“Not completely,” he said coldly.

She thought it through, all of it.

“All right,” she said. “Your story works. We’re still partners.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Because we have company.”

“Where?” she asked sharply.

Peter made a gesture with his eyes. Alex had been so engrossed in Peter’s backstory that she had missed something. She turned fast and saw Yuri Federov, two bodyguards close behind him, standing near the doorway to the bar. He had just spotted her.

“Trouble?” Peter asked softly. His hand was starting to drift under his jacket.

“No. It’s okay,” she said. She moved her hand quickly and stopped his before it reached his gun. “It’s Federov.”

She released. Peter’s hand stayed where it was, on his lap, just in case.

Federov approached the table, looked at her, and then looked at Peter.

“Found a new boyfriend already?” he asked in English.

“Don’t be crude, Yuri, even though that may be difficult for you.”

He snorted. “We can talk?” Federov asked.

His bodyguards were enormous men in black leather jackets. They loomed behind him like a couple of trained grizzly bears, almost as big, almost as wide, and almost as smart. Alex guessed they were the men who had abducted her.

“This is Mr. Chang,” she said smoothly. “He’s a friend and is assisting me on this case.”

Federov, who never cared much for strangers, grunted.

“You can speak in front of him or we can speak privately, Yuri,” Alex continued. “But the bottom line is this: anything you tell me I’m probably going to have to tell him. So you can do it whatever way you want, and keep in mind that the Internal Revenue Service will be thrilled by your cooperation.”

Federov glanced at Chang. “He speaks English, this Chinaman?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

Federov looked in Chang’s direction. “Yes or no? Speak English?”

Chang shrugged. “Some,” he said, sounding slightly fresh-off-the-boat. Federov looked back to Alex.

“I have a man in Genoa,” he said, “north of Italy. He used to work on one of my ships. My people are holding him.”

“I know where Genoa is,” she said. “I’ve been there. Who’s this man and where do you have him? In the trunk of a car?”

Federov missed her irony.

“He’s at a house I own. He has things to tell you.”

“About?”

“Money. And a transfer of smuggled explosives.”

She looked quickly to Peter and searched his eyes.

“It will take me a day to get to Genoa,” she said.

“Why?”

“Air schedules.”

“I have a private plane. It’s already at your disposal.”

“You’re serious?”

“No. I came into the city to tell jokes.”

“Are you going with us?” she asked. “To Genoa?”

“It would be a good idea,” he said. “I think this man will have more to say if I’m there. I have arranged for an interpreter.”

“What does he speak?”

“He speaks Italian and Turkish. Those are the only languages that are dependable.”

“I speak Italian,” she said.

“He’s Sicilian dialect. He sounds like a drunken goat.”

She thought for a moment. “Then let me also bring in one of my own people. From Rome, if I can get him.”

“I don’t mind. Can he be in Genoa by evening?”

“I can call and ask,” she said.

Federov reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He handed it to her, almost rudely.

“I’ll use mine,” Alex said. “No need to spread private numbers around, is there?”

“None,” he said with a grin, taking back the phone.

“Nice try, anyway,” she said. Peter smiled. His hand left his lap.

Federov’s two thugs still loomed and glowered. Federov looked at Peter. Then, “This Chinaman is coming too?” he asked.

Alex looked to Peter. “Yes, the Chinaman is coming too,” Peter said. “The Chinaman wouldn’t miss it.”

Federov shrugged. “The more the merrier,” he said. “Let’s get moving.”

“Will we have trouble with weapons at the airport?” Peter asked.

“Not if you’re with me,” Federov answered. “Let’s go.”

MADRID, SEPTEMBER 16 5:49 P.M.

Under the city, Jean-Claude worked with care to remove the final stones and bricks that blocked his access to a chamber under the Calle Serrano. He worked by hand, Mahoud and Samy with him. One by one, the last bricks and rocks gave way. The old plaster and mortar crumbled. They hammered with muffled tools and opened a hole that was wide enough to crawl through. Then Samy, the smallest of them, hoisted himself up, crawled forward, and pulled his way through to the other side.

He was three feet off the ground and did a playful tumble forward. His hands hit the soft dirt. He rolled once and came up on his feet smiling. His side of the wall was in darkness, however. So Mahoud handed him one of the flashlights.

“What do you see?” Jean-Claude asked in Arabic.

“I see a massive explosion that will bring misery to Western imperialists,” he said.

All three of them laughed. This was an eerie, dark place. But this wasn’t much different from the time they had burrowed under other blocks in this same city to break into the museum several weeks ago. Do anything long enough and you get good at it. The old rule of thumb applied to this also, amateur terrorists tunneling under a city to get what they wanted.

A pack of New Age moles, that’s what they were.

Subversives in the old meaning of the word, burrowing underneath the established order. Old Moles, as Marx had once suggested. The small cell of self-motivated, independent jihadists thought of themselves in heroic, romantic terms. They were the substance of the work, the destiny, and the future of persecuted Islamic people in Europe and the saviors of their people, all rolled into one five-piece unit.

Despite betrayal, despite the failure of their culture to adapt to the modern age, these amateur warriors saw themselves making headway. Jean-Claude had read Marx and had pulled some phrases from him.

“We are like a desert stream,” he liked to tell his young warriors, “a stream that has been diverted from its course and has plunged into the depths below the sands. And now we reappear, sparkling and gurgling, in an unexpected place.”

They knocked away a few more stones and were indeed in a place where no one expected them to be. They were sixteen feet under the basement of the US Embassy. Their plans were right on target and so was their physical position.

GENEVA, SEPTEMBER 16, 6:00 P.M.

Alex repacked her bag and checked out of the hotel.

By six in the evening, she was standing in the lobby of her hotel, a few paces back from the door. Peter was already there. They stood apart without speaking.

Federov arrived punctually at 6:00 in a van with a driver and his two bodyguards, one whom he now addressed as Serge, and another whom he addressed as Dmitri.

Peter got into the van first. Alex swiftly followed.

The van took them to a small private airport in the town of Villi-ette, ten kilometers outside of Geneva. Federov’s plane was a Cessna Citation, a small comfortable corporate jet that he had at his disposal. They took off toward 7:00 p.m. as the sun was setting and rose into a sky that was turning gold.

Alex found a seat by a window, sat alone, and looked downward. She enjoyed the tremendous view of the Jura Mountains, which still had some snow on the highest peaks, and the Lake of Geneva. The aircraft took off to the north, banked, and turned southward in the sky. Geneva lay to Alex’s right and Lausanne and the other cities of French-speaking Switzerland lay down the lake to her left.

They were out of Switzerland within minutes and flew for an hour over the French Alps and next the Italian Alps. The mountains were luminous with the dying light of day. Then the aircraft reached the Mediterranean, which was growing dark. The plane banked easily to the port side and continued over the sea eastward toward Genoa.