Page 6 of The 9th Man

“We’re working on that.”

He needed to know. “Be more precise.”

“She’s not listed on the home’s deed and she apparently has no ties to Genappe, but the Belgian authorities will connect her to the incident since her personal belongings are there. They’ll determine she was a visitor in her grandfather’s home and want to speak with her.”

“Was any search made of the house?”

“No. Not possible. The local police are now there. We should assume the DGJ will be dispatched,” Persik said, referring to the Belgian equivalent of the FBI. “Murders are rare for Belgium.”

Rowland turned from the windows and tossed Persik a dead stare. “What’s your point?”

The Indonesian shook his head. “No point. Just sharing information.”

“You sound like you don’t agree with what we did.”

“I simply wonder about the risks.”

“No need to trouble yourself with worry. What is the situation on the ground?”

“We are on the trail. I have local assets, men I’ve used before, who will find Ms. Stein, and we will search the house again.”

“After the police?”

“That is unavoidable.”

“Let us hope there is nothing there for them to find.”

“I realize you want the rifle. I will get it for you.”

“What do we know about this white knight that showed up?”

“Nothing at the moment, but I will remedy that.”

“How?”

“I will handle it, like always.”

“You do that.”

He motioned that Persik should leave and his acolyte exited the study. He stayed at the window, watching the silent pulses of lightning as the storm swept northwest toward Washington, DC. Pocomoke Sound loomed invisible in the dark. There weren’t many privately owned islands in Chesapeake Bay. Most of them were far out, without utilities, making construction difficult and expensive. Of the few near the mainland, only a handful were buildable. Starlings Island was one of those. Only about ninety acres of high land, most of the residents part-timers, enjoying unparalleled views of the bay in one direction and thousands of acres of pristine marsh in the other. Not him, though. This was his full-time home.

His refuge.

He pressed his fingertips to the window and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the thunder rippling through the glass.

The eye of the storm.

Like him.

Chaos may rage all around, but his reputation was that of the unperturbed center of the hurricane. Only there could clear thinking prevail. But that ability had not matured overnight, nor had it been easily attained. And all because of one mistake.

A slight rap on the door broke the silence.

With a barely perceptible hiss the study’s double doors opened and Jack Talley entered. Where Persik handled all of the covert off-the-books matters, Talley was the official head of security, a public face, out front, known to many. A former army captain, special forces, highly trained. He caught Talley’s reflection as the man halted in the middle of the room and stood in silence, as if facing a general. Talley was tall, lean, with a broad nose, thin lips, and close-cropped black hair. Maybe fifty years old, Rowland had never really asked. The only blemish on the otherwise spit-and-polished façade? A limp in his right leg from a wound received in wartime, which had ended Talley’s military career.

“How many of your core team do you trust without reservation?” he asked Talley, still gazing out the window.

“All of them.”

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