Sebastian Drexler was forty-three and Swiss, with close-cropped white-blond hair and steel blue eyes. He was a thin but fit six feet, and his mature face bore no wrinkles to speak of. While he was unmistakably good-looking, his eyes conveyed danger along with intelligence.

Shakira knew Drexler well enough to see his guarded mannerisms. Something was clearly wrong. “Did you not call because you needed the walk from your office to think about how you would inform me that you failed?”

Sebastian Drexler was a supremely confident man, so he delivered his bad news with the same cool tone as if he’d told her he’d just won the lottery. “There is much we do not know yet, but I have been monitoring communications between Islamic State’s foreign operations bureau and their cell in Paris. It appears ISIS has failed in their objective. The lone surviving operative who escaped the attack reported to his command that Bianca Medina was not in the suite, and the Syrian bodyguards killed five or six of the eight attackers. Others were captured by French authorities.”

Shakira’s face darkened. She spoke in a measured tone, fighting to control herself. “Where is Bianca now? With the police?”

“No. And that’s the curious part. I’ve been listening in to police radio transmissions in Paris, as well. The police there think she’s been kidnapped.”

Now Shakira gasped in surprise. “Kidnapped? Kidnapped by whom?”

“Unknown. Certainly Daesh doesn’t have her. The cell member who contacted the head of their foreign operations bureau was quite clear. He didn’t take the woman, he didn’t even see the woman, and his comrades are all either dead or in the hands of the police.”

Shakira stood and began pacing the dimly lit room. “I didn’t bring you into this to lose her! I will not accept failure!”

Drexler remained seated. An air of composure surrounded him. “We haven’t failed, Shakira. We will find out what’s going on, and we will fix it. I have people employed in Paris right now who are very well connected, and they will locate the woman and those responsible for taking her.”

“Where the hell were these amazing men of yours when this all happened?”

“I had them perform reconnaissance of the hotel earlier today to make sure there was no extra security in the area that we would need to alert the Daesh team to watch out for. But by necessity I moved them off target during the afternoon.” He added, “These men know what they are doing; they will get me answers.”

Shakira tossed the satellite phone across the sitting area towards the man facing her. He caught it deftly. She said, “Well then, call them and get me those answers! You know what’s at stake here. We have to find out where she is. We have to get her before she tells whoever has her the dirty little secret that could destroy us.”

Sebastian Drexler stood, dialed a number on the sat phone, and stepped back out of the private salon to talk with his people in Paris in privacy.

CHAPTER 10

In the apartment over the antique furniture warehouse in Saint-Ouen, 4,374 kilometers northwest of Damascus, Bianca Medina walked back into her interrogation after taking five minutes in the bathroom. The Halabys were still seated at the table in the bedroom, patiently waiting; the guard was still at the window; and the silver-haired man in the blue suit remained in the corner, outside the light.

The Spanish woman had composed herself during her break, and as soon as she sat, she asked her next question. “Who are you?”

Tarek answered now. “We are the opposition in exile.”

“The opposition?” Medina laughed when she repeated it. “What opposition? The only opposition I’ve ever heard of stayed in Syria and fought. They aren’t in Paris.”

Tarek seemed wounded by the comment. He answered her defensively. “The entire world will soon know about the Free Syria Exile Union, and Ahmed Azzam himself will come to fear us.”

Bianca Medina looked back and forth at the couple in front of her. “But . . . if you think I am involved with your enemy, why did you save me?”

Rima replied, “Because we know you can help us.”

Bianca had seen this coming, but she played like she did not understand. “Help you? In what way?”

“We are here to solicit your assistance in ending this terrible war that has destroyed our nation. The nation of your father.”

Bianca held on to the side of the table for support. “You think I have something to do with the war? That was not part of my life. I have been living like a prisoner in Damascus for two years. Prisoners don’t end wars.”

Tarek said, “Not so much of a prisoner. Ahmed Azzam let you come to Paris, didn’t he?”

“With five of his best security officers controlling me at all times! Did you know he ordered one of his men to watch me sleep every night? Does that sound like any kind of freedom to you?”

“Why did he allow you to come at all, then?” Rima asked.

Bianca sniffed. “He wanted me to come. Ahmed likes the thought of his mistress working as a model in Europe. It makes him feel cosmopolitan, young and virile, I suppose. I didn’t ask; I just took the opportunity.”

Tarek said, “Obviously if he thought there was any chance you would run, he would not have let you go.”

With a slow blink and a look of genuine surprise, the Spanish woman said, “Run? How could I possibly run?”

Bianca noticed the same quizzical look on the faces of the two at the table with her that she herself wore now, but in the back corner of the room, the man who sat alone in the dark did not react.

“And what is it you think I know that will help your cause?”

Rima motioned to the man in the corner. “This is Monsieur Voland. He is a former member of French intelligence, and he works with us now. He wants information about a trip you took with Ahmed last month to Tehran.”

Bianca said nothing.

“You both met with the Supreme Leader of Iran, in complete secret. The French know about it because they have an agent in the Iranian government, but they have no way to prove the meeting took place.”

Tarek spoke up. “You will be that proof, Bianca.”

“What does it matter? I wasn’t in the meeting itself, I don’t know what was discussed.”

“Ahmed conducted the trip in secret because he could not let his Russian masters know he was working with the highest levels in Iran. He wants to bring more Iranian military into his country, to give them permanent bases, to blunt the power the Russians have over him. Now that the war is winding down, Ahmed is negotiating with the Shiites in secret. If you go public with details of the trip to see the Supreme Leader, then the Russians will know of Ahmed’s plan.”

“And what will that do?”

Tarek said, “The French think this will cause discord between the Russians, the Iranians, and the Syrians, and this could lead to the end of the brutal regime in Syria. All we need is for you to speak publicly about the trip. This can help stop the bloodshed that, you must know, has killed half a million people in the last eight years.”

Bianca rolled her eyes. “Half a million? Lies.”

“Would you like me to show you films of children being killed by sarin gas, dropped in bombs from Azzam’s air force bombers?”

Medina repeated herself. “Lies. Ahmed has been fighting terrorists and insurgents for seven years now, and fighting the lies of the West.”

Tarek looked to Rima. “We’ll need to deprogram her brainwashing.”

Bianca shook her head. “No, you won’t. I don’t have time for any of this. My flight leaves at one p.m. I must go back.”

Tarek replied, “To Damascus? Didn’t you hear what we just said? One of the most powerful people in that nation just tried to have you killed. You can’t go back.”

Bianca’s eyes widened now, a look of near panic. “I can, and I will. This afternoon I’ll fly to Moscow, and tomorrow morning I’ll fly home to Damascus.”

Tarek spoke to her in a cruel tone now. “Other than the affections of a psychotic mass murderer, what are you missing so badly in Syria? What can you find there that you can’t find here in Paris?”

She blinked thick teardrops now. “Is that a serious question? What kind of a person do you think I am?”

Neither Tarek or Rima spoke at first, thinking the answer to be obvious, but soon Rima’s woman’s intuition told her she was missing an important piece of the puzzle. She leaned forward. “What is it, Bianca? What is back in Syria that you can’t leave behind?”

Bianca blinked slowly. Uncomprehending. But then it dawned on her. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?” Rima asked.

“My . . . my baby. My baby is in Syria.”

Rima’s and Tarek’s heads swiveled to each other, and then they both turned to the silent man in the wingback chair in the corner. He gave them a look of concern, but to Medina the look did not give away much in terms of emotion.

Soon Rima turned back to Bianca. “You have a child?”

Bianca wept openly now. “You thought you knew so much about me, and yet you didn’t know this. He is my life, the only thing that matters in this world.”

A pronounced vein on Tarek Halaby’s forehead pulsed. “When did this happen?”