“This is the police on the line. They say that she wandered into the station bruised and bloodied and saying something about diving out of a moving car. They’ve sent her to the hospital.”

“Who snatched her?”

“A woman. Youngish. Pretty. Tough . . . Middle Eastern maybe. Indian, Pakistani. Sri Lankan. Harold, what should I tell the police?”

“That you’ll call them back.”

He returned his attention to Carson. “OK, Connie, go ahead.”

The Texan was explaining her own urgent matter. One phrase jumped out and refocused him entirely on his cell phone.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Did you say thermobaric explosive?”

“I did,” Carson said. Even through the phone, he could hear her pleasure that he’d connected his own set of dots. “Just like all those we dealt with in Kosovo. Just like the ones the Afghanis have been disarming for a decade.”

Thermobarics were perfected by the only nation he knew of whose troops regularly deployed them. “So you think there’s a Russian connection?”

“Sure could be. I found a note about calling Moscow. No number. And a shipping label in the trash. Blank, but they may have records.” She gave him the name, her voice quivering in pain.

He thanked her. “Connie, I’m sorry.”

Toughening her drawl, she said, “Later, Harry. I’ve got to see a man about a knife.”

The phone sagged in Middleton’s hand. He turned to Tesla and inhaled deeply. Then he shared the terrible news about Lespasse.

“No! My God, no!”

“And Connie’s been hurt.” But then he controlled the emotion and continued, telling her what Carson had explained about the thermobarics.”

“Russia?”

“Possibly.” Then he nodded at Tesla’s phone. “What about Felicia?”

“She told the police that her kidnapper was angry that they’d taken the wrong person. She thinks they were actually after Charley.”

Middleton felt the color drain from his cheeks. “Sure, Felicia’s young and was in my apartment. They thought she was my daughter. Then they realized she was Polish, not American. They were probably going to kill her. Thank God she got away.”

“She’s still in the emergency room—they won’t let her call. But she sent a message. You should read your email.”

He lifted his cell phone, furious at himself for not opening Felicia’s message immediately. “Jesus,” he said as he read, “Sikari patented technology for a new heavy-water system for making nuclear material.”

“What she was telling us about heavy water . . . ”

“Right.”

Middleton pulled out his encrypted cell phone and placed a call to the Volunteers’ office outside D.C. He took a deep breath and when a man answered, he said, “Wiki . . . ”

“Boss? What’s wrong?”

“I have something to tell you.” After a moment’s hesitation, he delivered the news about Lespasse.

“No, Harry . . . Oh no.”