“Computer? Excellent.” Middleton looked around the deserted beach, then turned to one of the French soldiers. In French, he asked, “Any sign of Sikari?”

“No, Colonel Middleton. But the perimeter . . . ” The slim Frenchman gave a Gallic shrug and twist of his lip.

Meaning, Middleton understood, they didn’t have the manpower to search very far. The French had been cooperative to a point but weren’t all-hands-on-board for an operation that was primarily American and NATO, and would deliver the suspect not to the Palais de Justice in Paris but to International Criminal Court in the Hague—the tribunal with jurisdiction to try war criminals and other human-rights violators.

Middleton had doubted Devras Sikari himself would be here. While intelligence sources had reported that someone from Kashmir had traveled to the South of France to kill or abduct the “American geologist,” it would be unlikely that Sikari would risk coming out of hiding for such a mundane crime.

The best he’d hoped for was to capture someone who could lead them to Sikari.

Which, it seemed, they had.

Middleton continued to the Frenchman, “He’ll have an accomplice, though. You find any other cars nearby? Monitor any radio transmissions?”

“No,” the Frenchman said.

“You?” Middleton asked Wetherby. The NATO officers had their own monitoring system.

“No, Colonel.” He referred to Middleton’s rank when he’d retired from the Army years ago.

Middleton preferred “Harry,” but some monikers just stick and “Colonel” was better than some others he could think of.

It was then that Middleton’s “wife” joined them. She was in reality Leonora Tesla, a colleague. The intense woman, with a mane of dark Mediterranean hair, held up a Nokia. “Prepaid cell phone. Some local calls within the past half hour but they’re all caller-ID blocked.”

A flash of white in the distance caught Middleton’s eye. It was just a van accelerating slowly away into the hills.

Tesla added, “JM’s going through the computer now. He said it’s password-protected but he’s trying to bypass that.”

Middleton glanced at where she was nodding. In the back of the unmarked NATO van, Jean-Marc Lespasse, the “husband” of the younger couple, was pounding away at the keys on the laptop. Athletic with spiky black hair, JM had been playing his role in the sting to the hilt, referring to his boss, who was only 15 years older, as “Dad” for the past two days and asking if he should cut up Middleton’s food for him.

“What do we know about him?” Middleton nodded toward their prisoner, slumped on the ground, and only semi-conscious.

“I just emailed Interpol,” Tesla told him. “They’ll let us know soon.”