I laughed. "Maybe it's because you're a constant pain in my butt. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I know it," Nana said. "That's my job in life. My reason for being is to torment you. Don't you know that yet?"

And as she said those words, I finally felt that I was home again, really home, back from the wars. I took Kayla and Nana out to the sunporch and played "An American in Paris" for them. That's what I had been not too long ago, but no more.

About eleven, I walked Kayla outside to her Health van. We stopped and talked for a moment on the front porch.

"Thanks for coming by to see her," I said.

"You don't have to thank me," Kayla said. "I do it because I want to. It just so happens that I love your grandmother. I love her tremendously. She's one of my guiding lights, my mentor. Has been for years."

Then Kayla leaned in very quickly, and she kissed me. She held the kiss for a few seconds. When she pulled away she was laughing. "I've wanted to do that for the longest time."

"And?" I asked, more than slightly surprised at what had just happened.

"Now I've done it, Alex. Interesting."

"Interesting?"

"I have to go. I have to run."

Laughing to herself, Kayla ran out to her van.

Interesting.

Chapter 92

After some much-needed R & R I went back to work and found that I was still assigned to the extortion/terrorism case, which apparently now involved chasing down whoever was responsible, whoever had the money. I was told that I was picked because I'm relentless.

In a way, I was glad it wasn't over. I was still in touch with several of my contacts on the case: Martin Lodge in England, Sandy Greenberg with Interpol, Etienne Marteau in Paris, but also police and intelligence in Tel Aviv and Frankfurt. Everybody I talked to had possible leads, but no one had anything hot, or even what I would consider lukewarm.

The Wolf, or maybe al Qaeda, or some other clever, homicidal bastards were out there with close to two billion dollars in their coffers. Among other things, three city blocks in Paris had been destroyed. Political prisoners had been released. There had to be some slipup, some way to find them, or at least some way to discover who they were.

My second day back, the analyst Monnie Donnelley and I made a paper connection that interested me enough to drive all the way out to Lexington, Virginia. I arrived at a two-story contemporary on a back road called Red Hawk Lane. A Dodge Durango was parked in the driveway. A couple of horses grazed in a nearby paddock.