Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(48)

He looked down at his sleeping son, his face bathed in the moonlight pouring through the window. He felt the familiar surge of love for this small human being, a part of him, a part of Sherlock. Here we both are, Sean, trying to hang in without your mom. He cupped Sean’s cheek. Sean lurched up, gave a sleepy snort, sent Savich a vague smile, and went limp again, snuggling his cheek into the pillow.

Savich tucked the covers around Sean’s shoulders, lowered the window a bit. Sean liked to sleep warm. He walked back to his bedroom and lay down, pillowed his head in his arms, and willed himself to sleep. When it was clear his will wasn’t doing the job, he turned on the bedside lamp and called John Eiserly with MI5. He had to do something to help Sherlock. The phone was already ringing when he realized it was five a.m. in London.

To his surprise, John answered his cell immediately, his voice a whisper. “Savich? Hey, it’s past midnight in the colonies. Why aren’t you sleeping? Wait a bit, let me get to my study. I don’t want to wake up Mary Ann, not with our two-month-old daughter wrecking her sleep. I figure we’ve got another hour before Ceci wakes up again, demanding her next meal.”

A minute later Savich heard John typing on his keyboard. He went through his apology, but John interrupted him. “I missed maybe a half-hour of sleep. I’m e-mailing you a photo of Imam Al-H?di ibn Mirza so you have a clear face to put to the man. Wait, I’m an idiot, you must already have his picture, probably know as much about him as I do.”

“Send it along anyway, John.”

“Give me two seconds,” John said. “Done. As of right now, we don’t have anything for you on the Conklin family, except we’ve verified on our end they’re in the U.S., maybe still around Boston, since that was their destination, but who knows? They could be in Florida by now.”

Savich’s phone signaled that he’d received an e-mail. He’d already memorized the imam’s face—a compassionate face dominated by soft dark brown eyes that seemed to look right into your soul, a man to trust, to confide in, not the look of a fanatic who supported terrorists. The photo of the imam John sent was different. He wasn’t wearing robes, and it was taken with him unaware and clearly angry at the man he was speaking to. His brown eyes looked hard as agates in the photo, a man you’d be wise to fear more than trust. Savich put the phone back to his ear and heard the sound of a baby crying. “Ceci’s up,” John said. “Mary Ann and I were talking about it today—terrorists going after our cathedrals. It scares and angers everyone. What’s worse, even if we see to it this Bella project fails, they won’t stop, you know that, not ever.”

“John, you know as well as I do that if we can’t stop the terrorists before they act, then we take care of them after they act, and then we have to move on.”

“Yes, I know that intellectually, just as I know we can’t live in fear of what they might try next. No, we can’t live in fear. That would mean they’d won. I’ll alert you right away if we find anything for you regarding this Bella project.”

Savich said, “Do you have anything else new for me? Other than Ceci. Oh, yes, I can hear her. Fine lungs.”

John laughed. “As for Ceci, she keeps Mary Ann and me at half-mast most days. The doctor assures us she’ll start to sleep through the night soon. I don’t believe it.” He sobered. “You know I’ll alert you right away if we find anything for you.”

Savich wished him and Mary Ann the best with Ceci, rang off, and settled back against the pillow. He remembered Sean blasting out earsplitting yells at least twice a night, remembered how he and Sherlock had dragged themselves around for the first couple months.

He thought of St. Patrick’s almost being gutted by a bomb, thought of the scores of mourners who could have died but didn’t, thanks to a little boy who’d been sick to his stomach. He pictured the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, the incredible duomo in Florence, imagined it empty, in ruins.

He managed to shut it down, finally, and fell deeply asleep.

At five-thirty in the morning, Griffin called. “Savich, Brakey Alcott is on the move.”





OUTSIDE REINEKE, VIRGINIA

Early Saturday morning

Savich’s Porsche cruised past the light traffic on I-95, no need for flashers or a siren. Griffin sat next to him, adjusting the map on a tablet in his lap as they approached the flashing red dot that signaled Brakey’s ankle bracelet.

“I shouldn’t have trusted Brakey to stay put. It was a bad call.”

“I knew you’d think that, Savich,” Griffin said. “You’d be telling me to move along, to let it go, if it had been my decision.” He paused as Savich passed a huge beer truck, then said, “The signal is hardly moving now. Brakey’s on undeveloped land with very little around it, probably forest, about a quarter-mile from the nearest road, according to this map. There could be a dirt road or a fire road near there, though. It’s the boondocks, and guess what, the Abbott house is only about ten miles away, so he’s staying close to home. But why? What’s he doing in the woods?”

“Whatever Dalco wants him to.” Savich hoped that wasn’t to murder someone else.

“Get off at the next exit. Savich, Dalco had to know we were tracking Brakey, didn’t he? He knew we’d find him, knew we’d bring him back. Is he messing with us, showing he’s in control?”