“So it could be someone sent to assassinate the Russian minister and using bombs to make the authorities think they’re local anarchists?” David said. “Sounds clumsy to me. No way would they think those bombs were from anarchists. Well, depending, I guess, on what’s left of them now. From what I could see, a hefty amount of evidence shot out of the window.”

“The bad news is that they will go to see why our floor didn’t blow out too. Footprints, fibers, fingerprints. Shit. I touched the window frame when the second floor blew,” Mal said.

David knew that everything he’d touched was in the box he held. “Dammit. Well you probably have about three days before they process the prints.”

“I’m not in the system. But it still doesn’t fill me with the joys of spring to know that anyone has my fingerprints.” He fell silent, and David allowed him a few minutes to digest. If Mal was SAS, his prints would definitely be classified. But with the world’s eyes on Athens and the G20 meeting, there may be pressured cooperation between the countries. Which meant Mal’s days in Athens was numbered. He was sure Mal was thinking about that.

“The worst thing isn’t that my identity will be blown, it’s that the authorities will think the British had something to do with the assassination of a Russian minister. And frankly, boy-o, you should be worried about that too. Send your girl away. Whoever she is, she’ll be in their crosshairs, being the person with him when he got killed. Your country doesn’t want that heat either. No offense, mate, but country first. Give her a kiss and send her to the airport. Fast.”

So Mal, for all his attitude, was as patriotic to his country as David was to his. He was right on all counts, as well. David knew what he had to do. Should do.

Do I have the strength to send her away again? Yes, yes he did. He had to.

When they got to Mal’s room, David laid some clean white towels on the bed and started placing the recovered items on it. As he went, he placed the bomb components together as they’d been connected in situ. The more he rebuilt, the more he concocted a vision of how this went down. Someone had left at least the explosive charge, and maybe all the equipment, for the shooter. The shooter could have set the explosives, made his shot, and then left, knowing that as soon as someone located the origin point of the shot, the evidence would be blown up. Meaning the shooter could make a fast getaway, not having to worry about clean up. Or, someone assembled the explosives after. But that would have been too risky. Actually the only scenario that made sense was that the explosives were rigged before the sniper took position. Oh. Ohhhh.

“Okay,” David said. “Imagine you’ve been given the assassination job. Your front man has set up a bunch of explosives to cover any evidence you were there after you’ve done the job.”

Mal sat in the armchair and nodded, leaning forward, elbows on knees. It was the most serious David had ever seen him.

“You’re directed to the second floor to take the shot. What happens?”

Mal didn’t hesitate. “I make a mental note to kill the guy who told me I could get a bead on the target from the second floor. There isn’t a good enough line of vision to get a shot.”

David nodded. “So the explosives are rigged on the first, second and third floors. But you need the fourth floor to make your shot.”

Mal nodded. “I take the explosives from one of the other floors, and put them on the fourth floor.”

“But?”

Mal was already nodding. “But to move the explosives, I have to cut the wire. So I take the bombs onto the fourth floor, and then I have to use something else as the tripwire. Something handy…something like dental floss.”

David looked back at the towel and picked up the sheath to a pen. It was a metal tube with “BP” engraved on it. Someone’s initials, not a logo. “This came from the floor above. It’s charred, so it was definitely near the bomb. Maybe even the contact blocker.”

“Keep it in case,” Mal said. “I don’t much like anything going on here. Can you get rid of the explosives?”

“Sure.” That wasn’t even slightly difficult. He could throw it in any trash can in the city and it would be totally inert. Although he was more inclined to take them to the US embassy. “I’m going to check in on Molly.”

“Great. Ask her why someone would want to shoot her friend, will ya? Could save time.” Mal wrapped up the towel with all the evidence, and dumped it on the floor. He lay on the bed, and put both hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

David didn’t dignify it with a reply.

CHAPTER THREE

When Molly woke, the first thing she checked was her pocket. Then her phone. The notes were still there, and the phone had no text or voice mail. Brandon Peterson had disappeared. Or disavowed her. A prickling of anxiety settled in her stomach, and she blew out air through puffed cheeks, trying to dispel the feeling.

David. She was in David’s room. At last. A year she’d been looking over her shoulder, waiting for him to show up. And now she was here with him. In Athens.

She knew he was worried about her, but she hadn’t done anything wrong. Maybe she’d been about to do something in service of her country, but she hadn’t. And it still wasn’t wrong. Her thoughts flittered to Doubrov, wondering if she had done something that led to his death.

Her head felt clear again, even though her back throbbed. She fingered the messages in her pocket. Should she read the other one too? She’d been told not to. She just wished Brandon would return her call so he could tell her what to do.

She stretched and winced again at the pull of the wounds in her back. She needed a shower and some clean clothes. Maybe her luggage had arrived. Suddenly the idea of clean underwear and clothes that didn’t have slivers of glass in it was overwhelmingly attractive. She left David a note and went down to her room.

Bliss. Her suitcase had arrived. She sighed with relief and pulled out a silk blouse and a skirt, hung them on a hanger, and took them into the bathroom with her to steam out the creases. The shower was heavenly, but being alone and naked made her long for David with a heaviness that threaded through her stomach. Nervousness perhaps. She’d spent a year thinking about him, dreaming about him, wondering what she would do if he had actually called. The thought of him actually being here, causing this physical reaction in her, confused her.

She wasn’t sure when she had put it all together in her head, but her boss had married Matt, the other man who’d helped them in Iraq, so it was as if her soul had accepted that David would be hers. Like a perfect and symmetrical outcome. Henrietta had Matt, and she would have David. He must have felt the same, she’d been sure. Every time they’d seen each other, his eyes would never leave hers. They burned into her, making her think that they were connected at some profound level. She was sure he saw her, really saw her. He didn’t say much when he was sober, and only laughed that one time she’d seen him drunk, but they’d seemed to say so much without words that she was sure—no she knew—he would come for her when she returned to the US.

And when the months passed, and her feeling about the man who had rescued her, totally on top of his game even though he’d been drunk at the time, had never diminished. She waited, sure every time she got home that he’d be on her doorstep.

He was hers. Her heart had never accepted even a sliver of doubt, though he hadn’t even kissed her. Two kisses on the freaking forehead were all he’d given her. Maybe if she wore heels she’d be at the right height to get a kiss where she wanted one. But he’d done nothing except hold her close at the airport a year ago. Why had she been celibate just waiting on the off chance that he’d make good on his promise? And why was washing herself in the shower making her want him with every part of her? Every drop of water felt like a touch. His touch. But now he was really here, yet different. More careful, more considered. Still intense, still dangerous. Still wildly attractive.