The taxi turned onto the Place de la Concorde and merged with traffic funneling onto the Champs Élysées. Charley turned toward the front, her voice an empty whisper. “Know what I admire most about you, Nora?” Lacing her fingers together, she stared at her folded hands in her lap as though not quite sure to whom they belonged. “You convinced that man, and quite possibly yourself, that my father is still alive.”

9 - LINDA BARNES

9

LINDA BARNES

The four-poster dominated the room like a throne on a dais. Royal blue drapes floated over ivory walls. A turquoise satin coverlet turned the bed into a shimmering pool. Fat cherubs chased each other around the intricately carved molding. Outdoors, lovers who shared a kiss as they watched the brightly painted dhows cruise by on the Creek could be jailed. Here, in one of Dubai’s finest hotels, a mirror was mounted to the ceiling over a bed large enough to sleep four.

Jana found the decadence both disturbing and provocative. Her long-sleeved navy sheath was conservative in cut, as befitted a woman traveling in the Middle East, the kind of dress an airline hostess might have chosen, or a nun, although neither would have cinched it with a wide leather belt.

She located the BlackBerry with no difficulty, tucked in the corner of the middle drawer of the bureau to the left of the bed, as arranged. At exactly eight, she pressed the keys. The connection took time, but the voice, when he answered, was clear. The right voice.

Archer had learned Hindi from the man he called father, Devras Sikari. They conversed in that language, Jana proud of her fluency in her mother’s native tongue. She rarely spoke it aloud, letting others see her as the ignorant South Asian, almost equally tongue-tied in English and French. The assumptions of others wearied her, particularly the assumptions of men.

“Yes,” she said, “he is with me. He’s assured me there’s a lead and I believe him.” She listened awhile, nodding her head, all the while wrestling with the news Archer had just delivered rather casually—the death of his father Devras Sikari. It was inevitable, of course, though the particular circumstances had turned the matter into more of a Shakespearean tragedy. Her heart pounded hard as she considered the implications of the man’s death. There were many of them.

“Is there news of Middleton?” she asked.

“Detained by the Russians. I doubt we need concern ourselves further with the amateurs.”

“They beat us with Balan,” she replied, “but we made that work to our advantage, no?”

It was the overhead mirror that betrayed Pierre Crane. Jana might not have noticed the journalist if she’d been scanning the room at eye level, but reflected in the ceiling mirror, the slight movement of the door to the suite’s living room was clear, as was its cause.