"How's that?"
"He was hired to procure the weapon and orchestrate a sale that can't be traced. That didn't happen. The buyers have nothing. That means Nicholas failed."
"They paid for nothing. Wouldn't they start over?"
"Are you saying it's that easy to get more anthrax?" I glance at him. "One would hope your people secured that area, moved the remaining supply, or destroyed it completely."
Using DNA analysis, once the spores are released, the outbreak will be traced back to Russia, which will then be tasked with admitting that they not only never destroyed their war stock but also lost control of their supply. There's always the possibility they orchestrated the whole thing.
From my conversations with Urakov, however, the Russian government doesn't care about the loss of life. It's the humiliation and international debacle that must be avoided at all costs.
"That is... complicated."
I text Merlin and fill my father in. His replies are brief and terser than Nicholas's texts.
"We're almost there." A glance in the rearview mirror reveals no sign of Urakov's men.
I have to slow down. They know where to go, but they need access through the gates. I shake my head and ease off the gas.
By the time twin headlights flash in the rearview mirror, I pull into the drive leading to the chalet. I stop at the iron gates and wait for Urakov's men to join us. Once they're close, I open the gates and roll forward. They follow behind, the gates closing silently as our tires crunch over the fallen snow.
The snow glows under the moon's pale light, casting gray shadows across the land. Light spills from the chalet, tumbling outward to spread across a lawn slumbering beneath the snow. Smoke drifts up from two of the ten chimneys, and I can imagine Merlin pacing before a raging fire burning in the library hearth.
The conversation we will soon have will tear my heart out.
As I drive up the circular drive, a slice of light catches my eye where there should be none. The front door is open, exposing the chalet to the frigid night air. My pulse leaps.
I slam on the brakes, jerking the car to a sudden halt.
"Something's wrong." I turn to Urakov. "Stay with the painting."
The massive wrought-iron doors stand ajar. I sprint up the stone steps, racing to get inside. Urakov's men pull to a stop beside my car, and the thudding of feet pounds behind me.
Inside, set upon an easel, a blank canvas points toward the door. Scrawled across it is a message.
HIM or HER?
I stumble to a stop, press both hands to my temples, and dig my fingers into my hair.
"Nicholas!" My roar shakes the foundations of my home.
A piece of paper is pinned to the canvas.
"What is this?" Urakov thunders into the entrance and pulls to a stop.
"A message." I approach the canvas and remove the hastily written letter. Not Nicholas's hand, but the shaky tremors of Merlin's elegant script.
You may save only one. This is not a time for fun and games. Father or the girl. You choose. Old or new?
A phone number is scrawled at the bottom, and smudges of ink dot the page.
A code.
Merlin left a message.
Fly, my son.
No. I won't choose. Quick taps on my cell phone tell Nicholas precisely what I think of the choice given to me. This time, the reply comes lightning quick.
