Working for the Hawks in Syria was a little like working for both the Nazis and the mafia at the same time.

The Desert Hawks Brigade was infamous. They regularly tortured and killed men, women, and children, and now Court would be shoulder to shoulder with these monsters. Suiting up for the Desert Hawks meant Court would probably be asked to do some horrible things, but if he wanted to maintain his cover, he’d have to comply.

And there was another downside to using this means to get into Syria. As soon as he broke away from the Desert Hawks and went for the baby, Court knew the affable but imposing German sleeping nearby in the master bedroom would probably become a sworn enemy. But that was a problem for another day. Pissing off the president of a company that rented out mercenaries to train and kill for third-world death squads didn’t seem like a great idea, but Court figured getting into Syria on his own, with a good cover legend about what he was doing there, was worth the risk.

This was going to be a tricky operation, to say the least, and the fact that he did not know how much time he had before Ahmed Azzam decided to remove the compromise of his child and simply move him or kill him only made Court’s operation to come more unsure.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to catch a couple of hours’ rest, because he knew one thing—right here, right now, lying in a closet in Munich, there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about what would happen tomorrow in Syria.

CHAPTER 25

Jamal Medina began to cry.

The house had been quiet since the four-month-old baby finally went to sleep two hours earlier, but Jamal was letting all within earshot know that it was time for a late-night feeding.

The au pair had been dozing on a mat near the crib—the baby had the more luxurious arrangement—but she sat up quickly and checked the clock. It was eleven fifteen p.m., a little earlier than usual for Jamal to want to eat again, but the only thing the au pair found consistent with the baby was inconsistency, so she was not surprised in the least.

Yasmin was the only person in the home allowed to handle the baby, but she was not the only person in the home. She was surrounded by five security men: all Alawis, and all members of a specially vetted Ba’ath Party unit, chosen for their skill and their support for the Azzam regime.

Yasmin Samara was a twenty-four-year-old Sunni Syrian and the granddaughter of the former speaker of the Syrian People’s Council, a Ba’ath Party official who served both Ahmed al-Azzam and his father before him. She had worked as an au pair in France for three years, then returned home to take a job as the nanny of a wealthy expatriate woman who lived in Mezzeh.

It wasn’t until she was brought in to meet a very pregnant Bianca and garnered her approval that she was told the father of the baby she would be looking out for was the president of the nation. Bianca stressed that she could not mention this to a soul, but it wasn’t until Ahmed Azzam himself dropped in on his new child that she understood the full scope of the danger she was in. Azzam was kind to her, but when he left, he left one of his security officers behind a moment to remind her to keep her silence, and that any failure to do so would be a criminal act.

Yasmin was the right girl for the job because she was an excellent nanny, and she hadn’t breathed a word to anyone, not even her family.

Bianca had been due back earlier in the day, but Yasmin had not heard any news from her. She wondered if the beautiful Spanish model had found some excuse to stay in Europe a little longer, but she doubted this, because Bianca had confided in her that Ahmed Azzam barely let her go in the first place, and sticking around overseas was a surefire way to make him angry.

Yasmin was deathly afraid of Ahmed Azzam, although he’d been in her life for all of her life. Bianca, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be afraid at all. The married man was obviously in love with his Spaniard; Bianca would tell Yasmin stories about his awkward romantic acts that made the young au pair blush.

As she carried Jamal into the kitchen tonight for yet another feeding, she rubbed the dark hair on the top of his head and sang him a little song with a tired voice. At the bottom of the stairs she saw lights appear in the circular driveway out front. Yasmin felt sure it would be Bianca, finally home from her trip, and she was glad she’d bathed Jamal just before bedtime.

As Yasmin stood in the living room a security man climbed off the sofa, slipped his suit coat back on to cover the pistol in a shoulder holster, and looked out the window in the entryway.

But only for a second. Then, with wide eyes, he spun around and looked at Yasmin.

“It’s him!”

“Him” could only mean one thing. The president of Syria was making an unannounced visit to the home where his mistress and his son lived.

Now Yasmin was doubly glad she’d bathed the boy.

* * *

? ? ?

Ahmed Azzam looked positively drained when he marched through the door behind the four bodyguards.

He stepped past the security men already working here in the house and up to Yasmin. He didn’t look at his son at all as he stared her down. “Have you heard from her?”

Yasmin shook her head. “La, sayidi.” No, sir.

“She said nothing to you about her trip?”

Yasmin did not meet her employer’s gaze. She only stared at the floor. “She said she was nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“About being back on the runway. It had been so long. She was worried about her looks after the baby. Getting back in shape . . . things like that.”

“Had she been acting strangely before she left? Any calls to the home from people you did not recognize?”

Yasmin’s huge wide eyes darted up to Azzam, then back down to the floor. What is going on? “La, sayidi.” No, sir.

“She is missing,” Azzam said. “I do not know when she will return. While she is away I will place more security here around you. You are not to leave the house. You are not to talk on the phone.”

“Nem, sayidi.” Yes, sir.

He put his hand on his boy’s head, stroked it for a moment, and again Yasmin stole a look at her employer. An expression of frustration, anger, and . . . was it fear?

Ahmed looked away from his son and back to Yasmin. “If she contacts you in any way, I will know it.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Azzam reached out and put his hand on the side of Yasmin’s face. “Your grandfather was a great man, daughter. He was a friend to my family for a long time. I miss him every day.”

She started to thank him, but her voice caught in her throat as his hand lowered from her face, traced down the side of her neck, over her shoulder, down again, and then onto her chest. He stopped there, opened her robe a little, and slid a cold hand inside and around one of her breasts.

She worried he could feel her heartbeat; worried that her high heart rate from her near panicked state would anger him or make him think she was lying.

Yasmin said, “The Samara family has always been honored to serve the Azzam family.”

Azzam looked at her a moment more, then drew his hand away, like a snake slipping back into the tall grass. He turned away without another word.

Yasmin watched him step over to the head of the guard force of the house. “How many men do you have here?”

“Five, sir. Around the clock.”

“Make it ten. And find a way to double the security throughout the neighborhood.”

“Of course, Mr. President. Is there any specific threat I should know about, sir?”

Azzam turned for the door. “Yes. Me, if you fail to protect my child.”

* * *

? ? ?

As Ahmed al-Azzam climbed back into his SUV, he thought again of just ordering Yasmin and Jamal shot and disposed of. He had great plans for the boy, true, but if his son was exposed, if Bianca talked and compromised the child, then the plans for his son’s future as the male heir would become null and void.

But he did not give the order for his men to kill the two. He told himself he’d give Sebastian Drexler time to get to France, to find his lover, and to determine what the hell had happened. If she could prove that she had nothing to do with her disappearance and that she had been careful about what she had said to those who took her, then his plan for the future—new wife, new son, new heir, new relationship with Russia and Iran, and new strength at home with the total conquest of his domestic enemies—would remain intact.

If not . . . if he was left with any doubts at all about Bianca’s culpability in all this . . . then he would not allow his weakness to show. He would, instead, simply erase any evidence that Jamal had ever happened.

CHAPTER 26