Aunt Sallie was the former chief of operations from the DMS days and before. Church had met her in Germany when she was a young but highly respected CIA field operator on loan to Interpol, doing elimination and cleanup against the Soviets and other groups. Aunt Sallie had been Church’s strong right hand for decades, but during the DMS’s last case, she’d suffered a terrible stroke. Now she lived in a very upscale, very private nursing facility in Corfu, where Auntie would likely spend her last years. If she still had years left. Of all the people with whom Church worked closely, Auntie had been with him the longest. She’d known some of his secrets. Some, not all.

“And here I thought you couldn’t stand her,” he chided.

Lilith gave a small shrug. “There’s no love lost between us, but she’s family. We both know that family may dislike and even disown you until the chips are down, and then blood tells.”

They sat and thought about that for a while.

Blood tells.

Church’s daughter, Circe, was estranged from him. Her choice. They had never been close. Or, rather, as soon as she knew what kind of things her father did for a living, and to what lengths he would go to fight the never-ending war, she withdrew from him. He got to visit her and her husband, Rudy Sanchez, only because Rudy insisted that Church be allowed to see his grandson. But the visits were few, they were chilly, and Church always left more brokenhearted than he had been when he arrived. Church visited Aunt Sallie’s care facility four times as often as he got to see his grandson, a fact made even more painful because that facility was less than a quarter mile from where Circe and Rudy lived on the island of Corfu.

“Blood tells,” he echoed. Lilith gave him a sharp, penetrating look, then set her coffee cup down and pulled him to her for a kiss.

CHAPTER 27

HÔTEL BYBLOS

20 AVENUE PAUL SIGNAC

SAINT-TROPEZ, FRANCE

Michael Augustus Stafford lay poolside, splitting his attention between a flock of exceptionally lovely women sunbathing across from him, an email from his stockbroker, and news stories about a terrible terrorist attack at a sportswear factory in a small village in central Java. What a shame. Total loss of life.

The reporters did not focus on the complete lack of cell phone photos or videos. Of course they didn’t. Mr. Sunday and Rafael Santoro would make very sure of that. That deep in the third world, it was easy to buy off anyone who mattered.

It made him happy that his employers were happy.

It made his banker and his financial advisor happy, too. And his broker was all but coming in his pants.

In all, a good week to be a bad guy.