“My invite got lost in the mail,” Kurt said. “Now, what were you looking for? And who were you talking to?”
Her eyebrows went up. “How badly do you want to know?”
“Badly enough to put a bullet in you if you don’t tell me.”
She laughed. “You’re not going to shoot me. For one, it would make too much noise.”
“I have a silencer.”
“I’m no good to you dead,” she said, standing up.
Kurt met her gaze. “Who said I was going to kill you? A knee shot would do the trick.”
“And while I scream in pain,” she said, slinking forward, “will I be able to talk clearly?”
Kurt didn’t reply, and the woman climbed on the far edge of the desk, stretching out on all fours like a cat. She reached for the computer, walked her fingers onto the keyboard, and pressed F1 and F4 at the same time.
She looked up at him, licking her lips. “Do I get anything for cooperating?”
Kurt felt as if he’d landed in the Twilight Zone. If he didn’t know better, he’d have guessed this woman was propositioning him. “A gold star,” Kurt said.
He glanced at the screen. The spreadsheet had vanished and a darker screen opened up. It showed a pair of columns made up of boxes. Each box had a photograph of something inside, a sparkling new Learjet in one, a small cache of what appeared to be diamonds in the second box. A caption underneath it read “400 carats total, all stones VS or VVS.” A third box indicated the racehorse he’d seen, Desert Rose. Numbers underneath each box indicated supplemental money contributions. Apparently, the business wasn’t as cash-free as El Din suspected.
Kurt assumed these boxes contained bids for whatever it was Acosta was selling. Kurt followed the lines across the screen to the second column of images. Each of these seemed to be a work of art.
Kurt noticed a variety of artistic styles: cubist, classical, and even some old masters.
“Roll the cursor over the paintings,” the woman said. “You’ll get a description and a better understanding.”
With one eye on his strangely helpful friend and the other on the computer, Kurt did as she said.
The descriptions were odd. Kurt quickly understood why.
“ ‘Weapons expert, known to have worked with the Syrian government on chemical dispersants,’” Kurt read aloud.
The next “painting” was captioned “Guidance system engineer, familiar with Soviet and American designs.”
The third had nothing but a group of odd words: “ZSumG,” “Montresor,” “Xeno9X9.”
“Those are hacker names,” she said. “Handles. That’s what—or whom—he’s selling.”
Kurt thought about what she’d said on the phone. He scrolled down. There were a dozen more boxes labeled with works of art. He checked every box but found no sign of Sienna Westgate.
He looked up just in time to see the woman lunge for his gun.
She moved quickly, but Kurt had been expecting it sooner or later. He snapped his arm out of reach, grabbed her with his other hand, and threw her off the desk. She came up swinging a four-inch dagger. Kurt stepped out of range and knocked over a metallic sculpture that looked vaguely human. It crashed to the floor as the woman lunged forward again.
With his free hand, Kurt caught her by the wrist and twisted her arm until she let go of the knife. He swung her toward the wall and slammed her into it and held her there.
She struggled for a second. To make her stop squirming, he brought the silenced pistol up once again.
“I’m not interested in killing you, but I will shoot you if you put me in danger.”
Her dark hair had fallen in front of her face. Her lip was gashed and bleeding. She stared at him, her eyes wide. There was something in that look, Kurt thought. It was recognition.
“I know you,” she said breathlessly. “White knight . . . Fearless . . . I must say, I’m surprised to see you here. You’re a bit early, I’m afraid.”
Kurt kept the pressure on her. He wasn’t falling for the distraction. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”