were blue, bruised-looking. In fact, she had the dazed look of someone who had just received a thorough thrashing.
“Hello, Raya.”
“Deel—”
Tubes ran in and out of both arms. There was still a drain poking through the bandages on the side of her head. Hideous thing, Delia thought, trying to avert her gaze without being conspicuous about it. She failed.
“I guess you shouldn’t show me a mirror.” Soraya tried for a smile and just missed. It looked lopsided, grotesque, and for a breathless moment Delia was terrified that the operation had done something to the nerves on that side of her face. Then, as Soraya started to talk more, she realized it was merely fatigue combined with the remnants of the anaesthesia.
“How d’you feel, Raya?”
“Bad as I look. Maybe worse.”
Now it was Delia’s turn to smile. “It’s fine now. Everything’s fine.”
“Hendricks told me the baby’s okay.”
Delia nodded. “That’s right. No problems.”
Soraya sighed, visibly relaxing. “When can I get out of here, did the doctors say?”
Delia laughed. “Why? You itching to get back to work already?”
“I have a job to do.”
Delia bent over her. “Right now your job is to get better—for yourself and for the baby.” She took her friend’s hand. “Listen, Raya, I did something...something you warned me not to do. But under the circumstances, I thought...I told Charles about the baby.”
Soraya, overwhelmed with guilt, closed her eyes. But she knew she had to continue on down this path, step by ugly step.
“I’m sorry, Raya. Truly. But I was so afraid for you. I thought he had a right to know.”
“It’s your basic decency, Deel,” Soraya said. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have known.” In fact, she had known. She had been banking on Delia’s basic decency.
“Where’s Charlie now?”
“He’s been here for a while,” her friend said. “I’m kind of surprised he’s stayed so long.”
“Does his wife know he’s here?”
Delia made a face. “Ann Ring is up on the Hill, engulfed day and night in her senatorial legislative package on next year’s Homeland Security procurements and expenditures.”
“How d’you know that?”
“I read Politico. They don’t like her, either.”
“Who does, except her constituents? And, of course, The Beltway Journal.”
“Now you’re going to say you can’t understand why he married her.” Soraya’s lips curled in the semblance of a smile. “She married him.
She was like an unstoppable force. He couldn’t say no.”
“Any adult can say no and mean it, Raya.”
“But not Charlie. He was bedazzled.”
“Senator Ring has that effect on a lot of conservative Republicans. She could do a spread in Playboy.”
“If only,” Soraya said. “Then we’d all be rid of her.”
“I don’t know. I have a feeling she’d be able to somehow spin it to her advantage.”
Soraya laughed and squeezed her friend’s hand. “What would I do without you, Deel?”
Delia squeezed back. “Heaven only knows.”
“Listen, Deel. I want to see Charlie.”
Delia’s face clouded over. “Raya, do you think that’s such a good idea?”
“It’s important. I—”
All at once, her eyes opened wide, and she gasped. Her hand turned into a claw and her torso arched off the bed. The monitors to which she was hooked up started to go crazy. Delia started screaming, and Thorne pushed open the door, his face white and drawn.
“What is it?” He looked from her to Soraya. “What’s happened?”
Delia could hear the soft slap of running rubber-soled shoes, voices raised in alarm, and she shouted, “Help! She needs help! Now!”
Bourne and Rebeka silently entered the apartment she had rented on Sankt Eriksgatan in Kungsholmen. It was on the third floor, a block and a half from the water. Christien was waiting for them downstairs in the Volvo, along with a bodyguard-messenger from his office he had picked up on a prearranged street corner in Gamla Stan.
The pair went stealthily through all the rooms, checking the shallow closets, even under the bed, and behind the shower curtain. When they had assured themselves that the apartment was secure, Rebeka knelt down on the tile floor of the bathroom.
“How much money have you stowed away?” Bourne said.
“I always establish a private vault in a secure location. It’s not safe to carry so much on my person.”
Bourne, kneeling beside her, helped her carefully peel up two thin lines of grout, making certain they wouldn’t crumble. This left an island tile, which she plucked up. Beneath lay a thick wad of bills— krona, euros, American dollars.
Stuffing the wad into her pocket, she stood up. “Come on,” she said. “This place gives me the creeps.”
They left the apartment, hurrying down the twilit stairs.
Ilan Halevy,