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“I’m unarmed. I just come to give you a proposition, Mr. Dattar, on how to recoup your stolen money.”

Dattar looked Manhar up and down. “Who are you?”

“Manhar. Khalil’s man. He plans on double-crossing you, and I thought you should know.”

Manhar was pleased to see the two bodyguards exchange a glance. Dattar raised an eyebrow but didn’t move. It was clear that Manhar had his attention.

“Why should I believe you?” Dattar said.

“I also know that he managed to let Howell slip out of his hands, and Smith nearly killed him one day ago. Smith did kill his first lieutenant.”

“And?”

“And I know where you can find Khalil. I know all of his safe houses. I’ll give you the information.”

“In exchange for what?”

“Safe passage home.”

Dattar shook his head. “Not enough. Leaving me with an address gets me nowhere, as I still have to get Khalil. And that will not be easy. You want to go home? You’ll have to assist me in catching him.”

Manhar didn’t like this development at all. He would rather never see Khalil again. Dattar must have noted Manhar’s hesitation because he frowned.

“You’re either in all the way or out. Make a choice. Now.” Manhar’s choices had been taken from him the minute he’d screwed up on killing Howell, this much he knew. He sighed.

“I’m in. Tell me what it is you want me to do.”

Dattar waved him forward. “In the house. We’ll lay it out for you.”

Manhar followed Dattar into the spacious home and through the main entrance to a kitchen filled with dark wood cabinets, granite countertops, and a large central island. Manhar had never seen such a kitchen. It was all he could do not to stare, his mouth open. He did his best to act nonchalant and took a seat at the table while Dattar reached into the refrigerator and removed a bottle of water. Dattar poured himself a glass, but offered nothing to Manhar.

A second, thin man entered the room and flicked a glance Manhar’s way. Dattar jerked a chin at him. “That’s Rajiid.” A third man appeared and placed a laptop computer on the island. He stared at the screen. “And that’s Nihal. My lead strategists. You will listen to them. This one,” he waved the glass in Manhar’s direction, “wishes to bring us to Khalil. He says Khalil is intent on taking my money from the American and pocketing it himself.”

Rajiid frowned. “Is Smith dead? Khalil was to have killed him days ago. He said it would be easy.”

Manhar shook his head. “Not only is Smith alive, but it was he who nearly killed Khalil.”

“And the American?”

“She’s with Smith.”

Dattar stopped drinking in what looked to Manhar like mid-swallow. He put the glass down.

“Smith has her? How did he know about her?”

Manhar shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Dattar started to pace.

“How he knows of her is unimportant,” Rajiid said. “What is important—”

“What is important is that she lives long enough to tell me where the money is!” Dattar’s voice carried an intensity that made Manhar sit up straighter. Rajiid inhaled.

“What is important is that we can still go forward with the plan,” Rajiid said. “After we do, you’ll have all the money and power you need.”

Dattar leveled a stare at Rajiid. “No one steals from me and gets away with it. Especially not hundreds of millions whisked away while I rotted in jail.”

“She won’t die immediately. We can begin and still have enough time to find her.”

“And who will stay when the weapon is placed, huh? I won’t be coming back here to die from my own weapon, will you?”

Rajiid shifted in his seat.

“I thought not,” Dattar said. “This is why I wanted Smith dead and her captured before we began, remember? I hired the best in the business to kill him, and now I’m told that Smith not only lives, but he survived an attack.”

“But—”

Nihal barked a laugh. It was such a strange reaction that Manhar stared at him. Both Rajiid and Dattar looked at Nihal as well, and the fury on Dattar’s face was evident.

“I think our troubles are over,” Nihal said. He sat back, a smirk on his face. “I have an e-mail from the American. She wants to cut a deal.”

37

Smith walked with Nolan down the street in front of the apartment and crossed Broadway. Despite the early hour, they had passed bodegas with men sitting on flimsy wooden crates drinking from bottles kept in paper bags. They continued east of Broadway and to Smith it seemed like they’d entered an entirely different neighborhood. Instead of neat but dated buildings, they saw trash strewn across the sidewalks and collected against the curb. Closed storefronts were covered by protective grates secured with padlocks. A currency exchange on the corner offered legal services upstairs that advertised divorces for $500.

Smith indicated the sign.

“Beckmann should have hired this guy. Would have saved him some money.”

Nolan smiled. “It’s that cement building across the street.”

They were headed to a Pakistani gold merchant who Nolan said would gladly exchange her dollars for gold bullion. They expected Dattar to demand his money in full by wire transfer, but they needed him to appear in person for the plan to work. Also, she was hesitant to fire up her tablet and tip off whoever was watching her at the CIA. It was Nolan who had suggested tempting Dattar to appear in person with a good-faith offer of gold bullion.

“What’s a Pakistani doing in this neighborhood? Seems mostly Spanish.”

“Dominican, actually. But Bilal has been here for years.”

“Do they know that he trades in gold?”

Nolan smiled again. “Take a look.” She pointed to an ugly two-story square building with a neon sign with the word “Pawnbrokers” across the top and another, smaller neon tube light sign that said “We Buy Gold.” They stepped into the street and across to the other side. Nolan headed to a side door made of steel and guarded by a closed-circuit camera mounted at eave level. She pressed a button on the intercom, and Smith heard a buzzing sound somewhere deep in the center of the building. Within seconds the door gave an answering sound, and Nolan pushed it open and stepped inside. As Smith crossed the threshold, he heard a beeping noise and the door closed behind him with a decisive click. The only light came from an open door at the end of the hallway.

“Miss Rebecca, back here,” a man’s voice with a heavy accent called to them. Nolan stepped into the office. A Middle Eastern — looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache and dark eyes, and dressed in a white T-shirt and faded jeans, stood behind an L-shaped green metal desk. He pointed a gun at Smith.

“Your friend here has a weapon,” the man said, then turned to Smith. “Put your hands in the air.”

“It’s all right. I’ll vouch for him,” Nolan said. “Bilal, this is Jon Smith. He’s trustworthy.”

Bilal didn’t lower the pistol. “Interesting name, Jon Smith. Quite common.”

Smith kept his eyes on Bilal. “Someone has to have it.”

“Miss Rebecca, please remove your friend’s gun from its holster and put it on the table.”

Nolan stepped up to Smith, and he smelled the fresh scent of shampoo that came from her hair. She unzipped his jacket, glanced up at him, and ran her hands along his chest until she reached his gun in the shoulder holster.

“Is the safety on? I’d hate to shoot you accidentally.”

Smith nodded. “It’s okay. You can remove it.” She pulled out the weapon and held it muzzle down while she took the few steps to Bilal’s desk.