“And what are those interests?”

“I don’t know that. I don’t.”

The reporter was now showing fear. She wondered if he’d start to cry.

“I’m asking you again: Do you know anything more about his identity?”

“No, I swear. Please, Jana . . . ”

She believed him. “Another question: In the limo that night outside Paris, who were those men?”

“I thought you knew. You tried to kill them.”

“I tried to kill them because I didn’t recognize them. Tell me.”

“I was led to believe one of them was the Scorpion. I was wrong. They never identified themselves other than that. They were trying to get information out of me, I assume. They sent me to Middleton’s flat in London. But I don’t know why.”

His tone and delivery convinced her that he was being truthful.

Crane gave a weak smile. “Now I’ve done my part. Your turn to answer some of my questions.” He reached for a towel to cover his nakedness.

She knew instantly this was a feint—his submissive pose gave him away. So she was fully prepared when he flung the towel in her direction and leaped forward in what must have been some classic karate move, swinging his long arm and knife-like flat hand directly at her throat.

She only had to step back two feet and pull the trigger several times.

The recoil was negligible.

10 - JENNY SILER

10

JENNY SILER

Something was happening, Harold Middleton thought, listening to the muffled sounds emanating from the world beyond the cracked plaster walls of his cell. After so much uncounted time in solitary confinement, Middleton was like a blind man, his senses as finely tuned as the strings on Felicia’s beloved Szepessy. He had learned to distinguish the various footsteps in the hall outside his door and what they meant: whether his meal of rancid soup would be served with an angry smirk or merely an apathetic one; if there was a purpose to the questions about to be posed to him or if the impending interrogation was merely a way of passing the time.

But this was different. There was an urgency to the raised voices and hurried movements that he had not heard before. From somewhere outside the boarded windows came the faint but steady thrum of an engine and the unmistakable hint of diesel fumes.

They were getting ready to move him: Middleton was almost certain this was the case, though why was less clear. Had one of the factions interested in him finally placed a winning bid? Or had the Russians grown impatient and decided to wash their hands of him—permanently? Given the circumstances, neither possibility boded well for his survival. If he was going to get out of this alive, Middleton decided, he would have to act now.