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“Is this a terrorist attack?”
They shake their heads. “No, just some road work gone wrong.”
Maybe. As I walk out with them, locking the door behind me, I scan the area for possible threats. Only the fire service team. The bustling square looks desolate. As if a catastrophe had erased the population but left the buildings intact. I shiver. The evening air is already chilly and I’m sorry I had to leave my coat as my escort leads me past the lines of tape.
Finishing the message to JL, that I had started just before the interruption, I send it off.
My phone starts ringing. I don’t bother with the formalities. “Hey, where are you?”
“Lamb and Flag.”
“I’ll join you for a drink. Just five minutes.”
“Great. I’ll order you a pint.”
I’m there in no time, and true to his word, JL pushes a pint of Fuller’s in my direction as I drop into a chair at the small wooden table he’s snagged. “Finished the meeting early?”
“I had to evacuate the office.”
His eyebrows raise. “Why?”
“Gas main break. They cleared the area.” I rub my cold hands before picking up the pint and taking a good swallow.
“London Pride. That okay?”
“Perfect.”
JL, his elbows on the table, chin resting between his palms, lean toward me. “Was it a terrorist attack?”
“They say not. But who knows?” An unwelcome realization hits me. If we can’t get back into the office tomorrow, we’ll need to meet somewhere else with the bankers. I hold up a finger to keep JL from saying anything and send a text to our chief PA in the London office. She gets back to me almost immediately.
Not to worry. Everything in hand. Contact you if meeting venue moved.
I exhale loudly and take another gulp.
Nasim Faez’s snarling face rises to the surface, shreds of torn keffiyeh hanging around his neck, venom in his eyes as he spits at me in Turkish. All the while the Turkish police haul him out of the rubble. “I won’t forget. You will pay.”
I’m sure that hasn’t changed. The question is, how sorry does he plan to make me?
ChapterThirteen
Cress
RING. RING.
I wince. My head pounds as I reach for my cellphone. I hit the button, but the ringing doesn’t stop. When I squint at the screen, it’s blank.
RING. RING. RING. RING.
Crap. I try to focus, but everything is a blur. The sound seems to come from everywhere. With a groan, I roll off the bed and survey the small bedroom. Nothing. Then I move into the sitting room. A black rectangular block sits on a table/desk.
RING. RING. RING.
“Oh, shut up.” I grab the receiver and the noise stops. “Hello?” My mouth is dry, making my voice sound scratchy.
“Dr. Taylor?” His Geordie accent is so pronounced even two words are enough for me to identify it. He sounds like Sgt. Lewis from theMorsetelevision series. The staff must come from all over the country. I wonder if they all have an RAF connection.
“Y-e-e-s.” I move to find my glasses, but the phone attached to the wooden top restricts my movement. An involuntary growl of frustration rises from my chest.
