“Someone who’s concerned about your fiancée’s welfare.” The woman’s voice had a Russian accent and the confidence of someone accustomed to exerting authority. “I sent you a video attachment. Unless you want to disturb people sitting near you, I suggest that you watch it outside. I’ll call you again in three minutes.”

The transmission went dead.

He walked swiftly toward the door, sidestepped a couple entering, and hurried out to the parking lot. Ignoring the cold morning air he scrolled through the phone, found the video attachment and pressed it.

And saw Liz lying on gravel.

“Say something,” a man’s voice ordered. “Say, ‘Help me, Simon.’ ”

Liz looked groggy, stunned. But managed to say, “Go to hell.”

A hand with a jagged scar on it streaked into view, the palm crashing into one cheek, then the palm of the other battering her other cheek, drawing blood. “Say it. Goddammit.”

The image abruptly changed to one in which Liz slumped on a padded bench. There were zip-tie cuffs on her wrists that were looped around some kind of metal pole. Both cheeks looked raw and swollen. Blood smeared her nose and chin.

The same scarred hand clasped her injured cheeks.

“Let’s try again. You know what I want.” The camera moved closer, her blood-covered face filling the screen. “Say it.”

The hand squeezed so hard that its knuckles whitened.

Her eyes widened.

She tried to scream, but the hand kept squeezing. Crushing.

She writhed, managing to say past the hand, “Help . . . me . . . Simon.”

The video ended.

But he continued to see Liz’s battered face.

The phone vibrated.

He jabbed the Answer button and said, “I will find and kill you.”

“You don’t have time for useless threats,” the woman’s voice said. “Last night, in Washington, the FBI arrested an associate of mine. His name is Nick Demidov. I want him released.”

“We don’t have anything to do with the FBI.”

The woman’s harsh laughter reminded him of an old Russian expression—the ruthless walk over the dead.

“You’re an MI6 operative on temporary assignment to the FBI for a special Russkaya Mafiya task force. And your fiancée used to work for the CIA, probably still does. I’m giving you less than twelve hours to get Nick free, so use your influence. Call in favors. It should be easy. He’s not important. The FBI will admit that they just swept him up because they hope he’ll lead them to someone higher.”

“If he’s that low level, why does he matter to you?”

“He’s my brother. Our mother is upset, as am I. Poor Nick isn’t smart, which is obvious, given that he allowed himself to be arrested. But he’s family. You’ve got until nine o’clock tonight to deliver him.”

“But—”

“Keep the phone I gave you. It has an open mic. Even when it’s turned off, the phone transmits everything you and anyone near you say, so don’t even think about warning your buddies at the FBI about what’s going on. If I even slightly suspect you’re playing games, the next video will show your fiancée’s ears being cut off.”