Hercule had considered what would happen if Jamil failed to kill Nasim—he always considered everything. He’d had Jamil followed to Colby, New York, with instructions for the follower to keep out of Jamil’s sight, keep watch, and keep Hercule informed of everything as it happened. So he knew Jamil had been shot, knew he was out of surgery and expected to live in that Podunk hospital on Long Island. Hercule mourned losing Jamil even though he wasn’t dead. He would be imprisoned forever, perhaps executed, and there was little chance of freeing him. He wasn’t worried about Jamil talking—he was a true believer, not hired muscle. Hercule knew Jamil would never talk, not even if the FBI poured a truth serum down his throat.

What he didn’t know for certain was whether Nasim was still alive, whether Jamil had succeeded in killing him. Nasim hadn’t been removed from the safe house, not dead, not walking, in the several hours after the shooting, the GPS chip out of power or disabled. The FBI had made no announcement of any kind. Were they playing with him, hoping he would spare Nasim’s family until he knew for certain? Even if Nasim had talked before Jamil shot at him, it didn’t matter much, because he didn’t know about the whole, only his tiny part. He could tell him he’d met with the imam, but without proof, the old man was probably safe. Nasim knew nothing about Hercule, nothing about the Strategist. He really should stop worrying; Jamil had very likely killed Nasim.

There was a knock on the suite door. It was room service with fish and chips, his favorite, served up at the crack of dawn for his breakfast, served elegantly and without any smart comments. He would put everything right, back on track. He would give the FBI no more than a day to make an announcement about Nasim. If they didn’t, he would eliminate Nasim’s family and put the whole business behind him. It was too dangerous to let them live. Bella had more surprises than they knew of yet.

And there was France. He should find out very soon now.

As he chewed on a french fry dipped in mayonnaise, he wished himself a happy birthday and thought again of that redheaded female FBI agent who was there when they’d taken Jamil. She would be the woman who beat him twice. How would it look to let a woman do that to the Strategist? What could he accomplish if the primitive men who worked for him lost their fear of him, their respect? He decided to kill her—in public, if possible—with lots of smartphone videos running. It would be seen as an outrage, she’d be a martyr for some, but his own people would know the Strategist had the last word.

His cell rang. It was Bahar, calling from France. He listened and then hung up.

And smiled.

PLACKETT, VIRGINIA

Saturday afternoon

Savich pulled into the driveway of an older one-story, red-brick house that looked settled in and comfortable, sitting in the middle of its large front yard. Flower beds filled with pansies and marigolds lined the front of the house and mature oaks hovered around its perimeter, their leaves rustling in the stiff breeze. As he walked the long flagstone path to the front door he smelled the sweet aroma of freshly mowed grass. He was glad to see a small white Miata in the driveway. Tammy Carroll’s mother, Mrs. Stacy, was at home.

When he rang the doorbell, he was surprised to hear it play a similar chant to the Alcotts’. He heard hurrying light footsteps inside, and when the door opened, he looked into what Tammy Carroll’s face would become in twenty-five years. Mrs. Stacy was a beautiful woman, like her daughter, but there was character in her face, that only years could have given her. He saw grief there, too, saw it in her eyes. Like her daughter, she was suffering after the death of her son-in-law.

“Mrs. Stacy? I’m Special Agent Dillon Savich, FBI.” He handed her his creds.

“I know who you are, Agent Savich. Tammy called me right after you and Agent Sherlock left.” Mrs. Stacy gave him a small smile. “Agent Sherlock made quite an impression on my daughter, not because of her heroics at JFK, but because of her beautiful red hair.” A smile that he imagined curved up her mouth most of her life quickly fell off her face. She said in a flat voice, “This is about Sparky.”

“Yes,” Savich said. “May I speak with you, Mrs. Stacy?”

She stepped back and motioned for him to enter. “This way, Agent Savich.”

He followed her down a long hallway, past a formal living room on the right with heavy oak furnishings, an old-fashioned kitchen, and a half-bath painted pink, to a closed door at the back of the house.

“This is my own personal room,” she said, and opened the door. “Come in.”

Savich walked into a Wiccan’s fantasy. The room wasn’t large, but still it felt light, airy, and spacious. It was painted white, and had a white sofa and chair, white curtains on the windows. An entire wall was covered with white built-in bookshelves with bottles of herbs lined up on one shelf, each jar meticulously labeled. There were dozens of books whose titles he skimmed, from Dreaming the Dark: Magic, Sex, and Politics to The Spiral Dance to Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner. There were dried flowers in several vases sharing space with seashells and pearls and bowls of crystals. He saw a line of small, oddly shaped dolls on a long windowsill.