Part One
The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit. Once you have
the rabbit, you no longer need the snare. —Chuang Tsu
Chapter One
May 2003
Brussels, Belgium
In one of his trademark conservative suits, Gino Malko
strolled through the rue St-Catherine area in the heart of
the lower city, enjoying the cool sunlight of the northern
spring as he swung his special ebony cane with the silver
handle. From time to time he threw back his head, shut his
eyes, and let the sun warm his face, somehow avoiding the
other walkers as if he had built-in radar.
Eventually, he turned into the café Le Cerf Agile and sat at
an outdoor table covered in white lace.
The eager waiter bustled over. "Good morning again,
monsieur, another fine day, eh?" he asked in English. "Your
usual?"
"Thank you, Ruud," Malko said, smiling, playing his role.
Malko was a heavy tipper, so the waiter returned quickly
with café-au-lait and a Belgian pastry. Malko nodded his
appreciation, poured from the two silver pitchers, stirred,
and bit into the pastry. He leaned back at his ease to watch
the passing throng of locals, NATO personnel, businessmen,
tourists, and EU staff members. It was early for tourists,
but the fine spring weather had attracted a swarm.
He was on his second pastry when he spotted the target. He
casually picked up his cane and moved naturally into the
stream of pedestrians. Apparently the density of the crowd
forced him to hold the cane upright.
In the normal course of things, he bumped into one or two
people, including his target, expressed his horrified
regrets each time, and finally, as if the crush were too
much, turned back toward the café.
A woman screamed. Everyone looked in her direction. Near
her, a tall, slender man with a Mediterranean complexion had
collapsed on the sidewalk, his hand clutching his chest.
As Brussel’s thick traffic surged past, people converged.
They shouted in French, Flemish, and English:
"Give him air!
"Call the paramedics!"
"Can anyone administer CPR?"
"I’m a doctor, stand aside!"
Now back at his table at the café, Malko sipped coffee and
chewed his pastry and watched as the doctor dove into the
riveted throng. They whispered into each other’s ears and
peered down. As Malko finished his pastry and dusted his
fingers, a shiver of horror swept around the circle.
Almost immediately, a man in shirt sleeves fought his way
out, dialing a cell. His face was pink with excitement.
"There’s been a tragedy on the street in the rue
St-Catherine district!" he reported in French. "Heart
attack, a doctor just said so. What? Yes, he’s dead.
Important? Hold your hat: It’s EU Competition Commissioner
Franco Peri! Get it on the air at once. Yes, the lead. Pull
whatever else you have off!"
Gino Malko smiled, left euros on the lace-covered table, and
headed off, cane swinging. He would be back in his hotel in
five minutes. Checked out in ten. And in fifteen, taxiing to
the airport.
###
July 2003
The University of California
Santa Barbara, California
It was after nine o’clock in the morning, and Campbell Hall
was crammed with students sitting in row after row, rising
toward the back of the amphitheater. Liz Sansborough studied
them as she gave her last lecture of the summer term. There
was something about their indifferent, interested, scrubbed,
dirty, sleepy, alert faces that radiated hope.
They reminded her of her years at Cambridge, when she was
their age and searching for a clue, too. She would probably
continue to search until she keeled over from work and the
occasional but necessary martini. The fact that they showed
up class after class made her optimistic that they would not
quit the hunt either.
"Marx claimed violence was the midwife of history," she told
them. "But fascism wasn’t created by an aristocracy any more
than communism was by a peasantry. Both were the result of
political ideologues, from Trotsky and Lenin to Hitler and
Mussolini, and each political system was born in violence.
They and their followers resorted to ‘overkill’ out of
ideological intoxication — a substitute religion, if you
will — to create a new world and a new human. In the cases
of Stalin and Hitler, they used terrorism and violence not
only against other armies but against civilians, including
their own, just as dictators do today. Saddam Hussein, Bin
Laden, the Taliban, and the al-Qaeda network are modern
examples." She paused to let the summary sink in, then
smiled. "All right, now it’s your turn. Where do you think
all of this fits in with what we’ve been talking about in
terms of the psychology of violence?"
She watched their feet shuffle and their gazes lower. The
hands of the usual suspects shot up, but she wanted someone
else to show some mettle.
"Come on, brave-hearted souls," she coaxed. "Who wants to
take a wild stab?" A few more hands rose. "All right, you
look as if you’ll have something interesting to say." She
pointed a finger. There was no seating chart for such a
large lecture class, and although she recognized the
twentysomething, she was unsure of her name.
The young woman had a sheet of pale blond hair that hung
straight, masking half her face. She tossed her head to free
her eyes and mouth, perhaps even to breathe. She said
earnestly, "Adult aggression and violence can stem from
early childhood experience, Professor Sansborough, but
that’s not always the complete explanation."
"Go on."
"In fact, that explanation could be construed as too easy,"
she said, gaining confidence. "A cheap shot. ‘Good’ people
sometimes get seduced into violence by situational forces.
They . . . they get caught up in a violent moment, and their
real selves sort of get lost." She stopped, groping for more.
Liz nodded. "In other words, their personal identities get
suspended in a kind of moral disengagement. They use
justification and interpretation to legitimatize their
actions. Ergo, the ‘herd mentality’ and ‘the power of the
mob’ and how an average person can wind up doing something
despicable and violent and evil that they’ll never forget
and may never be able to forgive themselves for. . . ."
For Liz, the rest of the lecture sped past. When it was
over, she was feeling wired. She gathered her notes and
stuffed them into her briefcase. She was not supposed to
have taught today. In fact, she should be in Paris right
now, taking some vacation time with Sarah and Asher. But in
the end, she had been unable to make herself leave this
final lecture of the summer session to her assistant. It was
too important. In it, she summarized everything her students
should have learned, and if they paid attention and went
back over their notes, each had a very good chance of not
only doing well on the test but of actually learning the
material.
The lights dimmed in response to California’s latest energy
worries, and the auditorium emptied quickly. As they often
did, a few stayed to walk with her across the grassy campus
to her office.
"But shouldn’t the ‘good’ person resist the power of the
mob?" one asked.
Tall eucalyptus trees swayed in the ocean breeze. The air
smelled fresh, of sea salt and sunshine. Liz breathed
deeply, enjoying the summery morning, enjoying her life.
"Absolutely," she agreed. "But with that, we’re getting into
ethics."
"It’s not an easy thing to do," another said quietly. "To
resist, I mean."
"Right," said a third. "When the surf’s up, sometimes you’ve
just gotta dive in."
"And sometimes not," Liz reminded them. She liked their
questions. They were thinking, which was the major point of
an education, as far as she was concerned. "Ask yourselves
what it takes to say no when everyone else is insisting yes.
Once you start to consider how you’d like to behave, you
start to build up a savings account against the times when
you face difficult decisions, and you will face them."
"I’m really glad you didn’t get sucked completely into the
TV thing," the youth who liked surfing said. "I mean, it’s
great you’re still teaching."
"I can’t imagine I’ll ever quit," she assured him. "Now that
we’ve got a professional producer and crew for the series, I
have more time for you."
They smiled and peppered her with questions about the new
episodes on the Cold War that would be aired.
"You’ll have to be patient," she told them. "I’m sworn to
secrecy."
They liked that and laughed. When the small group reached
the psychology building, she shooed them on their way. One
young man was particularly sweet. He had a crush on her and
was often among the group who stayed late.
Tongue-tied, he managed to mumble, "Great lecture, Dr.
Sansborough," before he shuffled off.
###
Liz pushed in through the door and climbed to the third
floor. The building was faded pink concrete, utilitarian,
without pretense, which she liked. The corridors bustled
with staff and students. When she arrived at her office,
Kirk Tedesco was inside, leaning back in her chair, his big
Rockports propped up on her desk.
He was reading TV Guide. He lowered it and grinned. "Hi,
babe. How was the howling mob?"
Her office was cluttered with books and papers. Kirk was the
calm in the center of the research storm. She smiled in
greeting. "Sharp as little tacks." She closed the door and
dropped her briefcase onto the floor next to her gym bag.
"Right. In your wildest." Kirk was a psych professor, too,
specializing in personality disorders. He was so easy-going
that his scholarship was on the light side, but he was
friendly and fun, and she had grown to depend on his
companionship.
"No, really, Kirk," she told him. "This is a great class.
They’re interested in the subject. I’m glad I stayed for
them. Paris can wait until tomorrow."
He picked up TV Guide again and waved it at her. "Nice
article in here about you and the new season."
She took it from him, pleased. The first four shows for this
new series were in the can, the next three were being
filmed, and she was researching future ones. Her gaze ran
down the story:
Sansborough’s Cold War Series Is Back!
One word — and a simple image — said it all. Last month,
posters that read "July 29" in scarlet red, with "Top
Secret" stamped across in black, plastered New York City’s
bus shelters. No photos. No title.
But to afficionados, it was a code that sent shudders of
delight that the wait for Dr. Liz Sansborough’s sleeper hit,
"Secrets of the Cold War," to return was almost over.
A Compass network executive revealed that among the chilling
Cold War situations to be aired was that of a leading CIA
official’s illegal tampering with presidential politics.
Also on tap is a hushed-up FBI scandal that includes a KGB
defector who was a master of disguise.
In just three years, Dr. Sansborough’s series has grown from
a local cable show into an underground sensation.
As for next season, the psychology professor tantalized us
with the prospect of juicy details about some of the Cold
War’s most elusive and deadly players — global assassins
such as the renowned Abu Nidal and lesser-known, but many
say mythical, figures like the Carnivore and the Abbot. . . .
"Good coverage," she agreed and tossed it back at him.
"It’s more than that. Someday your face is going to be as
famous as Julia Roberts’s. You’re already a hell of a lot
prettier."
"And you’re full of blue sky." But she grinned, grateful,
because he had been a reluctant supporter of the series.
The window in her office looked back over the campus, north
toward the sawtooth peaks of the Santa Ynez Mountains. She
was high enough up that no one else could see her. She
peeled her sweater over her head and stepped out of her
trousers.
"Nice jogging bra," Kirk said. "Nice thong bikini."
She ignored that and stepped into her running shorts.
"Aren’t you getting bored? You drop by to see me do this
three or four times a week, you and your lame excuses.
You’ve got too much time on your hands, Kirk. Hey, you
didn’t even bother with an excuse this time." She pulled her
hair back into a ponytail and slipped a band around it.
"Definitely not bored. And I have a very good excuse." He
lowered his feet to the floor and advanced on her. He was a
square man, early forties, nice big shoulders, going a
little soft in the middle, which she found endearing.
"Go away." She shook her head, amused, and knelt to tie the
laces of her shoes. "This is my jogging time."
"So I noticed. You look much more appetizing in shorts than
in that prison jumpsuit you wear for karate."
With his cheerful face, freckles, and red hair, Kirk was
easy on the eyes. They had arrived at UCSB in 1998, the
recipients of two brand-new chairs funded by the prestigious
Aylesworth Foundation. In the same department, and single,
they had gravitated toward each other and become friends.
The rest had developed slowly.
"So tell me what your excuse is." She jumped up and lifted
her knees, loosening her muscles.
"The dean’s summer bash. This afternoon, remember? It begins
at three o’clock. Want to meet there, or are you going to
let me pick you up?"
"Let’s meet." She patted his shirt and gave him a quick kiss
on the lips.
He grabbed for her, and she dodged.
"You’re going to get all sweaty," he warned, eyes twinkling.
"Looking forward to it, too." She found her sunglasses and
visor.
As she locked her door and zipped her keys into her fanny
pack, he ambled to his office. Eagerly she ran down the
stairs and out into the hazy California sunshine.
###
Paris, France
When it was ten o’clock in the morning in California, it was
seven o’clock in the evening in France. As Liz Sansborough
left for her run in Santa Barbara, some seven thousand miles
away Sarah Walker and Asher Flores strolled across the lobby
of their Latin Quarter hotel, holding hands.
They were a handsome couple, somewhere between the ages of
thirty-five and forty. He had black, curly hair and a strong
face with the kind of sharp gaze that was never fully at
rest. She was tall and lanky, with short auburn hair. A dark
mole just above the right corner of her smiling mouth gave
her a dramatic air, and the small finger on her left hand
was crooked, hinting at some past athletic endeavor gone amiss.
They had arrived in Paris the night before and checked into
her cousin’s favorite hotel. Her cousin, who was joining
them for just three days, had postponed her arrival until
tomorrow. Neither Sarah nor Asher was the type to wait
around. They had gone sight-seeing, visiting the Louvre and
other traditional tourist places for which they had never
had time, and returned to change for dinner.
The night portier caught sight of them through the glass
lobby door. He pulled it open and bowed. "Mademoiselle
Sansborough," he greeted her. "A pleasant surprise. I did
not realize you were staying with us again."
Sarah shot him a smile as she headed out under the awning.
"Sorry, but I’m not Liz Sansborough. She was delayed."
Astonished, the doorman hesitated as if expecting the woman
to laugh at her own joke. He quickly touched the brim of his
cap. "Apologies, madame. Please forgive." He noted the gold
wedding band on her ring finger.
"Don’t worry about it," Asher Flores said genially as he
followed. "They’re cousins, and they look so much alike
everybody gets them confused."
Sarah suddenly shook her head. "Oh, damn. I left my purse in
the room. Do you have your credit cards, Asher?"
"A passel of ‘em," Asher assured her. Then to the doorman:
"Think it’s going to rain? It’s been threatening all
afternoon." He stepped out from beneath the awning to check
the sky. Layers of cumulonimbus clouds were roiling black
and brown. Raindrops splattered down, and the metallic scent
of ozone filled the air. "Well, that answers that." He
jumped back under the awning’s shelter.
"Allow me, sir." The doorman reached behind the door and
produced a large umbrella. He popped it open and presented
it to Asher.
Under its shelter, Sarah put her arm through Asher’s, and
they walked off jauntily just as the heavens opened and
sheets of chilly rain pounded down. Drivers turned on their
windshield wipers and headlights, while pedestrians ducked
under awnings.
Sarah laughed. "So much for an easy, relaxing time in the
Gallic sun."
"Do you think this is punishment because we haven’t been
back here together before this?"
"You wish. We’re not that important to the gods."
"We are to me." As traffic rushed past, and the rain made a
noisy tattoo on the umbrella, he impulsively pulled her
close and kissed her.
Laughing, she threw her arms around his neck. Parisian horns
saluted loudly.
Sarah had been reluctant to return to this city where so
many ugly things had happened to them, but Langley had
finally guaranteed Asher a month of uninterrupted vacation,
and it was time to exorcize her demons. They needed to go
away together, to renew themselves in one another, and what
better place for romance than the two-thousand-year-old City
of Light and Love?
She kissed him back eagerly, sinking into him, feeling warm
and happy and carefree as they lingered in their private
cocoon beneath the umbrella.
When he released her finally, she smiled into his eyes and
said, "Let’s find that bistro and have some dinner. I’m hungry."
Other pedestrians had disappeared into shops and stores,
escaping the rising storm, and Sarah and Asher were alone on
the sidewalk as they hurried onward. Thunder boomed, shaking
the earth. Drivers continued at an insane speed, tires
spouting dirty waves onto the sidewalk.
"Only one more block," Asher announced as they crossed a
street. Their clothes were soaked.
"We can make it. I’m not totally miserable yet."
They jumped over a fast-moving stream, landed on the
deserted sidewalk again, and increased their pace. The sky
turned black. The cold rain pelted so fiercely that it
slammed back up from the pavement. They dodged and rushed,
growing chilled and stiff. At last Asher spotted the
bistro’s sign: Rouget de Lisle. It was at the end of the
block. He was gesturing at it, about to tell Sarah, when a
black van suddenly screeched to a halt beside them, hiding
them from traffic.
Before its wheels stopped, Asher’s internal alarm sounded.
His alert gaze slashed from the van across the empty
sidewalk to the dark alley on their other side. Two men
wearing ski masks and armed with hand guns jumped out from
where they had been pressed against the wall, hiding. Asher
hurled the open umbrella at them.
They ducked, and he gave Sarah a violent shove to get her
safely past. He whipped out the small pistol strapped to his
ankle just as the van’s door slammed open.
As he swung his gun to aim, Sarah spun back to look for him.
Her water-streaked face froze in horror as she took in the
well-coordinated attack.
As he opened his mouth to bellow at Sarah to run, there was
the muffled pop-pop of silenced gunfire. A bullet crashed
into Asher’s chest. Out of nowhere, a giant seemed to grab
him roughly and hurl him backwards. He landed hard. His arms
and legs sprawled. His head hit the sidewalk. His gun flew
from his hand. His eyes closed.
Sarah screamed. "Get away from me!"
Her voice barely penetrated his pain-filled mind.
"Asher!" she called frantically. "Are you all right? Asher!
Let me go to him!"
There were the scuffling sounds of struggle.
"Merde!" one of the men swore.
"She’s a tiger," another agreed in French.
Asher tried to open his eyes, to roll over, to get to his
feet. Fight. Save Sarah. A massive cauldron burned in his
chest. He raged helplessly, inwardly.
"Get Walker into the van!" one of the men shouted. "Hurry!"
"Asher!" Her longing cry stabbed his heart.
In a frenzy, Asher struggled harder. Felt himself move. His
palms dug into the wet pavement.
Before he could push himself up, powerful hands smashed his
shoulders back down. Someone cried out in pain. Him?
A voice spoke harshly into his ear: "If you want to see your
wife alive again, Flores, get us the Carnivore’s files. You
and Langley have four days. No more. The Carnivore’s files.
Say it." This man’s words were English; the accent American.
Asher tried to move his lips. He pushed out air.
"Carnivore," he managed. "Four days." The Carnivore’s files?
What files!? Impossible!"
But the hands were gone. Car doors banged shut, and wheels
shrieked.
Wild with fear, he roared, "Sarah!"
There was no answer. The rain was unrelenting, pummeling his
face, filling his ears as he struggled to get up. Falling
back, he choked and coughed and grew icy cold. He pictured
Sarah in his mind, went over each detail of her face, heard
her melodic voice, felt her lips brush his cheek. Aching for
her, terrified about what they would do to her, weakness
swept over him, then darkness.