She fought exhaustion. But in just two days, Jana reminded herself, she’d have all the time in the world to sleep. But for now it was imperative that she focus on the task at hand. She and Archer agreed to follow one lead that Crane had provided: Jana would fly to Paris and take Charlotte Middleton, preferably alive, to neutralize any danger from her father and find out what information the man had. She’d convinced Archer that Middleton was indeed a threat. At the very least, she could kill the woman; her death would distract Middleton and perhaps make him give up his mission altogether.

“Avenue Pierre 1er de Serbie,” Jana barked as the driver climbed in behind the wheel, giving him the street address of the Hotel Queen Elizabeth. The man nodded, then pulled away from the curb, merging with the gleaming black stream of corporate limousines leaving Le Bourget and heading into Paris. Jana pressed a button on her leather armrest and raised the partition between them.

A French breakfast was laid out on the small bar: a selection of pastries on a china plate, a thermos of café au lait, butter in the shape of a rose, tiny jars of lavender honey and apricot conserves flanked by delicate silver spoons. Enough to feed a small nation, Jana thought, the excess making her suddenly uncomfortable.

Ignoring the food, she reached under her seat and pressed a small and discreetly placed lever. Immediately, the armrest popped open, revealing a Hawlen 9mm with a matching silencer and a half a dozen spare clips. Jana took the pistol from its hiding place and fingered it lovingly. Here, at last, was a luxury she could appreciate.

Harold Middleton opened his eyes to a roiling cloud of greasy black smoke. He couldn’t have been out for more than a minute or two, but in that brief amount of time the drafty villa had been transformed into hell on earth. The ceiling, where it still existed, was crawling with flames, the walls baking hot to the touch. The air smelled faintly of burning flesh.

Middleton struggled to his feet, trying to orient himself. He’d lost the Yarygin in the explosion, but that was the least of his problems. The stairway he’d come down just moments earlier was gone, replaced by a gaping hole. A burning beam lay across the doorway, his only exit. Moving quickly, Middleton sloughed off his jacket and tossed it across the beam, hoping to temporarily douse the flames and create a narrow passageway for himself. The tactic worked, if barely. Seizing the brief window of opportunity, he leapt over the beam and barreled out the doorway.