"Why your dad?" Munroe interrupted. "Why not your mom?"

"Well, when I'd spoken to my dad when I was in Luanda, he told me my mom was visiting some of our friends at their ranch in Wyoming and wouldn't be back for a couple of weeks, so if I e-mailed, to e-mail him and not her."

Munroe glanced at Bradford for confirmation on the detail about Elizabeth's visit to Wyoming, and Bradford shook his head, and Emily, apparently oblivious to the exchange, continued.

"We were on the road to Mongomo from Oyem, outside the city, and at the checkpoint some of the military started harassing us. At the time it didn't seem that big a deal-we'd been through this type of thing before in other places. But then Mel started to freak out. A few days earlier, maybe a week, he'd started acting kind of strange, jabbering to himself, acting kind of paranoid sometimes. But then he'd be normal, and we'd tell him what he'd done, and we'd all have a good laugh. But this time was different-he went completely crazy. He was screaming, and then he attacked one of the soldiers, and then after that everything kind of jumbled together." Her voice went flat, and she stared into the middle of the room. "They killed him," she said. "Right there, with machetes, while Kristof and I watched. And then Kristof started to run, and I didn't know what to do, so I followed him. We were running for a long time, and I almost got away. I think Kristof got away. The last I saw him, he was running for the border, and then I got hit and passed out.

"When I woke up, I was in the city jail. I was covered with blood and bruises, and my arm was broken, and I think a rib or two was cracked. My leg hurt really bad, too, so I think it was also broken. I had lots of cuts, I think from the machetes." She reached down and lifted her dress above the knees, revealing thick scars on her legs, the recognizable product of deep gashes and no stitches. "I have more," she said, "on my stomach and back. I don't know how long I was there. I woke up a few times and would just pass out again. The next thing I remember, I was in a clean room and not in as much pain, and that's when I first met the man who's now my husband. He said he'd rescued me and that he knew who I was and he'd make sure I got home. He was really nice to me.

"But he never sent me home. He promised he would when I got stronger, but there were delays. It's really hard to know how much time passed, but I think maybe three or four months later he told me my life was in danger and the only way to be safe was to marry him. I tried to run away twice, and each time I got locked up. There were threats, and I got beaten a few times, and there were other things, too." Emily paused and swallowed, looking around the room, and Munroe could tell that she was fighting back tears.

"I think it was about a year after I got here that I got ahold of a phone with international access. I tried to call my mom, but the number had been disconnected." She turned to Bradford. "Do they still live in Houston?" Bradford gave a hesitant nod. "So then I called my dad's office. It was difficult getting through his secretaries, but I finally got him on the phone. It was very weird. I told him who I was and where I was and that I wanted to come home but that the people here wouldn't let me leave, and he told me never to call again. Maybe he thought it was a prank call-I don't know. I was never able to get in contact with him again, even though I tried. One time I got caught on the phone and my husband beat me worse than any other time and told me never to do something so foolish again, that I had been stupid and risked my life.

"Around then is when I realized I was pregnant, and since it seemed that leaving wasn't going to happen, the only thing I could really do was try to make my life better here, so that's when I agreed to marry Timoteo and stopped running away or trying to make calls. Things have been more or less okay since then."

THE TWO-WAY RADIO clipped to Munroe's belt chirped and jolted her from the conversation. Bradford gave her a nervous glance; Beyard would attempt contact only if it was an emergency. Munroe unclipped the camera from her lapel and pulled the machine from her pocket, stuck the machine in Bradford's hand. While she pinned the camera on his collar, she whispered, "We're probably going to need this for more than just proving she's alive. Get her to provide personal data for the camera, today's date and place, date of birth, mother's and father's names-basically a statement. It would be good if she could include some childhood memories that you and I wouldn't know about." clipped to Munroe's belt chirped and jolted her from the conversation. Bradford gave her a nervous glance; Beyard would attempt contact only if it was an emergency. Munroe unclipped the camera from her lapel and pulled the machine from her pocket, stuck the machine in Bradford's hand. While she pinned the camera on his collar, she whispered, "We're probably going to need this for more than just proving she's alive. Get her to provide personal data for the camera, today's date and place, date of birth, mother's and father's names-basically a statement. It would be good if she could include some childhood memories that you and I wouldn't know about."

Bradford turned to Emily, his smile showing the stress of having heard the two-way go off. Munroe left the room and then, certain she was out of earshot, responded to the call.

"Get the front door open," was all Beyard said.

chapter 20.

Munroe strode to the front of the house. The foyer was quiet, and though she had no doubt that the household snitch was hovering nearby, she opened the door and Beyard slipped inside. His uniform was gone, replaced by jeans and a T-shirt thick enough to nearly hide the outline of the pouch that hung against his chest. His face was hard, pure business. He handed her two vacuum-packed sets of civilian clothes.

"State radio just announced putting down an attempted coup," he said. "Local military is looking for people in the Mongomo area wearing Israeli camouflage, and they've given descriptions that could easily be you and Miles or me. The paranoia around town has already started." He paused for a second, and when she said nothing, he stated the obvious. "There's no coup, Vanessa. They're looking for us. It won't take long for the men at the police station to connect the dots. We need to get out of here."

The drumbeat of war tapped out inside Munroe's chest. This couldn't have been the household informer-it was too fast, came too certain. Only three people knew of the plan to enter the country using Israeli military camo: Logan was in the United States, and the other two were in this house. She took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. This was the reason she always fucking worked alone. No tagalongs, no partners, no unnecessary components to screw things up.

"Get the satphone, the passports, and five thousand euros," Munroe said. "We leave those here with her. I'll get Miles."

Beyard wedged a piece of plastic under the front door, and Munroe tilted her head upward and took in a drink of air, fought back the rage, and then walked calmly to the living room. She'd been so close, so fucking close.

She entered the room, and Bradford looked up. Emily, who'd been talking about her childhood, stopped. Munroe said only, "Emily, I need to talk to Miles."

Out of the living room and where Emily could not overhear, Munroe whispered in Bradford's ear, explaining the situation in as few words as possible. His face twisted through a series of emotions, ending at what Munroe read as horrified shock. His hands had tightened into fists, and through clenched teeth he said, "I'm not leaving her."

"If we take them, it will slow us down and risk getting us all killed-it's better that she stays."

"I can't leave her," he said again.

"She's been kept alive and secure here all these years," Munroe said. "She's safer here than with us."

Bradford remained still and said nothing.

"Have it your way." Munroe knelt to unlace her boots. "Figure out how to get her out on your own. Francisco and I are leaving while we've still got a chance." She stripped off the uniform and removed a shirt from the pack Beyard had given her and pulled it over her head. "You do what you need to do."

Bradford ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the ceiling. He breathed as if he might hyperventilate, and Munroe knew he was running scenarios. He'd come, there was no doubt. Bradford knew as well as she did that even if the vehicles separated and he took Emily and the kids in the opposite direction while she and Beyard ran decoy, with the border crossings closed as they inevitably would be-if they weren't already-he wouldn't be able to get them out of the country on his own. Munroe handed him the second pack of clothes, and he took it. "Francisco's coming back with the passports, the money, and the satellite phone," she said. "We're not abandoning her, Miles."

Emily was still on the couch when they returned. Her hands were in her lap, and she clenched them, staring at the coffee cups on the table. When they walked into the room, her head jerked up. "We're not going, are we?" she said. "After all that, we're not going."

Bradford sat beside her and shook his head. "Em, plans have changed."

Munroe said, "The people who've tried to kill me are on their way here. We need to go, and if you come with us, there's a chance you and the children won't make it. We're going to leave you with money, passports, and a phone. If we make it out, we'll be back."

"I'm willing to take the risk," Emily said. "Please let us come with you."

"We can't do it, Emily."

"One way or the other," Bradford said, "we'll get you out of here. It might take a month, could even take a year, but I'm coming back for you, I promise."

Beyard entered the room with a small case and handed it to Munroe, who in turn handed it to Emily, who was now crying.

"I'm sorry," Munroe said, and then, to Bradford, "We're leaving in two minutes. Show her how to use the phone." She and Beyard walked out of the room, and Bradford joined them a minute later.

Beyard had already combined the materiel from both vehicles into one, and Munroe left the keys to the second under its front seat. They pulled away from the house, and Beyard drove slowly, eyes ahead to the activity that went on beyond the length of the street. The military was now out in force, detaining pedestrians unlucky enough not to have reached the safety of indoors. What few vehicles remained on the roads were being pulled over, the occupants forced out with their hands above their heads. The atmosphere crackled with paranoia and brewing violence.

Munroe was in the backseat, leaning to the side so that the headphone clamped to her ear was not visible from the windows. She watched Beyard's face in the rearview, his lips drawn tight and stress written in his eyes. There were only three routes out of the city, all of them cordoned off, and if it came to fighting their way through, they were severely outgunned.

Vehicle documents in the president's name and an impressive performance by Beyard got them through the first cluster of assault-weapon-carrying soldiers. They were several minutes from the straight four-mile stretch that ran to the border, and if their luck held, they could get that far before the level of hostility ratcheted up a notch and the papers no longer worked. Munroe pressed through the frequencies; where there should have been commotion and activity, there was only static and silence, and then finally she caught voices.

She bent her head toward the floor and struggled to pick up the sounds of a conversation in Fang that ended as abruptly as it had begun. "The land borders have been cut off," she said to Beyard. "They don't say anything about the coast."

"We're not going to get through this way," he said, and Munroe felt the vehicle lurch and then surge. She braced her feet against the back of Bradford's seat while she held her hands cupped over her ears. Again the vehicle jolted. Beyard had looped to the end of a street that ran parallel to Emily's street and was taking a footpath out of the city. Foliage slapped against the windshield, and the suspension groaned. From the path they lurched into a streambed.

"Anything?" Beyard asked.

"Nothing," Munroe said, her fingers working the scanner controls while she continued to brace for stability.

"They know we're listening."

"How the hell ...?" Munroe's voice trailed off. Someone knew they were in Mongomo, knew about the camo, knew about the scanners-what the hell else? She dropped the headphones, switched off the machine, and glowered at the front seat. Shit Shit.

The water's course flowed southwesterly, and they followed it, churning up the shallow bed for several miles until the creek routed north, and there they broke trail into the bush and headed in the direction of the interior. As far as could be determined, they had not been followed out of the city, so the atmosphere of violence had been traded for the deceptive stillness of the deep forest. They would travel southwest until they converged with the tracks that led to Evinayong, and in the heart of the country they would disappear long enough for the frenzy to die and the pursuers to assume they were no longer around. They had supplies to last several days, and utilizing the resources of the forest could stretch them to two weeks.

The goal was Mbini, a low-water port eighty kilometers south of Bata, nestled at the southern mouth of the nearly mile-wide Benito River and surrounded by pristine white beaches and rolling surf that elsewhere in the world would have given birth to a chain of five-star resorts. It was from Mbini that open longboats ferried passengers to and from Gabon and where a prearranged boat fueled and waiting would not appear out of place.

By nightfall they had put a hard thirty kilometers between themselves and the edge of civilization. They were camped under a tarp fringed by mosquito netting and strung from the roof of the vehicle. Munroe sat against the rear wheel with her arms wrapped around her knees, face coated with dirt, body aching, and right forearm bloody where it had been deeply scratched. Beyard had wandered into the dark, and Bradford sat against the front bumper with his legs stretched out, arms crossed, and head tilted toward the sky. Munroe was silent; she had nothing to say that wouldn't resemble spit venom. Events had spiraled out of control, and the information that had led to this had come from the inside. Logic said it had to be Miles or Francisco, but it didn't feel right, wasn't exact. Munroe dropped her head to her knees and let out a deep sigh.

"It wasn't me," Bradford said.

Munroe raised her head, and Bradford continued, "I can count. There aren't many people to pin the blame on, and I'm the one you hate the most and trust the least-that makes me the prime candidate, but it wasn't me, Michael."

"Concerned I'm going to leave you here?"

"I should be, but I'm not." He was calm, his voice low, and his head was still tilted up. "I'm concerned that by focusing on me you'll be misdirected. Figuring out where this is coming from has become a matter of self-preservation for me as well." He paused and then looked out into the darkness. "I know how you feel about Francisco. I hope you haven't let it cloud your judgment."

Munroe returned her head to her knees, and an exhausted smile played across her face. Respect for Bradford had just moved up a notch. "I don't hate you, Miles," she said, "and I trust you more than you think I do." And then she was aware of Francisco's presence. He moved like a cat through the bush, stealthy and quiet in their direction. In the dim light of the smoldering ground fire, she saw the cords along Bradford's neck tighten and knew that anger seethed beneath the surface. She knew that he, too, was aware of Beyard's presence. And then Beyard stepped into the light carrying with him a pair of forest rats. He sat at the edge of the tarp, back turned while he skinned and gutted. Munroe watched the flick of his wrist and the knife as it splayed meat and bone, understood the sting of betrayal and knew that, barring intervention, tonight someone would die.

She stood and opened the back door of the vehicle, reached under the seat and released two of the PB6P9s housed there. The suppressors were already in place, and Munroe snapped in magazines, her ears strained to create a visual picture of what went on behind her back, quiet out of habit, not concern. The two outside were consumed with distrust of each other and in their wariness would be oblivious to her actions until it was too late. And then she turned and leveled a gun at each man. Bradford looked up, lips tight and eyes hard. Beyard sighed, said, "Not this shit again," and continued working the knife.

Munroe said, "Scoot the knife this direction, if you please." Beyard did as she said, and she tossed a roll of duct tape at each of them. She nodded at Bradford. "His feet." And then to Beyard, "The same to you." When their feet had been secured, she had Beyard fasten Bradford's wrists, and then, with the weapon pressed to his spine, she used her free hand to tape his in place. When both men were secure, she had them shift so that their backs were to the vehicle, Bradford at one wheel, Beyard at the other.

The forest rats that Beyard had skinned lay on a rock next to the fire. Munroe placed them on sticks above the coals, then picked up Beyard's knife off the ground and felt the balance and weight of it in her palm. When the blade began to call out, screaming to be used, she shoved it into the ground at the feet of the men.

She sat cross-legged in front of them and nodded to Beyard. "So? Go ahead and say it."

He was silent for a moment and then turned to Bradford. "And to think I actually liked you. You're a motherfucking double-crossing traitor. You fucking sold us out-" Beyard's voice cut off, and he made a lunge for Bradford.

Munroe kicked his feet. "Hey!" She aimed the gun at his chest. "Cut it out."

Beyard stopped and struggled back to a sitting position.

"Miles, what about you?" she asked.

"It could only have been one of the three of us," he said, "and it wasn't me."

"Fucking hell it wasn't," Beyard said.

Munroe stood, picked up the knife, and walked to the fire. Pieces of the puzzle were coming together, and events that previously had no meaning had been given context. Behind her the men's voices got louder. They talked over each other, accusations flying, their verbal sparring a cacophonous backdrop to her reflections. She stabbed at the smoking meat. Why give a shit over being tracked and killed by the country's armed forces when the job would be taken care of tonight by two alpha males waiting to carve out each other's hearts? The racket from behind her reached a dangerous volume, and she turned and let off a round between the men, the bullet spitting up dirt. "Shut the fuck up," she said. "Both of you."

The two men were inclined toward each other. Beyard had a trickle of blood flowing down the side of his face where Bradford had managed to get in a head butt. They both stared at her now, mouths open but silent.

"You're going to have to call a truce," she said. "Because I refuse to wake up tomorrow with one or both of you dead, and if it means that I have to complete this journey with the two of you trussed up like goddamn guinea fowl, I swear to God I'll do it. Look at you." She pointed with the guns. "Think for a minute, damn it. You're both about to kill each other for the same fucking reason." She stopped and took a breath. "For all you know, it could be me."

"It's not you," Beyard said.

"Yeah. I know that. Thanks for the fucking vote of confidence. But the fact is, it's probably not one of you either."

"If not one of us, who?"

"Richard Burbank does come to mind."

Bradford said, "You told him it would be at least a week, and you certainly didn't give him details about the scanners or camo or anything else."

"Logan has those details," she said, and as the words left her mouth, her stomach churned, waves of exhaustion swept in, and she wanted to vomit. Logan was safety, he was sanity, a surrogate brother, the only home she had left. If he was the one selling her out, then it was game over. It wasn't a matter of outsmarting him or exacting revenge, which wouldn't be that goddamn difficult-if it was Logan, what was the fucking point?

Munroe looked at Beyard. "Did the radio say anything about the make of vehicles we were driving or how many? Any information at all that the three of us and only the three of us would know?"

He shook his head.

"Think about the possibilities in that." She sighed and sat down. "Look, we already know that Richard Burbank has his hands filthy in this. The information could be coming from Logan-for all we know, Burbank's got his phones tapped. So the two of you just fucking chill and let's work through this thing, okay?" She paused. "If I cut you loose, do I have your word that you'll play nice?"

The nods of agreement were lackluster and noncommittal, but there nonetheless. She reached for the knife, stood, went to the fire, turned the meat over the coals, and then walked to the vehicle and cut their hands free. She backed away with a weapon toward each of them and said, "Don't fucking move. You can sit there comfortably while we talk about what the hell is going on and decipher what information we have to work with. After that you can undo your legs."

Beyard rubbed his wrists and stared into the night. "If the information leak isn't coming from one of us," he said, "at this point it doesn't much matter where it's coming from."

"No, it doesn't," Munroe said. She sat and placed the weapons on the ground, pressed her fingers to her temples. Survival mattered. And with the three of them now incommunicado, the leak, wherever and whoever it was, could go fuck itself.

Her mind, exhausted as it was, shifted into analysis mode. Survival would depend on who in the country was acting on the information, what resources that person had at his disposal, and how long he could keep up the hunt.

With the farce of a coup having been used to flush them out, there were really only two possibilities: Either this thing went all the way up to the president or to someone close to the president-and it didn't take a genius to figure out who was pushing the president's buttons.

Munroe stood and to Beyard said, "Have you worked a theory yet?"

"Partially."

"Good."

She walked to the vehicle, trained a weapon at Beyard, who was closer, and said, "Don't move." And then with her free hand she reached into the back, pulled out the laptop and the drive that held the footage of Emily, loaded the drive, and brought the computer to Beyard. "We have to look in two directions; there are two sets of motives. There's Richard Burbank, and there's here. I've got Burbank's angle. I want you to watch this," she said. "I need you to analyze this from the Mongomo perspective."

The footage ran for nearly forty-five minutes, and when it was finished, Beyard returned to the spots where Emily spoke of being captured and of her treatment by the man she now called her husband. Beyard replayed the segment several times, then shut the laptop and handed it back. "If she's to be believed, Nchama's been trying to protect her."

"You're kidding," Bradford said. "The guy lies to her, beats her, locks her up, spies on her, and for all we know rapes her, and you're saying he's trying to protect her?"

Munroe closed her eyes and held out a finger to Bradford. "He may have been telling the truth, Miles, and for the rest, it's acceptable to the culture." She paused. "Please, if you don't mind, just stay quiet for a few minutes." And then to Beyard, "Go on."

"Nchama told her that her life was in danger, and all events that we've seen so far indicate that he believed this himself. I would venture that his trying to protect her is why you were dumped into the ocean-he believed you were a threat."

"Why would he think that?" Bradford asked.

Munroe held her hand to him as if to say, Be quiet Be quiet, but Beyard answered anyway. "It's a logical assumption," he said. "Whether Nchama was deliberately informed of your arrival and then misinformed of your motives-and I suspect that Richard Burbank would be the one to have done it-or whether your presence and questions triggered his fear, either way you are there, asking questions about Emily. The result is the same. The threat from which he initially tried to protect her has returned, and it forces his hand."

"That would explain Malabo and Bata," Munroe said. "But the alleged coup? That's far more serious. Are we ruling out the president in this?"

Beyard shrugged. "Untangle the web, Essa. What do we know? Where is the foundation? What holds everything together? Where do the connectors lead?" He paused. "Return to Occam's razor. With as few assumptions as possible, what takes all circumstances into account and explains what we see? With what little we hold certain, does anything point to the president?"

Munroe stared at the ground. Her mind ran in circles. Events. Threads. She pushed out. Stretched. Returned. Where Emily had once been the common strand, there stood Richard Burbank. "No," she said. "At this juncture nothing points to the president."

Beyard nodded. "Then we return to Nchama, and we assume that the hunt for us will continue until we are either dead or gone from this place."

Munroe looked toward Beyard. "Based on the footage, based on events, Nchama cares about Emily, sure," she said. "He's trying to protect her, sure. But does he care so much that he's willing to put his own life on the line should the president realize there is no coup?"

They were all silent.

"For what does a man risk his own life?" Beyard asked.

Munroe said nothing. She stared again at the ground, tracing her fingers through the soil, taking them along the virtual paths that her mind traveled. Forward. Back. There again. Occam's razor. Simplicity.

She turned to Beyard. "A man risks his life to save it from the greater fear."

Richard Burbank.