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“Which brings us back to square one,” Aidan said.
“Hopefully, Terri’s bug will give us the answers we need,” Marc responded. “Till that happens, there’s no point in speculating.”
“I agree.” Aidan’s focus returned to the life-or-death mission ahead. “Call me the minute Philip is in contact.”
Abandoned farmhouse
Ðakovo, Slavonia
Thursday, 7:10 p.m. local time
Patience was the mark of a good operative, and Philip had been exhibiting the necessary amount of it over the past few hours.
He’d been at the farmhouse since five fifteen, having stashed the gun-metal gray SUV behind a stand of bare-limbed trees and then hunkering down against it with his recon gear. Binoculars. Nikon D-850. Attached AF-S FX Nikkor eight-hundred-millimeter lens.
All was quiet on the grounds. The black sedan was parked in its customary spot. And no other vehicles had arrived, which told Philip that these Albanians had no backup. It was just the handful of them.
There were a few low lights on inside the house, enough to allow Philip to make out a modicum of activity. From the blur of motion he’d seen from the dining area fifty minutes ago, the kidnappers had taken their evening meal. With any luck, it had been accompanied by a few bottles of rakia—enough so they’d be tired, their senses would be dulled, and their awareness of their surroundings would be compromised for the night.
In concurrence with that theory, Mr. Smoker had seemed a little unsteady on his feet when he’d stumbled out to take his last cigarette break—which he did every hour on the hour. There’d been no sign of Mr. Worker Bee since he’d taken out some trash after dinner. Whoever else was in there was a huge question mark. Philip had yet to see anyone who resembled the guy who’d chatted Lauren up at Hofbräuhaus and then physically abducted her. It made him even more convinced that what he’d told Marc was true—that the scumbag had been a cutout—a middleman whose face they realized was likely captured on camera and who’d have to be disposed of to avoid being ID’d.
Still, theories, no matter how compelling, were just that: theories. It was possible he could be inside the farmhouse with an unknown number of others.
Philip had hours to figure it out.
He continued to watch and wait.
26
NanoUSA
1 March
Thursday, 10:50 a.m. local time
Simone left Vance’s office, fairly secure that, between the phone call Aidan had had with Vance and her own calming techniques, they’d gotten both him and Susan under control. At Simone’s urging, Susan had agreed to stay inside her hotel room in Tahoe today, feigning a migraine to her kids, since she was in no shape to pull off acting normal. And Vance was going to apply himself to task-oriented work at Nano for another hour and then fly back
to join his wife. Aidan had bluntly told him that if either he or Susan deviated from this hunkering-down plan, they’d run the risk of compromising the rescue mission—and of further endangering Lauren’s life.
Love for their daughter had kept them in check—that and Aidan’s promise that either he or Simone would keep them in the loop every step of the way.
Simone was about to leave the building and check in with Aidan when she reached Ethan Gallagher’s office, which was adjacent to his boss’s. A woman was just walking in, and Simone caught her profile as she disappeared into the room and shut the door behind her.
June Morris.
Now that was interesting. Ethan had claimed to scarcely interact with the woman, and here she was going into his office for a closeddoor meeting.
Simone glanced around. The hall was empty.
Fortunately, Nano was sleek and modern, with lots of chrome and glass. Using that to her advantage, Simone flattened herself against the wall adjoining the large office window. Glass was much easier to hear through than a solid wall. It also had the advantage of allowing Simone a view of what was taking place.
To an outsider, June was invisible. Which meant she’d pressed herself against the back of the door to avoid being seen. Ethan, on the other hand, was pacing around the room, alternately rubbing the back of his neck and dragging a shaky hand through his hair. Perspiration was beading up on his forehead.
Definitely not the composed Ethan Gallagher who Simone was used to seeing.
“Someone broke into my apartment last night,” he was saying.
“Oh no.” June’s two-word response was low, but not so low that Simone couldn’t tell that she was strung tight. “What did they take?”
