The Devil's Triangle (A Brit in the FBI 4)

She listened to brother and sister crow and laugh as they listened to all the moaning and groaning about the theft of the famous staff. The authorities still had no leads, and no clues.

CHAPTER THREE

Capri, Italy

Present Day

Kitsune only wanted to get home to Grant. When she’d called him on her burner phone, an ironclad rule when they were separated, she knew he was as angry as she was that the client had tried to kill her. They would discover the identity of the client together, and see them punished.

She took the hydrofoil from Sorrento across the bay to the island of Capri, blending in with the tourists. She was in disguise, of course, a blond wig, shorts, flowy top, and flip-flops, a white sweater knotted around her shoulders, and round white sunglasses. Kitsune never arrived on or left the island looking the same, and she never came and went as herself.

At last she reached the villa on the island’s eastern hillside, her own glistening white slice of heaven she’d inherited from her mentor, the Ghost. She missed him, sometimes, but her only thought of him now was that he would tear her limb from limb at how badly she’d managed to let this job go south.

She paused only a moment to look out over the glittering water of the Bay of Naples, then back at her home. The house itself had open verandas, all four tiled in black and white. Ancient stone columns rose up, seemingly from the mountain itself, supporting two stories. Inside, it was light and open, windows everywhere. Kitsune remembered how intimidated she’d been when she’d first lunched here with Mulvaney as a teenager. Now the magnificent house was her home. It represented not only safety but also security and love. It meant Grant.

But her sanctuary was empty. The house was trashed, a major battle fought here, and she was too late. Grant was gone.

There was a sheet of paper on the kitchen counter, printed in bold black letters:

COME BACK TO VENICE OR YOUR HUSBAND DIES.

She wadded up the paper, blind with rage and fear. How had they found this house? How? Both she and Grant were always so careful. She heard something and looked up to see the television was on, and why was that? Then she couldn’t believe what she saw.

Nicholas Drummond’s face was on the screen. She quickly turned up the volume.

While she’d been trying to get home, the Iranians had attempted to assassinate both the president and vice president of the United States, and Drummond and Caine—of course it was Drummond and Caine—had brought the Iranians down. Those two, they always seemed to be in the eye of the storm, and from personal experience, they usually won.

The thwarted-assassination story was abruptly suspended to a horrific sight. A mile-high wall of swirling sand was sweeping up from the Gobi Desert, headed directly for Beijing. It was an unreal sight, terrifying, far beyond any previous sandstorms that had plagued Beijing since time began. This was the mother of all storms, the broadcaster said, the desert sand being whipped up by a giant cyclone that no one could explain, and it kept growing and growing, moving faster and faster, miles of thick killing sand bearing down on Beijing.

Kitsune suddenly remembered the strange conversation she’d overheard in Venice. She’d been too busy saving her own skin to think about it, had actually forgotten it, until now that she was witnessing what shouldn’t be possible.

The woman: I wish I could see it, the Gobi sands—a tsunami sweeping over Beijing.

The man: We will see it on video. All the sand, do you think? Could Grandfather be that good?

You know he is. And we will see the aftermath for ourselves. We will leave in three days, after things have calmed down.

Can you imagine, we are the ones to drain the Gobi?

Kitsune didn’t believe in coincidences. She’d bet her last euro there was a connection between the Gobi storm and the staff of Moses she’d stolen from the Topkapi—but what? What would tie the two together?

Kitsune suddenly knew she was in over her head. They’d tried to kill her, these clients who predicted the emptying of the Gobi Desert, these same clients who wanted the staff of Moses, a fake, Kitsune was sure of that, because biblical lore stated the staff was inside the Ark of the Covenant, and if the staff was real, the Ark would be in a museum, too.

She had to go back to Venice, immediately. She had to save Grant. But what to do?

And then she knew.

She pulled out her burner cell and dialed a number she’d long ago committed to memory.

Moments later, she heard a deep male voice with a posh British accent say, “Drummond here.”

“Hello, Nicholas. I trust Michaela is nearby?”

“Yes.”

“This is Kitsune. I need your help.”

CHAPTER FOUR