct and adrenaline, barreling into ops headfirst, gun blazing.
Caine took out the mark discreetly and efficiently, though after the renegade sheikh had relieved the FBI of more than a hundred thousand dollars. The lost funds, he decided, were a small price for the U.S. government to pay for him to infiltrate the relatively unknown but dangerous terrorist network. He also enjoyed showing up the boys at the Bureau. They hated it when a CIA operative beat them at their own game.
Everything had gone according to plan. Until now. He had to find out why the Russian hadn’t returned to Paris as expected. The ex-KGB agent had orders to bring back details of a shipment of TATP to be delivered to Sharif. The highly volatile triacetone triperoxide was a vital component to the terrorist leader’s bomb-making operation. Caine hadn’t been able to find out his exact plans. Sharif kept that intel to himself, though the CIA operative had reason to believe the Chechen was preparing to increase his war chest by unloading a major antiquity with disputed provenance. Such a transfer into the wrong hands could not only deprive the art world of a centuries-old artifact but also cost innocent lives if Sharif used the money to fund terrorist activities. His job dictated he prevent that from happening, though at times Caine abhorred the tactics he must employ to get intel in the murky netherworld in which spy craft was often on a collision course with international politics.
Taking a deep breath, Caine played down the suspicions in his mind and pulled out a wad of cash. He shoved it into the Russian’s face. “How much do you want to let me fuck the girl first?”
The Russian, aware Caine was baiting him, waved his hand away. “I told you, she’s mine.”
Caine could see the intent in the man’s black eyes that appeared deep in his face because of the dark purple half-moons underneath them. Even though they were smiling at him, he sensed the danger that lurked within them. He was wound up so tightly, any wrong move could set him into offensive action.
Caine stood very still. What if he was wrong about the entire setup and there was no meeting with a federal agent? Could the microphone he found in the planter be old equipment left over from the Cold War? The blue van nothing more than a bunch of kids smoking weed?
His normal MO was to catch the mouse, not when he was in his hole, but when he poked his head out of it. Not this time. Like a fisherman with his line, he had to know where to cast it and what bait to use.
He leaned over the unconscious girl. The aroma of this expensive catch dripping with her own juices greeted his nostrils and made him more desperate to satisfy his own needs. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was trained to forgo sex when necessary. The last time he’d allowed a woman to get close to him nearly cost him his life.
He squinted through the black eye patch to get a better look at the girl. She ignited something in him dormant for a long time. And he had to put out the fire. Fast.
The Russian’s voice was flat like cardboard when he spoke, though his eyes blazed at Caine. “Why did Sharif send you?”
“After you left, he received information that the facilitator of the Italian cell is a suspected al-Qaeda operative and is under surveillance by British MI6 agents.”
The hint of a sneer played around the corners of his mouth as if he figured he’d catch Caine in a lie. “Why didn’t you contact me sooner?”
“I had to be sure you weren’t being tailed,” Caine said, choosing his words carefully. Sharif suspected the Russian was double-crossing him and he’d ordered Caine to tail him. “I’m here to escort you safely back to Paris.”
“Sharif told me there would be a car waiting to pick me up when I return.” The Russian knocked the empty bottle of vodka on the hardwood floor, breaking it. Caine jumped sideways to avoid glass shards scattering everywhere like chunks of ice.
“The plans have changed,” Caine said, gazing around the room with the eye of a man well schooled in the art of escape. No way could he allow the Russian to believe he’d let his guard down. All the while, he was gauging how to take him down, assessing his escape route.
“You’re lying!” the Russian yelled, then he swung at him, catching him on the jaw and sending him staggering backward. The man ripped off his eye patch as his knees sagged, but Caine didn’t lose his balance. Instead, he slammed a balled fist into the bridge of the man’s nose. Blood gushed, the Russian’s eyes shot upward, but he recovered and landed a punch on his shoulder.
Caine put his hand up to his face. His patch was gone. He became aware of a new threat. He couldn’t afford to have the Russian discover his identity.
He ignored the pain and used the heel of his hand to deliver a quick blow to the Russian just below the ear. Without so much as a grunt, he fell hard, hitting the polished wooden floor with a loud echo. While he was down, Caine calculated his next move. Instinct warned him to keep on the offensive, knowing the Russian was armed. He wasn’t worried about being disturbed by an angry hotel guest. The room was soundproof, a modern touch to combat the noise from the traffic and trams outside.
The Russian got up, holding his bleeding nose. “No German street thug has moves like that. You’re MI6 or American CIA. You bastard.” The Russian drew a heavy revolver out of his jacket pocket and aimed it at Caine’s chest.
Before he could fire, Caine kicked the gun out of his hand. The Russian attempted to grab him, but Caine executed an evasive side step then chopped down onto his forearm with the edge of his hand. Next, he delivered a blow to his throat. Before the Russian could recover, he shot a sharp low side kick to his knee, followed by a swivel punch to the heart. Finally he attacked the back of his neck with a chop on his spine with a hammer-fist blow.
The Russian slumped to the floor, his eyes dull with pain. Caine leaned down and slammed the man’s head and spine against the hardwood floor, then let him go. He didn’t move. Satisfied he was dead, he slipped his eye patch back on, then went through the man’s pockets. He was surprised to find a second gun, a Glock, along with a phony passport. Cash. Lots of it. Cell phone. And a plastic bag with—he looked closer—a microchip? More than likely, the Russian had intended to use it as a trade. Nausea made him recoil, then take a breath. So Ivan had extracted the federal agent and gotten the cash. He took another breath, a cleansing breath. He felt no remorse.
The asshole got what he deserved.
He searched his other pocket and his fingers wrapped around something small and smooth. He pulled it out and examined it. A tiny vial marked Narcan. The brand name for naloxone. The antidote. Also, a syringe.
He also found a train ticket to Paris, leaving tonight. And a train schedule with stops checked off with red ink. Scrawled across the top was a date. Two weeks from now. He grinned. This was it, the timetable for the delivery of the explosives.
He’d be on that train and surprise whoever was meeting the Russian in Paris with the news of the untimely demise of the ex-KGB agent. An MI6 agent dusted him, he’d tell Sharif, blaming it on the Brits. Only one thing didn’t add up: The girl.
