英文有声《第43条疤痕》三部曲

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chapter 5
Of the eight people Richard Burbank had provided personnel files on, Munroe had to agree that Miles Bradford was best suited for the job— especially when it came to the mechanics of it all. 
His file, thick with details of a job history that had taken him through countries as diverse and hazardous as those she’d worked, was sparse when it came to personal information. 
There was little provided of use in building a composite of who the man was. 
This she knew: Miles was in his mid-thirties and former Special Forces. He now handled high-stakes private security.
“Mercenary” was the only word she had for a man like him, a former soldier who hired out his skills. 
And like the Cameroonian documents stuffed into her backpack, the word brought with it much unwanted baggage.
Munroe arrived at Frankfurt’s airport before Bradford’s flight touched down. 
Blending with others who waited, she stood opposite a large plate-glass wall that separated the waiting area from the luggage collection. 
She spotted Bradford as soon as he entered the hall. 
Short-cropped hair betrayed a tinge of red, his eyes were murky green, and he was average height with above-average looks. 
His overcoat outlined a well-built physique, and he moved with the relaxed assurance of a man who knew where he was going and was in no hurry to get there. 
A small wheeled overnight bag trailed behind him, and he didn’t stop at the luggage carousel.
Munroe left the area before he could spot her; he knew who he was looking for as well as she did. 
He would contact her at the hotel, and she would be away when the call came. 
He would wait for her— he had no choice— and that was how it should be.
She returned his call in the late afternoon, offering a plastic apology and arranging to meet him for dinner at Gargantua in the Westend, where she’d made reservations.
She wasn’t being deliberately cruel in setting the first meeting there, but she was deliberately testing him. 
If he came by taxi, he would find it easily enough. 
But if he set out on foot, taking the local transportation as she would have been wont to do, it would prove to be an exasperating task. 
Restaurant Gargantua, with all its five stars, was situated minutes from the city’s famed Palmengarten and the English-style Grüneberg Park, 
quietly tucked away within a house in a tree-lined residential neighborhood of prewar flats.
Munroe was seated and waiting at the appointed time, and when Bradford arrived a few minutes late, she stood to shake his hand. 
She wore a close-fitting black dress and four-inch heels that gave her a two-inch height advantage. 
Wrapped around her neck was a delicate beaded scarf that hung down against her bare back. 
It was an outfit that caused heads to turn, an image men desired to display on their arm as a trophy and then take home to conquer again in bed. 
She was as opposite from the photos and the information in her file as could possibly be managed, and it was intended as a willful statement.
His handshake was firm and confident. Not once did his eyes leave her face to wander down the length of her body. “Miles Bradford,” he said, 
and as she sat, he seated himself opposite with the same calm, relaxed air with which he’d strolled through the baggage area. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
She placed her chin on folded hands and echoed his words, “To finally meet me…”
“I’ve been an admirer of yours for years,” he said. “I was a security consultant for Radiance when you were working Macedonia 
“and then later for Terra Corp right after you’d wrapped up in Uzbekistan— both brilliant pieces of work, I might add.”
“Thank you,” she said, and picked up her water glass, swirling it before taking a sip. 
“Information and security.” She paused. “You must be at the top of your game if the same companies are hiring the both of us.” 
And then, “I hope you had no trouble finding this place— it’s somewhat tucked away.”
“Not too much,” he said. “I had to ask directions once or twice, but I was lucky to bump into people who spoke English.” 
He glanced around the low-lit L-shaped room. “It looks like the reward will be worth the effort.”
He had come on foot as she’d hoped. She suppressed a smile. “So,” she said, “how long have you been working for Burbank?”
“Technically I don’t. I’ve done a few things with him off and on over the years, but I work for myself— contracts.”
“That’s what I thought. He referred to you as ‘his people,’ made it sound like you were one of his employees.”
“His people, huh?” Miles smiled an easy smile of straight white teeth and settled back into his chair. 
“He’d certainly like to think so. We go way back, him and me, but no, I’m my own boss, and like most businessmen, I go where the money is.”
“And I assume there was money in the search for Emily?”
“Richard paid me well, as I’m sure he’s paying you well. 
“But I went to Namibia for Richard, for Emily— for all of us, really. She was a good kid. I’ve known her since she was nine or ten.”
“I’m sorry,” Munroe said. “I didn’t realize.”
A grin crossed his face. “Well, I’m sure Richard failed to put that into my file.” 
The waiter brought the wine menu, and Bradford said, “Shall we order a bottle?”
“I don’t drink when I’m working, but feel free.”
He handed the menu back. “In that case I’ll have what you’re having. What’ve you got?”
“Water,” she said, 
and then, after Bradford had requested a bottle of Selters, “Look, Miles, you seem straightforward and likable enough, but to be honest, I don’t want you here. 
“I work alone. I’ve never been babysat, and the only reason you’re sitting in front of me is because Burbank offered me a hell of a lot of money to put up with the inconvenience. 
“Things being as they are, I want to get a few of the ground rules straight.”
“Fair enough.”
“This is my investigation. I run the show, I call the shots. You’re along for the ride— whether it’s to pass on information to Burbank or cover my ass, I’m not sure. 
“You do what you have to do, but don’t get in my way, and don’t question my judgment. Most of all, don’t screw things up. 
“If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. If you have a problem with any of that, I need to know now.”
“No problem at all,” he said. His words came calmly, and the tone was nonchalant. He flicked the napkin over his lap and reached for the bread basket. 
“But since we’re talking about ground rules, I have a few of my own so that I can do what I’ve been hired to do.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m being paid to watch your back and keep you alive,” he said. 
“Richard’s got peace of mind, not to mention money, riding on you, and I’m his insurance policy. 
“I know for certain that you’re capable of taking care of yourself, but this was Richard’s call, not mine. 
“If it were my assignment, I wouldn’t want me here either, so I understand your position. 
“But like I said, it was his call, so don’t take it out on me by making my job harder. 
“You do what you have to do, I’ll stay out of your way and keep my thoughts and opinions to myself. 
“But I do need to know where you are every minute of every day and night, who you’re talking to, and who you’re paying off, and for what. 
“If you can uphold your end of the bargain, I can uphold mine. Deal?”
“I’m not happy about it, but I can live with it.”
“Good,” he replied with a nod, and then, “Richard has told me next to nothing on where we go from here. What’s the plan?”
“We start with Cameroon,” she said. “Our flight leaves tomorrow morning for Douala. I’ll update you as things unfold, 
“but for now be sure you get eight sets of passport photos taken before we leave. I need them in my possession before we’re on the plane.”
The conversation had already been interrupted several times by the attentive waitstaff, and it took a longer pause with the arrival of the main course. 
The discussion strayed from small talk to the similar aspects of their work to small talk again, 
and it was over coffee when Munroe reached for the folder by the foot of her chair and pulled out the file of her life’s history that Burbank had given her. 
She slid it across the table. “You’ve probably gone over this already,” she said. “But if not, it’s only fair that you have it— I have yours.”
Bradford put down his cup, reached for the file, and slid it back to her. “I assembled that file, Michael,” he said. “I don’t need it.”
Munroe leaned back and allowed silence to engulf them. 
Bradford said nothing, offered no explanation or justification; he simply sat and returned her gaze with a placid expression. 
It was a rare reaction. Most of humanity, when trapped in an uneasy silence, would say something, anything, in order to free themselves from the discomfort of quiet.
“If you’re the one responsible for that,” Munroe said finally, pointing to the folder, “you certainly left out a lot of key information.”
“Yes, I did.” His voice was low and smooth, and he leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. “Some information I couldn’t get, but the rest didn’t seem pertinent.”
Munroe kept quiet, and when once again he didn’t take the bait of silence, she angled toward him so that her face was close to his 
and in a whisper said cynically, “It’s interesting that you’d find psychiatric evaluations to be so much less pertinent than a history of broken bones.”
“I would have included them if they were accurate,” he said. “But you and I both know that they aren’t.”
“You’re not only a hired gun, you’re also a psychologist? That’s very impressive.”
He smiled and leaned back against the chair. “Am I wrong?”
“I don’t know. You’re the expert.” And then she mirrored his shift in seating position. 
“So,” she said, and she smiled back and waited half a beat, “what’s your theory on the scars? Apparently you don’t believe that I’m suicidal or prone to cutting.”
“Would it matter if I did?” he asked.
“Actually, yes, thank you for asking, it matters a lot. 
“It determines what types of reciprocal behavior I can expect from you when we find ourselves under stress.”
“Then no,” he said, “I don’t believe it— it contradicts everything I know about you. 
“If you were planning to end your life you’d do it in a chuteless BASE jump off Angel Falls.”
Munroe drew a slow, deep breath and then held up her right hand and spread her fingers. 
“Fewer than these,” she said. “That’s how many people grasp what you’ve just said.” And then, after another moment of silence, 
“The funny thing is, everything I told them was true.” She shook her head. “What a fucking mind job. You reach out for help and get labeled delusional.” 
She pulled back a collection of beaded bracelets from the base of her left wrist and turned it over for him to see. 
“The scar’s real, as are all the others, but they weren’t self-inflicted.” 
She turned her right wrist over, blemish-free, and placed it next to the left. “When I do a job, I do it properly.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know about you, Michael,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what you told your doctors, 
“and it’s pretty evident from the file that I haven’t been able to fill in the blanks of your teenage years. 
“I do know that when you arrived in the United States, you didn’t adjust very well and were later expelled from high school.”
Munroe nodded and motioned for him to continue.
“In that same year, you were barred from several eskrima training facilities and kicked out of nearly every martial arts class you attended. 
“Getting expelled from school I could understand, but the knife fighting and martial arts made me curious— 
“especially the places you were going— tough guys aren’t easily threatened, and if you go too far, they’ll just as soon beat the crap out of you. 
“It took me a while, but I managed to track down your first balisong instructor— he remembered you well and not at all fondly. 
“He said you’d come close to killing him a couple of times, says you easily could have, and he still doesn’t understand what stopped you. 
“The stories from the others weren’t much different.” Bradford paused for a sip of coffee. 
“That ability and the spark of crazy that terrifies the hard-assed, it came from somewhere, Michael, and I have no doubt that’s where the scars came from as well.”
“You’re a very perceptive man,” she said. “Maybe I’ll keep you around for a while— perhaps you can appreciate the mastery born from the will to survive.”
THE FLIGHT OUT of Frankfurt connected in Paris and touched down in Douala at seven-thirty in the evening. 
Munroe stepped from the cool, dry interior of the plane to the open-air concrete halls of the terminal, 
and warm moisture washed over her as if she’d opened the door to a steam room.
In a shifting line that converged and separated, the passengers moved through the halls toward passport control. 
Dampness settled on Munroe’s skin, weighing down her hair and fogging up the glasses of a tourist who walked beside her. 
And then, as if the heat had entwined itself around their bodies and in doing so encumbered their limbs, the speed of the pack slowed to a softer pace. 
By the time the first of the travelers arrived at health control, wet patches had spread under the arms and on the backs of their shirts, and some showed visible signs of exertion.
Munroe asked Bradford for his passport, and he gave it to her. 
At health control she handed over her yellow card and both of their passports with the pink-red border of a ten-euro bill peeking from between the pages. 
To the woman on the other side of the small kiosk, she said, “We seem to have misplaced one of our vaccination cards.” 
The woman flipped slowly through both passports, and when at last she was finished and came to Munroe’s yellow book, 
she studied the information and finally said, “Your vaccinations are expired.”
The woman handed back the vaccination booklet, and Munroe placed another ten-euro bill between the pages and handed it back again. “I never noticed.”
On the other side of the counter, the woman wrote something and then handed back both passports, two new yellow vaccination booklets filled with doctors’ stamps and signatures, 
and two pieces of hand-cut paper stamped with the purple ink of her official stamp, signifying that each traveler was healthy and fully vaccinated. 
The euros had disappeared. “Go to passport control,” she said.
Munroe walked slowly, breathing deeply, and took in the odor of mold and decay and smiled. 
It was the fragrance of year after year of rain and humidity that had permeated the walls and paint and become as much a part of the building as the steel rods that supported the structure 
and the bodies of the immigration personnel that exuded the acrid aroma of old sweat and unwashed clothing worn day after day.
It took a twenty-euro bill for Munroe to get through immigration on the expired Cameroonian residence card. 
At customs the official methodically went through their luggage and, finding nothing of value, nothing contraband, 
and nothing that might guarantee the night’s drinking money, shoved the contents back into the bags and allowed them to pass.
Outside the building, under the dim fluorescent lights of the terminal, taxi drivers called out and porters jostled and chaos reigned.
The hotel was Parfait Garden, an aging multistoried structure off the sidewalk of Boulevard de la Liberté. 
The building had fewer amenities than the newer and higher-starred hotels in the city, 
but it had managed to maintain its aura of dignity, and Munroe had chosen it for the memories. 
It stood less than a kilometer down the road from the roundabout that branched toward Buea, 
and as she stepped from the taxi, she glanced in the direction that once was home.
Home. Whatever “home” was supposed to mean. So close and still so far away, nothing there and no reason to return. 
Her mother had since repatriated to the United States, and Dad had married a Cameroonian and moved northwest to Garoua. 
She had not seen or spoken to either of them since leaving Africa; 
perhaps when the job was over, she would make the trip to the country’s desert north and find the man who had been her father for thirteen years.
The staff at the front desk was polite and courteous despite Bradford’s requirement of seeing and approving both rooms prior to check-in. 
Worse was that he insisted Munroe accompany him, the first of no doubt many inconveniences that having a babysitter-slash-bodyguard would bring. 
They bypassed the hotel’s only elevator and climbed the wide carpeted stairway that wound through the center of the building. 
The musty scent of the venerable permeated the air.
Adjacent rooms next to the stairwell on the third floor met with Bradford’s approval, 
and once he had left her alone, Munroe dumped her duffel bag and backpack at the foot of the bed, turned off the air conditioner, and opened the windows. 
Warmth and humidity filled the room. True acclimatization would take a week or more, and the air-conditioning would only slow down the process; 
until her body adjusted, the climate would siphon off her strength, leaving her sluggish and tired— better to get it over with as quickly as possible. 
From her backpack she retrieved double-sided tape and tacked the day curtains in place around the windows. 
It wasn’t quite mosquito netting but would do the job until she could pick up the real thing.
She lay on the bed with her hands behind her head and stared at the ceiling. 
Whatever she thought she would feel upon returning, such contentment was a surprise. 
It was five weeks until Christmas, and this was the closest to home for the holidays she’d been in at least a decade.
MUNROE WAS UP with the sun, and for over an hour the sound of lively traffic and busy sidewalks had filtered through the open windows, calling her to meet them. 
She’d given Bradford her word that at least this once she would wait for him before leaving the room, 
and she was dressed and lying on the bed deep in thought when he knocked. 
They took breakfast in the hotel’s small dining room. The mood between them was light and the conversation friendly, 
and when they had finished and were waiting for the waiter to bring a second round of coffee, Munroe stood. “I’ll find out where he’s gone off to,” she said.
The waiter had been on his way back from the kitchen when she stopped him. 
She placed a capsule of powder in the palm of his hand and followed it with a twenty-euro note. 
“My friend has been very difficult about taking his medication,” she said. “If you put this in his coffee, the money is yours. If you get it in the wrong drink, you’ll pay.”
It was several minutes after the coffee that Miles began to show visible signs of somnolence. 
Monroe reached over and placed her wrist to his forehead. “Everything all right?” she asked. “You don’t look very well.”
“Not so good,” he said. His words were slightly slurred. “I feel so tired.”
“It might be the climate and the jet lag,” she said. “It does that to you. It can take a while to get used to it. Let’s get you back to your room.”
By the time the elevator had taken them to their floor, Bradford was slumped over her shoulder. 
With some difficulty she got him into his bed, removed his shoes, and made sure the air-conditioning worked properly. 
Knowing he would wake thirsty, she set out a bottle of drinking water and tucked the light blanket around him.
It was a crappy deal. She would have preferred another way, but there were things to be done that belonged to no one else. 
“Sleep well,” she whispered. She left his key in the room and, using a skeleton set, locked the door behind her.
She checked her watch; she’d be lucky to get back before dark.
The streets of Douala were narrow and full of loud and chaotic life. 
Bicycles laden with goods stacked five feet into the air fought for road space with Peugeot cars converted to share taxis and packed with twice as many people as they were built to carry. 
Traffic surged in disarray, vehicles jostled for position, their horns being applied as frequently as the brakes. 
Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. Colonial buildings sat side by side with modern structures, 
and green fronds peeked above walls that separated homes from the cacophony of the streets.
First stop was the Société Générale de Banques au Cameroun and an account left abandoned when she had fled the country so many years ago. 
Munroe expected that it would have been closed due to inactivity, the money vanishing into the ether, or at the least be inaccessible. 
Rather, it was all there and had even accrued a modest sum of interest. 
She folded the bank statement and then at the FOREX window changed five hundred euros into Central African francs. 
It would be enough small change to last a while; most of the hotels and airlines accepted and sometimes preferred euros to the local currency.
Outside, Munroe hailed several taxis and sent each yellow car on its way until she got a newer vehicle, 
its engine integrity less questionable, the seats still solid and without the grime and reshaping of those that had borne too many passengers; 
with the driver she negotiated a return rate to Kribi, that sleepy party town three hours south of Douala.
Known for its pristine beaches, Kribi was quiet and relatively empty for most of the year but swelled beyond capacity during holiday periods. 
It was in Kribi that the past would converge with the present. 
She needed documents, and the man who could get them would be found there— she had spent several hours on the phone last night making sure of it.
Out of Douala the traffic congestion eased to the occasional overladen minibus. 
The road to Kribi traced its path inland and then parallel to the ocean, with farms of short palm trees used for producing palm oil bordering each side, 
their monotony broken by an occasional building or the intermittent sight of young boys herding goats, pushing the animals along the road’s dirt shoulders. 
The highway’s two lanes provided enough room for oncoming vehicles to pass without forcing one off the tarmac. 
A steady breeze blew in off the ocean, and Munroe spent most of the trip alternating between reviewing her notes and staring lazily out the window, watching memories fly by with the scenery.
Unlike yesterday, today brought pangs of guilt and an overwhelming sense of sadness. 
There were tremors in the back of her mind, and the voices began to stir, the first she had heard from them since accepting the Burbank assignment.
Perhaps the decision to return to Kribi had been a mistake.

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chapter 4
Frankfurt, Germany
Hands deep in her coat pockets, Munroe strode toward Zeil, Frankfurt’s downtown walking street, and toward the steps that led to the underground rails. 
It was November cold, and the streets were bare and windblown. 
Autumn leaves danced on the gusts, and the aromas of coffee from the cafés and chestnuts roasting at open-air stalls lifted on the breeze, exciting the senses.
She stood at the subway entrance and, a predator catching the first whiff of prey, filled her lungs with the crisp taste of winter.
After nearly a month of background preparation, she was ready to pick up the scent of a trail that had vanished 
and, if things went according to plan, to take the investigation where others before her had searched and failed.
She’d arrived in Frankfurt the day before yesterday. Her hotel was near the city center, with a view of the Main and the riverboats that moved along its course, 
a short walk from the trains that ran underground and the best shopping in the city that stood above them.
She took the train to Oberursel, a midsize town on the northern edge of Frankfurt, and from there a taxi to Klinik Hohe Mark. 
St. Mark’s Clinic: home for the mentally unwell and, for the past three years, Kristof Berger’s permanent residence.
The institution was a sprawling estate of functional buildings spread across acres of what would have been greenery if the weather had been warmer. 
She had called ahead for visiting hours, and when she stepped from the taxi, church bells in a cobblestoned town square somewhere in the distance confirmed that it was time.
Kristof sat in a warm, sun-drenched room where pastel yellow curtains framed the windows and softened the winter light. 
He stared with tilted head into nothingness, his hands in his lap and his feet together. 
At the opposite end of the room, the sounds of daytime television filled the silence, 
and although there were other patients in the room, Munroe did not notice them, so focused was she on Kristof.
He was different from the old photos in the reports, and as she saw the blankness of his face, her immediate thought was of how shameful it was that such a beautiful person had gone to waste. 
She wondered now, for the first time thinking beyond collecting on the contract, what had brought him to such a state.
Munroe wore a blond wig and brown contact lenses. They were the only items that bore resemblance to Emily Burbank, 
but she hoped they were enough to jog memories— if Kristof still had them. 
She sat in the chair next to him, and with her hand on his arm she said his name. He gave no response.
Unsure if he had registered her presence, she knelt down in front of him, leaning in so that her face was near his line of sight. 
She placed one hand gently under his chin and drew it up so that he looked at her. 
His eyes focused, and she smiled. He lifted his head on his own, and she withdrew her hand, remaining in front of him on the floor.
Munroe’s voice was hushed and low. “Ich will begreifen was passiert ist, damit ich Dir helfen kann. Where did it happen, Kristof? What do you remember?”
He sighed and closed his eyes. His head drifted to the side, and his face returned to the emptiness he’d worn when she first saw him.
She stayed with him for nearly four hours. She spoke softly, explained her desire to locate Emily, and watched his face for clues that would allow her inside his mind. 
There were moments when he stirred from his torpor and looked her way. Once he smiled, but in all the time they were together, he didn’t speak.
The afternoon faded, and Monroe left the institution, arriving over an hour later in Langen, a town on the southern edge of Frankfurt. 
On the cobblestoned pavement outside the station that split the city in two, she studied the oversize map. 
Dusk was coming, and with the last of the sun the temperature would dip further. She turned up the collar of her coat. 
It would be quick, a pass by the house to get a feel for what she would encounter when she returned to pay a visit to Kristof’s mother.
A three-minute walk from the station, Frau Berger’s house stood on a quiet and tidy street. 
Hers was a two-story home, small and narrow, with red clay roof tiles like the houses around it, though unlike the others it was in disrepair. 
The dark green paint on the shutters was cracked and peeling, and plaster from parts of the outside wall had crumbled, leaving the blocks underneath it exposed. 
The eaves were lopsided, drooping precariously at the back corner. 
Munroe’s eyes were drawn to the windowsills, where on each one stood plants that flourished, 
and she saw that the six feet between the front door and the sidewalk was neatly lined and hedged with what would be a beautiful garden in the spring. 
In the fading light of the evening, the house looked forlorn and lonely.
Munroe returned to the station and paced for warmth against the cold while waiting for the train that would take her back into Frankfurt. 
At the far end of the platform, Frau Berger’s house was visible, and on the third trip to the end Munroe spotted lights in the house and noted the time.
The following day she returned to visit Kristof and found him in the same chair wearing the same expression. 
When she approached, he lifted his head and smiled. She sat next to him, placed her hand on his arm, said nothing, and allowed the hours to pass in silence.
And then Kristof spoke, his voice thick and sticky, the words uneven. 
“We went where the money was buried,” he said. “We ran together, and she was gone, where the money was.”
Munroe waited, let the silence swallow them, and then in a whisper said, “Can you tell me where?”
“She was gone,” he said. “She was gone, and it was red, and we never saw the place of the money.”
Twice more he spoke, not answering her questions but repeating the same words. 
Munroe stayed with him for another hour and then left for Langen. 
On the train she reviewed the transcripts of Kristof’s previous conversations. 
They were there, identical words: where the money was buried. She closed her eyes. 
The warmth and the rhythm of the train and the clack of the wheels lulled her to the edge of sleep. There was meaning in his words— something. 
She found a florist on Langen’s Hauptstrasse and purchased one of the more expensive items in the shop. 
It would, she hoped, be a welcome addition to the collection Frau Berger displayed on her windowsills and as such provide an opening into the woman’s home. 
Munroe returned to the station and waited in the cold on the platform until shortly after dusk, when the lights in the house went on.
At Munroe’s knock Frau Berger opened the door and wiped a hand on a spotless apron. 
Munroe took a step forward. “Guten Abend, Frau Berger, ich bin die Mikaela— I’m a friend of Kristof,” she said. 
“I’ve been abroad and only recently learned what happened. I’m so sorry.” She held out the living floral arrangement. “I wanted to bring you something.”
There was a moment of uneasy silence, and then Frau Berger took the arrangement. 
“Thank you,” she said quietly, standing in the doorway, moving neither to close the door nor to invite Munroe to stay.
Munroe stepped back a pace. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” she said, and then turned to go.
“Wait…” The woman’s voice was soft, distant. “Won’t you come in for a few minutes? Perhaps drink something warm?”
Munroe paused, scratched her neck as if deciding, and then nodded and followed the woman into the house. 
Frau Berger showed her to a small sitting room in the front and then retreated farther into the downstairs area.
While Munroe sat, she surveyed the room and hallway. 
The Burbank report was accurate in describing the poor condition of the house, but it neglected the invisible obvious. 
The interior was worn yet spotlessly clean and well cared for. 
Curtains, sun-bleached and threadbare, were crisp and fresh, the windows were without a smudge, 
and there was no trace of dust on any of the old pieces that decorated the modest room. The sofa had been recently plumped. 
A small glass showcase displayed an antique collection of miniature ceramic pieces, and adorning the walls were photographs of Kristof from his earliest years. 
The woman was meticulous, proud, self-sufficient. The offer of money would have insulted her.
The fragrance of fresh coffee announced Frau Berger’s return.
The conversation was light. Talk was of the weather and the differences between home and abroad. 
Munroe asked questions about Kristof as a child, and the woman spoke of him in the descriptive and colorful way that only an adoring mother could.
“It must have been a very big shock to you,” Munroe said, “for Kristof to withdraw the way he did. Do you suppose something happened to him in Africa?”
“I don’t know,” the mother replied. She grew quiet. “I believe so. He would wake in the night screaming. 
“That’s why he originally went to see the doctors, you know, to calm the nightmares.”
“I didn’t know that,” Munroe said. “Nobody says why he is away, only that it happened after he made a trip to Africa. They say things happened to him there that changed him.”
A tear formed in the mother’s eye. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s possible. He never spoke to me of it.” 
She drew the back of a finger under her eyes. Munroe handed her a tissue. 
“There were some men who came to visit me, who offered me money if I would tell them where Kristof went. They were looking for a girl, maybe his girlfriend.”
“Did they find the girl?” Munroe asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I didn’t want their money, and I sent them away. 
“But there was nothing I could tell them anyhow. I don’t know about any girl.” Frau Berger’s tears rolled steadily. 
“Sometimes I wonder,” the woman said, “if I knew what happened, would it make it easier for me to bear it?”
Munroe moved from her seat to the edge of the sofa where Frau Berger sat. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. 
“Perhaps it would,” she said. “I also want to know what happened. I want to help Kristof.” 
Munroe was silent for a moment and then asked, “Are there no clues in the items Kristof brought back with him from Africa?”
The woman shook her head. “He brought nothing back. Not even clothes. Everything he had, I put into an envelope. 
“They were from a secret belt, a pocket that goes under the pants. It was all he had.”
“May I look?” Munroe asked.
Frau Berger nodded and rose. 
She motioned for Munroe to follow, then led her up the narrow staircase and to a room on the right. Unlike the rest of the house, the room was dusty, its air stale. 
Items were strewn across the floor and the bed was barely made, as if his mother had chosen to leave it exactly the way Kristof had on the day he left home for good. 
Perhaps in some hidden recess of the woman’s mind she believed that he would return to it.
From a drawer inside a small wardrobe, Frau Berger pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to Munroe. “Everything he had with him is in here.”
The two women sat, Frau Berger on the edge of the bed and Munroe cross-legged on the floor, where she spread out the contents of the envelope in front of her: 
a passport, two airplane tickets, a yellow vaccination card, two pills remaining from some form of medication, 
and a couple pieces of paper on which the ink had bled to indecipherability.
Munroe stared at the items, astounded by the wealth of viable information. At this rate the job would be over in a month.
She picked up the airplane tickets. The first was an unused South African Airways ticket from Johannesburg to Frankfurt with the same date and codes for the flight Emily was supposed to have taken. 
The second was undoubtedly the one Kristof had returned to Europe on, an Air France flight from Libreville to Paris. 
The ticket had been issued by a local travel agent in Gabon, of that Munroe was sure. 
From the IATA information, she could track down the originating travel agency if necessary.
The yellow vaccination record brought a smile. The doctor’s stamps and signatures were all obvious forgeries. 
The entire stamp-filled booklet had no doubt been purchased somewhere along the journey in order to facilitate border crossings, a fake so similar to those that she used to carry.
She took his passport and flipped through the pages. The little book was nearly full. 
Most of the countries he had passed through had required an entire page for the issuing visa alone, not counting entry and exit stamps. 
Munroe lost herself in the pages tracing his journey from South Africa to Kenya and back again, following the trail of exit and entry stamps until they led to Namibia. 
She went slowly, flipping front to back through the pages, sometimes losing a thread in the muddle and then picking it back up again a few pages later.
She became aware of the time when Frau Berger excused herself and returned downstairs.
Following the trail from Namibia was difficult. There were no exit stamps. 
The nearest chronological entry stamp was into Angola, and from there she traced the trail to Gabon and then to Equatorial Guinea. 
There was an unused visa for Cameroon.
Munroe closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the postage-size stamps that had been affixed to the passport on the Cameroonian visa. 
He had not used it. He had gone into Gabon, gone into Equatorial Guinea, and returned to Gabon, but not Cameroon. 
Why? The information screamed in the silence. It was there, somewhere.
She removed a small digital camera from around her neck and took photographs of every passport page, both tickets, 
and for good measure she also got photos of the medication wrapping and of the illegible pieces of paper. 
She took one of the pills out of the wrapping and dropped it into a small Ziploc bag. 
Frau Berger might notice, but by then she would be gone with everything she needed.
Munroe returned the items to the envelope and then placed the envelope in the drawer that Frau Berger had taken it from. 
She closed Kristof’s door loudly, hoping it would give notice that she was on her way down. 
From the kitchen came the smell of bread baking, and the woman greeted her at the bottom of the stairs.
“Frau Berger, I must be getting home,” Munroe said. The woman’s hands rested on the banister rail, and Munroe placed one of her own hands on them. 
“I don’t know if there are answers or not,” she said, “but I promise you that I am going to do everything I can to discover what happened to Kristof in Africa, 
“and perhaps with that information you can find some peace.” The woman smiled. Her eyes were red, 
and Munroe knew that while she had been busy upstairs scouring the items for information, Frau Berger had been downstairs trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tears.
THE NEXT MORNING Munroe had photo enlargements made of the passport pages, and while she waited for their development, purchased a large map of Africa. 
Before returning to the hotel, she located a lab to analyze the tablet she’d taken.
Back in the hotel room, Munroe shoved furniture away from the wall in front of the bed, and there she taped the map and beside it the enlargements. 
Using the trail from the passport and filling in the blanks with Burbank’s reports, she marked Emily’s path across Africa.
She traced the steps methodically, double-checking as she went. 
Just as it had the previous evening, the trail brought her from Gabon through Oyem to the Mongomo crossing in Equatorial Guinea and back to Oyem. 
The trail ended with an exit stamp out of Libreville. But there was one glaring omission: There was no exit stamp from Equatorial Guinea.
Munroe circled the Oyem/Mongomo crossing in red and then stopped. Mongomo. She shook her head. It couldn’t be that easy.
She went back through the transcripts of Kristof Berger’s conversation with the investigators. 
She ignored the English translations and read directly from the German. Where the money was buried. Could it be so simple?
She stabbed her pen into the dot that marked the city and then lay back on the bed with her arms behind her head. She stared at the map. Mongomo. 
She checked her watch. In two hours Houston would begin to wake, 
and she would be forced to make the obligatory phone call to Burbank’s office to notify him of her next step. 
She picked up the phone and dialed Breeden’s number. The voice on the other end was groggy, Breeden’s usual breathlessness noticeably absent.
“I’ve picked up a few leads,” Munroe said, “and I’ll be moving soon. I need you to do something for me.”
“Sure.”
“Going back about five or six years, I gave you an envelope and asked you to keep it for me. How quickly can you get it?”
“Sometime this morning.”
“I need it sent to me overnight.”
“Consider it done,” Breeden replied. “Contact me if there’s anything else— you know I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks,” Munroe said. “I’ll be in touch.”
Munroe returned to the lab, and when she located the technician with whom she’d originally spoken, 
he handed back the photograph of the wrapping and the sample she’d given him and, in exchange for payment, a two-page printout. 
“In layperson’s terms,” he said as he handed it to her, “it’s mefloquine hydrochloride. 
“This particular tablet is sold under the trade name Lariam— it’s an antimalarial typically used to treat against Plasmodium falciparum and also sometimes used as a prophylactic.”
It sounded right; after Emily’s bout with malaria, she’d been taking prophylactics. 
Lariam was what they’d used back then in chloroquine-resistant falciparum-endemic areas, 
and if there was ever a place that fit that description, the coastal region of West Central Africa was it. 
Lariam. The drug wasn’t prescribed as much these days— the side effects could be brutal: homicidal tendencies, hallucinations, and psychotic episodes, among others. 
The worst of the effects were supposedly rare, but the odds didn’t matter much when it was you or your loved one who was transformed into a raving psychotic. 
It would be a plausible explanation for Kristof’s behavior, except that all indicators pointed to his breakdown’s occurring long after he would have stopped taking the drug.
At the hotel Munroe put in the call to Burbank’s office, and instead of being passed to his executive assistant as expected, was transferred directly to Richard Burbank. 
“Michael,” he said in a half-chopped way that left the impression that someone else had been cut off as he switched lines to take the call, 
“I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon. Is it good news?”
“It’s a little early to say,” she replied. 
“I’ve done all that I can here in Europe, and I’m leaving for Africa in a couple of days— as per our agreement, I’m informing you of my plans.”
“Where specifically are you headed?” he asked.
“I’m starting with Cameroon and Gabon,” she said, “and I’ll narrow the search from there.”
“Cameroon. Gabon.” His voice had a razor quality to it. “As far as we know, Emily never even got out of Namibia. Why aren’t you heading to Namibia?”
Munroe’s mouth tightened into a forced smile as if she were face-to-face with her client, and she waited before replying. 
“Mr. Burbank,” she said, “you hired me to do this job because so far nobody else has been able to do it. 
“I’m reporting to you on my progress because my contract requires me to. 
“Beyond that, either you allow me to do my job without micromanaging me or find someone else to locate your daughter.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I apologize. Obviously I’m anxious about this whole thing. When do you expect to leave?”
“I’m booked to fly out in two days.”
“I want Miles Bradford to accompany you,” he said. 
The request did not surprise her. That he made it so early into the assignment did.
“I’ll wait for him in Douala,” Munroe replied. “He’s going to need visas. There’s not enough time for him to get them and meet up with me here before my flight out.”
“Cancel the flight. He’ll be in Frankfurt in less than a week. You said Gabon and Cameroon— he’ll have the visas. The two of you fly to Africa together.”
Munroe shut her eyes, gripped the phone, and waited half a beat. 
“If it must be done that way, so be it. It’s your expense account, Mr. Burbank, and it’s your time.” 
She replaced the phone receiver and swore under her breath. She tossed a few belongings into a backpack and slipped the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. 
On her way out of the hotel, she paid for the next five days and left instructions for packages and messages to be held until she returned. 
It was Burbank’s time and Burbank’s dollar. He could bankroll a snowboarding trip in the Alps while she waited for babysitter Miles fucking Bradford to arrive.
From Frankfurt’s Hauptbahnhof she took the next express train bound for Zurich.
IT WAS AN early afternoon four days later when Munroe returned to Frankfurt. 
The FedEx envelope from Kate was waiting, as was a fax from Burbank’s office with Miles Bradford’s flight arrival information.
In her room Munroe sat on the edge of the bed with the envelope in her hands. She tapped it against her knuckles, stared at it, 
and then, unable to bring herself to open it, tossed it on the bed and went to the window to watch the river and the boats and the happy couples strolling along its manicured banks.
Against this picturesque display, she deliberated rescinding the contract. 
Doing so would mean failure, but failure was always an eventuality. 
The nonstop success would hit a bump sooner or later, and if there was going to be a washout, this would be a good time to have it happen.
Returning to the past was inevitable. Somehow in the last nine years she’d managed to stay upright on a tightrope stretched between brilliance and insanity, 
the blackness of the abyss always with her, leaving her sometimes wondering if letting go might in the end be easiest of all.
Work had kept her sane, kept the line taut. 
It wasn’t fear that held her back from Burbank’s assignment or where it would lead, nor was it the contents of the envelope, symbols of the past that they were. 
It was uncertainty: If the line should snap, on which side of the abyss would she land? 
She’d planned to return when she no longer cared.
Munroe walked to the bed, picked up the envelope, and ripped away the plastic ribbon of sealant. 
Maybe she’d always care, maybe there was never going to be a good time, maybe she’d be running forever. Carpe diem. 
She emptied the contents onto the bed and ran her fingers over three pieces of history: 
a Cameroonian residency card, a vaccination card, and a forged Spanish passport.

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chapter 3
Walker County, Texas
The sky was dark, tinged by the murky haze of city lights, of civilization and pollution. 
The weather had warmed; even in the predawn, Munroe could feel it, and if the temperature was rising, she would welcome it. 
The roads were empty, and at 150 miles an hour the wind had a way of rushing through a person.
At three in the morning, she’d tossed the documents from the Burbank case into a backpack and left the hotel. 
Her head was filled with a cacophony of ancient words and the accompanying attacks of anxiety that prevented sleep. 
She would ride through the night, and in the dark and the silence her head would clear.
She traveled the winding Texas backcountry, endless lane dividers blending into a solid line, 
time calculated by the changing colors of the sky and a tugging ache that lurked at the periphery of her consciousness, 
the result of hours spent on a machine built for speed rather than comfort.
The meeting was set for ten, and now at nine-thirty she moved with the flow of traffic through the tail end of the morning rush hour into the matrix of Houston’s downtown. 
She found parking and then, gazing up at the building, ruffled her short hair free of the shape of the helmet.
She stretched and pulled the kinks out of her shoulders, locked the helmet onto the bike, and unzipped the riding jacket. 
Underneath she wore a tight T-shirt, and the combination of the shirt, blue jeans, and thick-soled boots gave her the appearance of having recently stepped out of the cab of an eighteen-wheeler. 
Like every decision she made, the choice in clothing was calculated, 
a statement to the client, a silent “fuck you” to a succession of men in suits who aggressively jockeyed to have their assignments accepted.
To them she provided no decorum, abided by no protocol, and each in turn would accept this 
because they all wanted the information she would procure that had the potential to turn meager profits into gold.
It hadn’t started out that way. The first assignment had been a fluke and had come at a time when she considered herself marred for life, 
unhirable in the traditional sense and wondering how to pay off amassed student loans in her own lifetime.
During sophomore year of college, in a period of drink- and drug-induced haze, with the deadline of a research assignment for her comparative-politics class looming, 
she pulled an all-nighter with a beat-up laptop and four pots of coffee, fabricating a report using Cameroon as her target of study. 
The sources were fudged, but the information, based on past personal observations, logical conclusions, and in-depth understanding of the demographics, was highly accurate.
The relief of having completed the assignment segued to dread when instead of a grade she received a request from the professor to discuss the paper. 
He had, as it turned out, taken the liberty of passing her report to a colleague, who after reading it had asked to meet her.
The colleague was an economist for the International Monetary Fund working in the IMF’s African Area, 
and he in turn introduced Munroe to one of his business partners, a man named Julian Reid. 
Although it was evident to those who read the report that the material had not been pulled from genuine sources, the analyses and conclusions had piqued their curiosity. 
Over lunch Reid inquired as to the chances of having her prepare a similar report on another country. 
He and his partners, he explained, were planning to begin a venture in Morocco, 
and although the country was fairly stable politically and economically, what they didn’t have was someone on the inside with an innate understanding of the place, 
the customs, the subtleties, and a map, for lack of a better term, of how to navigate the political hierarchy with its graft and jockeying for power. 
It was such underlying information in her report on Cameroon that had caught the eye of those who’d read it. 
Could she, he wanted to know, replicate the research in a different scenario?
That was how it began. Morocco was the first assignment; 
it had taken eight months, and those eight months transformed the direction of her life. 
The drugs stopped, the drink dried up, the intense focus of the work brought peace, and that one assignment carried her finances into the black. 
Next was a two-month period in Uruguay on behalf of the IMF. 
By the time the third project, in Vietnam, had been completed, word had begun to spread. 
With each assignment her reputation for extracting impossibly accurate information grew, 
and it was only a matter of time before the law of supply and demand took over. 
The value of her services increased exponentially, and so did the paychecks. 
No one questioned how she came by the information or what she had to do to get it; they simply paid.
Now came the possibility of an assignment far outside the area of her expertise, and for that reason it intrigued her— 
that, and the fact that she had not returned to the continent of her birth since abruptly departing it nine years ago. 
Munroe pushed the memories away, joined Kate Breeden in the lobby of the building, 
and in silence rode the elevator to the thirty-eighth floor, where the doors opened onto a wide reception area.
The halls were carpeted, the wooden office doors richly paneled, and the atmosphere hushed and reverent. 
Titan Exploration was a fascinating specimen of the acme of corporate America, 
and Munroe observed the goings-on with detached curiosity while she followed Burbank’s assistant across expensive rugs and through well-lit hallways.
With its internal politics and sedate proprieties, the corporate world was as foreign as any of the countries she’d traveled, and it comprised a distinct culture she had yet to internalize. 
Over the years she’d made several attempts to live as “normal” people did, holding standard jobs and maintaining a permanent residence, each try a more miserable failure than the one before it. 
The longest stretch of employment had been eight weeks as a bean counter at an auditing firm. 
It had come to a quick end when the idea of killing the department manager became palpable. 
Insecure and inept, the woman had been a tyrant set out to destroy talent before it replaced her, and few would have wept over her passing. 
But when ideas of how to do it and get away with it danced through Munroe’s head, she had known it was time to get out. And that was the good job.
The assistant brought them to a corner office, knocked gently, and opened the door. 
Thirty feet of empty space unfurled between the door and Burbank’s desk. 
The front of the office held a sitting area with a wet bar; framed autographed photos lined the right wall. 
The left and back walls were solid glass, with a spectacular view of the downtown Houston area.
Burbank sat on the edge of an oversize mahogany desk in front of the wall of windows, a phone to his ear, 
one leg firmly on the floor, the other dangling over the corner of the desk, and he was in the middle of a heated conversation. 
He paused, beckoned to Breeden and Munroe, and then curtly dismissed whoever was on the other end of the line.
Burbank was Munroe’s height, tanned, fit, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit with a pale pinstriped shirt and a pink tie. 
Silver around his temples framed eyes the gray-blue of a winter sky. He radiated tangible energy and genuine charm.
Munroe sat in one of the two chairs facing Burbank’s desk and immediately regretted having done so. 
The chair was plush and comfortable, and she sank into it several inches so that her eye level was closer to Burbank’s chest than to his face, forcing her to look up at him.
When the silence in the room became uncomfortably long, Burbank smiled at Munroe and finally said, “Thank you so much for coming. 
“I really do appreciate your taking the time to hear me out and at least consider the job that I need done.”
Munroe stared out beyond him through the windows and, with a look of boredom and her voice monotone, said only, “I came for the money.”
Burbank laughed, and he placed his hands together. “I trust that the transfer went through smoothly and that everything is in order?” 
Breeden nodded, and Burbank continued. “Have you had a chance to look over the material I provided?”
“Yes, I have,” Munroe said.
“Good, good,” he said, nodding as he spoke, and then he paused as if cutting himself off in the middle of a thought. 
“You know, I’m not really sure what to call you— do you prefer Michael, Ms. Munroe, Vanessa, or is there perhaps another moniker you’ve taken?” 
The words were almost sarcastic, but his tone was sincere. He had done his research and was letting her know.
“Most of my clients call me Michael,” she replied.
“Fine, Michael it is.” Burbank paused and looked out the window at the skyline, then rubbed a finger against his mouth. 
“Michael,” he said, “I know you don’t have children, but perhaps you can understand the pain of uncertainty and the lack of closure that come from simply not knowing what happened to a child.
“Emily is the brightest and most lovable daughter a parent could wish for, and I thank God every day for bringing her and her mother into my life.” 
He pulled a photo out of his wallet and handed it to Munroe. “That’s Emily’s high-school graduation picture,” he said.
Munroe nodded. As in the file photos, Emily was a petite girl with straight, long blond hair and brown eyes made stunning by deep, dark lashes.
“When Emily decided to go to South Africa, I was against it. I didn’t feel it safe for her to travel alone. 
“She insisted that she wasn’t alone, and she was right in a sense— the whole expedition traveled as a group. 
“I think you know what I mean, though. But she was eighteen, old enough to start making her own decisions. 
“I didn’t think it was a good one, but her mother felt that the overland adventure would give Emily a chance to come into her own, and I really did not have a lot of say in the matter.
“Emily is a tiny girl and soft-spoken, but she has a very determined personality. 
“When she wanted something she found a way to get it, and this was no exception.
“As I’m sure you’ve read in the file, shortly before Emily was scheduled to travel to Europe, she disappeared. 
“It’s been four years now, Michael.” Burbank’s voice cracked. He stopped and caught his breath, and after a long silence began again. 
“Between the private investigators and security experts, I have spent a small fortune. 
“I have been through hell trying to deal with government agencies that know nothing.” 
He paused again, his breathing deep and measured. “Honestly,” he continued, “I have little hope of finding her alive after all this time. 
“But I do want to understand what happened, to know if there is any way that I can make wrongs right, to right them on her behalf.” 
A sense of heaviness filled the room. “I need to find her, Michael.”
Munroe waited and then said, “I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through this.” 
She spoke slowly, mirroring Burbank’s pattern of speech and choosing words that would convey meaning without causing pain. 
“I do understand the agony of losing someone you love for reasons that make absolutely no sense. 
“But what I don’t understand is why you want to hire me. I don’t do this. 
“I don’t travel the world trying to find missing people and I don’t think I can help you.”
“No, you don’t find missing people.” Burbank sighed. “But you do have the skill set to survive and blend in with any culture that you come into contact with. 
“Even more, you know how to ask the right questions of the right people to get the answers you need.” 
He pulled a folder from his desk and slid it to her. It was nearly an inch thick, a thorough encapsulation of the past nine years of her life. 
With an air of indifference, Munroe leafed through the pages. After the documents came the photos: 
of her family, of her on each of the three Ducatis she had owned, of Logan’s shop, of Logan and his then boyfriend, 
and several from college that she wished had never been taken. 
Munroe stopped when she came to a high-resolution blowup— a still lifted from Internet footage of one of the many BASE jumps she’d made at Kjerag in Norway. 
The bastard had been meticulous. Medical records, school records, and her driving record with its long list of speeding tickets. 
The file included conversations and details recounted by people who knew her when she had just entered the country. 
But except for a few notations on her childhood, prior to her arrival in the United States, the file had nothing. The way it should be.
Munroe tossed the file on the desk. “You get a B-plus on your homework assignment,” she said with a yawn. 
“I hope you’re not expecting that to be some form of blackmail to convince me to take the case, because there’s nothing in there that bothers me.”
“Blackmail? Goodness no,” he said. “I have nothing to gain from forcing you into a job you don’t want to take— surely the results would be less than ideal. 
“No, Michael, I had that file put together so I would have a thorough understanding of what you were capable of. 
“I also wanted you to know that I had done my research before presenting the offer I am about to make.”
Munroe said nothing, and the room went silent. When it was apparent that Burbank was waiting for a reaction or an indication of interest, 
she yawned again and slid deeper into the chair, resting her head on the back of it and stretching her legs out in front.
Burbank clasped his hands together and leaned forward on the desk. 
“I’m prepared to offer you a contract of two and a half million dollars as a final attempt to locate my daughter.”
She tilted her head to the side, raised an eyebrow, and continued to say nothing.
“Michael, I need closure. I cannot sit around day after day for the rest of my life just waiting and hoping that someday someone will bring me news. 
“You are the best at what you do. You have never gone on an assignment and failed to deliver. 
“I know that if you agree to this assignment, you will deliver. And maybe that’s partially what I’m afraid of. 
“I’m afraid that you’ll choose not to do it because you don’t think you can deliver, and that’s why I’m willing to pay you two-point-five million for giving it your very best effort. 
“I don’t know how long it would take before you ran up against a dead end. We’ve been at it for four years. 
“If you give me a year, that’s all I ask, even if you don’t get any further than we have.”
“So you’re willing to take a two-and-a-half-million-dollar risk on the remote chance that I might get further than you have?”
“If you want to put it that way, then yes, although I don’t see it as a risk.” He swept his hand around the office. 
“Obviously, money is not my greatest concern. I have enough to last me several lifetimes. What I don’t have is closure. 
“I can’t handle not knowing— and possibly not ever knowing— what happened to my daughter, and time is running out. 
“Each day that passes without bringing new information further seals the outcome. 
“I’ve read some of the reports you’ve put together. You snatch information out of what seems to be thin air.
“I believe with utmost certainty that if you say my daughter is dead, that she is dead, and if she is alive, that you are the one who can find her. 
“And if you tell me that the trail has ended and there is no hope of going further, I will know that all that can be done has been done.”
Munroe pulled herself up in the chair and leaned forward across the desk so that her eyes were level with his. 
“That’s it? I promise to do my best and you hand over payment? What if I signed your contract, took a yearlong vacation in Africa, and simply said that I tried?”
Burbank smiled and held her gaze. He waited a few seconds before answering, as though choosing his words carefully. 
“If I’ve come to understand you correctly,” he said, “I don’t think you would even consider that as an option— you have your reputation at stake. 
“However, I am also a businessman— I protect my investments. 
“I would expect to receive progress updates from you on a frequent if not regular basis, 
“and I retain the right to send one of my people to assist you if I deem it necessary.”
“You do realize,” Munroe remonstrated, “that I have never been babysat on a job before, and I have no desire to start now. 
“I work alone, Mr. Burbank, and I very carefully select the people who help me. 
“If I should choose to accept your assignment, what makes you think your ‘people’ are qualified? If they were, you wouldn’t need me.”
Burbank reached into his desk and withdrew a second folder. “This is Miles Bradford,” he said. “I trust him with my life. 
“He has been with me through hell and back, and it was he who recommended you to me. 
“Miles is no stranger to Africa, and although it wasn’t mentioned in the background documents, Miles was on the investigative team that traveled from Windhoek to Brazzaville, Congo. 
“You are free to research him yourself. If you feel he’s unqualified, let me know and you can have your pick of the people within my organization whom I would trust with this.”
Munroe glanced briefly through the file and then took her own file off Burbank’s desk and handed them both to Breeden. 
“All right, Mr. Burbank,” she said. “I will think about your offer. 
“After I’ve reread the information on your daughter’s case, then read the information on Miles Bradford and the dossier you have on me, I’ll get back to you. 
“You should hear from me through Ms. Breeden within seventy-two hours.”
“Thank you, Michael,” Burbank said, his voice softer. “That’s all I ask.”
THERE WAS SILENCE in the elevator on the way to the lobby. 
Breeden tapped on the thick files and said, “I’ll drop these off at your hotel as soon as I get back into town.”
“Don’t bother,” Munroe said. “I’m not planning to read them anytime soon. I just wanted to have copies handy. When’s your flight?”
Breeden glanced at her watch. “About three hours.”
“Let’s get some coffee.”
“Does that mean you’re considering Burbank’s offer?”
“Perhaps.”
Two blocks down the street, they found a coffee shop, cozy and quaint, 
and when the caffeine had for the most part been quaffed and all that remained of the scones and muffins were a few crumbs that had tumbled onto the table, 
Munroe shifted the conversation back to the offer Burbank had made. 
“I’m going to take the job,” she said. “If Burbank will agree to several concessions.”
Breeden put down her mug and pulled a handheld from her purse.
“I want the two-point-five million up front,” Munroe said, “plus expenses.” 
She paused for a moment and tapped her fingers on the table in a rhythmic pattern that resembled Morse code. 
“If I can deliver hard evidence on the facts surrounding his daughter’s disappearance,” she continued, “then I want an additional two-point-five upon delivery, 
“and I want to work alone— no tagalongs. I may have a few more stipulations, but the tagalong is the only one he’s going to balk at. 
“Wait at least seventy hours before you submit the terms— I want to buy time to change my mind.”
Breeden nodded and jotted notes.
“I also want the names and numbers of every person involved in any investigation that has ever been done into Emily’s disappearance. 
“I have questions that weren’t answered by the information Burbank sent you.”
Breeden finished tapping on the handheld, tilted her head, and whispered, “I would really love to know what made you decide to take the assignment.”
“Because I think I can get further than they have.”
“And the money’s good.”
Munroe smiled. “A year of my life is a year I’ll never get back.
“But there was something in the file that needled me, something I couldn’t put my finger on until the ride down. 
“Every time people have gone in search of Emily, they’ve always started where she disappeared. I think the answer lies in Europe.”
“With the guy— oh, what’s his name? The boy that’s in the institution?”
“Yes, with him. He was there. He should know what happened.”
“But people have tried talking with him. He makes no sense.”
Munroe nodded slowly. “I realize that.” She drew a long sip from a glass of water. “Perhaps they weren’t speaking his language.”
THE RETURN TO Dallas brought Munroe to the hotel by midafternoon, 
and Noah’s business card, still on the desk where he’d left it, was the first thing she saw as she entered the room. 
She dropped the backpack and helmet on the bed and moved to the card, picked it up, and flicked it against her hand. 
His name and business address stared out at her. The clock by the bed read four-thirty— still time to see him before his flight.
In the silence of the room, the pressure in her chest began to build. The voices were there, low and quiet but still with her.
…Why do the heathen rage…
She ran her fingers over the top of the card, the raised ink, braille through her fingertips, translated memories of his face.
…The kings of the earth set themselves and the rulers take council…
She let the card fall into the garbage can.
Time to go.
She gathered her few belongings and tossed them into the backpack; she would drop them off with Logan on her way out of town. 
She’d contact Breeden before the self-imposed deadline expired, then ride until exhausted and find someplace to collapse for the night. 
On impulse she headed for Colorado Springs, cutting across the vast, cold emptiness of North Texas.
It was on the outskirts of Amarillo, shortly before midnight, that she stopped for fuel. 
The station was poorly lit, and only after getting off the bike and removing the helmet did she see the small group of young men in the shadows. 
They sat on the tailgate of an old Ford pickup. The smell of cigarettes wafted in her direction, 
and she could hear in their voices the bravado that comes when alcohol is mixed with youthful inexperience. 
She ignored them and unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank.
When she removed her wallet, the conversation that carried on the air shifted in tone. 
She kept her back to the truck and swiped the credit card. Voices hushed. The tailgate creaked. 
She closed her eyes and relaxed, ready for what she sensed was coming. 
Adrenaline flowed, and euphoria followed. Irregular footsteps. Metal on metal. 
A hand reached for her shoulder, and with celerity she grabbed the owner’s wrist and forced his arm backward until she felt the snap, 
and in that same second slammed a fist into his abdomen. When he doubled over, she picked up his knife from the ground.
“That was a warning,” she said, and fought the urge to pummel him. 
He was eighteen, maybe nineteen, his face tinged with the rosy pink flush of youth and alcohol, his chin sporting patches of stubble. 
She ignored the feel of the knife in her hand as it screamed to be used, pulled him up by the hair, and shoved him in the direction of the others who had begun to rise off the back of the tailgate. 
She saw the faint glimmer of a gun and instinctively handled the knife, measuring the weight and balance of it.
“If any of you want a piece of me, you’re welcome to it,” she said. “I could use a good fight right now. 
“And you better be a hell of a shot, because I will slice you to pieces before you empty the chamber.”
She saw their uncertainty and ignored the swearing and threats; underneath the noise she could hear fear and knew that the fight was already over. 
She turned her back to them and continued the process of fueling the motorcycle.
Two hours north she found a cheap motel, where she slept for a few hours before voices from the past once again called through slumber and brought her awake.
Three days out of Dallas, Munroe contacted Breeden to confirm that she would take the assignment and faxed the last of the stipulations. 
Two days later, while passing through Sacramento, the reply arrived on her voice mail. 
By arrangement Breeden faxed the contract to the nearest UPS store. 
The document was less than four pages, and although Breeden would already have gone over the details, studying the fine print was a routine that Munroe would not violate. 
Burbank had accepted all her stipulations save one: He would not vacillate on his right to send a companion on the assignment if he felt it necessary.
For five million she could put up with the possibility of being babysat; worst case, she’d conveniently lose the sitter. 
She faxed the signed copy to Burbank’s office and overnighted the original to Breeden.
Within minutes of her having done so, the driving edge of anger and anxiety ebbed, and calm overtook her. 
She checked into a motel and slept for fifteen hours.

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chapter 2
TO: Katherine Breeden
FROM: Miles Bradford
SUBJECT: Emily Burbank— Disappearance/Investigation

Ms. Breeden: On behalf of Richard Burbank and for the purpose of review by your client Michael Munroe, I am sending the complete collection of documents related to Emily Burbank’s disappearance.
In addition to the summaries that follow below, attached are six PDF files that include copies of all communication from Ms. Burbank prior to her disappearance, government records and documents, as well as reports and transcripts (including translations) from private investigations, in total 238 pages.
Sincerely,
Miles Bradford Capstone
Security Consulting
BACKGROUND SUMMARY

Namibia: Wild, vast, spectacularly beautiful, and home to some of Africa’s best animal preserves. 
It is sparsely populated, outlined by the Namib Desert on the Atlantic coast and the Kalahari Desert on the eastern border. 
The country is, by African standards, safe and modern, the government stable, and the infrastructure solid. 
It is not the first place on the continent to come to mind when a foreigner disappears, 
but an Internet café in the capital of Windhoek became Emily Burbank’s last known place of contact.
Nearly five months separated Emily’s arrival in Africa from her disappearance. 
The journey began in South Africa as an overland safari. 
The tour by open-air truck lasted thirty days and passed through six countries on its way through the south and east of Africa, ending in Nairobi, Kenya.
Originally scheduled to return to Johannesburg by air, 
Emily remained in East Africa with two men from the overland tour, Kristof Berger (German, later determined to be 22 years of age) and Mel Shore (Australian, 31). 
Of this decision, Emily wrote, “We want to skip the game parks and visit towns and villages off the beaten trail 
“and, if we can, spend time living with the local population in some of the rural areas we’ve already passed through. 
“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Kris and Mel are great, and we keep an eye out for each other.” (See addendum for original copy.)
Two months separated this e-mail from the next contact, which came by way of a phone call out of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. 
There is no record of this conversation; it was later relayed by Elizabeth Burbank. 
The trio still traveled together, the lapse in communication due to their having spent over a month living in a Masai village outside of the Serengeti, 
where they had been without electricity and the closest telephone over a day’s walk away. 
That stay had ended when Emily developed a fever and her traveling companions took her to a Catholic mission for malaria treatment. 
At the time of the call, Emily had fully recovered and the trio was about to begin the overland return to Johannesburg.
E-mail from Emily arrived at regular intervals: Lusaka, Livingstone, Gaborone, and finally Johannesburg, 
each a brief note providing detail on location and the next segment of travel.
Several days before her scheduled return to the United States, Emily gave notice of her decision to remain in Africa for an additional two months. 
Her plans would then route her through Europe, where she would spend a few weeks traveling the Balkans with Kristof before returning home.
In communications that followed, Elizabeth agreed to send Emily money for Europe if her time in Africa was limited to one month 
and, upon receiving Emily’s consent, wired four thousand dollars.
Emily wrote from Windhoek a week later. Together with a small amount of descriptive detail on the trip and the promise to notify her family as soon as she knew where they would go next, 
Emily provided Kristof Berger’s address in Langen, Germany, requesting that her mother post a few items so that they would be waiting when she arrived.
This was the last communication received from Emily Burbank.
When Emily did not contact her family and failed to return home on the established date, 
the Burbanks contacted South African Airways in an attempt to discover if Emily had departed Africa for Europe. 
The airline had no record of Emily’s boarding the flight out of Johannesburg or the connecting flight in Europe 
and, citing security factors, was unable to provide information on either Kristof Berger or Mel Shore. 
The Burbanks filed a missing-persons report with their local police department and contacted the Department of State.
INVESTIGATIONS SUMMARY
From the onset it has been understood that the chances of locating Emily are slim. 
Emily had set a precedent for traveling to remote areas, 
and although it is assumed that she would have notified her family before leaving Namibia, it is not certain; 
therefore the actual location of her disappearance is open to speculation. 
Additionally, little is known about her traveling companions and the relationship among the three. 
Permutations are many, and the investigations that followed centered not only on locating Emily but also on locating the men who traveled with her.
Phase One: The initial phase of the investigation branched immediately in three directions.
Namibia: The U.S. Department of State, the U.S. embassy in Windhoek, and local law enforcement worked jointly to trace the movements of the trio throughout the capital. 
After outlining three days of stay, the trail ended cold. 
Beyond being able to ascertain that Emily Burbank and her traveling companions had indeed been in the capital, no additional information was forthcoming. 
From this first phase, the following is worth noting:
At the hostel in which they stayed, the proprietor heard them discussing Luanda (Angola), 
and at a restaurant the trio frequented, a waiter recalled Kristof Berger inquiring extensively about the Caprivi Strip and road conditions to Ruacana on the border of Angola. 
Another waiter said he had heard them discuss Libreville (Gabon).
Kristof Berger: Using the address Emily provided, a second team was sent to Germany to locate Kristof Berger’s mother. 
When shown photos of Emily, the woman denied having seen her, and when the line of questioning turned to Kristof, she terminated the conversation.
Working through the Langen Rathaus, the team was able to confirm that Kristof had returned to Germany, 
and it is worth noting that the date of Kristof’s return to Europe does not coincide with the flight details Emily provided her parents. 
Repeated attempts to locate him proved futile.
Mel Shore: Emily’s letters home had provided only scattered pieces of information about Mel Shore, 
and through these his name, age, and nationality are assumed. 
Beyond this, little is known of the man, and all attempts to locate his city of origin or family members have failed.
Phase Two: Local law enforcement worked to establish a basis for Emily Burbank’s remaining in or leaving Namibia. 
The only intra-African airlines flying out of Windhoek that retained searchable records were South African Airways and Air Namibia, neither of which held any listing of Emily. 
That the trio had caught a bush plane or traveled out of Namibia by road could not be ruled out.
Based on information provided in phase one, the investigation transferred to Ruacana and then to the cities through the Caprivi Strip, 
a narrow stretch of lush land sandwiched between Botswana and Zambia. 
The investigators were not able to locate anyone who recalled the young travelers.
All indications pointed to the group’s having left Namibia, but no record of their having done so existed. 
At this phase active searching within Namibia stopped.
Phase Three: The Burbank family sent a team of lawyers to the U.S. embassies in Luanda, Pretoria, and Gaborone. 
Similar visits to the German and Australian embassies were made on the chance that information on Kristof Berger and Mel Shore could be garnered. 
The embassies had received no reports of missing citizens and were unable to help.
Phases one through three lasted the better part of eight months and concluded when no definitive information on Emily Burbank or either of her two traveling companions could be unearthed.
Phase Four: Roughly a year after Emily’s disappearance, 
the package that Elizabeth Burbank had mailed to Emily in care of Kristof at his address was received back in Houston, unopened, marked “return to sender.” 
Once again a team was dispatched to Europe, and Kristof was eventually located at Klinik Hohe Mark. 
Chronologically, Kristof’s first admission appears to be shortly after his return from Africa. 
Medical records show that he suffered a mental breakdown, initially responded well to treatment, and was released after six months. 
He was returned that same month and has since been a permanent resident.
The investigative team was able to speak with him, but he wasn’t lucid and what responses he gave had no bearing on the conversation or the questions asked of him. 
Transcripts and translations are included in the supporting documents.
Unable to learn anything from Kristof, the team once again attempted to speak with Frau Berger. 
Offered a substantial sum of money, the woman agreed to listen to their questions. 
When again shown photographs of Emily Burbank, Frau Berger did not recognize her, 
nor could she provide details on where Kristof had been while in Africa or whom he had befriended while traveling. 
She merely confirmed the date that Kirstof had returned and admitted to the date he had entered the institution.
Suspecting that Frau Berger knew more than she was revealing and seeing the state of the woman’s home, 
the investigating team offered an additional sum of money should she recall further details, and with that, Frau Berger again terminated the conversation.
Phase Five: In Namibia, where the first and second phases ended, a group of former military personnel attempted to track Emily’s path out of the country. 
Over a four-month period, they reviewed exit records at every staffed land-border crossing in Namibia 
and spoke with every official available; given that they were generously dispersing “bonuses,” they also spoke with many who were not officials. 
In the end there was no record of Emily’s having left Namibia.
Phase Six: In e-mails home and in conversations with Elizabeth Burbank, Emily had indicated plans to remain in Africa to travel through countries not yet visited. 
Geographically, the only direction the group could go to fulfill this plan would have been north.
No visas were issued to Emily or to either of her companions from the Angolan, Congolese, or Gabonese embassies in Windhoek. 
Visas for these countries could have been applied for elsewhere on the continent, 
or the trio, now familiar with the protocols of African border transit, may have attempted to purchase visas while border crossing.
Although Angola borders Namibia to the north, those who knew Emily had difficulty believing that she would enter the country. 
Entering Angola overland as a tourist was not considered possible at the time and is still inadvisable due to the decades of conflict. 
However, there was the possibility that the trio had flown to Luanda as a stop point to head farther north. 
Congo and Gabon also posed question marks, as they are expensive to travel to, in terms of the transportation costs as well as visas, food, and shelter.
Language was an additional consideration. 
Unlike South and East Africa, where English is widely spoken, along the west coast of Africa, French is the primary language. 
Emily did speak rudimentary French, and it had by this point been confirmed through Kristof Berger’s school records that he, too, spoke French. Nothing is known about Mel Shore.
The search team split in three and traveled to Angola, Gabon, and Congo. 
As with the previous phases of the investigation, this venture ended with no additional information.
Munroe turned the page and jotted another note on the addendum. 
All things considered, the extensiveness of the search was impressive, and the family had committed a sizable chunk of resources to it. 
But there were questions the history did not answer.
Papers were strewn around her. The coffee cup on the bedside table had been filled and refilled several times and, in spite of precautions, had left a ring on the furniture.
Munroe picked up the mug— time for another. It was nearly eight in the evening. 
Noah would be back soon; he wouldn’t be able to help returning to her. She poured another cup of coffee.
The details of the case ran through her head, and with them came the memories. 
It was another life, another world, untamed and vast, where stretches of two-lane tarmac ran veinlike through sub-Saharan emptiness, 
and buses— old, rusted, and belching black smoke— pumped the blood of humanity along the way.
It was a world where urban areas were intractable masses, 
indelible human footprints that rose out of the landscape fusing modernity with the castoffs and refuse of Europe and Asia, 
where even the new was old before its time, and where hot running water and stable electricity were still considered luxuries to most.
Munroe took a sip of the tepid liquid and let out an involuntary snort. No wonder each investigation turned up nothing. 
The continent was vast, records nonexistent, and evidence scarce. Finding the girl was highly improbable.
But the challenge was seductive, and its alluring tendrils wrapped themselves around her mind like the ethereal threads of a spider’s web.
A gentle knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts. 
She opened the door, and Noah greeted her with a kiss and handed her a small white rose. 
She tucked the flower behind her ear, and he looked past her to the documents spread out on the bed. 
In French he said, “Are you busy? Should I come back another time?”
She tugged on his shirt collar, drew him close, and kissed him. “No. Give me a minute to put this in order. There’s something I want to show you.”
Outside, Munroe pulled away the sleeve that protected the bike from the elements and curious hands, 
and Noah knelt down beside it and brushed his fingers across the sleek body.
“From one enthusiast to another, I thought you could appreciate it.” He smiled.
“I do.”
They headed to lower Greenville, where they found a dance club 
and spent several hours moving around the floor oblivious to everything and everyone around them, engrossed in the rhythm and in the closeness of their bodies. 
By the time they got back to the hotel, it was nearly three in the morning.
The days that followed brought a similar pattern. Noah would be gone before she was fully awake, 
and in his absence she perused and deliberated over the information provided in the Burbank files. When he returned, they would take the bike out.
She showed him Dallas, took him to the places she rarely found the time to go to, 
and when they had experienced all that they could, they would return to the quiet of the room and the satisfaction of exploring each other’s bodies. 
Being with him brought peace; the edge of anxiety that had been stalking her since her arrival ebbed, and inside her head the demons were sleeping.
IT WAS THE fourth morning, and for the first time Munroe woke with Noah in her bed. 
She ran her fingers over his chest, and he reached for her hand, rolled to his side, and kissed the top of her head.
Munroe switched on her phone, and waiting was a message from Breeden. 
She got up to jot a few numbers and then crawled back into bed and snuggled against Noah’s chest. 
“When is your flight?” she whispered.
“Tomorrow evening.”
“I leave for Houston early tomorrow,” she said.
Silent for a moment, he said, “We still have tonight.” There was genuine sadness in his voice and, worse, she felt it too. 
He was meant to be a challenge, a conquest to numb the torment of anxiety, not to seep into the crevices of her mind. 
“I’ll be back at eight,” he said. “Have dinner with me?”
“Of course,” she whispered and kissed him, and then as a way of escape climbed out of bed for the shower.
WHEN HE HAD gone, Munroe sat cross-legged on the bed with dossiers on Richard, Elizabeth, and Emily Burbank lined up in front of her. 
The dossiers— assembled by Breeden or whoever Breeden had hired to put them together— were standard practice, critical to an assignment. 
Every potential employer had a private motivation for pulling her into a project, and that motivation didn’t always coincide with what she was officially told.
Munroe searched the dossiers for information to better understand the background, 
and after having spent the greater part of the day finding nothing more than what amounted to high-society gossip, she tossed them aside.
She left the hotel just before six and headed north on the bike, no destination in mind, only the desire to burn fuel and, through a surge of speed, purge the demons that had begun to stir. 
The adrenaline worked as a nostrum, an appeasement, a small sacrifice to the gods in exchange for a few hours of peace.
Three hours later, with nearly three hundred miles added to the odometer, Munroe returned to the hotel. 
When she entered the room, Noah greeted her with a full bouquet of flowers— 
no accusatory questions about why she’d kept him waiting, only a kiss and the fragrance of the roses. 
She smiled and reciprocated his kiss. Both were gestures of rote, neither calculated nor genuine. Internally, she was shutting down.
He produced a bottle of wine and poured a glass. “Are you still going to Houston tomorrow?”
She took the glass, kissed him again, and set it aside. “I’ll leave at six or seven,” she said. 
She shrugged out of her jeans. “Let me shower, and then we can go.”
He stroked her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her, half naked, to his lap. 
His hands slid around her waist. “Come with me to Morocco.”
The invitation should have signaled triumph, official notice that the challenge was over, that it was time to go. 
She slipped off his lap and stood by the window, staring at the city lights in the distance and hating most that she wanted what he offered.
It wasn’t the first time a conquest had made such a request or similar words had been spoken, 
but it was the first that she’d felt a twinge of longing— that desire to fly off into the proverbial sunset for however long it might last.
“I’m not saying that I don’t want it,” she said. “I just can’t do it.” 
Silent for a moment, she returned from the window, climbed onto the bed, and placed a knee on either side of his legs. 
She held his face to her chest and kissed the top of his head.
He held her tight and then with a deep breath stood, pulling her up with him. “I need to go,” he said.
From his wallet he extracted a business card. “So that you can find me— in case you change your mind.” 
He placed it on the desk and, without looking back, left the room.
The door closed, a resounding thud in the silence. 
Munroe picked up the wineglass, swished the liquid in a gentle circle, ran her thumb against the stem. 
It was so delicate, would be so easy to snap, and she waited for the urge to do so. 
No reaction. Numb. The internal shutdown was complete. 
She placed the glass back on the desk, lay on the bed with her hands behind her head, and, as she knew they would, waited for the demons to rise.

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prologue
West Central Africa
Four years ago


This is where he would die.
On the ground, palms flat to the earth, fighting against thirst and the urge to drink from a mud-filled puddle. 


Blood was in his hair, on his clothes, and, beneath dirt and grime, it painted his face. It wasn’t his blood. And he could still taste it.


They would find him. Kill him. They would cut him to pieces just as they had Mel, maybe Emily, too. 


He ached to know that she was still alive and heard only the quiet noise of the deep forest broken by the strike of machetes against foliage.


Filtered light escaped the rain forest’s canopy, playing tricks with shadows. 


The sound of the blades carried long in the stillness, bouncing, making it difficult to gauge direction.


Even if he did escape his pursuers, he wouldn’t survive a night in the jungle. 


He needed to move, to run, to continue east until he crossed the border, though he no longer had a bearing on where that was. 


He willed himself to his knees, struggled to his feet, and spun, disoriented and dizzy, searching for the way out.


The machetes were closer now, followed by shouting not far behind. 


He propelled himself forward, his lungs on fire and his eyes burning.
Time had lost meaning long ago. 


In the dimming light, jungle plants loomed large and ominous. Was this hallucination?


Another shout, closer still. His legs buckled, and he fell to the ground, cursing himself for the noise he made. 


He wrestled out of the backpack; it wasn’t worth his life.


Hope came with the low grumble of dilapidated jeeps vibrating through the undergrowth. 


The road was a marker pointing toward escape, and now he would find it. 


He crouched, then peered above the leafy cover, implored providence for no snakes, and ran, following the sound. 


Without the pack he moved faster, should have thought of it sooner.


A chorus of voices erupted a hundred meters behind. They’d found the pack. 


Carry on your body what you cannot afford to lose. 


Wise advice from a cousin who had spent time in this godforsaken wilderness. 


He had bought time, minutes— maybe his life— by dumping it.


There was a shaft of light twenty meters ahead. Instinctively he moved toward it. 


It wasn’t the road but a village, small and silent. 


He scanned the deserted scene for the one thing he wanted more than all else and found it in a corroded oil barrel. 


An assortment of water insects made their home along the surface, and mosquito larvae skirted about the bottom like miniature mermaids. 


He drank greedily, risking what disease the barrel had to offer; if he was lucky, it would be curable.


A jeep drew nearer, and he retreated to the shadows and lay hidden within the foliage. 


Soldiers spilled from the vehicle and spread between the baked-mud structures, shattering slatted doors and windows before leaving. 


He understood now why the village was deserted.


Another fifteen minutes until total darkness.


He followed along the edge of the village track to the road, listening intently. 


The jeeps were gone, and for a moment there was no sound of his pursuers. 


He stepped from cover onto the main strip and heard Emily yell his name. 


She was far down the road, running, stumbling, soldiers close behind. They hit her, and she crumpled like a rag doll.


He stood in shock, trembling, and in the darkness watched the machetes fall, glinting in the moonlight. 


He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill to protect her. 


Instead he turned east, toward the checkpoint less than twenty meters away, and ran.


chapter 1
Ankara, Turkey


Vanessa Michael Munroe inhaled, slow and measured, focused entirely on the curb of the street opposite.


She’d timed the motorcade from Balgat to the edges of Kizilay Square 


and stood now, motionless, watching from a shadowed notch while the target group exited the vehicles and progressed down a wide, shallow stairwell. 


Two men. Five women. Four bodyguards. A few more minutes and the mark would arrive.


Multistoried glass buildings reflected neon onto broad streets still alive with late-evening pedestrian traffic. 


Bodies brushed past, seemingly unaware of her presence or of how her eyes tracked movement in the dark.


She glanced at her watch. A Mercedes pulled to a stop across the way, and she straightened as the solitary figure stepped from the backseat. 


He walked casually toward the entrance, and when he was fully out of sight, she followed, 


down the stairwell to the Anatolia: private of all private clubs, Ankara’s holy of holies, where together the wealthy and powerful fattened the cogs of democracy.


At the door she flashed the business card that had taken two weeks of greased palms and clandestine meetings to acquire.


In acknowledgment the doorman nodded and said, “Sir.”


Munroe replied with a nod, slipped a knot of cash into his hand, and entered into the din of smoke and music. 


She moved beyond the hive of secluded booths, past the bar with its half-filled line of stools, through the corridor that led to the restrooms and, finally, the “staff only” door.


Inside was not much more than a closet, and here she shed the Armani suit, the Italian shoes, and the trappings of the male persona.


It was unfortunate that she was known as a man to the contact she’d used to gain access, when tonight of all nights she needed to be a hundred percent woman. 


From her chest she shrugged down the sheath that would function as a figure-hugging dress and slid thin lacy sandals from the lining of the jacket onto her feet. 


She pulled a mini clutch from the suit pocket and then, checking that the hallway was empty, stepped into the restroom to finish the transformation with makeup and hair.


Back in the main room, the motorcade’s bodyguards stood as homing beacons, and she walked, with long and languid strides, in their direction. 


Time slowed. Four seconds. Four seconds of direct eye contact with the mark and then the slightest hint of a smile as she averted her eyes and continued past.


She placed herself at the end of the bar, alone, face turned away, body turned toward him. 


Ordered a drink. And demurely toying with the chained medallion at her throat, she waited.


This final step and the job would be complete.


She’d estimated ten minutes, but the invitation to join the party came within three. 


The bodyguard who delivered the message escorted her to the table, 


and there, with only the briefest round of introductions, coy smiles, and furtive glances, she slipped into the evening’s role— seeking, hunting, prodding, all in the guise of the bimbo’s game.


The charade lasted into the early morning, when, having gotten what she wanted, she pleaded exhaustion and excused herself from the group.


The mark followed her from the club to the street and, in the glow of the neon lights, offered a ride that she declined with a smile.


He called for his car, and as she began to walk away, he came after her, fingers gripping her arm.


She pulled away. His grip tightened, and she inhaled deeply, forcing a veneer of calm. Her vision shifted to gray. 


Her eyes moved from his face to the veins on his neck, so easily slit, to his throat, so easily crushed, and back again. 


With blood pounding in her ears, she fought down the urge to kill him.


Against instinct she maintained the smile and sweetly said, “Let’s have another drink.”


The Mercedes pulled to the curb. The mark opened the rear door and, before the chauffeur had a chance to step out, shoved Munroe into the backseat. 


He climbed in after her and slammed the door. Ordered the chauffeur to drive and then pointed in a brisk movement toward the minibar. “Have your drink,” he said.


With a flirtatious smile, she looked over her shoulder, seeing but not seeing. 


It was the smile of death and destruction, a disguise to the fire of bloodlust now coursing through her veins. 


She struggled to maintain reason. Focus. 


Subduing the urge, she reached for the bottle of Jack with one hand, her clutch with the other, and said, “Drink with me.”


Reacting to her calm, and with the unspoken promise of sex to come, he relaxed and took the drink she offered. 


She dipped her fingers into it and then pressed them to his mouth. 


She repeated the gesture, playfully, teasing the Rohypnol into his system until the glass had been emptied, 


and when it had been done, she staved him off until the drug took effect. 


She told the chauffeur to take the man home and, without resistance, stepped out of the car.


In the cool of the predawn, she breathed deeply to clear her head. 


And then she began to walk, oblivious to time, aware only of the lightening sky and eventually the morning call to prayer that sounded from the minarets across the city.


It was fully light when she arrived at the apartment that had served as home for the last nine months.


The place was shuttered and dark, and she flipped on the light. 


A bare low-wattage bulb hung suspended from the ceiling, revealing a one-room apartment with more floor space devoted to cluttered stacks of books, file folders, and computers with their attendant wires and paraphernalia than to either the desk or the couch that doubled as a bed. 


Beyond that, the place was empty.


She removed the medallion from around her neck and paused, momentarily distracted by the blinking red light at the foot of the couch. 


Then, with the medallion flat between her palms, she twisted it and removed a microcard from the opened halves. 


She sat in front of the computer, slid the card into a reader, and, with the data downloading, reached for the answering machine.


The voice on the recording was like champagne: Kate Breeden at high noon. 


“Michael, darling, I know you’re still wrapping up and aren’t expecting another assignment for a while, but I’ve received an unusual request. Call me.”


Munroe sat on the couch, replayed the recording, leaned her forehead onto her arms, and closed her eyes. 


Exhaustion from the day’s work weighed heavily, and she lay back, eyes glazed in the direction of the monitor and the download status. 


She glanced at her watch. Just after ten in Dallas. 


She waited a moment, then straightened, and bracing for what was to come, picked up the handset, and dialed.


The effervescence in the voice on the other end brought the crack of a smile, and Munroe said, “I just got your message.”


“I know that you aren’t looking for new work for a few months,” Kate said, “but this is an exception. The client is Richard Burbank.”


Munroe paused. The name was familiar. “Houston oil?”
“That’s him.”
She sighed. “Okay, fax me the documents, I’ll take a look.”


There was an awkward silence, and then Breeden said, “For a hundred thousand dollars, would you be willing to meet in person?”


“In Ankara?”
“Houston.”
Munroe said nothing. Simply let the silence of the moment consume her.


Breeden spoke again. “It’s been two years, Michael. Consider it a good omen. Come on home.”
“Is it worth it?”
“You can always go back.”


Munroe nodded to empty space, to the inevitable that she’d so far managed to postpone, and said, “Give me a week to wrap things up.” 


She dropped the phone into the cradle, lay back on the couch, and with an arm draped over her eyes inhaled long and deep. There would be no sleep today.


FOR THE FOURTH time in as many minutes, Munroe checked her watch, then the length of the line ahead.


Stamps hammered into passports. The irregular beat created a distracting rhythm, a cadence that patterned the background of her thoughts.


She was going home. Home. Whatever that was supposed to mean.


Home. After two years of shifting time zones and Third World countries, of living a nonstop clash of cultures through places alien and alive. 


These had been worlds she could feel and understand— unlike home.


Teeth clenched, Munroe shut her eyes and exhaled softly, tilted her head upward and took in another drink of air.


One more person moved through passport control and the line crept forward a few inches. 


She drew another breath, an attempt to invoke a temporary calm, to relieve anxiety that had been building over the last few hours, 


and with that breath the tumult inside her head increased volume. The land shall be emptied, and utterly spoiled…


The transit had shifted through two sunrises and a sunset. 


Her body said 3:00 in the afternoon yesterday, and the clock on the far wall said 6:48 in the morning.


…The haughty people of the earth do languish 
Another subtle glance at the time. Another breath. A few more inches forward. 


She hovered on the brink of panic, keeping it at bay one breath at a time.


Home. …The earth is defiled under its inhabitants…


Minutes passed, the line remained stationary, and her focus turned to the front, where the man facing the immigration officer stumbled through a few words of English, unable to answer the basic questions asked of him. 


Six feet tall, with perfect posture and jet-black hair, he carried a hard-shell briefcase and wore a dark maroon trench coat.


Another three minutes that felt like a painful thirty, and the immigration officer sent the Trench Coat to a separate room at the end of the hall.


…They have transgressed the laws, changed the ordinance…


She tracked his path and pushed her bag forward with her foot.


…Therefore has the curse devoured the earth…


Each of his steps brought back the dread of her first entry into the United States. 


Similar doors and a similar experience— how much could have changed in nine years?


…and they that dwell therein are desolate…


The Trench Coat was now a silhouette behind a translucent window. 


She checked her watch. One more person in line. One more minute.


…The mirth of tabrets ceases…


She stood in front of the booth, passport and papers in hand, the mental noise now reduced to a whisper beneath the surface. 


Perfunctory questions, perfunctory answers. The officer stamped the passport and handed it back to her.


…The noise of those that rejoice ends…


She had no luggage and nothing to declare, and with a final glance at the Trench Coat’s shadow, she left the area through opaque sliding doors that opened to a waiting crowd. 


She scanned the faces, wondering which, among the expectant eyes and attentive glances, waited for him.


…Strong drink will be bitter to those that drink it…


On a far wall was a telephone bank, and she walked toward it.


…The city of confusion is broken down…


She dialed and then angled herself so that she could watch the opaque doors.


…All joy is darkened, the mirth of the land is gone…


Passengers exited sporadically, smiling as they made contact with loved ones who stood waiting. 


That was how it should be coming home, not sending packages and gifts ahead to estranged family and a few strangers called friends, dreading the reconnection that must inevitably take place.


Kate’s answering machine picked up, and Munroe disconnected without leaving a message.
The Trench Coat exited the glass doors.


…In the city is left desolation, and the gate is smitten with destruction…


He was alone. There was no girlfriend with flowers or any happy faces waiting— not even a somber suit holding a placard with his name. 


He passed within a few feet of where Munroe stood, and her eyes followed. 


On impulse she picked up her bag and trailed him to the ground level, keeping just close enough to avoid losing him in the crowds.


The Trench Coat boarded the shuttle for the Marriott, and she stepped on behind him. He nodded once in her direction and paid no attention beyond that. 


Dressed as she was, it was to be expected. Cropped hair, lightweight cargo pants, a linen shirt that had once been white, and thick-soled leather boots: to all but the most observant, she was every bit as male as he.


At the hotel Munroe trailed to the front desk and stood in line. Noah Johnson. Room 319. 


Such an American name, and yet he struggled with rudimentary English. 


She knew the accent: the French of high-society Morocco.


When he had finally completed check-in, she booked a room, then placed several calls, and finally, getting past Kate Breeden’s voice mail, arranged to meet for dinner at the hotel’s restaurant.


OUTSIDE, MUNROE HAILED a taxi and twenty minutes later stood in a parking lot on a semideserted industrial strip. 


Far down the street on either side and in both directions were squat cement structures, businesses divided one from the next by narrow windows and truck bays.


Munroe watched the cab drive away and then climbed the steps that led to the closest door. 


The signage scripted in large metallic block letters read LOGAN’S.


The front door was locked. She pressed her face to the glass and, seeing no light, rapped on it. 


A few minutes passed, a light came on from the back, and Logan approached in sweats, barefoot and with a sheepish grin on his face. 


He unlocked the door and let her in, and then, scanning her up and down, said, “You look like shit.”


She dropped the duffel bag on the entrance floor and let the door close. “Glad to see you, too,” she said.


His smile broke first, and they both laughed. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a hug and then held her at arm’s length. 


“Welcome back,” he said. “God, it’s good to see you. How was the trip?”
“Long and tedious.”


“If you want to crash, the couch is available.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” she said. “I’m going against the jet lag.”


“Coffee, then?” He turned toward the small kitchen. “I’m just getting a pot on.”
“Caffeine I could use. Thick and black.”


Nothing he could conjure in his kitchen would come close to Turkish coffee; 


the caffeine withdrawals would follow on the heels of the anxiety and jet lag. One hurdle at a time.


The office portion of the building had four rooms. Logan used one as an office, another as a conference room, and the third and fourth as living quarters.


In the back the warehouse doubled as repair shop and storage area. 


He wasn’t supposed to be living in the building, but he paid his rent on time and thus far no one had complained to the property managers. 


The arrangement had been going on as far back as Munroe had known him— 


that muggy summer night seven years before, when prejudice in a hole-in-the-wall bikers’ bar had turned to violence and she’d thrown in her lot with the underdog. 


They’d laughed when it was over, sitting by the edge of the road, under the blackened sky, making introductions like star-crossed soul mates.


Munroe walked the hallway slowly, following a row of poster-size frames that adorned the walls, stopping for a moment in front of each. 


Most contained photos of motorcycles on a speedway, Logan in the races he competed in, split-second snapshots of his professional life.


Logan was thirty-three with dusty blond hair, green eyes, and an innocent smile that placed him closer to twenty-five. 


Over the years the impression of childish innocence he gave had drawn in a succession of boyfriends who each in turn had discovered the reality of a dark and hardened soul.


Logan had been on his own since he was fifteen, had started by scraping together an existence fixing cars and motorcycles part-time from a repair shop owned by his best friend’s father. 


Everything he had he’d earned by clawing his way to it one exacting day after another, 


and he was, by Munroe’s judgment, the closest being she’d found to perfection in the nine years since she first set foot on American soil.


Logan joined her in front of the last frame and handed her a steaming mug. She nodded thanks, and they stood in comfortable silence for quite a while. 


“Two years is a long time,” he said finally. “There’s a lot to catch up on, Michael.” He turned toward the back door. “You ready?”


She didn’t move and in a voice laced with confession said, “I might be taking another assignment.”
He stopped.
“It’s why I’ve come back.”


Logan studied her. “I’m surprised you’re even giving it consideration. I thought you’d told Kate to turn down all incoming requests.”
Munroe nodded.


“You already know what I think,” he said. If he was upset, he hid it well. “If you decide to take it, I’ll be there to back you up.”


She smiled, reached for his hand, and in his palm placed the medallion. “It was perfect,” she said. “Thanks.”


He nodded and with a half grin said, “I’ll add it to the collection.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, let’s go.”


They exited the office and living area through the back door that opened to the warehouse and workshop, and halfway to the end of the building they stopped. 


Munroe reached into a set of stacked plastic drawers, retrieving a backpack and a few personal items while Logan let down a ramp and rolled the Ducati from its storage space.


The bike was sleek black-on-black, a thing of pure beauty, and Munroe smiled as she ran her fingers over the custom race fairings. 


“I’ve taken good care of her,” Logan said. “Took her out for a spin last week just to make sure everything’s tweaked and peaked.”


If it were possible to love a machine, Munroe loved this one. 


It symbolized power, life broken into split-second intervals, calculated risk. 


Few things were capable of providing the same adrenaline rush that the horses between her legs delivered as they tore down the roads at over 150 miles an hour. 


The rush had become a form of self-medicating, a narcotic sweeter than drugs or alcohol, just as addictive and equally destructive.


Three years prior she’d totaled the bike’s predecessor. 


Shattered bones and a head injury had kept her in a hospital for several months, 


and when released she’d taken a taxi direct from the hospital to the dealership to pick up a new machine.


Munroe straddled the bike, sighed, and turned the ignition. She felt the surge of adrenaline and smiled. 


This was home: running along a razor’s edge of self-induced terror, calculating mortality against probability.


Assignments were the reprieve. 


When she was abroad, although she would do whatever was necessary to get the job done, there was a degree of normalcy, sanity, purpose, and the destructive forces propelling her to gamble with her life were dormant.


Munroe nodded a helmeted good-bye to Logan and, with the screaming whine of the engine, shot forward. 


Returning home was an eventuality, but if she planned to stay alive, perhaps not all that smart.


IT WAS EARLY evening when she returned to the hotel. 


She had spent the day at the spa, had been soaked and wrapped, peeled and painted; 


they had given her back her dignity and femininity, and she had loved every moment.


She now wore clothes that hugged her body, accentuating long legs and model height. 


Hers was an androgynous figure— boyish, sleek, and angular— 


and she walked through the lobby with a sensual stride, subtly provocative, fully aware of the surreptitious glances coming from the mostly male guests.


…When I would comfort myself against sorrow, my heart is faint…


The attention amused her, and she took her time.


…I hurt; I am black; astonishment has taken hold…


Now, on her eighth trip back to the United States, each return more of the same and with anxiety continuing to crest wave upon wave, 


it was time to find a distraction. A challenge. A game.


He was in Room 319. But first there was business to attend to. Munroe glanced at the clock. Breeden would already be waiting.


SIX YEARS AGO Kate Breeden had a thriving law practice in downtown Austin 


and was married, with a daughter in junior high, an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar home, three luxury cars, and yearly trips to faraway places. 


Then came the messy divorce. The house, the cars, the vacation and investment properties were all sold off, 


and Texas’s community-property law split twenty years of earning down the middle. 


Her daughter chose to live with the ex-husband, and Breeden took what was left, put it into an investment fund, packed up, and moved to Dallas to start over.


They’d met on the Southern Methodist University campus, where Breeden had returned for an M.B.A. and Munroe was in her sophomore year. 


The relationship began as a cautious mother-and-daughter surrogacy at a time when people still called Munroe by her given name.


When she’d received the unusual job offer that would require interrupting her studies in order to make a trip to Morocco, Breeden was the one she’d gone to for advice.


Breeden now owned a successful marketing consulting firm and practiced law on the side for a few select clients. 


She was Munroe’s buffer between everyday life and life on assignment. 


In the months and sometimes years that Munroe was out of the country, Breeden paid the bills, kept the accounts open, and forwarded pressing matters. 


Breeden was warm and friendly and absolutely ruthless. 


She’d screw a person over with a polite smile— cozy up and bury them alive— and for that reason Breeden was an ally: She was safe.


Breeden was a bottle-dyed blonde with shoulder-length hair and heavy bangs that flattered almond-shaped eyes. 


Munroe found her at a corner table looking over a stack of paperwork and sipping red wine. 


Breeden made eye contact, rose with an enormous smile, and grasped Munroe’s hands warmly. 


“Michael,” she said with trademark breathlessness, “you look so well. Turkey was good to you!”


“The Four Seasons did this to me,” Munroe said, taking a seat, “but I did love Turkey.”


“Have you completely wrapped that one up?”
“A few minor details and then I’ll be finished.” 


Munroe dug into a roll, spread the butter on thickly, and then politely motioned for the documents.
Breeden passed them across the table. 


After a few minutes of flipping through pages, Munroe said, “This doesn’t seem like something I’d handle.” She smiled. “Is that what you meant by ‘exception’?”


“It’s the easy money,” Breeden said. Munroe paused, and Breeden continued. 


“When Burbank’s daughter disappeared in Africa about four years ago, he hired the best international investigators and, when that proved futile, mercenaries. So far, nothing.”


“Why come to me?”
“He’s seen your work, says this is just another form of information.”


“It could be.” Munroe shrugged. “But that’s money hard earned, nothing easy about it.”


“When I got the call, I spoke with Burbank himself— no middlemen or corporate strategists. 


“He’s offering that hundred thousand just for the meeting, regardless of your answer. He wants to present the case to you personally.”


Munroe let out a low whistle.
“I did explain that he was probably wasting both his time and his money. 


“But there are worse ways to earn a hundred grand than overlooking the Houston skyline for a day.”


Munroe pressed her thumb to the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I really don’t know, Kate. 


“Once I hear the details, I might want to take it, and we both know that whether I wish it or not, I need a break…” Her voice trailed off.


“I’ll call Burbank in the morning,” Breeden said. “I’ll let him know you’ve declined.”


Munroe’s eyes fell to the documents. “I haven’t declined yet,” she said. “I made the trip, didn’t I?” 


She reached for the papers and thumbed through them again. “Is this everything?”
“Officially, yes.”
“Have you read it all?”
“Yes.”


“What about unofficially?”
“In the dossiers are personal bits and pieces centering on Elizabeth Burbank. 


“It seems that at or around the same time the first teams were setting out to track down Emily, she had a nervous breakdown and had to be hospitalized. 


“She was in and out of retreats for a year before she passed away. Suicide.”


Breeden took a sip of water. “For the family it was fortune followed by tragedy. 


“Less than two months before Elizabeth’s death, Burbank’s drilling venture off the coast of West Africa struck oil and the stock in his company went through the ceiling. 


“He became an overnight multimillionaire and since then, through careful investment of capital, has become a billionaire several times over.”


She paused, and Munroe motioned for her to continue. “Prior to this the family wasn’t hurting by any means. 


“Richard Burbank had done well in life through high-risk enterprises that paid off, and he also married well both times. 


“Elizabeth came from old money, ran with the Houston elite, so it’s safe to say that they were already well-off before the oil windfall. 


“Elizabeth was Richard’s second marriage— Emily, the girl who’s missing, is Elizabeth’s daughter from a previous marriage. 


“Richard legally adopted her when she was seventeen. It was right around their ten-year anniversary. 


“He and Elizabeth held a recommitment ceremony, and he let Emily choose a charity for a big donation in their honor.”


The waiter approached with the meal, and Breeden stopped. 


Munroe flicked the napkin over her lap and inhaled the aroma coming off her plate. 


“So,” she said, “he’s a philanthropist. What else? What’s he like as a person?”


“It’s hard to say,” Breeden replied. “My impression while on the phone is that he’s no-nonsense, he gets what he wants. 


“There isn’t a lot of press coverage on him prior to the oil discovery. His company, Titan Exploration, has been publicly traded for almost seven years, 


“but there’s little mention of Burbank other than to point out that he’s the founder and a major stockholder. He seems to be somewhat camera shy.”


Munroe nodded and chewed. She cleared her throat. 


“For a hundred grand, I’ll listen to what he has to say. But make sure he knows that I’m coming for the money and out of pure curiosity.”


“I believe he’ll want to see you as soon as possible.”
“Try to arrange it a few days from now— give me some time to catch my breath.”


“How are things this time around?” Breeden asked.
“Hasn’t changed much. I deal.” Munroe put down the knife and fork. 


Discussing the insanity inside her head was out of the question; it was a private hell best lived alone. “I’m fine,” she said.


Breeden pulled out a cell phone. “Before I forget.” She handed it to Munroe. “So I don’t have to hunt you down. 


“Number’s on the back, charger’s in the briefcase. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got the appointment sorted out.”


The meal over, Munroe returned to her room, disassembled the file, glanced through the pages, and at some point in the middle became intrigued. 


When she found herself losing track of time, she set the alarm clock and went back to the beginning, starting with the summary from the official files.


Whoever had written this document described the Africa that she knew well and had long given up trying to forget. 


Munroe became lost in the pages until the alarm buzzed a reminder that something needed attention. 


Noah Johnson. He would be the distraction du jour, the assignment of the night. 


She shuffled the papers into a semblance of order and tossed them on the desk. 


She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and pulled in a deep breath, followed it with several more— a shift from one work mode into the next.


She found him at the bar, staring into his drink. Even from a distance, he was beautiful, 


and if he hadn’t been so immersed in his own thoughts, he might have noticed the glances from several women nearby. 


Munroe sat at the opposite end of the bar, ordered a drink, and requested that a second of what he was having be taken to him.


When the glass arrived, he looked up and then in her direction as the bartender pointed her way. 


She leaned beyond the couple blocking his view and gave a slight wave. He smiled, picked up the glass, and walked toward her. 


“Bonsoir,” he said, and seated himself on the adjacent stool, then raised his glass in thanks.


Experience predicated that he, like most men after a few drinks and faced with a beautiful woman showing interest, would be unable to help himself. 


Getting him into bed was beside the point; the challenge was in possession, to crawl inside his head so deeply that he wouldn’t want her out.


She replied in French and in the small talk listened for his personality, filtering options through his answers. 


When the pieces became a composite whole, she would shift into characteristics that would most easily enchant— whatever the particular role necessitated in order to acquire the end goal. 


Bimbo, coquette, siren— name it and become it.


His answers were unexpected and made her laugh, not the laugh of an actress but one that was genuine, real. 


And that he carried his own streak of adrenaline hunger didn’t hurt.


Discovering that work had taken her to Morocco, he flashed a teasing smile and switched from French to Arabic: “Hal tatakalam al-Arabia?”


She grinned and whispered, “Tabaan.”
Their conversation undulated, it swelled and lingered. 


His personality was beyond what she’d anticipated— closer to her own than any distraction she’d yet sought out. 


Perhaps this hunt would be the easiest of all. No games, no roles, just a sanitized version of who she really was.


Desiring more privacy than the bar and lounge provided, Munroe said, “You want to find the Jacuzzi with me?”


“I’d love to,” he said, “but I don’t have a bathing suit.”


She moved closer to his ear. “Neither do I, but if you wear your underwear and act like you own the place, nobody will ever notice.”


He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh, spontaneous and alive. 


He gulped down the remainder of his drink and placed the glass on the bar counter. 


“I think I like you, Lady Munroe.” He stood. “Where is this Jacuzzi?”


The hot tub was situated in an alcove away from the main pool, and when they’d found it, Munroe shed her clothes and slid into the foaming water. 


Noah studied her for a moment and then, without breaking eye contact, draped his shirt over a nearby pool chair and slid in beside her. 


“These,” he said, tracing his finger along one of the many white slivers etched into her body. “Are the scars also part of your job?”


She began to say something, then hesitated and stopped. “Those,” she said finally, “are a story for another time.” 


It wasn’t the usual bullshit about car accidents and glass, and it avoided a truth she had no desire to relive.