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  During the chartered flight out of El Paso last night she had learned enough about le Clerc to view him with more than a little respect. According to Fischer, he headed a tight, sophisticated network with established connections to MI6, the French Secret Service and Mossad. That was one of the key reasons he had survived. He acted outside of the law, but he got the job done without any of the international agencies having to get their hands dirty. Schroeder was an example of the quality and skill base of le Clerc’s network. He was Swiss born, with a degree in political science from the Sorbonne. He was fluent in a number of languages, including Russian.

  Le Clerc watched as Schroeder was helped into a nearby vehicle. “The book went on the market this morning. The bidding started at ten million.” He smiled faintly. “U.S. dollars only. Europe hasn’t yet woken up.”

  Fischer looked briefly at Tate. “We gave Dennison some rope, enough to get the bidding started and draw Lopez and the cabal in. So far we haven’t had a hit.”

  Taylor watched as Tate drifted out onto the sidewalk. Dennison was holed up in a seedy motel in the Mexican town of Lucero, just south of El Paso. Since he’d checked in, according to Wells, he hadn’t done anything except order in food, lay low and make phone calls. Lopez hadn’t entered into the equation, closing out the slim possibility that Dennison had been running an errand.

  Le Clerc’s expression didn’t alter. He produced a newspaper he had been carrying under his arm, unfolded it and handed it to Fischer. “Dennison may have the book, but the value is…compromised.”

  The front-page story was a speculative piece about two prominent but reclusive businessmen who had died within days of each other, one of a suspected poisoning, the second a straight-out shooting. It had been discovered that both homicide victims had had numbers tattooed on their backs, and the numbers ran consecutively. Even more bizarrely, the men looked alike, so much so that doctors speculated they could be twins, even though they came from two entirely different families. An investigation was in progress. DNA samples had been sent away for testing.

  Taylor noted the date on the paper. It was this morning’s edition, which meant le Clerc had probably bought it on his way to the meeting. At this point the dead men couldn’t positively be identified as cabal members, but the chance that they weren’t was ludicrously small.

  Fischer handed the paper back to le Clerc. “There’s a copy of the ledger.”

  Le Clerc folded the paper and slipped it neatly back under his arm. “And our friend has been putting it to good use.”

  It made sense. Lopez had taken the book to El Paso to put together a deal after the cabal had issued an execution order on him, but he hadn’t wanted to risk losing his only chip in the big game. He had made a copy before he had left Bogotá, which meant Dennison’s auction was a blind alley.

  The reason behind Lopez’s inactivity since El Paso was now also plain. He had been busy tracking down the members of the cabal. Now he had declared open season and was picking them off one by one, and with each death he was closing down avenues and destroying leads. The cabal were scrambling to protect the members that were left. In the space of a few days Lopez was invalidating years of surveillance and undercover work.

  Fischer took his phone out of his pocket and made a call.

  Le Clerc’s gaze was sharp. “Keep your men in place. Lopez is taking out some key players, but he won’t succeed in wiping out the entire cabal because of one simple fact. Reichmann and his daughter were never included in the book.”

  Fischer slipped his phone in his pocket. “She controls the accounts. That’s how she’s managed to retain her power.”

  “That’s correct. In reality, Helene Reichmann is the cabal.”

  Taylor shook her head, trying to come to grips with the politics of a woman who sounded more monster than human. “What accounts?” To transcend the threat of the book, the money had to be huge, and the possible origins of that kind of wealth made her feel queasy.

  Le Clerc looked faintly surprised. “The accounts into which Reichmann transferred the money he stole from the Jews. Estimates at the end of the war varied from one point five to three billion pounds sterling.”

  Taylor blinked. Pounds sterling was the English definition of a billion, which was another three zeroes on from the American. When le Clerc said a billion, he wasn’t talking a thousand million, he was talking a million million. And those estimates were arrived at over sixty years ago, back in the nineteen forties. By now, even with minimal interest, the figure would be astronomical.

  Suddenly the intense drive behind le Clerc’s crusade came into sharp focus. He wasn’t only hunting his father’s killers. He was intent on achieving justice on a much wider scale by restoring the stolen wealth to the remnants of the families Reichmann had condemned to the death camps.

  Le Clerc reached into his suit jacket and extracted a card. “You have Dennison. I want the book.” He handed Fischer the card, which was blank except for a handwritten cell phone number.

  With a brief inclination of his head, he turned on his heel and, flanked by his men, melted into the crowd.

  Fischer nodded at two men sitting at a nearby table. Within seconds they’d merged into the lunchtime crowd, following le Clerc.

  Fischer slipped the card into his shirt pocket. “It’ll be interesting to see how long Sheldon and Cole last. Le Clerc’s security spotted them while we were talking.”

  Fischer’s hand settled on the small of her back and they were moving again, this time in the direction of the car. The unsettling intimacy of the light touch started a tension of a different kind. In deference to the crisp, sunny day and the location, they were dressed as tourists, Fischer in a light shirt and pants, Taylor wearing a dress and low heels, but the charade that they were a couple was no longer required. Adjusting the strap of her bag from one shoulder to the other, she stepped slightly to one side, dislodging his hand. “I’ve just got one question. Why didn’t either Chavez or Lopez use the book until now?”

  “Marco didn’t want a war, he preferred an insurance policy. Lopez didn’t know about the book until Marco’s accountant died and it surfaced in Bogotá.”

  Shaw, who had gone to get the car, pulled up at the curb. Fischer opened the rear passenger-side door. Taylor slid into the seat, then had to move over when Fischer moved in beside her, his thigh brushing hers.

  When Fischer’s gaze connected with hers, she was certain the contact had been deliberate. “We’re picking up Tate.”

  Which meant Tate would take the front passenger seat. But that still didn’t explain why Fischer had chosen to sit beside her.

  Unless he had wanted to.

  She stared at a passing cab as Shaw pulled smoothly into traffic. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions, but she couldn’t deny certain facts. Fischer was in a position of command, running a team of seasoned professionals. He’d had no need to get personally close to her. Or sleep with her.

  In sleeping with her he hadn’t gained anything for his investigation. All he had done was complicate it. Added to that, having sex with a surveillance subject was not a career-enhancing move.

  Her reasoning could be wrong. Fischer had fooled her in Cold Peak. Where he was concerned, none of her usual instincts functioned.

  A small, rhythmic vibration registered above the noise of the vehicle.

  Fischer picked up the call. “Damn. Tate’s on Seventeenth and Corcoran. We’ve lost le Clerc.”

  “But not for long.”

  His gaze was remote. “That’s right. We have the book.”

  Leverage.

  In Fischer’s world, she had to wonder if that was the only thing that counted.

  Thirty-One

  The following morning, Taylor studied the mottled leather binding of Reichmann’s ledger, which Wells had delivered to Fischer less than an hour ago. The book was secured, and so was Dennison. In return for protection he had agreed to become a witness for the prosecution. Wells was transporting him to a safe house whe
re, owing to the charges pending against him and the threat from both Lopez and the cabal, he would be held under armed guard for an indefinite period.

  She had examined the book, reluctantly and with a sense of intrusion, because the content of the fragile faded pages was disturbing and highly personal. The reason le Clerc wanted it so badly was now evident. Reichmann’s ledger wasn’t just a careful accounting of theft, but of mass murder. For le Clerc, and the remnants of those dispossessed families, its value—aside from exposing the members of the cabal—was incalculable. The book was hard evidence admissible in a court of law, and the beginning of the quest to gain closure, dignity and retrieve what was left of the money. Perhaps most importantly, it listed the specific camp each family had been sent to, providing physical locations for grieving relatives to visit.

  To compound Reichmann’s madness, after he had escaped Germany, he had continued on with the original purpose of the ledger, using it as his solution to control the members of the cabal by cataloging them in the same book that had been used to condemn thousands to death, a book that unalterably branded them all as criminals.

  Fischer had looked at the ledger, as had Wells, Shaw and Tate. Their reactions had been uniform. Turning the pages had been like walking through a silent graveyard, and out of respect for the victims, they had each kept the journey short.

  Placing the book back in its waterproof satchel, Taylor walked through to the bathroom and washed her hands. The impulse was knee-jerk. The book was an inanimate object, but both the Reichmanns and Lopez had handled it, and its purpose had been evil. Maybe soap and water didn’t make much difference, but washing made her feel better.

  When her hands were dry she walked back out into the sitting room. The motel unit was a near carbon copy of the one she’d stayed in just days ago—same name, almost the exact same decor. The only difference was the suburb they were located in and the fact that, this time, Steve Fischer was sharing the unit with her. She had the bedroom; he was on the couch. Shaw and Tate were sharing an adjacent unit.

  She saw with relief that Fischer had packed the book into the armored briefcase it had been delivered in. Maybe she was being overly sensitive, but she couldn’t wait until the book was removed. Every time she thought about it, the cold inhumanity of a man who had profited from mass murder sent cold shudders down her spine.

  There was a brief tap on the door. Fischer got up from the couch where he had been making calls and working on a wireless laptop. After checking, he let Shaw and Tate in and holstered his gun. The fact that Fischer had remained armed underlined his tension.

  Tate placed a grocery sack of delicatessen sandwiches and salads on the dining table. Taylor got out plates and poured glasses of water from the filter jug in the fridge. Fischer hung up on his latest call and took a place at the table.

  The talk centered around le Clerc and his network, and the brushes they’d all had with the Chavez cartel in South America when they’d been with the SEALs. Fischer had been Wells, Shaw and Tate’s commanding officer. When Fischer had left, they had followed him.

  Fischer’s phone buzzed while they were eating. A third wealthy businessman with a lasered off tattoo on his back, Alex Parker, had been shot to death in his car in the Appalachians. Evidently he had been driving to an isolated mountain cabin and had never made it. Apart from Helene Reichmann, there was only one upper-echelon member left. Fischer had been working to track his identity, which had been altered after the book had gone missing, but they were running out of time.

  After the lunch dishes were done, Taylor tidied up the unit while Fischer showered. The enforced inactivity was grating. She had already read the newspaper that had been delivered that morning, and she could only watch so much TV.

  On impulse, she picked up the shirt he’d left draped on the end of the bed and lifted it to her nose. The shirt smelled of Fischer, clean and male, and it sent unexpected emotion through her. Over the past two days, the enforced proximity had blunted the shock of what he’d done and she had gotten used to being with him. They weren’t lovers and she didn’t know if they would ever be again, but somehow that didn’t affect the way she felt.

  A card slipped out of the pocket and dropped to the floor. Bending, she picked it up.

  Xavier’s number.

  She stared at the card then returned it to Fischer’s shirt pocket. He didn’t need the card. She had seen him enter the number into his phone.

  When the sound of the shower running stopped, she left the bedroom and walked through to the sitting room. The bedroom was hers, but Fischer’s bags were in there, and he used it to get changed. The cell phone, which he’d left on the dining table, buzzed. She carried the phone down the hall and handed it to him as he emerged from the bathroom, wearing dark pants but no shirt.

  Seconds later, Fischer flipped the phone closed. “I have to go. Jack Jones and your mother are en route to Jersey.”

  Shock rolled through her. The one thing she had counted on was that Jack and Dana were safe.

  She followed him into the bedroom. “Why Jersey?” The question was rhetorical: she already knew.

  “Your father is after Rico Casale, the hit man who took the shot at you in D.C. Casale is based in L.A. but he disappeared a couple of weeks back. Jack found a guy who was willing to sell Casale out, a drug dealer working out of Jersey. Name of Aldo Fabroni.”

  He pulled on a dark T-shirt, placed a gear bag on the bed, unzipped it and stowed his gun and the shoulder holster.

  “You’re using them.”

  Fischer’s expression was remote. “Jack had a choice. He could have handed the lead to me.”

  Her jaw clenched. Of course he wouldn’t do that. He was used to working alone and the information was too important. He wouldn’t trust anyone else to deal with the underworld in which he had once operated.

  She reached for her suitcase, which was still mostly packed, dropped it on the part of the bed Fischer wasn’t using and began shoving clothes and toiletries into it. “I’m going with you.”

  His hand clamped her wrist. “You’re staying here. This has got as complicated as it’s going to get.”

  She jerked free. “They’re my parents.”

  “Shaw and Tate will look after you until I get back.”

  She sucked in a deep breath. Her chest felt tight and her eyes were burning. As much as she hated it, Fischer was right. He was doing his job. She had first-hand knowledge of just how effective he was, and she was hampering him. But that didn’t make her feel any less panic or fear. She couldn’t lose Dana, and she couldn’t lose Jack, and she wasn’t used to being powerless.

  Fischer’s hands closed on her upper arms. “Don’t worry about Jack and Dana. They won’t get within a mile of Casale. They’re safe, honey, believe it.”

  She stared into his dark eyes. Honey. Strange how it was the little things that undid her.

  His fingers tightened. “I have to go.”

  Taylor spent the rest of the day watching television, rereading the newspaper and periodically running through sets of exercises. It began to rain, making the motel unit seem even more claustrophobic. By six that evening, despite the physical exertion, her nerves were shot.

  She watched the news, checking for any hint that something had gone wrong. When it switched to sports, she turned the set off.

  The phone buzzed, making her jump. When she picked up the receiver, it was Tate. He was ordering dinner. Did she want Italian or Chinese? She was no masochist; she chose Italian. With the wind howling, rain spattering the window and the possibility that the same guy who had shot her could put a bullet through someone she loved, it wasn’t the best night to be reminded of her own shooting.

  The fifteen minutes Tate had mentioned stretched out to thirty. When the knock on the door finally came, Taylor checked through the window before opening the door. In the murky light of the porch, for a moment she saw Tate wearing a ball cap and holding a sack of takeout.

  When she opened the door, Colens
o smiled and aimed a large handgun at her chest.

  Thirty-Two

  Ice formed in her stomach. In addition to the fact that Tate and Colenso were a similar coloring and build, Colenso was wearing his jacket. “So it was you.”

  He smiled. “Who did you think it was? Tripp?”

  She didn’t blink at the gibe. Colenso had always had an ego problem. His desire to score points off her wasn’t surprising. However, the fact that he was the mole definitely was. In her wildest dreams, she wouldn’t have imagined Colenso had either the intellect or the subtlety for the job.

  Buying time in the hope that Shaw would magically appear, and feeling sick because she didn’t think that Tate would, she looked past the black muzzle of the gun over his shoulder. He was alone, at least for now. That didn’t give her much of an edge, but she would take any chance she could get. She stared into his eyes, which in the murky light were more gray than blue. “The bungled attempts were mounting.”

  He gestured with the gun. She moved back as he stepped into the room and kicked the door closed. The bland calmness of his expression registered. Colenso was a trained agent; he was competent and he had a gun. Without intervention by Shaw or Tate, it wasn’t likely she was going to survive this. “You killed Letty.”

  “And called in the hit on you, milked your work computer and tapped your phone, although the calls were boring. You need to get yourself a social life. Although…” He stared over her shoulder at the bedroom where Fischer’s shirt was still visible on the end of the bed. “Looks like you finally have.”

  “Did you send the calling card?”

  “Nobody else, darlin’.”

  Rina had been right. Lopez wouldn’t go near a piece of theater like that, but Colenso was all over it.

  Motioning her back farther, he set the takeout down on the coffee table. The smell wafted through the room, turning her stomach. “What did you do with Shaw and Tate?”