Nick rang the bell next to Maharani’s carved oak door and waited. When no one answered, he rang again. After a few seconds, he glanced up at Drake and jerked his chin toward the near end of the joined houses. “Head around back.”
After selecting a bump key, it took Nick less than four seconds to unlock both the dead bolt and the knob and silently push through. He stepped into a hall with dark wood flooring that ran all the way to the back of the house. Up and to the left, an open doorway led to a carpeted living area, and farther down another led to a kitchen. To his immediate right, a stairway led up to the bedroom floors above. He closed the door behind him, pocketed the bump key, and drew his Taser.
The microwave camera had last shown the flat’s one occupant on the first floor, in a room on the right side. By now, he could be anywhere. Nick checked the living area first. He saw no one, just some ugly green furniture and a couple of ebony curios full of knickknacks. As he returned to the hallway, Drake appeared at the other end. Nick pointed at his own eyes and shook his head and then pointed at Drake. His teammate shook his head as well. Drake had not seen anyone either. Then Nick heard a bump from the wall to his right.
Drake heard it too. The two operatives converged on a closed door beneath the stairwell. Nick held a finger up for his teammate to wait, raised his Taser, and then nodded.
As soon as Drake turned the knob, the door swung open. A broom handle came crashing down and smacked him in the forehead. Nick would have laughed if the handle hadn’t reared back again for another blow.
Drake grabbed the stick and yanked hard, and a young Indian woman stumbled out into the hall, still maintaining a death grip on the other end of the broom. She struggled hopelessly against Drake for a couple of seconds and then abandoned her weapon and ran, hitting Nick in the ribs with a sharp little shoulder as she shot between them. She disappeared into the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you Tase her?” asked Drake, rubbing the welt on his head.
“Why didn’t you?”
Nick tilted his head toward the kitchen. “She’s going for a knife. We should probably go get her.”
“After you, then.”
The girl took a swipe at Nick with a chopping knife as soon as he passed through the doorway. He lurched back and then maneuvered deeper into the room so that Drake could follow and hem her in. He assessed the subject. Other than the knife, she hardly looked threatening — five foot three in her heels and a buck ten, if that. She wore formfitting gray slacks and a forest green blouse, not the typical attire of a burglar or a terrorist. He kept his Taser pointed at her shins. “We’re Interpol, ma’am. Drop the knife.”
“Please, ma’am,” Drake chimed in, circling right. “Drop it.”
Before Drake finished the command, it was Nick’s turn again. “Drop the knife. We don’t want to Tase you.”
The technique was called barrage. A single, rapidly repeated command issued from multiple angles. Sensory overload blocked a subject’s ability to make complex decisions, leaving them with only three basic options — fight, flight, or compliance. All but the most hardened criminals chose compliance.
After the second round of commands, the woman dropped the knife onto the counter with a heavy clank and raised her hands. Tears formed at the edges of her almond eyes. “Who are you? What have you done with my father?”
Nick held out a badge that declared him to be Nicholas Stafford of American Interpol, the same badge he had used in Istanbul. While the girl’s eyes were focused on the wallet, Drake stepped in and pulled the knife away. “We haven’t done anything with your father,” said Nick. “We just want to ask him a few questions.”
It took several minutes to calm her down, and Nick was forced to produce a British search warrant that Scott had created, signed by a local magistrate who did not exist. When she was finally convinced that the two Americans were not there to kidnap her, the young woman introduced herself as Chaya Maharani, the biologist’s daughter. She led them into the living area and invited them to sit down in a pair of worn mint-green chairs. Chaya remained standing, pacing in front of the matching sofa, her reflection ghosting back and forth across a polished ebony coffee table.
“I have not heard from my father in two days,” she explained. “His company claims that he came to the office yesterday afternoon and took a leave of absence.” Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “Mother is gone. I am his only family. If he went on a vacation, I would know it.”
“Did you go to the police?” asked Drake.
“They said he hasn’t been missing long enough. Please, if you know something about his disappearance, you must tell me.”
Nick did not have time to play things close to the vest. He put his cards on the table. “Miss Maharani, we believe that your father is involved in an attempt to create a biological weapon.”
“Impossible.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes and then her hands went to her hips. “My father’s viral research is designed to improve life, not take it.”
“What if he’s being coerced?” asked Drake. “Is there anything a terrorist group could use against him? Maybe an affair?”
Nick cast a sharp glance at his teammate.
Chaya scowled at him too. “I just told you that my mother is gone. If my father were seeing anyone — which he is not — it would hardly qualify as an affair.”
Nick was losing her. He softened his tone, switching roles from interrogator to helpful outsider. “What about his finances? Does he have any large debts that might make him vulnerable?”
Chaya collapsed onto the sofa. “Everyone has mountains of debt these days. And what would I know about his finances? In my culture, a child does not question her parents about such things.”
Nick smiled, hiding his frustration behind empathetic words. “My family is from the midwestern U.S.,” he said. “We have the very same tradition.” He stopped asking questions. This whole exercise was pointless. Molly had already delved into the biologist’s past. His known financial dealings were clean, and just as Chaya had said, his work was aimed at attacking disease and genetic disorders, not symbols of democracy.
Nick stood and offered a hand across the black coffee table. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Maharani. We need to go.”
The girl walked them to the door and saw them out without any pleasantries. They made it all the way back to the Peugeot before she suddenly called out from the doorway. “Mr. Stafford,” she called, using the name from Nick’s Interpol badge.
He turned to see her standing on her father’s steps, holding his warrant out at arm’s length. Nick patted his coat. Had he really left the bogus legal document in her hands? He put on his best government employee smile and hurried back across the street to keep her from raising her voice and involving the whole neighborhood. “Yes, ma’am?”
Chaya closed the door and walked down the steps. She had donned a tapered blue peacoat, like she was going somewhere. “You can drop the ma’ams, Mr. Stafford. I’m not one of those Brits who equates all Americans with cowboys. I’m also not one who blindly accepts a warrant. When you looked into my father, you must have read something about me. Did you happen to notice what I do for a living?”
Nick winced. Yes, he had. “Chaya Maharani,” he recited, “assistant solicitor for the firm of Taylor and Brown, London office.”
“What does that mean?” whispered Drake, catching up to him.
“It means she’s a lawyer,” Nick whispered back.
“Oh. Not good.”
Chaya offered him a congenial smile. She seemed to have gathered her composure rather quickly since the impromptu interrogation. “Mr. Stafford — may I call you Nicholas?”