Oath of Office

Instead of throwing the squeaking animal into the flames, Omar pitched it against a rock planter at the edge of the veranda. Light from the fire cast a long shadow off the crippled gerbil as it dragged itself toward the darkness, crying in distress.

The snake appeared as if by magic, slithering out from between the rocks, tongue flicking, crawling slowly but steadily toward the doomed gerbil.

Ysabel gasped.

“You are evil,” she whispered.

Jack had already decided he would not let the man hit her, even if it meant getting shot in the head.

But Omar just gave a dismissive laugh. “A saw-scaled viper,” he said, as if watching a nature documentary. “Very deadly. They happen to love my beautiful gardens. In this country, if you find a cool place with shade, there is a very good chance something deadly has found it first.”

The viper struck quickly, and then settled back to wait for the gerbil to die. Already stressed from the broken bones, it staggered only a little before falling over. The snake approached tentatively, and then began the laborious process of swallowing its meal headfirst.

“I am fully aware that you are all thinking of escape,” Omar said. “But your nearest help is miles away and these snakes are everywhere. You would not even make it to the edge of my gardens. I would hate to lose such a valuable investment to the venom of a viper.”

Ysabel looked at Jack and then tugged at the collar of her dress. Omar’s cruelty with the animal had pushed her into action. She had a plan, all right, and now he knew what it was.

48

Clark’s safe house was on a wooded farm outside Montijo, Portugal, across the Tagus River from Lisbon. He made a call to a friend in the Agency to square the use of the facility, cashing in on a little of the mysterious nature of his reputation. He wasn’t active anymore, not on the books anyway. But it was not at all uncommon for active case officers to use trusted retired case officers as instructors or for certain jobs for which they had a particular acumen. The kind of expertise that might be required at a rural farmhouse had Clark’s name written all over it.

It was not a long drive from Alpalhão by American standards, just over a hundred miles, and they made it in two hours. Chavez was behind the wheel, with Clark riding in the backseat with a sedate da Rocha. Midas and Adara followed. At first blush, it seemed the arms dealer was distraught over the death of Lucile Fournier, but the more he sobbed, the more it became clear that he would miss her skills far more than he would miss any relationship.

Before meeting Ding Chavez, Clark had frequently worked alone — the pointiest bit at the tip of the spear. But no matter how alone he was, there were always people on whom he depended. People he cared for and who cared for him. He would have died a long time ago if not for Sandy — just burned to a charred crinkle and floated away on the wind. He’d never admit it, but Ding was more like a brother than a son-in-law. If anyone had told Clark he’d be content to have his daughter marry a former gangbanger from East L.A., he’d have put a boot in their ass. But this particular former gangbanger spoke multiple languages, held a couple of advanced degrees, and, more important, busted his ass to do the right thing, all day, every day.

In some small way Clark felt sorry for da Rocha. Guys like him didn’t have friends. He had employees, and he had contacts. Lucile Fournier had been neither trusted companion nor comrade-in-arms. She’d been a tool in his hands, a means to an end. This asshole was all about himself — which made the people in his orbit all about themselves. In the end, it made Clark’s job all the easier. People fighting for a cause were more difficult to turn. They had to be broken down, and even then, the most zealous might never break, they just came to terms. But if a man’s primary goal was money, then money or the idea that they would lose the money they already had would turn them.

Clark let da Rocha stew in his own juices during the drive, asking no questions and ignoring him when he tried to start a conversation. By the time they reached the safe house, the man was ready to vomit information.

Da Rocha’s hands were flex-cuffed in front, one restraint around each wrist. A third restraint connected these two cuffs to a chain that was secured around his waist with a padlock, enabling him to raise food or a cup to his lips if he hunched over. Clark shoved him onto a dusty, overstuffed couch that would be hard to get out of without the full use of his hands, and then pulled a dining room chair up close so they were knee-to-knee.

“I gotta tell you,” Clark said. “I expected your house to be bigger.”

Da Rocha looked up at him, squinting a little, as the room was dim.

“What?”