Angel of the Dark

David groaned. No, not my Sarah. She loves me. The pain was so intense that he felt it physically, like someone injecting acid into his veins.

“Certainly money does not seem to be the primary motive. Despite the fact that all four prior victims have been wealthy, and their wills altered in their wives’ favor, most of the money has wound up going to children’s charities. May I ask if you and Sarah Jane signed a prenuptial agreement of any kind?”

David stared out of the win

dow bleakly. “No,” he said wearily. “No prenup.”

Sarah Jane’s voice rang in his head: “You might as well have written me a letter saying ‘I don’t trust you.’”

“And your will?”

David put his head in his hands.

It had started out as a joke between them. One night in Paris, in bed in the palatial honeymoon suite at the Georges V, Sarah Jane had teased him for not wanting to make love.

“Is this what I’ve let myself in for, marrying such an old man? Long nights of celibacy?”

“It’s the wine we had at dinner!” David protested. “And then that Château d’Yquem with dessert. It’s done for me.”

Sarah Jane shook her head in mock disappointment. “I knew I should have gone for a younger man. Next time around I’m going for a boy toy.”

“Next time?”

“When I’m living the life of a merry widow.”

David grinned and rolled on top of her. “I’ll put a provision in my will. One sniff of a boy toy and you’ll be penniless.”

Sarah Jane laughed, that deep sexy laugh that fired up David’s libido like a blowtorch. In the end, he made love to her that night with more passion than he’d ever felt before. The next morning, thinking back to their banter, he realized guiltily, Shit. She isn’t even in my will. I’d better change it before she has another cow about me not trusting her with money.

He’d faxed the amendments to his attorney the next day.

Danny McGuire asked gently, “Is she sole beneficiary?”

David Ishag nodded. He looked so stricken that for one awful moment Danny McGuire feared he was going to break down in tears.

“I understand how hard this is for you, Mr. Ishag, believe me. I’m truly sorry.” Hard? The understatement was so hilarious, David almost laughed.

“But we need your help if we’re going to catch this woman and the man who’s helping her. We got to you in time. But if Sarah Jane figures out we’re on to her and takes off, her next victim may not be so lucky.”

David Ishag closed his eyes. In a dull, lifeless monotone he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

OUTSIDE, IN THE PUNISHING MUMBAI HEAT, Danny pulled out his BlackBerry and sent a private, encrypted e-mail. It was addressed to Rajit Kapiri of the Indian IB and all six members of the Azrael team, and was cc’d to Henri Frémeaux back in Lyon.

The message read simply: “Ishag’s in. Operation Azrael a go.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

WILL YOU BE LATE TONIGHT, DARLING?”

Sarah Jane Ishag leaned over the breakfast table to kiss her husband. David had been unusually distracted lately. They hadn’t made love in weeks.

Without looking up from the Wall Street Journal, David said, “Hmm? Late? Oh no. I shouldn’t think so.”

Sarah Jane studied his handsome head, with its thick, shining jet-black hair and skin the same shade of cappuccino as her silk La Perla robe. She watched his fingers trace the words of the newspaper article as he read. Everything about him seemed so vital, so alive. For a moment panic gripped her, but she quickly banished it.

“Good. I thought we could make it an early night. I’ll make you some of that horrid chicken noodle soup that you like, with the dumplings.”

David looked up. It was disconcerting the way he stared at her, as if he were seeing her face for the first time.