Maybe it was just a stupid feeling. C’mon, Annie, what are you, ten?
It suddenly hit her that she should check on his dresser. There was a messy pile of photos, credit card receipts. Mail. Bills. Whatever came in, that’s where Ty threw it! If she didn’t want to intrude on his space, she would have organized it a hundred times.
In an ashtray, along with some loose change, were her gold hoops.
Hooray!
Annie wrapped them in a tissue and put them in her jacket. She was about to leave when something on the dresser caught her eye.
A voice inside her said to leave it alone. It’s Ty’s. Snooping’s not allowed. Another little voice urged her to take a look.
It was a photo. Left under the ashtray. Annie picked it up.
Her heart sank at what she saw.
Not so much because of who it was-it was a long time ago, and somehow, inside, she’d always had her suspicions.
As much as it was their relationship drifting away.
Her trust.
The photo was of Ty, smiling, a look on his face she had never seen when he was with her. On a bench. In a park. Other people around.
And next to him someone she recognized. Her head on his shoulder. Her hands wrapped around his arm. It didn’t make Annie jealous.
As much as it just hurt.
The woman’s face had been burned into her mind since the first day she saw it. On the TV. It was the one who had been killed. At that house.
April Glassman.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
The car that came to take al-Bashir and his family into custody arrived at just before nine the next morning.
Overnight, Naomi had been on the phone with her team back in DC. The plan was to get him to a safe house in the country, where he would be debriefed by Naomi and representatives from the British government, then flown out of the country. They needed to do this quickly and without notice, before Hassani or anyone else could intervene.
Hauck and Naomi arrived at the house in Mayfair a half hour early. An unmarked car from Scotland Yard was stationed across the square, having watched over al-Bashir’s house during the night. Otherwise, the street was empty. Like any quiet Sunday morning. Robins chirped in the trees. One or two families stepped out, dressed up, on their way to church.
The fewer people involved, the better.
Naomi flashed her ID by the two policemen in the car. Then she went up the stairs and knocked on the red paneled door. Hauck stayed on the steps, watching the square. A few houses down, a mother was dragging her cranky, whining son into the family BMW 330i for what seemed like a Sunday outing.
Sheera al-Bashir answered the door. She was dressed in a black blazer and designer jeans. It was hard, Hauck thought, not to feel sadness for her and her family. They had done nothing wrong. She could have been any modern, attractive young mom, dragged into a whirlwind in just a day. Now everything was about to change for them. Until Hassani was in custody-and maybe even well beyond that-they would always have to live in fear that people would find them.
Naomi smiled at her as best she could and glanced at her watch. “The car should be here anytime. Are you ready?”
“Shortly,” Sheera al-Bashir replied. She didn’t have any makeup on and her eyes looked drawn from a very difficult night. She managed a reluctant smile. “We’re just packing up a few of the boys’ toys.”
Naomi nodded. “Sure.”
Fifteen minutes. Naomi came over and sat next to Hauck, smiling, partly philosophically, acknowledging that there were no winners in this kind of thing, and partly with a glimmer of satisfaction that they would finally be able to get to the truth. People plotting against the United States. And who was behind the murders of Marc Glassman and James Donovan?
“You did good.” Hauck winked, proud.
“Thanks.” She exhaled nervously, as if there was some small detail she hadn’t checked. Or double-checked. But there wasn’t.
“Quite the three days, huh?” He grinned. “Be sure and let me know when you’re planning your next vacation.”
“I’ll do that,” Naomi said, with a smirk.
“The south of France would be nice. If there’s ever anything going on there…”
She glanced at her watch again. “Maybe I should check in with my contact at the Exchequer…”
“Relax,” Hauck said with a squeeze of her arm.
Then she pointed up the block. “There it is.”
A black Mercedes SUV with darkened windows had come into the mew from the direction of Knightsbridge. It drove around the square and pulled to a stop in front of the house.
Naomi was relieved.
The driver’s window rolled down. One of the police guards stepped out of the car and checked the driver’s ID. He nodded in confirmation up at Naomi.
She sucked in a breath. “Let’s get this done.” She went up and knocked on the door again. This time a housekeeper answered. “The car’s here.”
A short time later the door opened back up and Sheera came back out, a tote bag over her shoulder, clasping the hands of her two young sons. The little one was still in his pj’s and obviously had been crying, forced to leave his home. He clutched a stuffed bear. A few suitcases were dragged out to the doorstep. A second agent jumped out of the Mercedes. He looked up and down the street, then quickly went up the stairs, taking the bags, and loaded them into the back of the SUV.
“Don’t forget the ski bag,” Sheera said, pointing back inside. “It has some things for the kids in it.”
The agent nodded agreeably. “We should have room, ma’am.”
Seconds later, Marty al-Bashir came out onto the steps. He was dressed in an open plaid shirt, blazer, khakis. A bulletproof vest he had been given the night before. The second agent put himself in the line of fire. Al-Bashir’s demeanor was sullen and resigned. Yesterday, he had been running the largest investment fund in the world. Today, his fate was in the state’s hands. A computer case was slung over his shoulder. He stepped up to Naomi. “Can you tell us where we’re going?”
“You should hurry,” she said. The agent stowed the last case in the trunk. Al-Bashir followed him down. “Everything will be made clear on the way.”
Before he got in, he looked at Naomi with a final, deflated smile. “You called it ‘jihad,’” he said. “It was never about terrorism. You’ll see. This was much larger than terrorism.”
Naomi pushed him into the car. “You better get on.”
He climbed into the backseat next to his wife. The accompanying agent shut the door, waved officiously to the policemen. He hopped in front, and then, without a siren, as if it were just a normal limo on its way to the airport, the Mercedes circled the mew and drove off through the grid of one-way streets back out to the main road.
It was done.
As it drove away, Hauck caught sight of the face of their youngest boy through the rear window, turning back a final time, grabbing one last look at his home.
Naomi exhaled. “That wasn’t exactly easy.” She nudged Hauck and they headed back down the street to their cab.
“Never is.”
His role was over now. She and the Feds would take it from here. He’d probably head back to the States that afternoon. He had a life to resume and a lot of things to explain.
Naomi’s cell phone rang. She checked out the display, saying to Hauck, “My contact at the Exchequer…”
She listened, then stopped, her face suddenly turning ashen. She looked back at Hauck, the blood rushing out of her face.
“What’s wrong?”
Naomi’s jaw fell open. “She said the government’s Range Rover is close by. It’ll be here in three minutes.”
Hauck’s heart stopped. He ran into the street, straining to find the black Mercedes moving away up the block.
He caught only the rear taillights as it disappeared around the corner.