“Could she tell Boston anything pertinent about Imam Al-Hädi ibn Mirza?”

“Marie Claire believes the imam is involved, but she has no proof. And she’s never heard of anyone called the Strategist.”

“John said they have the imam under surveillance, but they’re holding off bringing him in for questioning, hoping to identify his contacts.”

Sherlock sighed. “Dillon, if you could have seen Marie Claire’s face, her children’s faces. It was a horror for her, believing finally that her children would die, having no reason for hope. When this is all over I imagine she’ll go back to live in France. She’ll be a wealthy woman, won’t she, from the business Nasim inherited from his father?”

“Yes, the business will be hers now. I’m sure she’ll sell it, and that she’ll never want to go back to England again. She survived because of you, Sherlock. You gave her and her children a future.”

She closed her eyes, so relieved and thankful everything had turned out as it had. Except for Nasim. “Thank you, but you know it was all of us working together. Now tell me how you managed to get Sean to bed tonight.”

THORNSBY, ENGLAND

Saturday afternoon

Imam Al-Hädi ibn Mirza crossed his arms over his white-robed chest and sat back in his caned chair, well aware that the other dozen or so customers were eyeing him, not surprising because he looked so different from them, a foreigner they didn’t trust or understand, a holy man who belonged in the desert, not in this time-warped little English village barely large enough to be on the map, in this middle-class little tea shop with its lace draperies and middle-aged serving women.

He looked with pride at the stylish man opposite him, the one he called Hercule, the name only those intimate with him were privileged to know. He dipped his almond biscotti into his cappuccino to soften it and chewed gingerly since one of his back teeth ached from a cavity again, a cavity he had to get taken care of but didn’t want to. He saw Hercule was scanning the room from their small back-corner table to be sure no one would hear them before he spoke. The imam noted he didn’t even look fatigued from his red-eye private flight back from Boston, not six hours before. A privilege of youth and money, the imam thought, and he wondered what the Strategist would look like when he’d reached his own age—if, that is, he was still alive.

“Thank you for coming this far so promptly,” Hercule said. “Are you certain your driver evaded anyone following you on your way here?”

“You know my driver Sarkis is a wily old dog. He can sniff out an infidel no matter how they try to hide themselves. Stop your worrying, Hercule, you sound like an old woman.”

The imam was being his usual dismissive self, not a good sign. “You should assume that MI5 has agents following you, listening in on your every word on the telephone. Listening as well to your followers, tracking where they go and who they see. Take this seriously, Imam.”

“Naturally I take this seriously. I expect your pilot made good time from Boston?”

Hercule knew the imam hadn’t been all that careful, regardless of his assurances, but now, he hoped, he would. “Mr. Picard always makes excellent time. It was nothing, less than six hours.” Hercule gave an elegant shrug, lifted his cup of English tea in salute. “First of all, Imam, I wish to congratulate you on the spectacular triumph yesterday. Your funding and my planning, together as always. When our supporters find out you were responsible, your donations will flow like a river.”

The imam smiled. The praise was his just due, and high praise it was from the man he’d nurtured and trained as a father would a worthy and beloved son, a man who’d earned the name the Strategist, a name now feared and respected. The man who sat across the table from him didn’t dress as a devout Muslim. He wore Western clothes and exhibited Western tastes. He didn’t pray five times a day, he drank alcohol whenever he chose to; indeed, he flaunted not being devout. Only the imam knew he was not just a master at planning, but a master of deception as well, appearing to those in his milieu as an adopted English gentleman, admired and accepted. Hercule knew lying to the infidels was not a sin, he had taught him that.

The imam raised his cappuccino to tap it against Hercule’s cup. “In that you are right. It was a great success.” The bombing of the TGV had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. “Bahar executed your plan perfectly. The list of dead is growing. The French are beside themselves, and even more afraid of their Muslim population now after the bombing of their precious TGV.”