Текст книги "The Hit"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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“So we both go?” said Reel, watching Tucker.

He spread his hands. “Like Robie said, it’s dicey right now. We believe the odds of success a re increased with both of you going in.”

“Which of us takes the shot?” asked Robie.

Potter pointed at Reel. “She does. You’re the spotter.”

“She has to finish the mission, Robie,” added Tucker. “That is the official deal. She does that, as far as this country is concerned, the slate is wiped clean.”

“I’d like that in writing,” said Reel.

“In writing?” Tucker scoffed. “Where the hell are you coming from asking for that?”

“From a place called ‘I don’t trust you,’” she answered.

“You don’t have a damn choice,” thundered Tucker.

Potter held up a hand. “Look, maybe we can accommodate you.”

“Whatever you want to call it, I don’t care. All I want is someone really high up’s ass on the line that says you will honor the deal.”

“We could put you in prison,” said Tucker. “So how about you go kill Ahmadi and our ‘agreement’ is you don’t rot in a jail cell?”

Reel looked at Potter. “So accommodate me.”

“How high up do you want the signatory to be?” asked Potter.

“Way higher than either of you,” she said.

“That is a short list.”

“And don’t I know it.”

Potter looked at Tucker, who sat back, folded his arms across his chest, rocked back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling, looking for all the world like an overgrown child who had just had his crayons taken away.

“Okay,” said Potter. “Consider it done.”

Reel scooped up the USB stick. “Nice haggling with you.”

She and Robie started to leave.

“Robie, hold up,” said Tucker. “We have matters to discuss with you separate from this.”

Reel looked at Robie and shrugged. “I’ll be outside.”

She left.

Tucker motioned for Robie to retake his seat. “She’s a liability.”

“I don’t see it that way,” said Robie. “And why are you really sending me along? She doesn’t need a spotter.”

“Because you are to make sure that she comes back. She is going to be held responsible for her crimes,” said Tucker.

“You mean for killing traitors?”

“I mean for murdering two of my people.”

“And the deal you gave her?”

Tucker looked triumphant. “There is no deal.”

Robie glanced at Potter. “You just told her there was a deal.”

Potter looked uncomfortable. “I’m usually a man of my word, Robie. But this is out of my hands.”

Tucker pointed a finger at Robie. “And just to be clear, if you tell her the truth your ass will be in a prison cell until the day you die. We’ve got you on all sorts of aiding and abetting the enemy, meaning Jessica Reel.”

Robie looked over at Blue Man, who was still doodling on his paper. “What do you think about this?” he asked him.

Blue Man looked up, thought for a moment. “I think you should go. And do your duty.”

Robie and Blue Man gazed at each other for a long moment. Then Robie rose. “See you on the other side,” he said, before going out the door.

Blue Man caught up with him before he left the building.

“Was that bullshit back there from you?” Robie asked.

“It was actually the best advice I could give you under the circumstances.” He put out his hand. “Good luck.”

Robie hesitated and then shook it.

Blue Man walked off and Robie left the building.

Reel was waiting for him at his car. They got in.

Reel said, “What did they want with you?”

“Doesn’t really matter, now that I know.”

“Know what?”

Robie held up the piece of paper that Blue Man had slipped him while shaking his hand.

Reel looked at the two letters Blue Man had written on it.

They were both lowercase t’s.

She gazed up at Robie. They both knew exactly what it meant.

“Double cross,” said Reel.

“Double cross,” repeated Robie.

CHAPTER

83

THE OPERATIONS ROOM WAS SMALL and the company selected to sit in on this particular mission few in number.

Potter, the APNSA.

Tucker, the DCI.

The new number two at CIA, who looked slightly gun-shy, since his two predecessors had been killed and permanently incapacitated, respectively.

The director of homeland security.

A ramrod-straight, white-haired three-star from the Pentagon.

And Blue Man.

On one wall was a mass of giant TV screens on which real-time SAT downloads were streaming across. The men sat in comfortable chairs around a rectangular table. Bottles of water sat in front of each of them. They could be getting ready to watch every NFL game being broadcast.

Or another type of contest from a half a world away.

Potter checked one of the digital clocks on the wall. “One hour away,” he said, and Tucker nodded.

“Everything in place?” asked the three-star.

“Everything’s in place,” replied Tucker. He had on a headset and was receiving communications from assets on the ground. This was hard to do in a place like Syria, but the United States had enough muscle to do just about anything just about anywhere.

He hit a button on the control console in front of his chair and one screen flicked to the sniper nest set up in an empty office building in downtown Damascus.

“It was fortunate that Ahmadi’s people never learned of the assassination attempt,” said Tucker. “In fifty-seven minutes he’s going to find himself in the crosshairs once more.”

“When does Reel arrive at the nest?” asked Potter.

“In ten minutes.”

“And Robie?”

“His spotter site is set up on the street opposite where Ahmadi will be getting out.”

“And their exit?” asked the director of homeland security.

“Planned and polished and we expect it to work,” said Tucker vaguely.

“But everything is a risk,” added Potter quickly. “Especially over there.”

The three-star nodded approvingly. “It takes balls to do what your people do. Sending two in with light weapons and no backup. We send our guys into tough situations, but they have a lot more firepower and resources. And we don’t leave people behind.”

“They’re the best we have,” said Blue Man, drawing hard stares from Tucker and Potter.

“I’m sure,” said the three-star. “Well, godspeed to them.”

“Godspeed,” mouthed Blue Man.

A voice spoke in Tucker’s ear. He turned to the others and said, “Robie has just communicated in. He’ll be in position in five minutes. Reel will be in the sniper’s nest in seven minutes. Everything looks good. Ahmadi will be leaving the government building right about now. He will be out of target for the next forty-eight minutes. Then they’ll have a two-minute window to—”

Tucker broke off speaking for a very understandable reason. On the TV screens, screaming people were suddenly running down the streets of Damascus. Guns were being fired into the air. Sirens were starting up.

“What the hell?” barked Potter.

Tucker was transfixed by what was happening on the screen.

Potter grabbed him by the shoulder. “What’s going on?”

Tucker spoke into his headset, demanding an explanation for the sudden chaos on the streets.

“They’re trying to find out. They don’t know yet.”

“Dial up Robie,” demanded Potter. “He’s right there.”

Tucker attempted to do so. “He’s not answering. He’s gone silent.”

“Reel, then. Get somebody, for God’s sake.”

“Look,” said the three-star.

Syrian security forces were hanging out the window of the room where the sniper’s nest was set up.

“How the hell did they get there so fast? Reel isn’t even there. She hasn’t fired a shot yet,” added the DHS director.

“The whole operation has been compromised,” said Tucker. “There’s been a breach somewhere.” He exchanged a glance with Potter. “This was not supposed to happen.”

“And Ahmadi got away? Again?” snapped the three-star.

“He was not supposed to get away,” Tucker muttered under his breath.

“For Christ’s sake,” said Potter. “Can’t we get anything right?”

“Hold on,” said Tucker. “Something’s coming through now.”

He listened to the voice in his ear. His expression went from stunned concern to absolute amazement.

“Copy that,” he said.

“What is it?” screamed Potter when Tucker didn’t say anything else.

Tucker turned to the others, his face white. “Ahmadi was just shot outside the government building, while he was getting into his car. He’s dead. It’s been confirmed through reliable sources.”

“Thank God for that,” said the three-star. “But I don’t understand. Did the mission change? The hit was supposed to be outside the hotel.”

“The mission didn’t change. Not on our end,” said Blue Man calmly.

The DHS director was staring at the Syrians swarming over the sniper’s nest. “What I don’t get is how they were onto the sniper’s nest so fast.” He turned to Tucker. “It’s almost like they knew the hit was coming.”

“A breach, like we said,” Tucker responded, still looking ghostly pale.

“But Reel and Robie must’ve known about it. That’s why they made the switch to the government building and did the hit there,” explained Potter quickly.

“But that doesn’t make sense,” said the three-star.

“Why not?” asked Tucker.

“You said Robie just reported in. He was getting into position as the spotter outside the hotel. And he also reported that Reel was expected to be in place in ten minutes. The hotel and government building are nowhere near each other. Why would he communicate to his own agency one thing and then do something else entirely? It was almost as though he didn’t trust—”

The three-star stopped talking and turned back to the screen, where the Syrian security forces were still screaming from the balcony of the sniper’s nest.

Then the three-star glanced back at Tucker with a suspicious look.

Tucker looked over at the DHS director and found his gaze boring into him as well.

Tucker started to say something and then stopped. All he could do was stare at the screens.

The three-star said, “But the kill was still made. Under the, um, unusual circumstances I’d say that was the finest hit I’ve ever, well, not seen.”

“Same for me,” said the DHS director.

“And me,” added Potter lamely, which drew a long glare from Tucker.

“Robie and Reel deserve this country’s thanks,” said the three-star firmly.

The DHS director added, “And we’ll see that they get it.”

“If they get out of Syria,” said the three-star darkly.

If they get out of Syria alive, thought Tucker.

CHAPTER

84

OTHER THAN NORTH KOREA AND IRAN, Syria was arguably the most difficult country in the world to escape from for a westerner.

Foreigners were inherently suspect.

Americans were hated.

American operatives who had just killed a potential Syrian leader were good for only one thing: execution and then being dragged through the streets headless.

The only positive element was that Syria’s borders were not secure. They were flimsy and ever-changing, just as the politics of the moment were, in one of the countries constituting the “cradle of civilization.”

Robie and Reel understood this fully.

They had a chance, a slender one.

Reel had delivered the kill shot from a building across the street from where Ahmadi had been about to get into his limo. It would have been easier to don a full burqa face covering and escape that way. However, Syrian women didn’t wear traditional Islamic garb for the most part. And full facial veils had been banned in universities and other public settings by the increasingly secular government, who felt it was a security risk and promoted extremism. Thus putting one on would have been a red flag, not a disguise.

But she could still wear a hijab. This would reveal part of her face, but she had stained it darker and simulated wrinkles and sun damage. And in the long black robe she had incorporated a harness and padding that added about sixty pounds to her frame. She stooped as she walked and looked as though she were about seventy.

She picked up a market basket and left the room, waiting patiently at the elevator with another man who was standing there. The elevator doors opened and she got into the car. It headed down. When it reached the ground floor she stepped off.

She was swept to the side as police flooded the building. They grabbed the man who had been in the elevator car with her and pulled him, as well as several other Syrian men, along with them. They stormed into the elevator and up the stairwell.

Reel waited for a few moments and then continued on. When she got outside, police cars were everywhere. Swarms of people were screaming. People were crying. Others were marching in the streets, chanting.

A car caught on fire. Guns were racked back and fired into the air. Shop windows were smashed. There was a small explosion down the street.

Reel followed another group of women down the street and into an alley.

Under normal circumstances, it would have been unthinkable for men to search a woman on a Syrian public street.

These were not normal circumstances.

Police swept into the alley and started grabbing everyone, pulling at their clothing, looking for weapons or other signs of culpability.

One man had a knife. The police shot him in the head.

A woman ran screaming. She was repeatedly shot in the back and dropped to the pavement with blood pouring from multiple wounds.

The police were now closing in on Reel. She didn’t look like an assassin. She looked like a fat old woman. But the police apparently didn’t care. They were only a few feet from her as she backed away.

Her hand reached inside her basket.

They were just about to surround her, their guns drawn and pointed at her.

Her back was against a brick wall. One of the police reached out to grab her arm. Once they saw the padding, it would all be over. They would shoot her right on the spot.

The loud voice reached to the alley.

The police stopped, turned.

The voice yelled out again and again. In Arabic it said, “We have the shooter! We have the shooter!”

The police turned and ran back down the alley toward the voice.

The crowd closed in on Reel. Sobbing people bent down to the dead bodies.

Reel pushed backward, away from the crowd, and managed to ease into a sliver of a side alley.

She walked quickly down it and reached another street, a busy thoroughfare. A taxi pulled up to the curb and she climbed in.

“Where to?” the bearded driver asked in Arabic.

“I think you know,” she said in English.

Robie hit the gas and the cab sped off.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Close?”

“Close enough,” she said.

She pulled the remote from her basket and held it up. “This came in handy. Once they find the source of the ‘We have the shooter’ voice they won’t be happy.”

“A little boom box in the street never hurts,” said Robie.

As they rounded a turn she tossed the remote out the window.

He looked in the rearview mirror again and saw the crowds spilling into the streets behind them. “They’ll know the shooter got away. So we’re not free and clear yet.”

“Face it, Robie, we’ll never be free and clear again.”

“They found the sniper’s nest. Even though you didn’t fire from it.”

“Big surprise. But at least it validates what your guy told us about the double cross.”

“I wonder how they felt back in the ops room watching?”

“One of my greatest regrets in life will be missing the looks on their faces. Especially Tucker’s.”

He turned right and then left and sped up again. Traffic was lighter now. But Robie could envision roadblocks being set up right this minute.

Damascus to Israel was a short trip, but that would be the exit the Syrians would be expecting. And also the one designed by the CIA. So that option was out.

The trip to Amman, Jordan, was a little over a hundred miles. But the border between the two countries had been strengthened, with limited crossing points. So that was also out.

Iraq was to the east. It was a long border with many ways across. But neither Robie nor Reel saw much advantage in sneaking across the northern border of Iraq. They would most likely die there.

That left one option. Turkey, to the north. It was also a long border, hundreds of miles. The closest major Turkish city was Mersin, about 250 miles distant. There was a shorter route they could take through a narrow section of Turkey that poked like a misshapen finger into Syria a little north of Al Haffah. But Mersin, though farther away, would have more options for their onward travel, and a large city was easier to hide in. Besides, Robie wanted to put greater distance between them and the Syrians than the finger of Turkish land provided.

But they had to get there first.

And though the border had many holes in it, Syria and Turkey were also informally skirmishing with each other. Bombs dropped from planes and guns fired by roving packs of soldiers were becoming the standard of the day around the border. Plus there was a lot of illegal activity involving the trafficking of drugs, immigrants, guns, and other contraband through the region. And the criminals typically had one response to pesky witnesses.

They killed them.

“On to Turkey,” said Robie.

“On to Turkey,” she parroted back.

She didn’t take off her disguise. Not yet. She had papers, in case they were stopped. She had to hope they would be good enough.

As Robie looked up ahead, he knew they were about to be tested.

He had shaved his head, grown a trim beard, and stained his entire body darker. His blue eyes were hidden by tinted contacts. He could speak Arabic fluently, with none of the accent of a westerner. Reel, he knew, could as well.

The checkpoint had been set up quickly, faster than Robie had thought possible. He wondered if the double cross had anything to do with that.

Security checkpoints were far more frenetic in the Middle East than in other parts of the world, barely controlled chaos where guns were pulled at the slightest misstatement or an ill-timed glance.

Robie slowed his taxi to a stop. There were three cars and a truck in front of his. The guards were searching vehicles, and Robie saw one of them with a glossy piece of paper in his hand.

“They have our photo,” he said.

“Of course they do. Fortunately, we don’t look like that anymore.”

The guards reached the taxi. One of them yelled at Robie. He produced his papers and the man carefully examined them. Another guard poked his head in the back window and yelled at Reel. She kept her eyes down, showed her papers, and spoke deferentially. He looked in her basket and found a chunk of bread, a bag of nuts, a jar of honey, and a bottle of spices.

The car was searched and nothing out of the ordinary was found.

The first guard gave Robie a searching look and even tugged on Robie’s short beard. It remained firmly attached to his face. Robie cried out in pain and the man laughed and then yelled at him to continue through the checkpoint.

Robie put the car in gear and drove on.

They cleared Damascus and Robie pointed them north.

Nearly two hundred miles later they arrived on the outskirts of Aleppo, Syria’s largest city by population. It was dark now and they managed to slip into Aleppo without incident.

They had arranged for a safe house there. They changed, ate, and rested up for the second leg of their journey.

The next morning they climbed aboard bikes and started off with a touring group that would cycle through northern Syria to the Turkish border fifty miles away. The trip would normally take three days, a leisurely affair through ancient ruins and beautiful countryside.

They reached the Church of Saint Simeon Stylites, where the biking group planned to bed down for the night.

Robie and Reel didn’t choose that option. They left the group and biked on, past Midanki, made several exhausting climbs over poor roads, and then entered a downhill sprint to Azaz.

They continued on to Turkey, making their border crossing in the middle of the night. They watched military aircraft soaring overhead and dropping bombs, which destroyed targets on the ground. Gunfire also sounded during the night, but they ignored it, pushing ahead.

Two days later they biked into the outskirts of Mersin.

A day later they ferried across the Mediterranean to Greece, and from there they flew west. They landed in the United States a week after Ahmadi’s bloodied body hit the pavement in Damascus.

As soon as they reached America, Robie made a phone call. “We’re coming in,” he said. “Get the champagne ready.” And then he clicked off.

Evan Tucker slowly put down the phone.

CHAPTER

85

ALMOST ALL AWARDS CEREMONIES CONDUCTED by the CIA were held in secret. That was the nature of the beast. This one was particularly so.

It involved the Special Activities Division of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. Within that division was the SOG, or Special Operations Group. They were the best of the best, running around the world doing the bidding of the United States either with a gun or by inserting themselves in the riskiest settings for purposes of intelligence gathering. They were the most clandestine special ops force in America, if not the world. Most of the members came from the military elite.

Most, but not all.

The ceremony was held in an underground room at the agency’s installation at Camp Peary in Williamsburg, Virginia. It seemed appropriate that the event was below ground, in the shadows, and unknown to the rest of the world.

In attendance along with about two dozen others were Evan Tucker, APNSA Potter, the three-star, and the DHS director, who had watched the events unfolding in Damascus. And Blue Man.

Robie and Reel were each awarded the Distinguished Intelligence Cross, the highest award given out by the CIA. It was analogous to the Medal of Honor and was usually given posthumously. It was only bestowed for extraordinary heroism in highly dangerous conditions.

Evan Tucker read off the citation listing their achievements not only in Syria but also in Canada. And then Reel and Robie came forward to accept their medals.

As Tucker presented the medal to Reel he hissed, “This is not over yet.”

“Clearly not,” she said.

When Potter gave the medal to Robie he whispered, “You need to choose sides on this, Robie.”

“So do you,” Robie replied. “And choose wisely.”

Robie and Reel walked out of the ceremony together. Outside, they were greeted by Blue Man.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Robie said quietly.

“Just doing my duty.”

“Tucker isn’t taking this too well.”

“Hard to say how much longer he’ll be heading up the agency,” replied Blue Man.

“Days numbered?”

“They might be. He hasn’t been that stellar as a DCI.”

“You might want to consider the job.”

Blue Man shook his head. “No thanks. I’m broken down enough as it is.”

Robie and Reel drove out of Camp Peary and headed north. Neither of them spoke because neither had anything to say. The last couple of weeks had pushed them right to their maximum. They were both physically and mentally exhausted.

When they arrived back in D.C., Robie surprised her by saying, “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

He drove to the building and parked at the curb. About ten minutes later people started coming out of the building carrying large backpacks.

When Robie saw her he got out of the car and waved her over. Julie Getty approached cautiously.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“First you complain when I don’t come by, and now you complain when I do?”

Julie glanced in the car. “Who’s that?”

“Get in and you’ll find out.”

“Jerome is coming to pick me up.”

“No he’s not. I already phoned him and told him I was.”

They climbed in the car and Robie said, “Julie, Jessica; Jessica, Julie.”

The two women nodded at each other and then both looked questioningly at Robie as he steered the car into traffic.

“Where are we going?” asked Reel.

“An early dinner.”

Julie looked at Reel but she merely shrugged.

Robie drove them to a restaurant in Arlington. As they sat down to eat, Julie said to Reel, “How do you know Will?”

“Just a friend.”

“Do you work together?”

“Sometimes.”

“I know what he does,” she said bluntly.

Reel said, “So you know he can be a real pain in the ass, then?”

Julie sat back and a grin spread across her face. “I think I like you.” She looked at Robie. “Where is super agent Vance?”

“Doing super agent things, I imagine,” replied Robie.

Julie turned back to Reel. “So you do what he does?”

Reel bit into a roll. “We both do things a little differently.”

Robie said, “How’s school going?”

“Fine. What have you two been up to?”

“This and that,” said Robie.

“I read the news. I know what’s been going on in the world. Have you two been overseas lately?”

“Not lately, no,” said Reel.

“You lie as well as he does.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. I admire people who can lie well. I do it all the time.”

“I think I like you,” said Reel.

Robie put a hand on her arm. “I screwed up before, Julie. I won’t again.”

“So does this mean you’ll come by sometimes?”

“Yes, it does.”

“With her?”

“That’s up to Jessica.”

Julie looked at her.

“I can do that,” Reel said slowly, glancing uncertainly at Robie.

After dinner, they dropped Julie off at home. She gave them both hugs. Reel awkwardly hugged her back and then watched Julie climb the steps to her house.

As soon as Robie drove off, Reel said, “What the hell was that all about?”

“What? Having a meal with someone?”

“People like us don’t have meals with...normal people.”

“Why not? Is that somewhere in the agency manual?”

“We just took down a terrorist leader, Robie. And barely escaped. We could just as easily be in a hole somewhere in Syria with our heads cut off. You don’t just sit down to a meal with a teenager and shoot the shit after that.”

“I used to think that too.”

“What do you mean, ‘used to’?”

“I mean I used to think that way too. But I don’t anymore.”

“I don’t understand you.”

Robie drove to the next intersection, took a right, braked hard at the curb, and got out. Reel did too. They looked at each other over the roof of the car.

“I can’t keep doing this job and cut off the rest of the world around me, Jessica. It can’t be an either/or. I have to live a life. At least a little bit.”

“That thing back there with the kid? What if someone followed you there? What kind of life might she have then?”

“Our side already knows about Julie. And I take precautions. But I can’t protect everybody every minute of every day. She could step out in front of a bus and be just as dead as if someone had shot her.”

“That is a specious argument at best.”

“Well, it’s my argument. And my life.” He paused. “Are you telling me you didn’t enjoy meeting her?”

“No. She seems like a great kid.”

“She is a great kid. I want to be part of her life.”

“You can’t do that. We can’t be part of anyone’s life. Our friends end up dead because of us.”

“I refuse to accept that.”

“It’s not up to you, is it?” she snapped.

“Then let’s walk away from this shit. Start over.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m being serious.”

She looked at him, saw that this was true. “I don’t think I can walk away, Robie.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is who I am. This is what I do. If I stopped...”

“It seemed you were prepared to stop when all this happened.”

“That was revenge. I never looked past that. If you want the truth, I never thought I would survive it.”

“But you did. We bothdid.”

They both lapsed into silence.

She rested her arms on the roof of the car. “I didn’t think anything would ever scare me, Robie.” She exhaled a long breath. “But this does.”

“It’s not like a hit where you cross the i’s and dot the t’s. You don’t really think, you just execute. This, this you really have to think about.”

“And one and one don’t necessarily make two.”

“Almost never make two,” he amended.

“So how do you make sense out of it?”

“You can’t.”

Reel looked up. The rain had started falling after several days of dry weather. It was gloomy, depressing; even objects in the near distance were hard to make out.

As the rain picked up, neither of them made a move to get into the car. In about a minute they were soaked, but they just stood there.

“I’m not sure I can live like that, Robie.”

“I’m not sure either. But I think we have to try.”

Reel glanced down at her pocket. She pulled out the Distinguished Intelligence Cross and looked at it.

“Did you ever in a million years think you would get one of these?”

“No.”

“We got this for killing a man.”

“We got this for doing our job.”

She dropped the medal back into her pocket and looked at him. “But this is not a job you walk away from.”

“There aren’t many who have.”

“I’d rather leave it all in the field.”

“From the look of the world right now, you might get your wish.”

She looked away. “When Gwen and Joe were alive I knew I had at least two people who would mourn me. Who were my friends. That was important to me.”

“Well, now you have me.”

She stared back at him. “Do I? Really?”

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“What?”

“Close your damn eyes.”

“Robie!”

“Just do it.”

She closed her eyes as the rain continued to fall.

A minute passed.

She finally reopened them.

Will Robie was still there.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Michelle, for taking care of everything else in the way only you can.

To Mitch Hoffman, for always seeing the trees and the forest.

To David Young, Jamie Raab, Sonya Cheuse, Lindsey Rose, Emi Battaglia, Tom Maciag, Maja Thomas, Martha Otis, Karen Torres, Anthony Goff, Bob Castillo, Michele McGonigle, and everyone at Grand Central Publishing, who support me every day.

To Aaron and Arleen Priest, Lucy Childs Baker, Lisa Erbach Vance, Nicole James, Frances Jalet-Miller, and John Richmond, for always having my back.

To Anthony Forbes Watson, Jeremy Trevathan, Maria Rejt, Trisha Jackson, Katie James, Natasha Harding, Aimee Roche, Lee Dibble, Sophie Portas, Stuart Dwyer, Stacey Hamilton, James Long, Anna Bond, Sarah Willcox, and Geoff Duffield at Pan Macmillan, for leading me to number one in the UK.

To Arabella Stein, Sandy Violette, and Caspian Dennis, for being so good at what you do.

To Ron McLarty and Orlagh Cassidy, for continuing to astonish me with your audio performances.

To Steven Maat at Bruna, for keeping me at the top in Holland.

To Bob Schule, for always being there for me.

To Janet DiCarlo, James Gelder, Michael Gioffre, and Karin Meenan, I hope that you enjoyed your characters.

To Kristen, Natasha, and Lynette, for keeping me straight, true, and sane.

And to Roland Ottewell for another great copyediting job.

the hit

David Baldacci is a worldwide bestselling novelist. With his books published in over 45 different languages and in more than 80 countries, and with over 110 million copies in print, he is one of the world’s favourite storytellers. His family foundation, the Wish You Well Foundation, a non-profit organization, works to eliminate illiteracy across America. Still a resident of his native Virginia, he invites you to visit him at www.DavidBaldacci.com, and his foundation at www.WishYouWellFoundation.org, and to look into its programme to spread books across America at www.FeedingBodyandMind.com.