Mohammad suddenly burst into the office, jabbering in almost incoherent Arabic. “Rafik!” he shouted. “Rafik, the police arrest Fodl. He knows our, our, eh…” He drew silent.

“Location,” Rafik snarled in his native tongue. “Fodl knows our location.”

The terrorist got to his feet. Isphording gave a startled cry and cowered into the couch cushions, expecting to be beaten. “Please don’t hurt me. Please.”

“Silence!” Rafik snapped. He took a blindfold and a pair of hard plastic ear protectors from Mohammad.

“What — what are you doing?” Isphording sniveled. Tears coursed down his cheeks. They were going to execute him right here and now.

“I said, silence,” Rafik roared.

Before Rafik tied the blindfold around Isphording’s head, Mohammad jammed soft rubber plugs deep into his ears. Then came the blindfold and finally the ear protectors. Isphording couldn’t stop shaking. He could neither see nor hear anything. He was then gagged, but surprisingly, not too tightly. One of the terrorists hauled him to his feet, and together they guided him from the office. He had no idea what was happening, couldn’t tell where they were taking him. After just a few steps he smelled the exhaust from the idling van. A moment later he was unceremoniously dumped into the back. Though disorientated, he could sense the presence of the three guards charged with driving him to his court date. His ankles were bound with some kind of plastic tie, while his wrists and hands were taped as tightly as a mummy’s wrappings. He couldn’t wiggle a single finger, which meant he’d be unable to worry the tape off his hands. Rafik’s men were as efficient as they were deadly.

Isphording imagined the guards had been similarly bound.

The doors slammed shut as soon as he was secure, and the van took off, but they went only a short distance. Judging by how he and the guards rolled across the floor, they’d made three tight turns. As near as he could tell, the Palestinians had merely stashed the van behind the warehouse. The driver killed the ignition. A few minutes passed before Isphording felt the driver slam his door.

He and the guards were isolated from each other by the gags and ties, unable to hear because of the ear protectors. He could not imagine a worse feeling of deprivation, and while he was alive for the moment, he had no idea how long it would be before the van started up again and the four of them were taken away and killed.

Chairman Cabrillo had slammed the armored van’s door hard enough for the men inside to feel it, then tossed the keys onto the roof. He checked the street fronting the warehouse one more time. No one had seen him hide the vehicle behind the building. He twirled the spray bottle of bleach around his finger as he walked. Certain that no one had left behind fingerprints, he’d taken the precaution of dousing the inside of the cab with bleach to dilute any trace DNA.

Linc greeted him at the door. The ex-SEAL had unwound the kaffiyeh he’d worn to hide his black face and let the checkered head cloth drape around his wide shoulders. Artificial blood from when Julia had shot him dripped from the fringed edges.

“Well done,” Juan said, and the two men exchanged toothy grins.

“You must have a thing for playing Arab bad guys, Chairman,” the big man teased. “First you were Colonel Hourani of the Syrian Army, today you’re Palestinian terrorist leader Rafik. Who are you going to be tomorrow, Ali Baba?”

“Only if you play Scheherazade and do the Dance of the Seven Veils.”

Mike Trono, who’d taken over the role of Yuri Zayysev for Rudy Isphording’s benefit, was plucking the spent remains of devices called squibs from a special vest he wore under his shirt. The squibs were made of tiny explosive charges and an ounce or two of fake blood. These devices had been a staple of Hollywood effects wizards for years. A more sophisticated device had been placed inside Linc’s head scarf to make it appear that Julia had shot away half his skull. The office had also been rigged with small charges along the walls and on the furniture to further the illusion of bullets striking the plasterboard and metal. Of course all the weapons they’d used to stage the assault had fired blanks.

When Isphording and the guards were found, the story they would tell would be too bizarre to be anything other than the truth. After being grabbed by the Russian mob, the lawyer’s rescuers had then been attacked by rogue members of the PLO looking for money missing since Arafat’s death. The attack had been savage, and none of the Russians survived. Then the terrorists ran off when they learned one of their men might have been picked up by the police. What couldn’t be so easily explained is what happened to the Russians’ bodies and why the terrorists hadn’t taken Isphording with them. Nor would they be able to trace how the “Palestinians” got into the country in the first place.

Juan wasn’t too concerned with those details. The Swiss authorities would rattle their sabers about tighter border restrictions, but in the end they’d be satisfied because no civilians had been hurt throughout the ordeal, they had their star witness back in custody, and the world was minus a few gangsters from Saint Petersburg. And as a bonus, he thought that they would probably put pressure on Isphording to explain where the former head of the PLO had stashed the billions he’d stolen from his people. Who knew, maybe they’d even get some of it back.

The one thing he couldn’t control was if the lawyer revealed what he’d said under interrogation. He didn’t want the Swiss looking into Anton Savich, whoever he was, or a Sikh shipping mogul named Shere Singh. He could only hope that the lawyer was as frightened of Savich as he was of the PLO and would keep silent.

Dr. Huxley stepped out of the warehouse’s only lavatory. She’d washed away the fake blood from her face. She’d also stripped down to a black tank top that barely contained her curves to clean the mess away from her arm. The squib that had made it appear her arm had been blown nearly off had left a livid purple bruise on her otherwise flawless white skin.

“Are you okay, Ludmilla?”

“Da,” Julia deadpanned, rubbing the spot. “Is nothing.” Then she arched a teasing eyebrow. “Why is it everyone but you and Hali look like extras from some zombie B-movie?”

“Because none of you either speak Arabic or look Arabic.” He laughed. “Although Hali’s portrayal of the steely-eyed terrorist, Mohammad, left a lot to be desired. He had just a couple of lines to learn, and he managed to mangle both. On a brighter note, I have to hand it to Kevin and his team in the Magic Shop. They really outdid themselves this time. Especially Linc’s effect. For a second I thought it had gone wrong and his head really had exploded.”

“Scared me, too,” Julia admitted.

Juan called out to gather the rest of the team. “Okay everyone, listen up. First off I want to commend each and every one of you on a job well done. This little caper was a long shot from the beginning, and you pulled it off flawlessly.”

“That mean we’re getting bonuses?” Hali asked.

“You most of all, Hali. I’m sending you to a Berlitz so you can at least fake speaking Arabic.” This earned a round of good-natured laughter at Kasim’s expense. “Julia, head back to your hotel as soon as you’re ready. You’ve made your flight reservations?”

“I’ll be in Istanbul by two o’clock. From there I can hook up with you anywhere. Judging by what Isphording said, I take it we’re going to Indonesia?”

Cabrillo nodded. “Shere Singh sounds like the next link in the chain.”

“As soon as I reach Ataturk International I’ll book a flight to Jakarta.” She slipped into a dark blouse. “All of my disguise stuff is in a suitcase in the office.”