James nodded. Ju-Ju, whoever or whatever he was, wasn't the concern.
No bloody cell phone coverage at the farmhouse. They would be cut off. He didn't like it. She would call it paranoia, but that sixth sense had saved the lives of him and his teammates more than once.
But not that last time.
Nothing he could have done, the unit commander told him when he was debriefed, repeated by the 'head' doctor in Germany and again in London. There was no way he could have known the number of insurgents waiting for them or that they'd been given bad intel in the first place—until it was too late.
Too late. And his team had paid the price, four men dead. He glanced down at the tattoo of the sword on the inside of his wrist—a bond shared, and a promise he hadn't been able to keep. He pushed back the chair.
“I want to make a call before we leave.”
He left the café and headed for the rental car. The street that ran through the village was empty, except for the rental. It did little to ease that tightness at the back of his neck, as if someone had taken hold of him, that persistent warning that had followed from London.
He hit the remote, the light coming on inside the rental. He slid inside as icy rain pelted down.
The truth was, he hoped they wouldn't find any of the Marchand or Robillard family still alive after all these years. With no other contacts, no other calls that Cate had made to follow up, that would have been the end of it and she would have had no choice but go back to New York.
He lit a cigarette and turned on the phone, the nicotine burning through the uneasiness and that nagging feeling.
The screen lit up.
Good old Danny, he thought, as the text message came through.
“Adnan Faridani, bit time money, import export business, educated in London; rumor he's been radicalized and connected to bombings in London, Berlin, Paris. BTW Faridani is his mother's family; real name Malik. Slippery, dangerous, has connections. If you have more info???”
He had information, all right, from Captain Jack, not exactly what you would call a reliable source. Still, he'd learned to use whatever source he could find when he was in-country.
Malik. The name brought up the image from the video footage. There were common names. In-country, it seemed every other man or boy was named Hasan. Bogus, part of thedisguise. That was obvious. And it kept alive the ones who helped them with information if he or his men were caught and interrogated. But the name Malik wasn't nearly as common.
Was there a connection to the artist? Then the next thought, was Jonathan Callish involved?
Ancient artifacts? Smuggling? Twenty million dollars’ worth? Especially if his gallery wasn't doing well?
It was no secret, terrorist groups needed financing for weapons. Over the past several years, the goal had been to cut off the funding for these groups—sever the head of the snake. But as soon as one group had their funding cut off, they found another source—oil, legitimate business enterprises, a web of money sources, and from the beginning, ancient artifacts had disappeared from the Middle East, only to be rumored to have been 'acquired' through a private source.
Was it possible Malik, or Faridani, or whatever the hell he was calling himself, might be that source?
Then, the next question: What might a seven-hundred-year-old tapestry be worth to a private collector with almost unlimited resources, depending on its condition?
Millions? Tens of millions? Possibly more?
It was risky to stay on the phone, but he needed more information. The call was picked up on the third time around.
“Jesus!” Innis said over the background noise. “Where are you?'
“No questions,” James told him, then explained what he needed.
“I don't know,” Innis replied. “It's like a war zone after what happened yesterday, military on the streets, raids in a couple of the districts, everything shut down. This will take some time.”
“No,” James fired back at him. “We don't have time. I need you to find Adnan Faridani, possibly under the name Malik. I need to know where he is, and I need it now. Get back to mewhen you have something.” He shut the phone down and started the rental car.
CHAPTER
FORTY
Mist curled over the roadway, swirling over the hood of the car, then rolling back as the road slipped around the next bend. Then, several kilometers past the village of Montigny, the tail lights of Valentine's car, an ancient Volvo, angled sharply then disappeared down a dirt track. He made the turn-off, then stopped the car just off the roadway. A light snow had started to fall, the flakes landing on the windscreen.
He stared through the darkness down the dirt driveway where the Volvo had disappeared. He said nothing at first, that same silence since leaving the village.
