by Irene Hannon
“Given his presence at Elaine Peterson’s house, though—and the missing candles—it’s logical to assume he could have been tapped to retrieve a couple of them. Except Elaine beat him to the shop . . . so he had to track them down.”
“That’s our assumption.”
“And Kristin—Ms. Dane, the shop owner—said no one has ever bought more than two candles. More than one person must be retrieving the marked candles.”
“Duly noted. Now let’s talk strategy. Assuming our expert verifies the authenticity and value of the items we found, how willing do you think Ms. Dane will be to work with us?”
Luke’s antennas went up. “Define ‘work with us.’”
“We want to put some cameras in her shop to get visuals of the people who buy these candles. We’d also like to place a mic near the checkout counter. We’ll want her to alert us with a specific code word when the marked candles are purchased. Our agents stationed within watching distance of the shop can then follow the buyers.”
“I’m confident she’d cooperate—but I’m not crazy about putting a civilian in a position like that.” The plan didn’t sound dangerous . . . but setups like this could go wrong in a thousand different ways.
And he didn’t want Kristin in the line of fire.
“If it was a larger shop, we could have one of our undercover people play the part of a clerk. But she only has one part-time employee. A new face could raise suspicions.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
“Are you concerned she’ll get nervous and tip off the courier?” Mark joined the conversation for the first time.
“No. She’s steady—and she’s done some nonprofessional theater work.”
“That’s helpful.” Nick leaned back in his chair. “And our people will be close by. Based on past patterns, the candles are retrieved within a day or two of arrival. Surveillance at the shop won’t last long.”
“You’re not expecting the people who pick up the candles to lead you directly to the person running the show, are you?”
“No. I assume they’ll leave them at a drop location. We’ll follow whoever picks them up there as well. I would anticipate a minimum of two layers between the minions and the brains of this operation. Perhaps more.”
“What about the person who’s infiltrated the monastery?”
“At some point we’ll need to alert the monks about the breach. We have less influence there . . . but we do have CIA operatives in that area who can help.”
Luke looked back at the hollowed-out candle . . . and suddenly Kristin’s story about Brother Michael’s tragic death took on an ominous cast.
“You remember the monk I told you about, who died in the candle-making workshop at the monastery?”
“You’re wondering if it wasn’t an accident after all.”
So they were on the same page.
“He died at night. No witnesses. He might have come upon someone doing that.” He motioned toward the hollowed-out candle.
“The same thought crossed my mind. When our CIA operative talks with the abbot, he’ll mention that possibility. It might make the monks more willing to cooperate with our people in outing the man if they suspect he killed one of their own. However, our first priority is to get the US situation under control. The last thing we need here is more funding for terrorist cells.”
“I hear you.”
“We can approach Ms. Dane about her involvement—or you can lay the groundwork after we meet with our expert at the art museum.” Nick rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. “It might be best if you take the lead on this with her. You seem to have developed a . . . rapport.”
Was his interest that obvious?
“I can do that.” He kept his expression as neutral as possible.
But it didn’t fool Nick.
“I’ve been in your shoes. Remember the Raggedy Ann doll case? Mark’s been there too. He met his wife during a case. But hang tight until we get this resolved.”
Luke glanced at the agent leaning against the wall, who gave him a flicker of a smile. He hadn’t participated much in their discussion—but he’d obviously been paying attention.
“I keep my work and social life separate.” Even if he’d come close to mingling the two yesterday.
“Smart move. I’ll call you as soon as we have an appointment with our contact at the art museum. We can reconvene there.” Nick stood. “I’ll walk you out.”
Luke shook hands with Mark and followed Nick to the security door that led to the lobby.
“Thanks for keeping me in the loop.” He extended his hand to Nick as well.
“You have excellent creds—and a connection to one of the key players.” The man gave him a firm shake.
“I’m not expecting there will be any danger to Ms. Dane . . . are you?” Luke locked onto Nick’s gaze, watching the man closely, as he retained his grip on his hand.
“No. Her part in this is small, and in the early stages of the transfer of artifacts. She should be out of the picture before any complications might arise.” Nick didn’t so much as blink.
As far as Luke could see, the agent was leveling with him. And his response made sense. There was no reason for this to get dangerous until they were closing in on the person calling the shots—well past Kristin’s role.
He released Nick’s hand. “I’ll wait for your call.”
“It could be soon.”
“The sooner the better.” For reasons both personal and professional.
He pushed through the door to the lobby and headed toward the exit.
Outside, the sun was bright, the sky cloudless, the temperature climbing to unseasonable heights for the first day of June.
And the heat was ratcheting up on this case too.
If the expert they would soon consult concurred with Nick’s assessment about the artifacts, the FBI would quickly implement a takedown plan. There wouldn’t be much time lapse between retrieval and disposal of the items. Hanging on to contraband was dangerous, and the leader would want to minimize the risk as much as possible.
However . . . he could be directing the operation from a distance, insulated to avoid detection. No one in the chain might know his identity. This had been going on for two years, and there’d been no slipups. The man in charge—and he assumed it was a man, given terrorist views of women—was well hidden.
But no one had been on his trail, either. Now that law enforcement was involved, every angle of this operation would be scrutinized. If the piece of scum who was aiding and abetting vile acts of terrorism had any vulnerabilities, they’d find them.
And they’d do everything in their power to bring him down.
The man from the FBI had called again.
Heart pounding, Yusef picked up the message that was front and center on his desk and lowered himself into his chair.
He had to return the call. Now. The art museum trustee meeting that had occupied his morning was over. He had no more excuse to delay.
“You’re back.”
Yusef lifted his head. His administrative assistant stood on the threshold of his office, glasses propped in her graying hair . . . as usual. Demeanor solemn . . . as usual. Penny took her job as seriously as he took his.
“Yes. The meeting was long.”
“I see you found the second message. It sounded urgent.”
“I was just getting ready to return the call. Go have some lunch. Your work can wait until you return.”
“You never go to lunch anymore.”
He tried for a smile, but his lips barely moved. “I eat a big breakfast.” True at one time—but not in the past two years. Not since constant worry had robbed him of his appetite . . . and joy . . . and the peace he’d once found in this land of freedom where he was no longer free. “Go. I will be here the rest of the afternoon.”
“Can I bring you a sandwich?”
“No. Thank you.” With the message from the FBI staring at him, the mere thought o
f food turned his stomach.
“I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“There is no need to rush. Enjoy your lunch.”
“Call if you need me.” She motioned toward the messages on his desk, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “I wonder what they want?”
“I have no idea.”
But that was a lie.
He was pretty certain he knew exactly what they wanted.
The timing of this call was too coincidental, coming on the heels of Amir’s alert that a new shipment would soon arrive.
But how had the authorities tracked him down?
Had he made some sort of slip?
And if he had, what did that mean for Touma?
Another wave of crushing panic swept over him.
“Dr. Bishara . . .” Penny took a step toward him, twin furrows creasing her brow. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Fine.” He tried to fill his lungs with air. “Tired after that long meeting, though. Go have your lunch.”
After a brief hesitation, she retreated through the door, pulling it closed behind her.
As it clicked shut, he sank back in his chair, wrestled his emotions into submission, and forced the left side of his brain to engage.
If the FBI knew about Amir’s operation . . . and if they had proof of his own part in it . . . they wouldn’t call. They’d swoop in and arrest him.
So maybe this was a fishing expedition.
And if so, maybe he could deflect their suspicion.
It might be best to play this as cool as he could, see what they had to say before jumping to conclusions. Speculation was fruitless. He was a man of facts—and he had too few in this situation to draw any conclusions.
Instead of letting fear cloud his thinking, he needed to see what this agent had to say, analyze what he learned . . . then do what was best for Touma.
Expelling a shaky breath, he sat upright . . . put the phone to his ear . . . and punched in the number for the FBI.
As her phone trilled from the depths of her purse, Kristin dashed across the kitchen, dumped the sacks of groceries onto the counter, and burrowed through her shoulder bag.
This could be the news she’d been waiting weeks to hear.
At last her fingers closed over the cell. It was almost four o’clock, and Luke had promised yesterday to call her as soon as he heard from the FBI.
Please let this be him!
She yanked the phone out and skimmed the screen.
Froze.
It wasn’t Luke.
The number was familiar, however—though it didn’t appear on her screen often.
And never in the middle of the afternoon on a workday.
She put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Dad. This is a surprise.”
“Sorry to bother you while you’re working.” His voice sounded strained.
Uh-oh.
Bad vibes began wafting over the line.
“No problem.” She swallowed and took a steadying breath. “My assistant is covering the shop this afternoon. Is everything okay?”
“No. I . . . I’m at the hospital. There’s been an accident.”
Kristin’s stomach bottomed out. “Are you hurt? What about Mom?”
“I’m fine. Your mom is . . . it was a car accident. We were going to a luncheon . . . a business function she had. I was meeting her there.” His sentences were choppy, as if he was having difficulty breathing. “I spotted her ahead of me . . . half a block away. Another driver . . . he . . . he ran the light and crossed the intersection as she was driving through.”
Dear God!
Kristin gripped the edge of the counter and braced. “Is she . . . is she . . .”
“No! But her arm is broken, and she . . . she has head injuries. She’s been unconscious since the accident.”
Which would have been . . . what? She forced her brain into gear. Her dad had said a luncheon. It was an hour later on the East Coast. This had happened . . . almost six hours ago?
And he’d waited until now to contact her?
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” The question came out half accusation, half miffed.
“I was trying to get an update from the doctor.” Her father sounded puzzled by her tone. “I didn’t want to interrupt your day until I had some news.”
“The accident was news enough.”
“I’m sorry . . . it’s been busy here. And there wasn’t anything you could do. It didn’t occur to me you’d be upset about the delay.”
No, of course not.
Thoughts of her had always been at the bottom of his priority list.
Typical Dad.
Get over it, Kristin. This is just how it is with them. How it’s always been. How it will always be.
She forced herself to quash the hurt that bubbled up. “What did the doctors say?”
“It’s a traumatic brain injury. Her skull isn’t fractured, but they said the sudden jar from the collision caused serious bruising and tore some blood vessels, which resulted in bleeding. They said there could be other damage too, but that can be difficult to detect with brain scans. We won’t know the full extent of her injuries until she wakes up.”
Bleeding in the brain.
That was the message seared in Kristin’s mind.
Her hands started to shake, and she felt behind her for a stool. Sank onto it. “This is bad, isn’t it?”
“It could be—and it will get worse if her brain swells.” His words rasped, and he cleared his throat. “She’s in the neuro ICU, so she’s being monitored closely.”
“Do you have any kind of prognosis?”
“Not yet—but the longer she remains unconscious, the less optimistic it is.”
Call waiting beeped, and she checked the screen.
Luke’s number.
“Kristin? Are you there?”
“Yes.” She refocused on her dad. “I’ll fly out.”
“You have obligations there.”
Yes, she did. More, at the moment, than he realized.
She massaged her forehead. She probably should have shared the harrowing events of two months ago with her parents . . . but her mom had been in the middle of a huge legal case and her dad overseas much of April.
Plus, they never asked much about her life, other than the generic “anything new” question they always threw in during their brief and infrequent conversations.
Had she talked to them at all in April?
Not that she could recall.
“Kristin?”
“Yes. I’m . . . I’m thinking. Let me see what I can work out.”
“I understand if you can’t get away. Your mom would too. We know your business is by and large a one-person show. Arranging time off must be difficult.”
The practical sentiment sounded like her dad . . . but had she detected a slight hint of yearning? Like he might actually want her to come? Perhaps even need her?
Or was that wishful thinking?
The latter, Kristin. You’ve let yourself go down that path in the past, and you’ve always been disappointed.
Right.
However—her family had never before faced a disaster of this magnitude, either.
No matter their history, she couldn’t leave her dad in the lurch.
“Let me make a few calls, Dad. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know my plans. But if anything . . . if there’s any change in Mom’s condition . . . will you call me right away?”
“Yes—and I’m sorry to inconvenience you like this.”
“Being there for your family isn’t an inconvenience.” Or it shouldn’t be. “And this wasn’t anything you had any control over.”
“That’s not quite true. I should have picked your mom up. She asked me to, but I . . . I was tied up in a meeting.” His voice broke.
Kristin closed her eyes. Never once had her dad—or mom—suggested it was a mistake to give business the highest priority. Work always came first. Period.
Too bad it had taken a life-threaten
ing event to shake that conviction.
Now her father almost seemed to be seeking comfort and reassurance—the very things that had been in short supply during her growing-up years, until Colin and Rick had filled that gap.
But why not do for her dad what he and her mom had never done for her?
“It wasn’t your fault, Dad.”
“This wouldn’t have happened if she’d been in my car.”
“You don’t know that. Your car could have been the one crossing the intersection.”
“Unlikely.”
“But possible. We need to accept where we are, move on from here, and pray—a lot.”
“I’m a little rusty at prayer outside of church.”
Her parents must still be shoehorning Sunday services into their schedules so they could cross the Almighty off their to-do list for the week.
Thank heaven Rick and Colin had helped her find a deeper, more sustaining faith than the one in which she was raised.
“God doesn’t expect eloquence, just earnestness.”
“I suppose I could give it a try.”
“It couldn’t hurt. I’ll call you back later tonight, as soon as I have my schedule worked out.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be at the ICU, and the phone doesn’t always work in there. If you can’t reach me, leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Talk to you soon.”
The line went dead.
No “Good-bye.” No “I love you.” No “Hang in, we’ll get through this together.”
Again . . . typical Dad.
Pressure building in her throat, she blinked to clear her vision, gave herself a minute to regain her composure, and pressed Luke’s number.
After three rings, it rolled to voicemail.
That figured.
She scrolled through her texts and found one from him.
Have news. Will call later.
Since he wasn’t answering his phone, all she could do was wait.
Moving on autopilot, she put away the perishable groceries while her mind grappled with her dilemma. Despite the little voice in her head urging her to do what any good daughter would do and jump on the next plane for Boston, she couldn’t finalize any travel plans until she talked to Luke. If his theory had proven correct and the candles had some connection to a terrorist operation, she—and her shop—might be key to whatever plan law enforcement was concocting. It wasn’t as if her parents needed her, after all.
