“You earned a lot of brownie points with the Java thing,” said Kuga. “You banked a lot of goodwill currency, but I have to tell you, son, you’re burning through it pretty fast. You let Ledger slip away? Jesus H. Christ, esquire.”

Stafford said nothing. Apologies were useless and even dangerous with Kuga. Ditto for Santoro, who was probably listening in.

“Where is he going?”

“Best guess? Berlin.”

“Why?” asked Kuga.

“Again … just a guess … but Casanova.”

Another silence. “Shit. How soon?”

“Not sure,” said Stafford. “If he’s going after the processing plant, there are only two ways to get in. Either he needs to get Church to work some kind of magic to get permissions, or he’s got to try to break in.”

“Alone? That’s impossible.”

“Maybe we should stop trying to decide what’s impossible for this son of a bitch. Much as it actually hurts to say it, boss, he’s impressing the hell out of me.”

“Hooray,” Kuga said icily. “So, sure, we don’t underestimate Ledger. Lesson learned. What are you going to do about it?”

“First, I need to catch him, and if I wait for the next commercial flight with an available seat, I’ll be here for seven hours. Even with Ledger needing to find the right equipment for a break-in, he’ll be ahead of me.”

“No,” said Kuga, “that’s not soon enough. He’ll slip your punch. Again.” There was a pause. “Let me make a call. Stay at the airport and be ready.”

The line went dead.

CHAPTER 84

THE PLAYROOM

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

NEAR VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA

Rafael Santoro looked up from his desk as Eve limped into the room. She was dressed in regular clothes—no camo, no low-slung gun belt.

“Eve,” he said, smiling, “thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Anything for you, Daddy,” said the woman as she made her way across the expensive Turkish rug.

Santoro watched her eyes, looking for the flicker of pain with each step. He wondered how much of that pain was physical and how much was emotional. Maybe a twenty-eighty split, he judged. The part of him who was exactly who he was, enjoyed that 80 percent. The part that was the mentor and only surviving friend of the woman felt true empathy for the remaining percentage. It was an interesting mix, and one nearly unique in his personal experience.

“Have a seat, my dear,” he said, waving her to one of the two richly upholstered leather guest chairs opposite the desk. “Coffee? No? Tell me how you are feeling today.”

“You know how I’m feeling,” she said bluntly.

“Hurt, angry, and anxious to put Joe Ledger’s head on a pike?” he suggested.

“Yeah, sure, but not in that order.”

“And the knee?”