Adrenaline hit her bloodstream like a sledgehammer, but it also distorted her perception of time. Although the attackers converged on her like feral dogs, from her perspective, they seemed to move in slow motion.
She deftly avoided the attempted tackle. Standing barely five feet tall, she had little difficulty slipping under the arms of the large man, but she was not content to simply evade and escape. As the man's arms closed on empty air, she threw an elbow into his solar plexus and despite his overwhelming advantage of size, he went down gasping for air.
The other man moved in quickly to assist his partner, but Lyse's small victory had emboldened her to stand her ground. The attacker pulled up just out of reach, striking a threatening pose, and she responded by dropping into a ready stance ingrained from more than three years of Tae Kwon Do training. The man threw a punch, which Lyse deflected with an overhead block and followed through with a strike at the man's chin. This time however, her aim was not as good. Her fist glanced off his jaw and left her open for reprisal. There was a flash of light across her vision and a piercing ringing in her ears as she stumbled sideways, but what hurt the most was the realization that she had badly misjudged the situation; she had passed up a perfect opportunity to escape, and now she was about to pay the price.
She scrambled back to her feet, trying to remember what to do next, and narrowly avoided another blow from her assailant by throwing herself onto the ground. The man misinterpreted this as victory and with a lascivious laugh advanced again.
"Wrong move, sucker." Lyse lashed out with both feet, jamming them into his knee with such force that she was propelled backwards toward the tree line. The man’s leg bent sideways with a sickening crack and he went down screaming. She scrambled erect, her head still reeling from the earlier punch, and this time she did not let her pride keep her from winning the battle by retreating. Despite the fact that the streetlight down the trail seemed to have split into divergent halves, she set off at a sprint.
Suddenly another figure was standing between her and freedom; a single individual, divided in her double-vision, standing confidently, yet strangely without menace, directly in her path.
"Well done, Miss Lyon."
The speaker had platinum blonde hair and a lean, hungry expression that reminded her of the big bad wolf from the Brothers Grimm. He was too well dressed for a garden-variety rapist — his dark designer label trench coat was unmistakably a mark of affluence — but Lyse had the feeling that this man represented a threat of an entirely different order. She drew up short and took a fighting stance. "Who the hell are you? How did you know my name?"
The man smiled, revealing perfect teeth that nevertheless seemed ready to devour her. "My apologies for this bit of theatre. It was a test of sorts, and you've every right to be outraged, but I assure you, I would not have let you come to any harm."
She threw a glance over one shoulder. If her attackers were still there, they had chosen to nurse their wounds in the darkness. "A test?"
"I'm a recruiter of sorts, Lyse…may I call you Lyse? I've been observing you for some time. Your academic record is outstanding; by itself, that would qualify you for further consideration, but your unique capabilities extend far beyond that. You are a rare blend of intelligence, strength and beauty; traits which would make you a great asset in my line of work."
"Cut the pillow talk. You haven't answered any of my questions and I'm not really job-hunting right now, so if you don't want to join your friends, I suggest you end this little 'interview' and let me be on my way."
The man's smile never wavered; in fact, it seemed to grow, his lips curling back like something from a cartoon. "You are a remarkable woman, Lyse. And I think this is a job you might be interested in taking. You see, I know what you want most."
"Get out of my way. Now." She started forward, brandishing her fists but giving him a wide berth.
He did not move to restrain her physically; his words were enough. "I can help you get him back."
She stopped. Safety was only a few steps away, but that short statement was enough to freeze her in her tracks.
"I know you love him, Lyse, and I know that you think you've lost him. But it doesn't have to be like that."
She turned slowly on a heel and gazed into his azure eyes. "I'm listening."
They were out there somewhere, following her. Even if they had not yet realized what she had done, her sudden departure had surely raised an alarm. She had little doubt that they were actively tracking the plane's transponder; you didn't keep secrets from these people.
Off to her left, the lights of the coastline blinked into view, and she knew she could delay no longer. She picked up the satellite phone again and this time did not hesitate. She tapped out a brief and of necessity vague message, completely dissociating from her emotional link to the recipient, and without a second thought, hit the send button. She then stowed the phone in a small backpack, along with the other item — the object that now imperilled her very life — and activated the autopilot.
Two hours later, the small airplane drank the last of its fuel and dropped unceremoniously into the sea, not far from Gibraltar. The plane shattered on impact, and although some lighter pieces of debris would later wash ashore on the beaches of the Spanish coast, no trace of the unknown pilot was ever found.
PART ONE:
AULD ACQUAINTANCE
ONE
Wispy clouds tugged at the lofty peaks of the distant Atlas Mountains as they arched across North Africa. Shadows played upon their slopes, darkening as the sun sank into the west. Framed by the arched window opening, this view was the first thing that Nick Kismet saw as he peered through the veil of beads that separated the room from the corridor in which he stood. A young servant tugged at his elbow, encouraging him to enter the chamber beyond, but he ignored the boy, choosing instead to continue his reconnaissance. Old habits were hard to break.
In many ways, he was still the same young soldier that had been blooded in the Arabian Desert so many years before. His appearance had hardly changed at all. He still kept his dark brown hair clipped short, now for the sake of utility rather than regulations; he had of late noticed a sprinkling of gray whenever it got a little too long. While he was still physically fit, this had more to do with regular visits to a health club than any regimen of military calisthenics. His shoulders were broader and his face was a little more weathered; he'd been told that he was handsome in a rough way, but no one would ever describe him as boyishly good-looking.
He moved with an abrupt economy of motion, striding deliberately, without swaggering, from one destination to the next, and always remained observant, aware of the potential for hidden dangers that might lurk around the next corner. He was all the more cautious here in the heart of old Marrakech, preparing to take audience with a notorious racketeer.
Just to the right of the window, an enormous Caucasian man lounged on a divan that sagged beneath his bulk, noisily slurping some unidentifiable delicacy. Known locally as 'The Fat Man,' he was a Swiss expatriate who had done quite well for himself in the North African desert. He certainly hadn't missed any meals; the Fat Man's bulk filled to the point of bursting his stained robes. Wavy blond curls strayed from beneath the red fez perched comically atop his porcine head. Kismet felt suddenly as if he was staring at an attraction in a freak show: the world's only four hundred pound infant.