The nurse pulled back and Kelly came down close to his face again. “What’s wrong, Jamil? Don’t you want to talk with your sister Jana anymore?”
“You bitch! I don’t want to talk to you!” Nazari let out another yell for help. Nurse Marr came back in and calmly punched a few buttons on his IV infusion set. In a few seconds, his head fell back and he was asleep.
“He was with it enough not to cooperate anymore, so I put him out again. Mr. Nazari won’t be talking to anyone for a long while, so you might as well leave now, get a good night’s sleep.” She smiled at Kelly. “I heard what you did. Good work.”
In the hallway outside Recovery, Kelly grinned madly and high-fived Jo, Cal, and Sherlock.
“Congrats, Giusti,” Cal said. “We now have a name, and that’s more than MI5 has.”
“A name, we’ve got a name,” Kelly said. “How many French Algerians can there be with a name like Hercule? And he knows Nazari’s family, his sister Jana. We can have the family questioned, track their contacts.”
Jo said, “It shouldn’t take too long. Like you said, Kelly, there can’t be many Hercules in Algeria. It’s an odd name. You done good.”
“At least we’ve got a good solid lead now,” Kelly said.
“It’s good for your career, too, Giusti,” Cal said. “Hey, you wanna hug?”
SAVICH HOUSE
GEORGETOWN
Friday, nearly midnight
It was late, after midnight, when Savich closed MAX down for the night. He’d tried every public record he could think of, but MAX had found nothing solid linking the Plackett murder victims, or their killers, other than what he already knew. He needed to do more legwork, speaking directly to people who knew both the killers and the victims. He’d call Sheriff Watson in the morning, see if he’d found anything promising. He lay in bed staring at the dark ceiling, hearing only the occasional settling-in moans the house made, sounds he knew, comforting sounds, but not comforting enough tonight. He missed Sherlock’s head against his shoulder, her hair tickling his nose, her soft, smooth breathing against his skin. He was afraid for her, he’d admitted it to himself the moment her helicopter took off for New York. He hadn’t told her that, but she knew.
He couldn’t sleep, so he got up to check on Sean. It was something Sherlock would have done if she couldn’t sleep. As he stood over Sean’s single bed in his kid’s room filled with bookshelves and posters of superheroes, he saw the pair of Sean’s sneakers kicked off in the corner near his desk, his jeans tossed over the back of a chair. He could hear Sherlock’s voice telling Sean to put his dirty clothes in the hamper and his shoes in the closet. It hadn’t even occurred to Savich to remind him. Well, he got the taking-a-bath and brushing-his-teeth parts right. Savich had sung a song to Sean while he’d bathed, Sean joining Savich when he belted out “Let It Go.” Savich had learned the words on his way to the Hoover Building that morning. Just in case.
He looked down at his sleeping son, his face bathed in the moonlight pouring through the window. He felt the familiar surge of love for this small human being, a part of him, a part of Sherlock. Here we both are, Sean, trying to hang in without your mom. He cupped Sean’s cheek. Sean lurched up, gave a sleepy snort, sent Savich a vague smile, and went limp again, snuggling his cheek into the pillow.
Savich tucked the covers around Sean’s shoulders, lowered the window a bit. Sean liked to sleep warm. He walked back to his bedroom and lay down, pillowed his head in his arms, and willed himself to sleep. When it was clear his will wasn’t doing the job, he turned on the bedside lamp and called John Eiserly with MI5. He had to do something to help Sherlock. The phone was already ringing when he realized it was five a.m. in London.
To his surprise, John answered his cell immediately, his voice a whisper. “Savich? Hey, it’s past midnight in the colonies. Why aren’t you sleeping? Wait a bit, let me get to my study. I don’t want to wake up Mary Ann, not with our two-month-old daughter wrecking her sleep. I figure we’ve got another hour before Ceci wakes up again, demanding her next meal.”
A minute later Savich heard John typing on his keyboard. He went through his apology, but John interrupted him. “I missed maybe a half-hour of sleep. I’m e-mailing you a photo of Imam Al-H?di ibn Mirza so you have a clear face to put to the man. Wait, I’m an idiot, you must already have his picture, probably know as much about him as I do.”
“Send it along anyway, John.”
“Give me two seconds,” John said. “Done. As of right now, we don’t have anything for you on the Conklin family, except we’ve verified on our end they’re in the U.S., maybe still around Boston, since that was their destination, but who knows? They could be in Florida by now.”
Savich’s phone signaled that he’d received an e-mail. He’d already memorized the imam’s face—a compassionate face dominated by soft dark brown eyes that seemed to look right into your soul, a man to trust, to confide in, not the look of a fanatic who supported terrorists. The photo of the imam John sent was different. He wasn’t wearing robes, and it was taken with him unaware and clearly angry at the man he was speaking to. His brown eyes looked hard as agates in the photo, a man you’d be wise to fear more than trust. Savich put the phone back to his ear and heard the sound of a baby crying. “Ceci’s up,” John said. “Mary Ann and I were talking about it today—terrorists going after our cathedrals. It scares and angers everyone. What’s worse, even if we see to it this Bella project fails, they won’t stop, you know that, not ever.”
“John, you know as well as I do that if we can’t stop the terrorists before they act, then we take care of them after they act, and then we have to move on.”
“Yes, I know that intellectually, just as I know we can’t live in fear of what they might try next. No, we can’t live in fear. That would mean they’d won. I’ll alert you right away if we find anything for you regarding this Bella project.”
Savich said, “Do you have anything else new for me? Other than Ceci. Oh, yes, I can hear her. Fine lungs.”
John laughed. “As for Ceci, she keeps Mary Ann and me at half-mast most days. The doctor assures us she’ll start to sleep through the night soon. I don’t believe it.” He sobered. “You know I’ll alert you right away if we find anything for you.”
Savich wished him and Mary Ann the best with Ceci, rang off, and settled back against the pillow. He remembered Sean blasting out earsplitting yells at least twice a night, remembered how he and Sherlock had dragged themselves around for the first couple months.
He thought of St. Patrick’s almost being gutted by a bomb, thought of the scores of mourners who could have died but didn’t, thanks to a little boy who’d been sick to his stomach. He pictured the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, the incredible duomo in Florence, imagined it empty, in ruins.
He managed to shut it down, finally, and fell deeply asleep.
At five-thirty in the morning, Griffin called. “Savich, Brakey Alcott is on the move.”
OUTSIDE REINEKE, VIRGINIA
Early Saturday morning
Savich’s Porsche cruised past the light traffic on I-95, no need for flashers or a siren. Griffin sat next to him, adjusting the map on a tablet in his lap as they approached the flashing red dot that signaled Brakey’s ankle bracelet.
“I shouldn’t have trusted Brakey to stay put. It was a bad call.”
“I knew you’d think that, Savich,” Griffin said. “You’d be telling me to move along, to let it go, if it had been my decision.” He paused as Savich passed a huge beer truck, then said, “The signal is hardly moving now. Brakey’s on undeveloped land with very little around it, probably forest, about a quarter-mile from the nearest road, according to this map. There could be a dirt road or a fire road near there, though. It’s the boondocks, and guess what, the Abbott house is only about ten miles away, so he’s staying close to home. But why? What’s he doing in the woods?”