The passengers grumbled, but they all complied. Caspian, just like Liesel, had two phones. Caspian didn’t see anyone being frisked, so he decided to only hand over his burner. He then walked to the back of the bus and took a seat beside Liesel. He patted his breast pocket to let her know he had kept one phone.
“Same,” she said.
The bus left as soon as all the seats were filled. Caspian looked outside and noted that the airport wasn’t in lockdown. Planes were being guided to their gates while others were being pushed off. Whatever the authorities suspected, they hadn’t felt the need to ground any other flight.
Just ours.
The bus rolled for only five minutes before it drove into a large hangar. The interior was cavernous, but it was well lit. Caspian thought the size of the hangar was big enough to accommodate two wide-body airplanes. Yellow maintenance ladders, tool carts, and canvas-covered equipment had been pushed off to the side, leaving most of the space open for what had clearly been transformed into an improvised detention zone. Rows of molded-plastic chairs had been made available for the passengers, and a bottle of water had been placed on each seat.
Caspian and Liesel, along with the other passengers, were asked to take a seat and wait to be called by an officer. As they waited, Caspian took in his surroundings and started to think of the possible scenarios he was about to face. Best-case scenario: His and Liesel’s documents would hold up and they’d be permitted to board the next flight to JFK. Worst case, they would be arrested and brought in for further questioning. He had just taken a sip from his bottle of water when he felt the interior of his jacket vibrate. He leaned toward Liesel.
“Just got a message from Ranger,” he told her.
Liesel angled her body to block the view from his right, and Caspian checked his left. An elderly couple he’d seen seated a few rows ahead of him in business class were conversing in Portuguese. Caspian slid his hand beneath his jacket and used the tip of his fingers to ease the phone out of the inside pocket. Once the phone was nestled in his palm, he tilted it slightly behind his jacket, quickly entered his password, then read the message.
We know where you are. We’ve hacked into the Istanbul Police Special Operations Division database. Liesel’s passport has been flagged. We don’t know why.
Caspian looked at Liesel and said, “Your passport’s flagged.”
Liesel pressed her lips together but didn’t say anything.
“It could be random,” Caspian said.
“Please tell me you don’t really believe that,” she said.
He shook his head. He didn’t.
Another message appeared. Caspian read it and felt a chill wrap around his spine. Liesel stared at him. “What now?” she asked.
“I’ve been flagged too,” he said. “We’re both wanted for murder.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Restaurant Unique
New York City, New York
Everett Westcott had learned years ago that few things encouraged diplomacy quite like a candlelight dinner. Not just one or two candles to accent a table—though even that was better than nothing—but dozens, each one deliberately set in the dining room to bathe the space in a warm, golden light. In Westcott’s opinion, candlelight had a way of softening hard lines and melting the otherwise defiant expressions negotiators so often wore on their faces. Candlelight made people feel safe and nostalgic.
And in Everett Westcott’s world, that was half the battle won.
The private dining room at Restaurant Unique, which was located just off Park Avenue, radiated the kind of understated elegance that came with money. Nothing was too showy, but everything, from the furniture to the arrangement of candlelight, had been carefully chosen. The stone walls were broken up by deep blue velvet panels and several black-and-white and color photos of French winemakers, though most of the vintners were now long dead.
To the left of the long mahogany table that occupied the center of the room, a floor-to-ceiling window gave a striking view of a curated wine cellar, its racks lined with bottles Westcott had himself selected from his favorite regions. That window had been his idea when he hadbought the place seven years ago. None of the men and women seated around the table knew he owned the place, and that was just how he liked it.
Westcott had arrived thirty minutes before his guests, and as it always was before any event he held there, the dining room had been swept for any kind of electronic surveillance. The wine served to his guests was excellent, but short of exquisite, and the food sublime. But for Westcott, total privacy was the real luxury. Phones had been collected at the door, no exception.
In comparison to the big-event dinners he often held at Restaurant Unique, tonight’s guest list was tight. Seated at the table were three high-ranking UN representatives, two deputy directors from the World Bank, and the ambassadors of France, Sweden, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Westcott had invited these specific people because each of them had a stake in the success of tonight’s conversation.
Westcott sat at the head of the table, his sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tan forearms shaped by years spent hauling sails and casting lines. His tailored navy dress shirt, which hugged his athletic frame without clinging, was crisp and open at the collar, and his charcoal gray trousers were impeccably pressed. On his feet, he wore a pair of butter-soft, Italian-made yachting shoes that were scuffed just enough to suggest they’d seen some real use. He kept his hair, which had turned gray years ago, swept back. All in all, Everett Westcott looked more like a man who’d stepped off his yacht in Monaco than someone who made policy recommendations to world leaders. Though he knew he had a disarming smile, Westcott never let it smother the raw edges that made people—especially the kind who were seated around the table—believe he’d seen things, done things that very few had.
Since the start of the dinner almost three hours ago, Westcott had smiled a lot, drank little, and listened more than he spoke. But that was about to change.
He set his fork down and glanced at the Congolese ambassador seated to his left. Ambassador Amadou Nyambe was in his late fifties, with smooth, dark skin and a shaved head, and he never seemed to bein a hurry. He wore a finely tailored navy blue suit. Westcott offered the ambassador a gracious smile.
“Ambassador,” he said, “I trust the meal lived up to your expectations?”
Ambassador Nyambe dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin, then smiled at Westcott.
