Kill Alex Cross - James Patterson [42]
Then she said, “Your son was held hostage for several months, wasn’t he? Around the time he was born?”
That one, I didn’t see coming at all. Mrs. Coyle had done her homework and then some. It was true. Ali’s mother, Christine, had been kidnapped while she was still pregnant with him. The memory of it cut right through me. Christine and I had never recovered from the incident and its trauma.
I nodded. “It was the worst year of my life,” I said. “Ali’s mother’s as well.”
“And how is your son today?” she asked.
“He’s great, actually,” I said. “A little bigger every day. I’m very proud of him.”
“So you understand,” she said. The look on her face was as close to a smile as anything I’d seen. Just a softening around her eyes, really.
And of course, I did understand now. If it was possible for me to get my beautiful son back, then it was possible for her, too. For Ethan and Zoe to be returned to her somehow.
As Mrs. Coyle went on, she seemed to choose her words very carefully. “Detective Cross, I would never presume to tell you how to do your job,” she said. “But if you were to call your supervisor after this meeting and express an interest in getting more involved with Ethan and Zoe’s case, I can guarantee you that the answer would be yes. Whatever assignment you wanted, however you wanted to do your work. With a pretty free rein.”
This was the Regina Coyle I didn’t know — the politician’s wife. I don’t mean that in a bad way. What I really saw was a mother living through her own worst nightmare and doing whatever she could to save her children.
I set down my cup and took out a pen and a small pad from my jacket pocket.
“May I?” I asked.
“Of course,” she told me.
It was time to start from square one with the president’s wife.
“Tell me about Ethan and Zoe. What are your children like?”
THEIR HANDS WERE on the neck of the devil. Now it was time to tighten their grip.
Hala sat cross-legged with the laptop on the bed. She dragged several of the files she’d been compiling to an encrypted disk image on her desktop and reviewed its contents one more time.
Once the disk was finished, only the intended recipient would be able to open it. Every Family member assigned to Washington had his or her own unique sixteen-digit alpha-numeric string. Hala’s code had been what allowed her to access the disks she and Tariq had received up to this point.
While she worked, she kept the local news playing on the television. There was a constant stream these days: frightened faces, traffic warnings, and of course endless speculation about what might be coming next.
It was electrifying, for Hala, to be the one with the answer to that question. Uncle had entrusted her and Tariq with several key targets. Now it was up to them to decide where to strike first; pair the operatives with their assignments; and send out the orders.
Any single one of those targets could change history — much less a fast, violent run through them all. That was exactly what Hala hoped to pull off. Every American life they could take was one more step in the proper direction. There was no such thing as too much punishment for the people of America.
Or as they liked to say in this country of excess and greed: more is more.
“Hala!”
Tariq appeared suddenly in the bathroom door, dripping wet. His chubby body was drifted with mounds of soap bubbles and nothing else.
“You look ridiculous,” she said, but with a laugh. It was good to see him so at ease. He was obviously drunk on their good fortune.
“Ha-laa!” he sang out, and began a little dance for her while he was at it. “Come join me! The hot water is endless.”
“Not while I’m working, darling. And it’s Julia, remember?” she said.
“Ah, yes.” He grinned broadly. “I forgot that I’m in love with another woman.”
They were Julia and Daniel Aziz from Philadelphia now, and they had American passports to prove it. They’d arrived at the Four Seasons just the day before.