in her early thirties, the lines of stress and loss on her face made her appear middle-aged, for she had seen nearly her entire family murdered by Zimbabwean militia forces. Her only surviving child, a boy now eight years old, looked up at Eddie nervously from behind her skirts. “What happened? Did you free the prisoners from Fort Helena?”
“Yeah,” he told her. “Don’t know exactly how many, but a lot, about a hundred. Banga and his people got them out of there.”
“And what about …” Her voice dropped. “What about Boodu?”
Even as a whisper, the hated name still caught the attention of others nearby. More people approached Eddie. “Did you catch him?” a man demanded. “Did you bring the Butcher?”
“Some of him. Here.” Eddie brought something out from behind his back. “Let me give you a hand.”
Everyone recoiled in instinctive shock and disgust before they realized the significance of the distinctive ring on one stiffening finger. “It … it’s his,” said Japera softly. “It’s the Butcher’s hand.” She raised her voice to her companions. “It is the Butcher’s hand!”
The man who had spoken stared at it; then his mouth widened into a grin. He took the lifeless hand and held it aloft. “You killed the Butcher! He’s dead! The Butcher is dead!” The call was taken up by the others, delight and relief spreading through the little crowd.
Japera’s response was more muted, a tear beading in one eye. “You killed Gamba Boodu,” she said quietly to Eddie. “Thank you. My family … can rest now. Thank you.” She squeezed his hand. He nodded in silent acknowledgment. After a moment, she released him. “I will get your money.”
“Don’t give it to me,” he said, to her surprise. “TD can have most of my share—I don’t think getting her plane fixed’ll be cheap. And Max can have the rest.” He nodded toward the huge Russian, who was surrounded by cheering Zimbabweans and looking bemused but pleased by the attention. “All I need is enough to cover some expenses. Plane fares, mainly.”
Japera tried to hide her disappointment. “You are leaving? So soon?”
“I’ve got somewhere to go. All I need is to find out where. Excuse me.” He headed back to the plane to meet Strutter, who had just planted both feet on solid ground with huge relief.
“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie!” said the Kenyan, rubbing his brow. “We made it—you saved me!”
“Yeah, well, don’t expect me to make a habit of it. Like I said, if you tell me what I need to know, we’ll be all square.”
“No problem. I will find your friend, don’t you worry.”
“He’s not a friend,” said Eddie, expression turning cold. “You know Alexander Stikes?”
Strutter nodded. “Of course. Ex-SAS like you, runs his own PMC—although I heard he suddenly shut it down not long ago and started working for someone full-time. I had some dealings with him; arranged for him to hire mercenaries for certain jobs, people like Maximov. But he’s a dangerous man. In honesty, I’m happy he’s gone.” He regarded Eddie curiously. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for someone you don’t like. Why do you want to find him?”
Eddie’s face became even harder. “So I can kill him.”
TWO
New York City
Nina Wilde looked disconsolately out across her hometown from her office in the United Nations Building. Today marked a date she had no desire to celebrate: It was exactly three months since she had last seen her husband.
With a quiet sigh, the redhead turned away from the view and returned to her desk. A framed photograph beside the phone was a reminder of far better times: herself and her partner at an infinitely less depressing anniversary, the party thrown to mark the first year of their marriage. The picture was less than two years old, but a lot had happened since then.
A lot of people had died.
One of them was the subject of the email she had just received, the grim reminder prompting her melancholy reflectiveness at the window. It was from an Interpol officer named Renée Beauchamp, in charge of investigating the death of another member of the multinational police organization. The victim was Ankit Jindal, head of Interpol’s Cultural Property Crime Unit—and also a friend who had worked with Nina on two of her previous archaeological expeditions.
The prime—in fact, the only—suspect was Eddie Chase. Her husband.
That would have been bad enough on its own. But things were worse: She had been a witness. And despite her unwillingness to believe it, the only conclusion she could draw,