Another fifteen minutes before the pizza was done, so Kelly called her mother. She saw that Cal had punched off his cell and he could hear her end of the conversation. “Yes, Mom, Agent McLain and I made the pizza together. He even sliced the artichokes just right to hide the ham. What does he look like? Hmm, well, he’s not all that short, maybe comes to my nose, and the paunch doesn’t show all that much. His hair? Only receding a bit,” and then she ruined it by laughing. “He’s very nice, Mom, and he’s cute; in fact, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers—well, never mind that. Looks like the crust turned out really well. I wish you could smell it, talk about a motive for murder.” She paused, then Cal heard her say, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m still involved up to my eyebrows in the Saint Patrick’s Cathedral case. It should push me right up to the director’s chair, maybe next year, who knows?” She laughed again. “Love you, Mom. Gotta go. Pizza’s ready.”

“I don’t ever eat crackers in bed.”

“No, I never thought you did,” she said, and then Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, sniffing. “I’ve been smelling it for the past half-hour. Do you know I was ready to kick Sean to the curb—conversationally, at least—and he was in the middle of telling me about his checkers games with his grandmother, in great detail. Oh, my, Kelly, that looks incredible. Mama’s recipe, right?”

“Yes, the same recipe she taught me when I was twelve.”

The house didn’t provide anything as esoteric as wineglasses, so Cal filled three water glasses with Chianti.

Sherlock raised her glass to theirs. “Here’s to our hard work today. I feel like we’re close, it’s only a matter of time. And here’s to Kelly’s mom’s pizza.”

They all sipped their wine.

Sherlock was on a roll. “Look at what we already know: there’s no private plane registered to anyone named Hercule, so it’s either not the Strategist’s real name or the plane is registered to someone else. What good that does us, I’m not certain yet.

“I know we’re going to get another hit soon, maybe on one of those terrorists holding Mrs. Conklin, or one of the handlers who brought them into Boston, or the man who placed the bomb at Saint Patrick’s. None of them can be complete unknowns.”

Cal said, “Maybe you’re onto something, Sherlock. If Hercule isn’t his real name, maybe it’s a nickname.”

Kelly nodded. “Something we can plug in to the mix in the morning. You know, guys, when I was growing up, there always came a time to shut it all down, and that was the time for mangiare, so let’s eat.”

When the three of them were eyeing the empty pan, all wanting one more slice, Cal looked down at his watch. “Okay, after we clean up the kitchen, it’s time for some TV—the BBC, more precisely.”

There might not be wineglasses, but there was a big flat-screen TV, about sixty inches, and Sherlock wondered who’d authorized the big bucks for a TV like that.

Kelly said, “Are you a BBC fan, Cal?”

“It’s as good a way as any to catch up on breaking news on the TGV explosion, and I’d like to hear their take on what’s happened. The world can look like a different place on the BBC than on CNN or FOX. Sometimes you can’t understand everything they’re saying because the Brits tend to swallow their words, when they’re not trying to sound all upper-class and intellectual.” He sat down, pulled off his boots, and raised his stocking feet to the coffee table. He placed his Glock on his thigh and waved to Sherlock and Kelly. “Plenty of room. Come on, Sherlock, it’s too early to go to bed yet. Might as well see if the terrorists have come up with anything new before we black out the house.”

Kelly eyed the ratty brown sofa. It didn’t look comfortable, but Cal, who was sleeping here, would have to make do. “Okay, for a few minutes, then,” Kelly said. Before she sat down next to Cal, she checked that the draperies were tightly closed, the doors dead-bolted, the chains drawn tight and hooked, then pulled the draperies aside for one final look to be sure the agents stationed outside were where they should be. As she settled in next to Cal, the program came on.

The camera zoomed in on a studio where two men sat across from each other, one of them a BBC newscaster Kelly recognized, Roland Atterley. He was hard to miss with his white hair, thick mustache, and magnetic voice. The other was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties, beautifully suited. He seemed to be an Arab, and wasn’t that interesting?