OTEL ELBE HOF, HAMBURG, GERMANY

JUNE 21, 2005

PRESENT DAY

Max had to put his cell phone down because his hands were shaking.

Molly Anderson.

That was the name of Gina’s traveling companion, confirmed by yet another phone call from Jules Cassidy. The aid worker hadn’t changed much since Max had met her a few years back. She still wore her long, curly, reddish-brown hair San Francisco earthmother style. Her smile was still as warm and sincere.

As he’d looked through the photos stored in that digital camera, Max knew why Gina was missing, why her passport had turned up in another woman’s possession. He knew what this was about.

It had to do with a man named Grady Morant, aka David Jones, and probably a dozen other aliases as well.

Had to be.

Grady Morant was a dangerous man—an expatriated American and former Army NCO who was wanted by the U.S. for a long list of crimes, including desertion and drug trafficking.

For a short time, Morant had fancied himself in love with Molly Anderson. But that had ended when he’d sold her out for a suitcase filled with cash.

Max sat on one of the hotel room’s beds.

And blamed himself.

If Gina was dead, it was because of him.

Christ.

He picked up the camera and toggled through the pictures again, unable to keep from looking at them. Gina with Molly and a group of women, some smiling, some stern-faced. Gina, her hair cut short, laughing as she held the hands of two Kenyan children. Molly, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, dancing against the backdrop of a tent’s interior. A man, with graying hair and glasses that reflected the camera’s flash, sitting properly—back straight, tea cup in his hands. Gina behind his chair, laughing into the camera, her arms wrapped affectionately around his neck. Another shot of the same man, all alone this time, in a pose that looked as if it were meant to be a passport photo.

Max didn’t need to see the nametag sewn into the back of his undershirt to know that this was the ever-so-fascinating Leslie Pollard.

They’d gotten his description from the priest who ran the AAI camp. Along with the breaking news that Pollard had disappeared right after Molly and Gina left for Germany.

Yes, that’s right. Pollard had pulled a complete adios two days before that bomb went off outside the Hamburg cafe and killed a young woman who had Gina’s passport in her possession.

As a rule, Max didn’t believe in coincidences. Pollard had to be involved in this... whatever this was. Abduction. Kidnapping.

Please God, not homicide.

According to U.S. Intel—Jules had the information available even before Max asked for it—there was no record of a Leslie Pollard flying out of any airport in Kenya to any destination in Europe. Nor had a man by that name flown into any airport in Germany. Max had his team widening their search, checking passenger lists for trains and steamships. But he already knew what they’d find.

Nothing.

He stared again at the picture in Gina’s camera, trying to turn the Englishman’s face into that of Grady Morant, but he couldn’t do it. He’d only seen Morant once—and it was after the man had received a rather savage beating.

Max now opened his phone, dialed the D.C. office and told Peggy Ryan to find a photo from Morant’s service in the army and e-mail it to him.

As he shut off the camera’s power, he realized that the sun was setting. It had slipped behind the building across the street, which cast a long shadow. Without the light from the camera, the hotel room was dark and...

Over on the desk, the telephone’s red message light was on—a feeble flicker in the dimness.

Max stood up.

How the hell had he missed seeing that?

Was he completely losing it? Except, he’d made a point to look at the phone when he first came in. He remembered noting quite specifically that the message light was not on.

Max flipped on the desk light—and even that low wattage bulb generated enough glare to make the message light appear to be unlit.

Sonuvabitch.

He picked up the phone, pushing the buttons that would play the message.

It was probably only a greeting from hotel housekeeping, making sure Gina and Molly were comfortable and—

“You have one new message,” the automated voicemail computer told him in a crisp female voice. It spoke perfect English, with a pleasant German accent. “First message, dated 19 June. 6:57 A.M.”

“Shit, where are you?” Now the voice was male, and ragged with stress. “You’ve got to get out of Hamburg.” The connection was terrible and the line crackled. It was hard to tell if the voice was British or American. Max had to strain just to discern the words. “Get out of the hotel right now—don’t pack, leave your things. Just go. Jesus, to the American Embassy if you have to. Go and stay there, don’t leave for anything, do you hear me? You’re in danger—”

There was a crackle of static, then silence.

“End of message,” the computer told him. “To delete this message, press seven. To replay this message press two. To save this message—”

Max hit two. One new message, the computer had said. Which meant that Gina and Molly had never received it. Still, as he listened to the message again, he opened his cell phone, dialing Jules Cassidy.

“Where are you?” Max asked when Jules picked up.

“Just leaving the blast site,” the younger agent reported. “Traffic sucks. It was definitely an accident, by the way—the bombing. What’s up, boss? What do you need me to do?”

“I need you here,” Max told him. “Now. I need a digital copy of a message left on Gina’s hotel voicemail from an unidentified male.” As the message played yet again, he held his phone so Jules could hear it.

“You think it’s Pollard?” Jules asked.

“I don’t know,” Max told him grimly, making sure he saved the voice mail before hanging up the hotel phone. “Look, I’m going to need your laptop ASAP to download a photo from Gina’s camera.”

He could then send the electronic file to his own lab, his own team, back in D.C. It would be faster then sending the entire camera to the FBI’s facility here in Hamburg. Besides, Frisk’s team had enough on their plate.

“The driver says we’re still forty minutes away,” Jules reported, “and that’s best case scenario—if the traffic lets up. What’s in the photo?”

“Not what,” Max told him. “Who. Leslie Pollard. Gina’s got a snapshot that’s got to be him. Meanwhile, Peggy’s locating a photo of Grady Morant. I’m going to have the analysts run a computer comparison of the two men’s faces.”

“Okay,” Jules said. “Whoa. Grady Morant. The same Grady Morant you asked me to do low-pro on... when was that? It was after the von Hopf kidnapping case, right?”

A few years back, Max had included Jules in the team he’d used to help track down a kidnapped VIP—the son of a retired CIA agent. The VIP had been snatched by one of the many groups of rebels, drug smugglers, terrorists, and thieves who set up camp on a remote island in Indonesia.

It was the same remote island where Molly Anderson had been working at the time as a Peace Corps–type volunteer.

The VIP had been returned to his family alive, but before the dust had settled, Molly Anderson had gotten herself into the thick of the danger, due to her relationship with—ding, ding, ding, correct for two points—Grady Morant.

After they’d returned to D.C., Max had given Jules an assignment. An extremely low-profile off-the-record gathering of information. “Find out what you can about a former Army Special Forces NCO named Grady Morant, but keep it under the radar.” At Jules’s puzzled look Max had added, “I don’t want to get a what-the-fuck call from either the Pentagon or the CIA, is that clear?”

“He was the alleged deserter, right?” Jules said now. “And you’re... thinking Morant is Pollard?”

“I’m thinking we need to eliminate that possibility,” Max told Jules. “Which we can do by comparing the two photos.”

Morant had to be involved in this.

Goddamn it.

Back when Gina had signed up with AIDS Awareness International, Max had been alarmed that she’d volunteered to go to Kenya to work with this very same Molly Anderson. A mutual friend—Navy SEAL Chief Ken Karmody, damn him to hell—had introduced the two women, and they’d instantly hit it off via e-mail.

But after a thorough investigation, Max had been convinced that Molly had severed all ties with Morant. She’d moved to Africa while, until just recently, Morant was still regularly spotted in his beat-up little airplane in the skies over Indonesia. Molly had had no further contact with the man—at least none that Max had known about.

And didn’t that sting. Max made a point to know everything, to stay in control, to ward off disaster, avert tragedy.

“Wait a minute,” Jules said now, breaking the silence that was becoming more and more grim by the second. “Didn’t we get some kind of intra-agency report—a “case closed” doc that had Morant’s name on it as reported dead? I showed that to you, didn’t I, sir? It was about, what? Four or five months ago?”

“Yeah,” Max said. And he’d actually been foolish enough to feel a twinge of remorse at the news. “I need that information checked. I want to know if anyone saw the body, if dental records were matched.”

“I’m on it,” Jules said.

Max suspected the answer he’d find was a resounding no. And that Morant was still very much alive.

Jules was trying to keep up. “So you think... Morant faked his death in order to come after Molly Anderson because... he can’t live without her?”

Cassidy was a hopeless romantic. “I think he heard about the reward Molly got for helping to rescue what’s-his-name von Hopf,” Max said grimly.

“Alex,” Jules supplied the man’s name. As if it mattered.

“I think Morant went to Kenya, to claim his share.” And if Molly objected, Morant would disappear her and take it all. Gina would have been just an innocent bystander, but it also fit Morant’s profile for him to turn a profit by selling her passport to the highest bidder.

Christ.

Max should never have let Gina anywhere near Molly Anderson—a concept that worked well in theory. But in reality, Max knew he hadn’t had the power to let or not let Gina do anything.

He could have, though. He could have said, “Stay, because I love you, because my crappy life will be even crappier without you.” Maybe then she would’ve hung around.

For a while, anyway.

“I just don’t buy it,” Jules said. “It doesn’t fit with Morant’s record back when he was in the service. He was exemplary—”

“He was also exemplary,” Max pointed out, “when he taught security teams how to guard shipments of heroin for Nang-Klao Chai.”

“He didn’t give them any information that wasn’t readily available over the Internet,” Jules countered. “And most of his time with Chai was spent as a medic.” He could, no doubt, make a case for Satan. His fall from heaven was not his fault... “Remember, Chai got him out of prison. Do you know what kind of torture went on, daily, in that place?”

“The kind that would twist a man, permanently?” Max answered, his voice tight.

“Hey,” Jules said. “Sweetie, I know what you’re thinking, but come on. It’s unlikely this is some kind of revenge. And even if it is, it’s certainly not against you. You all but let the guy go.”

Yes. Yes, Max had.

He’d let.

The fucker.

Go.

He’d had Morant in custody—and he’d let him go in a moment of softhearted insanity.

Because the bastard had pulled a Han Solo, because he’d ended up sacrificing both himself and that suitcase of cash, and ultimately saved a crapload of lives—including that kidnapped VIP. Morant had been beaten to a pulp for his trouble, too, hovering in a haze of pain, ready to be shipped back to Chai for more torture, until a team of SEALs had gone in after him and pulled him out.

So Max had made it easy for Morant to escape from the hospital.

True, he didn’t make it too easy. The son of a bitch had had to walk out on a broken leg.

But he’d walked. And he’d vanished.

And now Gina was missing, and probably dead.

Jules, perceptive little bastard, correctly read Max’s silence. He sighed. “You cannot blame yourself for this.”

“Call Frisk,” Max ordered tightly. “See if any of his agents are near this hotel. They’re going to need to take a look at this room anyway—just have them bump it up in priority. Make sure they bring the equipment they’ll need to copy this voicemail. And call the American Embassy. Verify that Gina and Molly aren’t sitting in some safe room somewhere.”

As he said the words, his gut twisted. Goddamn it, there was nothing he wouldn’t give for that to be so.

But Jules dashed his hopes. “They’re not,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir, I already thought of that and—shit on a stick! We’re stopping. Aw, crap, it’s a total parking lot—someone’s actually getting out of their car up ahead. Sir, let me call the hotel. They must have a business center, or I don’t know, a laptop you can rent or borrow to download that photo.”

Of course. Thank God one of them was thinking clearly. “I’ll call the front desk,” Max said. “Just... get here as soon as you can.”

KENYA, AFRICA

FEBRUARY 25, 2005

FOUR MONTHS AGO

Molly was ready to scream.

According to the rules of AAI, they needed a flipping chaperone. In order to respect the various customs of the indigenous people, an unmarried man and woman could not go on a four-day journey to the north.

Heck, they couldn’t take a ten-minute trip to the grocery store—were there a grocery store to go to.

She and Jones, aka Leslie Pollard, needed a third person to go with them as they delivered little Lucy northward.

But Gina had just spent the past half hour getting violently ill.

“I’ll go with you anyway,” Gina said now. She was pale and shaking with the chills and sweats of a fever, but she dragged her mouth up into a smile. “I can go. I can do it. It was just something I ate. I feel much better now.”

Her message lost some of its believability as she once again leaned over the side of her bed, grabbing for her bucket.

And it was more than obvious that she hadn’t eaten something bad. She’d caught the same bug that the visiting priests had suffered from. They’d brought it with them, special delivery.

Please God, Molly prayed as she used a wet cloth to wipe Gina’s face, don’t let me get this until Lucy is in Marsabit. “I think it’s safe to say that you’re not going anywhere,” she told her friend.

“You could put me in the back of the truck,” Gina gasped.

“What, tie you down, so you don’t bounce out when the road is rough? Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

“I’m serious.” Gina grabbed her hand. “Mol, any minute Lucy’s uncles are going to realize she’s gone, and they are going to do the math and come straight here.”

Molly was well aware of that. They needed to leave the area.

Now.

Jones was ready to take Lucy and head north, on his own. But a Western male, traveling alone with an underage girl... They would be noticed. And stopped for questioning. Child trafficking was a problem here, as it was in most underdeveloped countries around the world. It was too dangerous an endeavor.

And there were obvious reasons why Molly couldn’t go off with the girl on her own. One of them being that Jones would—what was that expression Gina used? Shit monkeys.

Which was why she’d sent him out to fetch Sister Helen. Except, when he knocked on the door, he came back inside the tent with Sister Maria-Margarit, the dreaded Double-M.

What was he thinking? Molly made giant “no” eyes at him.

He shook his head. “We got a problem,” he said. “Everyone in camp’s got what Gina’s got. Sister Helen, Sister Grace... All down for the count. I give you the last nun standing.”

“Where’s the girl?” Sister Double-M grimly asked.

Oh, dear Lord, he’d told her...? But Jones was shaking his head. “Hey, I didn’t say a word.”

“Don’t look so surprised,” the nun chided. “I’m not stupid. I saw her arrive. And when we received the message from Mr. Jimmo’s wife, about his being in hospital, it included the curious line, ‘Thus, he cannot help the girl.’ ” She gazed at Molly. “I knew you’d be part of this. I just didn’t expect you to get Mr. Pollard involved. At least not quite so soon.”

Molly had two choices. Tell the truth, or lie. “I’m taking the girl to safety.” She hated liars. “Mr. Pollard has agreed to come along. We were hoping Helen would come, too, as our third.”

The nun was shaking her head. “She’s ill. And even if she weren’t, this is not what we do.”

Molly’s heart sank. “You know that the AAI rule about chaperones is outdated—”

“If you’re asking for permission to break it,” Double-M said sternly, “my answer is unequivocally no.”

“We could put on rings,” Jones suggested. “Pretend we’re married.”

“And if someone sees you along the way?” the sister asked. “Which they surely will.” She shook her head. “AAI’s rule was created to win and maintain the trust of all of the many cultures in this region—some deeply religious. Yes, you save one child by breaking this rule. But how many do we lose later? We’ve worked hard for acceptance, for a chance to suggest alternative, less harmful initiation ceremonies for these girls, for a chance to educate, to teach...”

“Lucy will be our chaperone,” Molly said. “At least for the trip north. And we can hire someone in Marsabit to travel south with us.” This was the solution—it had to be.

But Sister Double-M wasn’t impressed.

“And when Lucy’s uncles and cousins arrive?” the nun asked. “Searching for her? Angry? Certain that we have spirited away the girl? What do I tell them when they ask where you have gone?”

“To Paul Jimmo’s farm,” Molly said. “To help his family while he’s in the hospital. It won’t be a lie—we’ll stop there on our way north.”

“And when they find out it wasn’t your final destination?” The sister shook her head. “They will see through your story. And AAI will be known not as the organization that helps and educates, but rather the organization that steals their girls.” She kept on shaking her head. “No. If you leave this camp tonight, I will not allow you to return.”

Molly sat down on her bunk. It had been a gamble, going to the nuns for help—and she’d lost.

“Then I’ll pack my things,” she said quietly. The people here were her friends, her family, and leaving was going to break her heart, but a girl’s life was at stake. What, was she just supposed to stand by and let Lucy’s uncles take her home? Kicking and screaming—crying out for help?

Molly reached under her bed for her backpack, swinging it up next to her, unzipping its many compartments. “Gina, will you box up whatever I can’t—”

“What if you can tell them—Lucy’s uncles—that we’re on a legitimate trip?” Jones interrupted. “What if you tell them we’ve gone on our honeymoon?”

What?

“Molly and I,” he clarified.

She wasn’t the only one staring at him, frozen.

“It solves both problems, doesn’t it?” he said. “The chaperone thing as well as the other? We’ll borrow the camp truck and head out, on a camping trip—a chance to spend some time alone. God knows I’ve always dreamed of seeing Marsabit. And if we happen to pick up a hitchhiker on our way, well, that’s our business, and our business alone. It will have nothing to do with AAI.”

“Is anyone going to believe you got married during an epidemic?” Gina spoke up.

“White lie,” Jones said. “We left just before the fireworks started.” He directed his words to the nun. “You’d tell a white lie to save a girl, wouldn’t you?” He didn’t wait for her answer before turning to Molly. “Are you up for getting married?”

He was actually serious. What about his fear that someone would notice—that if she suddenly started sharing a tent with him, a red flag would go up...? Speaking of that, his accent was slipping. “Leslie,” she said, to remind him. “That’s crazy.”

“Not if we do it to save Lucy,” he added, his accent back in place. “Yes, we hardly know each other, although I do like you. Very much. Yes, it’ll seem hasty to some, but to the people—your friends—who are familiar with your generosity... They’ll understand that it was to save Lucy.”

And with that, Molly understood, too. Via the relief worker grapevine, word would get out that she’d married a near stranger—in order to save a girl’s life. The locals could and would believe that theirs was love at first sight—since it wasn’t the locals Jones was worried about.

“Do you really think it would work?” she breathed.

“Yes,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers. “I do.”

Sister Double-M was trying her best to be a wet blanket. “A white lie is one thing. But marriage is a sacrament, not to be taken lightly—”

“No one’s taking this lightly, sister.” Gina cut her off. She was sick as a dog, but she had something to say. “If you’re going to do this, Leslie, you need to get down on one knee, and do it right.”

Jones was ignoring both of them. “Do you want to?” he asked Molly, his accent seriously slipping again. “I mean, really do this? Because we could get it annulled, later, if... you didn’t want to really be... you know, married. To me.”

Molly stood there, looking into the eyes of this man that she loved with all her heart. The doubt she saw there was real. He actually thought...

“Are you really asking me?” she said. “Because you haven’t asked the question that, if you were to actually ask, I’d definitely answer with... a yes.”

He didn’t kiss her. Not with Attila the Nun watching. But Molly knew that he wanted to.

Instead, he got down on one knee in front of her, glancing at Gina. “This right?”

“Works for me,” Gina said.

He took Molly’s hand, gazed up at her. “Marry me.”

“That’s not a question, it’s an order,” Gina complained. “Try again.”

Molly started to laugh—it was either that or cry.

“Molly, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Molly told him, adding, “To save Lucy,” for Sister Double-M’s sake.

The nun cleared her throat, and Molly turned toward her, prepared to do battle.

But the old woman had tears in her eyes. “I’ll get Father Ben,” she said. “God certainly works to help his children in mysterious ways.”

Five minutes later, as they took their vows right there in the tent, with Gina, still in bed, as their witness, they both added, “To save Lucy,” after saying “I do.”

Although they both knew that it wasn’t true.

Lucy, as it turned out, had saved them.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

JANUARY 28, 2004

SEVENTEEN MONTHS AGO

Gina couldn’t believe it. “You said no?”

Jules glanced into the rearview mirror before signaling and moving into the passing lane. “It’s a big step.”

“It’s just a date,” she told him from the passenger seat as he drove her out to Sheffield, to see Max. They’d just dropped her car at the shop—the electrical system was going haywire again. “And it’s only a little date. Meeting for drinks after work? It’s not even dinner.”

Even though Jules was working from home today—a definite challenge since Gina had become the houseguest who wouldn’t leave—he was dressed in his FBI clothes. He’d taken off his suit jacket before getting into the car but he still looked amazing. With his white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, sunglasses on, perfect hair, perfect nose, perfect jawline, perfect cheekbones, and of course, that perfect, white-toothed killer smile, he was, quite possibly, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life.

It was odd that he didn’t get hit on by handsome strangers more often.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Gina had had a roommate, freshman year of college, who, like Jules, was drop-dead gorgeous. She’d spent a lot of nights alone—guys were too scared to ask her out.

“It’s not like you’re not attracted to Stephen,” Gina pointed out.

Jules had started announcing twinkie sightings right from the moment the van pulled up and his newest neighbor began moving his furniture into the apartment down the street. Over the past few weeks, both he and Gina had spent an awful lot of time peering out the windows and giggling—or running out to get something they “forgot” in one of their cars—just to catch a glimpse of Mr. Wonderful.

Tall, dark, and truly fabulous, Stephen-the-new-neighbor had the prettiest hazel eyes and longest eyelashes Gina had ever seen on a man. Besides Jules. The eyelashes, that is. Jules’s eyes were a rich, chocolate brown.

“Yeah, well, attraction from afar is one thing.” Jules sighed. “It’s just... I know I’ll be disappointed. My fantasy Stephen is so much more... perfect than the real life version.”

“But what if he’s not? What if the real guy is even better than your wildest imaginings?” Gina asked.

Jules laughed his scorn. “I doubt that. Besides, he walks around like he’s got cruise control—his trolling is on autodrive.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Gina said. “But a guy who’s cruising, who only wants sex, doesn’t he tend to skip the invite for drinks?”

“Well, yeah,” Jules admitted. “But... maybe he was thirsty.”

“Maybe,” Gina countered, “you’re a coward.”

Jules made an insulted sound. “I am not.”

“Yeah, you are. And you never answered my question,” Gina pointed out. “What if you go have drinks and find out that Stephen is great?”

Jules signaled for the exit that would take them to the rehab center. “I just... I don’t think I’m ready for this. Great or not...”

And Gina understood. “You’re, like, a double coward, because you’re afraid this guy is going to be great. You’re afraid you’re going to get involved with him—at which point, you think Adam will dump Branford and finally come crawling back, and then what’ll you do?”

Jules sighed. “Go ahead. I know you’re not done. You might as well finish.”

“How long are you going to sit around, waiting for this... this...”

“Total asshole?” Jules supplied.

“Right! To come back and tell you he made a mistake—again?” Gina asked. “And what kind of pretentious L.A. plastic name is Branford anyway? Yuck. Adam has no taste. Get over him, already. I’m serious. Stephen could be perfect—”

“You know I love you,” he cut her off, “but as long as we’re flinging our weaknesses and failings about, I’d like to point out to you that I’m not the one who’s not in Kenya right now. ‘Hello, AAI?’ ” he did a mock imitation of Gina’s voice, higher-pitched and breathy, “ ‘I just want to let you know that I’m going to be putting my entire life on hold, indefinitely, for a man who can’t or won’t admit that he loves me, and who just compared our entire relationship, excuse me, friendship—we do the music-less mambo every chance we get but we’re really only friends. Anyway, he just compared our friendship to a high-school summer fling.’ ”

Gina forced a laugh. “Wow, I really must’ve hit a nerve bringing up Adam,” she said, unable to keep her voice from shaking, “because that was really, really bitchy.”

Jules sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, and so obviously meant it, distress on his face.

He reached for her hand, and she met him halfway, lacing their fingers together and giving him a squeeze. “It’s okay,” she said. “Because, you know, you’re right.”

“And you’re right, too,” he told her. “Stephen scares me because, yes, I think he might be perfect. He’s so... nice—and smart and funny. It’s almost a joke. I didn’t tell you, but he was out walking his dog when I got home a few days ago, and we talked a little bit and... Merciful God. But you’re so right. I don’t want to have to admit to myself that I’m not over What’s-his-name. Because what kind of... of...”

“Fool?” Gina suggested.

“Yeah,” he said. “What kind of fool would still be jonsing for a crud like Adam—when Mr. Potentially Perfect is standing right in front of him?”

Gina’s heart was breaking for him. “So okay,” she said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not ready to date.”

“How about you, Kimosabe?” Jules asked, pulling into the rehab lot. He headed for a spot near the door. “You about ready to pack it in with Mr. Grumpy?”

“I don’t know,” Gina said. “I just...” She shook her head as he parked the car. “I promised I’d stay as long as he needs me. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I can’t shake this feeling that he does. Need me.”

“Oh, sweetie...” Jules hugged her. “I’m sorry I was so mean.”

Interesting that he didn’t say whether or not he thought that Max truly did need her. Gina changed the subject, too. “So what’s this important thing Max has been working on?”

The past couple days, he’d been glued to his phone. Yesterday, she hadn’t seen him at all.

She was supposed to meet him for dinner, but traffic was terrible, it was raining like crazy, the car’s airbag light was on, and she’d had bad cramps. When she’d called to say she was going to be late and he was barely monosyllabic, she’d cancelled instead.

Hoping he’d be disappointed.

He hadn’t said a thing. Except, “I’ve got to take this call...”

“You know I can’t tell you anything,” Jules said now as he got out of the car.

“It’s got something to do with that assassination attempt in Afghan-istan,” Gina said, climbing out, too. “Doesn’t it? There’s some terrorist who’s—”

“There’s always some terrorist, somewhere,” Jules said. “Gina, you know that’s what we do. Do yourself a favor, and don’t ask Max about it.”

He put his jacket on, and his overcoat, too. It was chilly out today.

“Great,” Gina grumbled as she wrapped her scarf around her neck. “More topics to avoid.” She gathered up the latest armload of comic books she’d gotten for Ajay. And Max. She suspected he liked reading them, too. She juggled them with the flowers she’d brought for elderly Mrs. Klinger. “Grab that, will you?”

Jules lifted the guitar case out of the back seat by its handle. “You’re really going to just... give this to Max?”

Gina knew Max would never buy one for himself. “He’s always wanted a guitar,” she said.

“Max?” Jules looked skeptical.

“I thought I could give him a lesson or two.”

“You play?”

“A little,” she said. “You know, enough to fake my way through a few choruses of ‘All Shook Up.’ ”

“Can I watch him learn to play that?” Jules said. “Pretty please? Max playing an Elvis song.” He laughed. “Then again, I may never recover from the sight.”

“Max is an Elvis fan,” Gina told him as she led the way across the parking lot.

“No. Way.”

“He is.”

“He told you that?” Jules didn’t believe her.

“Yeah,” Gina said. “You know, he does talk to me occasionally. With complete sentences and everything.”

“He said those words,” Jules said. “He said, ‘I, Max Bhagat, am an Elvis fan.’ ”

“Please don’t even think about teasing him,” Gina said. “I swear, this assassination thing that I’m not supposed to know anything about is making him really grim. Extra grim. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him smile.”

“Max smiles?” Jules said, incredulity in his voice. “He’s an Elvis fan, and you’ve actually seen him smile...?”

“Stop,” Gina said, laughing. “Or I’m going to invite Stephen-the-new-neighbor over for dinner. With my brother Victor. ‘Dude, no, no, dude—three words. Sarah Michelle Gellar. Tell me to my face, right to my face, dude, that you wouldn’t do it with Sarah Michelle Gellar.’ ”

“All right, all right,” Jules said, as he opened the door for her. “You win.”