At this point Talyssa’s story of her hunt for the ringleaders of a human trafficking network will unravel, and it will be obvious to the local cops that she has gone rogue for some reason and has no sanction for her work here. Then—we hope, anyway—the crooked cops and whatever gang is working with the pipeline in Dubrovnik will determine that the woman and her questions are at once dangerous and easy to silence, so they will pay her a visit, either to kill her or to scare her into giving up her hunt for answers about the Consortium.

We are lucky that Talyssa and her half sister have different surnames, as they were born to different fathers. We know Talyssa won’t be able to talk to the police without producing some sort of identification, and I have no way of obtaining quality forged documents for her in the time we have available to us, so on the off chance Roxana is still alive, she won’t be endangered by this fact.

The women and girls I saw in the basement in Mostar, if they are reachable at all, will soon be distributed all over the world, dispersed into the wind where I will never be able to help them. For this reason we hope our thin backstory holds, because we’ve no time to craft a better one.

Hope isn’t a strategy, I know, but we need a break.

We arrived in town last night and I rented two rooms. One was a top-floor pension in the walled Old Town, and the second a larger apartment, also in the Old Town, but in a basement several blocks from the first.

The first room is Talyssa’s: high on the hill on the southern side, backing up to the medieval outer wall that separates the Old Town from the ocean. Here she will wait for whoever the Consortium sends after her. I chose the location carefully after walking the neighborhood and the staircases of the building. I’ve checked her window to make sure it opens, and I’ve looked at the roof and the courtyard out front, deciding on several courses of action depending on our enemy’s tactics. I’ve picked a place in the large pedestrian-only Old Town so the opposition can’t just roll up in a convoy of vans and snatch her out of her bed and race away without me having time to stop them. No, with the location I’ve chosen, they will have to come on foot, climbing flight after flight of outdoor cobblestone stairs through narrow alleyways. I will be lying in wait and able to see and hear them coming by any route available to them long before they get to her building, much less through the courtyard, into the entrance, and up the three flights of stairs to her room.

And I won’t just be trusting my eyes. In my pack of gear brought along for the hit on Ratko Babic, I brought a half dozen small remote cameras, all of which connect to an app on my phone. I hid two of these in planters in the courtyard and entryway of the building where Talyssa will be waiting, and two more cover angles around the outside that I won’t be able to see from my vantage point.

The tiny basement apartment I rented nearby can be converted into a torture chamber on the fly if I happen to get my hands on one of the men sent to silence the pesky Europol woman here on an unsanctioned mission to get intelligence on their operation.

We don’t move our belongings into either location. All my possessions I have in my backpack in the backseat, and all of Talyssa’s are either in her purse or in her roll-aboard in the trunk. Additionally, during the day I went shopping at a camping store on the eastern edge of the city, purchasing items I anticipate needing. I also bought a burner phone and a prepaid card at a gift shop.

I wish like hell I were on an Agency op, where I’d have access to intel and labor and gadgetry and the like, but I’m performing with limited resources and no support, so I have to make the best of it.

The rain beats down on the roof of the little Vauxhall Corsa four-door. “You’ve got this,” I tell her. “You’ll be great.” I say these lines with conviction, at least I think I do, and she gives me a little bob of her head in acknowledgment. But neither of us believes this plan of mine has much chance of going smoothly. I know it, and she lets me know she knows it when she articulates just exactly what I am fearing.

“But what if they just take me into custody while they check out my story?”

I’m ready with an answer, because I’ve been pondering this all day. “Tell them you are working with others. If they act like they aren’t going to let you out of there, call my burner phone and give me the names of the people you are talking to.”

“Right.”

“Once they check you out they’ll know you’re full of shit, but making that call will probably keep them from detaining you until they’re certain you’re a rogue.” I have no idea if this will work, but it sounds good, anyway.

She nods again distractedly, looks out at the rain in the direction of the station. Her facial features are pinched tight with worry, and the bangs of her short red hair hang over her eyebrows. “I better go.”

“I’ll be parked right here when you’re done.”

“Sure,” she says, and I worry she’s not going to be able to go through with it.

“Look. You can do this.”

I still can’t work out exactly how someone so petrified of the danger can manage to push forward the way she has done. I understand her sister is either dead or in desperate peril, and I understand she doesn’t trust local authorities to help . . . but I have never seen anyone this physically sickened by terror able to soldier on through the danger.

I want to just respect her for it and move on, but I am certain there is another part to her story that I haven’t explored yet.

My thoughts drift away from this, because I see her staring catatonically out the windshield. She’s thinking about something, her trembling lip has returned, and she’s on the verge of becoming unhinged right before my eyes.

I quickly say, “Listen. If something bad happens in there, if something goes wrong. If they take you in . . . I will get you out.”

She turns to me with bloodshot eyes that are as imploring as her words. “Please, Harry. Whatever happens to me. You have to find out what happened to Roxana.” She sighs now, and adds, “Don’t worry about me. Worry about her. You can’t just come in shooting people in a police station.”

That isn’t my plan, simply because it won’t work. I’m not the Terminator. “I promise that won’t happen. Just keep calm, play your role, and if I have to, I’ll play mine. Together we’ll find out about Roxana once this part is done.”

This seems to help to some degree. Talyssa fixes her gaze in resolution and then, without another word, she climbs out of the little car and walks off in the rain.

I watch her go, and I find myself picking holes in the parts of her story that don’t add up, and filling in the pieces with my own ideas of what might really be going on here.

SIXTEEN

   At five p.m. Talyssa Corbu stepped through the doors of the main police headquarters, showed her credos at the front desk, and asked to speak to the highest-ranking person in the building. A smiling middle-aged and heavyset woman appeared and shook her hand, then ushered her into an office.