57
I SAW HIM.” HOWELL STOOD in the quiet of the safe house in Amsterdam. Outside the spring light danced on the shallow waters of the Herengracht; bicyclists pedaled by slowly, savoring the lovely day. He could smell gunfire and blood as if it were burned into his clothes. “I saw Sam Capra. He fired on us. He left behind a warehouse full of goods that I suspect are stolen or counterfeit, and a room full of women I suspect are bound for sex slavery.”
“There has to be a reasonable explanation,” August said. A Company doctor was tending to his arm. He winced as the doctor closed a stitch.
“I think he went rogue long before his wife died. Has it occurred to anyone that he was the bad guy, not her? That Lucy wasn’t the driving force behind him turning traitor?” Howell said. “I appreciate your loyalty to him. But I am telling you, August, that it is misplaced and misspent on Sam Capra.”
“Or he thinks these people know where his wife is.”
“He shot at my men.”
“Did you see that?”
Howell hesitated. “No.”
August thanked the doctor, who left without a word. Then he turned to Howell. “Novem Soles.”
“What?”
“You asked him about the words Novem Soles. Is it a group? Could these people be it?”
“These people are apparently cheap traffickers. I doubt they’ve endowed themselves with some grand Latin name.”
“What’s Novem Soles, Howell?”
Howell crossed his arms. “A term heard mentioned on some monitored lines tied to criminal rings, or to government officials who were on the take. I don’t know if it’s a group, or a code name for a person, or what it is.”
“That dead man in Brooklyn had a tattoo of a stylized nine and a sun. Novem soles, nine suns. I didn’t sleep through Latin.”
“Maybe Sam Capra was working with these people on the bombing, and now they want him dead. Or maybe he’s turned against us since we let him walk.”
“We’ve thrown him away; are you surprised he’s landed with trash?” August said.
“The hard, awful truth is that the only survivors of the London office are the Capras. Someone recruited either Lucy or Sam, or both of them. They killed our people. They attacked us with impunity. That’s what’s unacceptable. He’s acting like a criminal. Pretty it up how you want it, August, but he’s a criminal, too.”
“You told him that you had proof he was innocent.”
“I lied,” Howell said. “It was a considered decision to let him go, to see what he did.”
“Then let’s use our contacts in the underworld here. Ferret him out. I’ll talk to him.”
“You,” Howell said, “are going home, soon as we can get you a plane.”
“Sir, don’t. Let me stay.”
“You’ve been shot, Agent Holdwine. Go home.”
“You’re going to kill Sam,” August said.
“Only if he tries to kill me,” Howell said.
“Sir, I request permission to stay. My injury is not that serious, and—”
“Permission denied. Get some rest, August. Read a good book, watch TV. You’ve earned some quiet.”
Howell walked out, shutting the door behind him. On the other side of the door, August considered. He still had the spare phone in his pocket, the number that he’d given to Sam in case someone came after him back in Brooklyn. It had never been used. He felt bad that Sam hadn’t called him after the attack in his apartment. Either Sam didn’t trust him, August thought, or he liked him too much to get him involved. But he still had a few hours in Amsterdam to hope for the phone to ring.