still too early. But to answer your question, the only ransom demand so far is the one centered on Colette Stone.”
Nova looked at the remaining names. “Who are Linda Stokes and Annette Coulson?”
“Stokes is a librarian from San Diego. Coulson is a dance teacher, also from San Diego. They’re friends and enthusiastic bird watchers. Dennis Chu, the last on the list, is an entomologist from NMNH, the National Museum of Natural History. Apparently pretty famous in his own world.”
Seeing her frown of puzzlement, Smith added, “Insect expert. According to the NMNH people in Washington, he took the trip because he wanted to collect bugs in the Amazon. He has no real interest in birds.”
“Clearly they’re holding some pretty important people, but what do you want with me? If you pay the money, you’ll probably get them back.” In truth she was skeptical of that last statement and knew that Smith would discount any such hope as well.
Smith leaned forward, eager to reach her with his argument. So far, only one man was dead. This wasn’t the kind of op Nova normally considered working and Smith knew it. In every case that she had worked, multiple innocent people had already been killed or the threat posed was the kind that could result in the deaths of many people. In her last case, in Amalfi, thousands if not million of lives had been on the line, justifying, in a way, the dirty work that Company jobs too often entailed.
“The State Department has already put together an FBI team,” he said. “They are on their way to Manaus and will officially work with the Brazilian authorities. But these hostages are high profile. The vice president wants us to do more, much more, than that. Christ, Nova, they have his niece! We have orders to send down a crack undercover team. At least undercover in terms of being U.S. government. We want someone who can go down there saying they are looking to find a relative, one of the hostages, and be convincing. We want you.”
She said nothing, just took another sip.
“No one in this government is going to depend on the Brazilians to get our people out. And no one is going to sit around hoping that when the money is paid, the bastards will keep their word and let everyone go. The plan is to locate the hostages and then send in a special operations team to extract them. You know Brazil. Even better, you know Manaus and the Rio Negro. You’ve been there, how many times?”
“Seven trips to Brazil, four of them included stops in or around Manaus.”
“You speak Spanish fluently, and some Portuguese, right?”
“No real Portuguese.”
“And then there is your main advantage, always your strongest asset. You’re a woman, who can put on a great act of being helpless and nonthreatening.”
She smiled, feeling a bit devilish and wanting to tweak Smith a bit. “Well, there’s something else to consider. I detest vice president Ransome. I have no desire to do anything to help that SOB.”
Chapter 8
S ixty-three-year-old U.S. Supreme Court Justice Suleema Johnson stooped slowly to the sofa. She picked up and cradled her calico cat, Hypatia, and headed for her bedroom. “I’m tired, my dear. It’s been a long one,” she said, bone-weary but smiling. Hypatia was named for the famous mathematician who had lived in ancient Alexandria and was stoned to death by a mob led by the Catholic priest, Cyril. She was Suleema’s closest confidante, privy to Suleema’s most private thoughts and desires. Suleema considered Hypatia to be as wise as the woman for whom she’d been named.
After an especially tedious, work-filled day, Suleema had decided to retire early. Tomorrow she would hear arguments in the case of Wade v. Lemonn—very technical stuff on the patent rights of biopharmaceutical companies. Although it was barely eight o’clock, the arthritis in her hips and lower back cried out for her to lie flat.
Fortunately, this house suited her aging body perfectly, since the previous owners had redesigned it to place the master bedroom on the first floor. She’d purchased the house a little over a year ago, just before her swearing in as the first black woman to serve on her country’s highest court. The location was ideal for getting to and from her office at the court and was only an hour and a half’s drive from her daughter’s lovely home right on the Chesapeake Bay.
Suleema had calculated that on occasion, Regina and Clevon might want to stay in Washington for an evening at Lincoln Center for a fancy dinner or show, so in her home, they had an upstairs bedroom to themselves. But sixteen-year-old Alex was getting too old to visit Grandma anymore.
She flicked off the living room floor lamp and eased down the hallway. Alex was, at this very moment, off someplace in the Amazon birding with his buddy, Ronnie Obst. Suleema had met the young Obst once, at Regina’s house. She had liked him, and thought him a good friend for Alex. Alex, so exceptionally bright and mature for his age, was too serious. Ronnie was outgoing and adventurous and had traveled all over the world with his rather famous father. Ronnie encouraged Alex, who had been more devoted to his computer than to nature before their friendship, to get out and explore life.
She used the wall switch to light her nightstand lamp. Another night of sleeping alone. Her gaze was drawn to her favorite photograph of Raymond, gone from a heart attack for just over five years. He’d not lived to see her elevated from the Ninth Circuit Court, but he’d always believed she had a good chance to be “the one.”
Hypatia wiggled, and Suleema let her drop onto the quilt.
“I know it’ll happen,” Raymond had said. “You’re the smartest woman, the smartest person, I’ve ever known, Sulee. You’re a natural for the Supremes.”
He’d been right. He was a building contractor, the practical one, she the one who lived a life of the mind. They’d been a great match. The place in her chest where her heart had been ripped away by his death still throbbed with longing and loss.
It took no more than ten minutes to undress, snuggle into a cotton nightgown and down under the covers. Hypatia curled up at her hip. She’d never had trouble sleeping, and quickly drifted into the state of fractured thoughts that came just before full unconsciousness. Then she heard a sound.
What was it?
Silence. She let her mind drift again.
Another sound, a definite click. She stiffened in the bed, eyes open, peering at the dark ceiling, ears straining.
Hypatia lifted her head from her paws and looked toward the bedroom door. Suleema sat up halfway on one elbow, peering into shadows formed behind moonlight flooding through the bay window, and then a shadow, dark as a cave, blocked off the pale glow. A gloved hand grabbed her throat and shoved her back down into the bed.
The man, it had to be a man, knelt so that he forced one leg between hers, right through the covers. He grabbed Hypatia by the scruff and lifted the calico into the air.
Suleema clawed at the gloved hand, unable to suck in even a tiny breath. She raked her fingers down his sleeve. He leaned on her, his weight that of a man at least as tall as Raymond’s six feet.
“If you don’t want me to kill your cat,” the dark shadow said, “lay still.”
Lie still! Shouldn’t she fight for her life?
Could she even fight for her life? She was sixty-three years old! His hand felt huge, his body enormous. He was
