She nodded. Smiled.

"Would you come back if I asked?"

"Knowing that I've built a good life for myself beyond this," she said, "would you ask it?"

"I don't know."

She ran a palm across his clean-shaven face. "What if I asked you to come with me, to be part of my life?" It was a rhetorical question meant to challenge, not to invite, but he ignored the undertone, took her palm, and kissed it.

"If I could, I would spend every waking moment of every day as a part of your life," he said. "But there's nothing out there for me, Essa. I already know that."

He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then stood. She took the hand he offered and followed him to the pilothouse, where she put in a call to Logan.

LOGAN SOUNDED RELIEVED when she said hello. "I'm glad to hear your voice," he said. "It means you're still alive, still safe." when she said hello. "I'm glad to hear your voice," he said. "It means you're still alive, still safe."

"You worry too much," she said. "I'm in good hands." She glanced at Beyard, whose back was to her.

"Do you have the supply list?" he asked.

"Actually, no. That's why I'm calling. I might not need it-things may be more straightforward than I'd thought. But don't go anywhere, I'll check back in a few days."

"Michael, before you go-I got a call from Miles Bradford last night. I think you need to talk to him."

"Say again?"

Logan drew in a breath. "It will take too long for me to explain it all, and it's convoluted. I just think you need to call him."

"I suppose that means he knows I'm alive?"

"He knows it now because of me. Before that it was just speculation on his part. Apparently he's tried to talk to Kate and she won't give him the time of day."

"Fine, give me the number." She jotted it down as he spoke. "Thanks, Logan, I'll be in touch."

She stared at the paper and then dialed. When Bradford picked up, she said, "It's Michael. You wanted to talk with me."

A second of silence on the other end, and then Bradford's voice: "Are you okay?"

"I am now." And then, "This call is costing me five bucks a minute. Make it fast, make it good, and make it worth my time. What the hell is going on, and what's this bullshit about my body washing up on shore?"

"Until I spoke with Logan last night," he said, "I had only believed you were alive, wasn't sure, couldn't know. It's a relief to have it confirmed, to hear your voice." His tone was full of genuine sincerity. "I've been trying to get in contact with Kate Breeden," he said. "She won't take my calls."

"So I've heard."

"Listen, Michael, there are several things I think you should know. First, it was the U.S. embassy that informed me you had drowned and washed up on shore. Second, the local officials never produced a body, and when I got too demanding about it, I was informed that my stay in the country was over and I was put under guard until the next flight out. I'd had reservations about your disappearance from the beginning: I knew I'd been drugged and thought it was you who did it. When I went to your room to confront you, there were signs of foul play. I searched the hotel and the area around it and nearly had my skull cracked by a police officer when I got into a fight with some of the hotel staff, who wouldn't or couldn't give me straightforward answers about whether or not you'd left.

"I've had more than one conversation with Richard about the situation, laid out the scenario of Emily's being in Equatorial Guinea as you'd given it to me. He has latched onto the issue of the death certificate and refuses to acknowledge the strangeness of it. Says he's tired and that this is closure for him."

Munroe was quiet and then said, "I have an eyewitness who's placed Emily alive on the Equatorial Guinean mainland within the past three years."

Silence.

"You there?" she asked.

"Yeah." His voice was tight, strained. "I'm just thinking about what you said, the possibility of what it means. What are you planning to do?"

"I spoke with Kate several days ago. She told me Burbank pulled the plug on the assignment. My contract gives me a year to locate Emily, and if he rescinds, I'm guaranteed a shitload of money, which I will happily take. But I'm not leaving. Someone tried to kill me, Miles, and you know as well as I do that it's because of my search for Emily. I have no idea why it was me and not you or both of us, but I will will find out. I'm going to Bata with or without Burbank's blessing, and I'll keep going until I find her or find my killer, whichever comes first." find out. I'm going to Bata with or without Burbank's blessing, and I'll keep going until I find her or find my killer, whichever comes first."

"I want to go with you," he said.

Munroe laughed. It was a harsh laugh, sarcastic and unfeeling. "You weren't much help to me the first time around. I can't think of any reason I'd need you the second time."

"You don't get it, do you?" His voice was hard. "Emily is like a niece to me. I took Richard's assignment for her, not for him. You don't give a damn about her. You You took this assignment for the money, and now it's about revenge. I want in because I care about her." took this assignment for the money, and now it's about revenge. I want in because I care about her."

"Forget it, Miles," she said. "I don't need a liability on my hands, and I have all the help I need." She hung up without giving him a chance to respond.

She pulled a sheet of paper out of the fax machine and drew a diagram, an outline of tenuous facts surrounded by big, fucking, glaring holes. And in the middle, attached to nothing, she added another: By morning the U.S. embassy was already aware of her death. Chances were they'd been notified before she'd even been taken onto the boat. She sat in front of the paper staring, willing the answer into focus.

Nothing. She needed more pieces.

It was Beyard's hands on her shoulders that returned her to the present. "We can take it to my cabin," he said, "go over the details there." She nodded and folded the diagram, and he picked up a two-way radio, calling Augustin back to the pilothouse. In another hour the sun would begin to rise.

"THE EMBASSY HAD already been informed of my death by morning," Munroe said. already been informed of my death by morning," Munroe said.

She lay on Beyard's bed, her hands behind her head, studying patterns on the ceiling. He was next to her, lying on his side, quietly watching her. "It would be useful to know who informed them, what branch of government, who in that branch," she said. "I need to get the embassy's phone number. I'm sure it's on a consular sheet somewhere on the Internet."

He traced her profile. "We'll get it," he said, "But first you need to sleep." She began to sit up in protest and he put a finger to her lips. "You know as well as I do that clarity and focus will come with sleep and food. We have time. We won't be in Kribi until sometime in the afternoon tomorrow."

She lay back down and in that moment of acquiescence understood that Beyard was dangerous.

He continued to run his finger along her body, tracing it down her throat and over her chest. His gaze followed his hand, and so he avoided her eyes. "On one of those calls," he said, "you used the name Michael. It's the same name the deckhand from the Santo Domingo Santo Domingo gave me." gave me."

His hand rested on her stomach, and she took it and brought it to her lips. "It's a moniker I've taken for the work that I do."

"You've never told me what it is that you do."

"It's a topic for another time," she said. She turned to look at him and then rolled over and straddled his pelvis, pinning his hands with hers. She leaned over him and touched his lips with hers. He breathed a sigh and then without warning jerked his hands free, grabbed her by the waist, and put her back down on the bed. "Don't toy with me, Essa," he said.

He was strong. Powerful.

"Why do you assume I'm toying?" she asked. "I want your body as badly as you want mine."

He smiled. His eyes were sad; his mouth was cruel. "You couldn't possibly."

He stroked her hair, still avoiding her eyes. "When you were here with me, I resisted what I wanted most, and when you were gone, I spent years trying to forget what it was that I wanted." He brushed his hand lightly over her neck and down her chest. "And here you are again. In front of me, beside me, mine for the taking. I'm not sure whether I love you or whether I hate you and want to destroy you."

"Does it matter?" she asked.

She knelt on the bed and removed her shirt, took his hands and brought them to her breasts, and then bent and kissed him, touching her mouth lightly against his, teasing him with her tongue. He searched out her eyes. "This is a game of control for you," he whispered.

She grazed down his neck, and his breathing quickened.

"If it is," she said, "what does the strategist in you tell you that it means?"

He stared at her for a second and then wrapped his arms around her, brought her to him, and filled his mouth with her, and when he did, a heat gripped her throat and shot through her body.

It was one thing to allow a man access to her body, another thing entirely to allow a man access to her soul.

chapter 14

2.00 N latitude, 9.55 E longitude.

West coast of Equatorial Guinea The sea was an endless sheet of steel gray reflected off the cloud-covered sky and the trawler a small black blemish on the horizon. It was nearing sunset, that period of day when the sky would change into brilliant hues and the ocean would undulate with color. Munroe leaned into the wind and the ocean spray, closed her eyes, and allowed her thoughts to flow in random patterns, willing synapses to connect and make sense of patchwork pieces of information that continued to bring more questions than answers-and found nothing.

The cigarette boat cut across the water with considerable speed, closing the distance on the city of Bata, which was now at some invisible point over the horizon. Three hours earlier the trawler had weighed anchor off the southern coast of Cameroon, and, with the exception of George Wheal, who had agreed to remain with the ship until Beyard returned, the crew had dispersed to the mainland. In the pilothouse Munroe, Beyard, and Wheal had sat poring over hand-drawn maps that Beyard had assembled throughout the years and debated over supplies and transportation for the few possible routes through Bata and into Mongomo.

The project was Beyard's now. Munroe had never officially given it to him; he'd taken it, dissected it, and then meticulously planned it, a master strategist setting out pieces to one more living chess game. It was a throwback to another life, another world, and as it was then, there would be no discussion now about doing the job her way. Beyard was no lackey; conceding command was the price she would pay for his participation.

And then Bata was there, its red-and-white visage faintly visible on the horizon. They continued south a few miles past the city, just beyond the reach of the port, to one of Beyard's properties, where they would exchange the boat for a land vehicle.

THE WOOD OF the dock was worn smooth and weather-beaten, held fast by solid pier beams driven deep. It ran from the back of a well-manicured property over the sands of the beach, fifty feet out into the water, and tied to it was a small fishing boat, the wood still raw and new. Beyard guided the cig to the opposite side of the pier and with a confident hop moved from the boat with the mooring ropes. the dock was worn smooth and weather-beaten, held fast by solid pier beams driven deep. It ran from the back of a well-manicured property over the sands of the beach, fifty feet out into the water, and tied to it was a small fishing boat, the wood still raw and new. Beyard guided the cig to the opposite side of the pier and with a confident hop moved from the boat with the mooring ropes.

The house stood on two acres, a single story that seemed to spread out and melt into the lush landscape. From the back door, a woman walked toward them. Her skin was soft brown, her features smooth and perfect, and behind her a small child followed, barely walking and clinging to the shapely dress that skimmed her ankles. Her smile was genuine, and she greeted Beyard with a familiar hug. In all the planning of the afternoon, Beyard had failed to mention a woman or her child, and when she greeted Munroe with the casualness of an equal, Munroe pushed away hostility and forced a mask of pleasantry.

The woman smiled when Beyard spoke, and the electricity that flashed between them betrayed a history far beyond the platonic. Beyard knelt to the eye level of the child and tickled his rounded tummy, then pulled the youngster to his arms and tossed him in the air. Peals of laughter filled the property, though Munroe heard nothing but the rush of blood pounding in her ears and stood paralyzed with an ersatz smile plastered to her face.

Beyard put the child down and turned to Munroe. His mouth was moving, and she forced the sound to register. "This is Antonia," he was saying. "She, her husband, and their three children live here-it's their house and their land unless I happen to be in town." He nodded beyond the house. "There's a guesthouse on the far end of the property. That's where we'll stay the night."

The guesthouse was furnished with necessities and not much else. The building consisted of two rooms: a bedroom with a small bathroom annexed to it and a larger room that functioned as a living room on one end, a kitchen on the other, divided by a four-place table. There was no air-conditioning, but the ceilings were high and a steady breeze tempered the humidity.

By the time they had showered, darkness had settled, and Antonia, not one of the servants, brought food from the main house. From the bedroom Munroe heard her enter, and from behind the closed door she traced portions of the muted conversation. There were spaced silences. Lingering. And then the front door closed, and both Beyard and the woman were gone, and Munroe realized that she'd been holding her breath and felt a stab of self-loathing because of it.

The emotion she felt was a violation of the cardinal rule of survival; it skewed reason, clouded logic, had to be eradicated. Munroe took a deep breath and exhaled. She needed control, and to regain it required internal shutdown. Another intake of air, and she closed her eyes and then against her better judgment fought it, argued against it, and finally postponed it. Beyard was a rare equal, a man with skill and motive to destroy both her and the assignment. The danger was an intoxicating lure, difficult to abandon.

It was twenty minutes before Beyard returned. Over dinner they conversed-Munroe knew it with her eyes-Beyard's moving mouth, a shrug, a flirt, the sound of her own voice traveling through her head and Beyard's charming smile in response. It continued through the meal, external harmony enshrouding internal turmoil. Shutdown was inevitable. But it could wait.

They were awake before daybreak, that time of darkness when the jungle came to life with ascending simian and avian orchestras that shut out the predatory calls of the night. The air was damp with a light mist, and when the sun rose, it brought a thickening to the humid heat.

Beyard's transportation was a nondescript Peugeot, originally beige or possibly white, now permanently rust-colored. Unlike everything else he owned, whereby aged appearances disguised state-of-the-art equipment, the Peugeot was decrepit. In response to Munroe's reluctance to use it, Beyard insisted. "It's better for us this way," he said. "My other vehicles are known. With this one we are provided a certain sense of anonymity, and in any case we're not going far-in about five kilometers the roads become paved."

"We're not taking this thing to Mongomo?"

"No," he said. "We'll use the Land Rover for that, possibly one of the Bedford trucks."

"Do you have easy access to one?"

"Shouldn't be too much of a problem," he said. "When I'm not using them, they're leased out to the Malaysians and Chinese-I have a company that handles logistics from the logging cut sites to the port. It's a legitimate cover for the trucks and gives me the opportunity to pay my dues in terms of hefty contributions to the local fraternity of nepotists. During the rains I'll use them if we have to haul through the bush, so it won't be out of place."

Munroe nodded and then said, "If I want to leave a few things behind, do you have a secure spot?"

"I do," he replied, then led her back to the guesthouse bathroom and with a skilled set of hands removed a section of the doorframe and pulled out from the wall a narrow sealed container that held several thousand euros. "Should still be some space in there," he said, and handed it to her.

She pried the lid loose. "How secure is this property?"

"No military will enter, if that's what you mean."

She removed the Equatoguinean residency card from the security belt and placed the belt with her passports, credit cards, and Emily's death certificate into the container. "What guarantee do you have?"

"Antonia is the oldest and favorite niece of one of the president's wives, and Antonia's husband is connected to the president through the military. Between the two of them, the property is safe."

She sealed the lid. "That's good for them, but it doesn't protect your valuables." She nodded toward the container in her hands.

He smiled and took the container, slid it back into the wall, and replaced the boarding. "You have to know everything? All my secrets?"

Munroe shrugged. "Whether you tell me now or not doesn't really matter. When I want information, I get it. I'll find out one way or the other."

"All right then," he said. "Antonia and I, we go way back-I'm the father of her eldest son. He's eight, so you can do the math." While he spoke, Beyard walked toward the front of the house, and Munroe followed. "About four years ago, when our relationship was shot to hell and there appeared to be no future for us, she married her current husband-she's wife number three. He lives in the capital, and she sees him once or twice a month."

Beyard opened the door of the Peugeot for Munroe and fiddled with the handle in order to get it to remain closed. He slid into the driver's seat and slammed his own door several times before cranking the engine. "I bought this place for her," he continued. "Put it in her name. It's her insurance policy and will buy her freedom if that's what she chooses-you know how it goes here-and now that the oil companies have their compounds nearby, it's a valuable little piece of real estate."

Munroe knew well. When an Equatorial Guinean woman married, she became bound to the husband and his family, often becoming a form of property. Divorce, although technically possible, placed an impossible burden on the woman: By law the husband kept the children from the marriage and the woman was required to pay back the dowry or else be imprisoned, and imprisonment in the country's decaying mixed-gender jails was little better than a death sentence.

The vehicle sputtered forward. "I think you would agree," Beyard said, "that my confidence is well placed and the property is safe."

Munroe looked at him sideways and crossed her arms. "Yes, I would agree." She paused and turned toward him. "It may have been nine years, but you haven't changed much. There's always a price. You're using her."

He looked at Munroe, taking his eyes off the dirt track that passed for a road. "I've never denied it," he said. "The fact is, she doesn't care."

"And her husband, does he care? Surely he knows your history, knows you use this property, knows you're sometimes here when he's gone-he can't be happy about that. He probably wouldn't mind if you disappeared."

"Nah," Beyard replied. "I'm the one who introduced the two of them, and he's one of my best friends." He shrugged. "Things are what they are, Essa. My relationship with Antonia ended four years ago and, I might add, through no fault of hers. I'm the one who's fucked in the head. We have a son together, and regardless of what things are now, I want her to be happy. Whether I'm using her or not, she still comes out ahead, and so does the boy." He turned to look at her. "Satisfied?"

"I suppose." And then, after several moments of silence, "Does your son know you're his father? Do you see him often?"

"Yes, and not very. When he turned seven, I took him to Paris. He stays with friends of Antonia's family and goes to one of the best schools in the city. And yes," he said in answer to Munroe's unasked question, "at my expense. I fly him home twice a year. I'm determined that he will have two worlds to choose from when he grows older, and I've made arrangements that should anything happen to me, he will be taken care of." And after he'd been silent for a moment, "You of all people are in no position to be judgmental about using or not using someone, when you are at this very moment using me to get what you want."

"I've offered to hire you. That you won't take the money is not my concern."

Beyard smiled. It was a smile of knowing, of understanding. "Essa, perhaps in your other life, among other people, such words would have meaning-but not between us. You and I both know that games of semantics are meaningless when we have a deeper understanding of human nature. And you are are using me. You know what I want more than money, and you give it to me like a drug, in small doses, feeding me until it becomes an addiction. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I don't know it. Just as Antonia does with me, I have given you permission to use me. You and I, Vanessa, we are very much alike." using me. You know what I want more than money, and you give it to me like a drug, in small doses, feeding me until it becomes an addiction. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I don't know it. Just as Antonia does with me, I have given you permission to use me. You and I, Vanessa, we are very much alike."

FROM B BEYARD'S PROPERTY the road was nothing more than a deeply rutted dirt track that cut through encroaching foliage, and as the vehicle crawled along it, a branch occasionally brushed through one of the open windows. A couple of kilometers from the property, the track connected to a wider dirt road, which later converged with tarmac, and where the orange-red dirt ended, they crossed the first checkpoint. the road was nothing more than a deeply rutted dirt track that cut through encroaching foliage, and as the vehicle crawled along it, a branch occasionally brushed through one of the open windows. A couple of kilometers from the property, the track connected to a wider dirt road, which later converged with tarmac, and where the orange-red dirt ended, they crossed the first checkpoint.