Chapter One

A grim-faced guard stepped in front of Alyson Moore when she raised her camera to take a picture. “Madame, in the Louvre, we do not photograph the Mona Lisa.” His lips fashioned a thin line of disapproval.

Alyson’s eyes scanned the crowd, for even as the security guard admonished her, scores of other tourists, their arms upraised, used cell phones to snap photos. “Am I the only one trying to take a picture here?” Without waiting for a reply, she pocketed her camera, and the snippy guard moved on.

She shouldered her way through the early morning crowd in the Salon Carrẻ to get a closer look at the painting encased in bullet-proof glass. Seeing Da Vinci’s masterpiece was a long-held dream come true. No one, not even an overzealous guard, would spoil her time with Mona.

Once the museum opened its doors at nine sharp, and Alyson passed through security, she hurried to see this woman of mystery. The throngs of people already crowding the room surprised her.

She slipped between two men and stepped closer to the leading lady of the gallery. Her nose twitched from the sweet and sour blitz of assorted perfumes and various degrees of hygiene. Murmurings of adulation echoed off the gallery walls as if the Mona Lisa were a five-hundred-year-old rock star. How had one painting achieved such stardom?

If the ever-present guard wouldn’t allow photographs, she’d sketch some of Mona’s fans standing, spellbound by her enigmatic smile. When she finally tugged her large sketchpad free from the tight confines of her yellow leather bag, other items fell and scattered.

Alyson crouched to retrieve pieces of charcoal, just as the man standing next to her bent to place a black shoulder bag, the style European men were so fond of carrying, on the marble tile floor.

Their eyes locked.

“Excuse me, you’re standing on my things.” Alyson pointed to his shoe. The man, face damp with perspiration, scowled, raised his foot and snatched her navy scarf, hotel keycard and passport, crushing them into a ball. He stuffed the wadded scarf into her outstretched hand and stood.

Alyson reached, fingering for the last charcoal pencil that rolled beyond her reach. She straightened and realized the man was walking away. “Sir. Sir, you’ve forgotten your bag. Monsieur.”

He didn’t respond.

She called after him again.

The man disappeared into the crowd.

The museum guard approached. “Is there a problem, Madame?”

“Yes, that man left his shoulder bag here.” Alyson indicated the canvas bag on the floor. “He set it down at the same time I dropped some things.” She held out her navy scarf to show the guard and suddenly it hit her. “My hotel key and passport!” Pulling apart the sides of her shoulder bag, she rummaged through its contents, hoping against hope they were there. With her passport the same shade as her scarf, she assumed it was wrapped in the scarf’s folds. “He took my keycard and passport. I don’t believe this. Why would he take my things and leave his bag behind?”

The guard’s eyes widened for a second. “Madame, you are sure the man left this bag?” He snapped his cell from his belt, a scowling gaze intent on Alyson.

“Yes. He…he was setting it on the floor at the same time I squatted to retrieve my fallen items. I asked him to move his foot since he was standing on my scarf, keycard and passport.” Alyson groaned as realization sunk in. She was in a foreign country with no passport. Oh, hell!

The guard cautiously unzipped the shoulder bag. Yellow wires. The man spoke rapid-fire French into his cell. Pandemonium erupted. Armed guards rushed toward the abandoned black bag. Once the word “bomb” was uttered, visitors screamed as they stampeded from Mona Lisa’s room.

Suddenly, Alyson stood in the eerie deafening silence with only the pounding of her heart and the cocking of guns reverberating in her ears—she and the black bag containing explosives surrounded by eight armed guards.

****

She was unceremoniously hauled to Paris police headquarters, the Prefecture de Police, and interrogated for nearly three hours by various detective teams, each more stern-faced than the last. Visions of being locked away forever in a French dungeon flashed in front of her like a neon “No Exit” sign. She had zero rights in this country. No passport. No one to help her. If they were to grant her one phone call, whom would she call? The American Consulate. Surely they would help.

When the door to the interrogation room opened and two men walked in, the testosterone level rose by a factor of five. Even though the first man, middle-aged with graying temples and silver-framed glasses riding low on his nose, was handsome in his own right, it was the second male who commanded her attention—and her fascination.

He was striking. Or, as Gwen, her free-spirited sister, would say, “Oh my God, he’s make-my-panties-damp gorgeous.”

While the young man wasn’t overly tall, he was excessively male. Sex appeal oozed from every pore on his skin. Alyson’s body responded, which surprised her.

She judged him to be around thirty, with the firm and muscled yet slender build of many European men. He had an olive complexion and short, wavy black hair styled like that of a GQ cover model. His eyes were dark and angry. What’s his problem? I’m the one held here against my will, hungry and thirsty. And, dammit, I have to pee.

The older man sat while Mr. Macho Male prowled the room like a tightly-reined panther.

“Ms. Moore, I’m Field Supervisor Henri Moreau. I head the French task force on counterterrorism. The irritated man behind me is my second in command, Niko Reynard.”

The young man deigned to spare her a nod in greeting. Oh, she knew the type. She nodded once in return with a dose of her own attitude. After all, she hadn’t been a teacher all these years without perfecting a piercing glare. One of his eyebrows quirked in response. She raised her chin and held eye contact with him for a few seconds. Touché. Okay, so she was being bitchy, but after all she’d been through, frankly she didn’t care.

“We’ve reviewed the Louvre’s security tapes and completed a thorough background check on you.” Moreau flipped open a manila file. “You’re a high school art teacher from Asheville, North Carolina. Went to university at Duke. Additional studies in New York City. Worked for three years at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.” His head nodded as he cited her life’s history, almost as if it were nothing more than another series of boring facts—which unfortunately it was.

“You’ve been teaching art for thirteen years. Married for twelve. No children.” His gaze lifted to hers. “You’re recently divorced. Your husband…”

“Ex-husband.” She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. She may have to put up with this interrogation, but she didn’t have to like it. Nor did she like having strangers inventory her personal life, no matter how damn boring it was.

He spared her the briefest of smiles. She closed her eyes, sensing what was coming next. “Your ex-husband is now living an openly gay lifestyle…” A wounded sound escaped from her chest, her broken heart giving one last whimper of pain perhaps.

Macho Male stopped pacing behind his partner and nudged him with his elbow. “Gentillesse, Henri.”

“Of course, one must always be gentle.” The older man glared at her. “If it is appropriate. Coworkers claim you had surgery four months ago for a female prob…”

Macho Male expelled a loud string of profanity, and Henri smirked. “You a re too sensitive. Comes from all those women in your life. I’m sure Ms. Moore does not mind if we discuss her medical history. American women love to talk about their surgeries.” The older man gave a wave of his hand as if to deflect the younger man’s outburst.

Alyson looked from one male to the other, wondering what battle of wills was going on between the two and why she had to be the one in the middle of their ego-driven conflict. Or were they merely playing good cop/bad cop?

Henri shrugged in that arrogant, self-assured way Frenchmen had. “You have no criminal record. No known ties with terrorists. Your bank records and tax records seem in order.” He closed the file with a snap, and she flinched. Obviously, her nerves were frayed. “We have concluded you are innocent of trying to harm one of our national treasures, the Mona Lisa.”

Indignation simmered. “Of course I’m innocent. I would never try to harm her or any work of art. As I’ve told countless interrogators over the last few hours, I have no association with the man who carried in those explosives.” She shuddered and closed her eyes, thinking of all the lives the bomb would have extinguished had it exploded. Mona Lisa’s room, as she came to regard it, was crowded with onlookers just like her, hoping for a glimpse of the famed masterpiece. Life was so fragile, especially in the hands of violent people.

“One question does keep rolling around in my mind, Monsieur Moreau…” The field supervisor waved his hand once as if to signal he’d grant her one question; as if anyone could stop her at this point. “How did this man get a bomb inside the Louvre? My shoulder bag was searched and x-rayed when I entered. Also, I had to acquire prior approval to sketch the Mona Lisa. Passing through security was rather arduous. Why wasn’t it for this man?” She tapped one finger against the table as she spoke, her tapping emphasizing every word. “‘Someone was asleep at the switch,’ as we say in America.”

The older man seemed insulted she dared criticize the French for anything. “Rest assured, we are investigating that very question. We have concluded he was not acting alone. One of the janitors at the Louvre has gone missing. We suspect he was a comrade of the man you saw. Even so, these facts are no concern of yours.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “You are free to go, Ms. Moore.”

“I…” She cleared her throat. “I have no passport.” Dear Lord, what would she do without one? How would she get home to the States?

Field Supervisor Moreau jerked his head in the direction of his second in command. “This young man will see to that. He’ll also guard you until this matter is resolved. Have no fear, he may look like a rock star, but he’s passably effective.”

“Screw you.” Macho Male leaned a shoulder against the wall, his hands in his pockets, all scowls and attitude.

Alyson tore her gaze from his handsome face to the man seated across from her. “What do you mean, guard? I don’t need a guard. All I need is my passport.”

Moreau tapped her folder on the edge of the table. “You got a good look at the terrorist. He was smart. Cunning, in fact. His face was always turned away from the security cameras, as if he knew where they were located and aimed. Now we know he probably did. Niko studied the tape showing the x-rays of this man’s bag at security when he entered the museum. It contained a wallet, sunglasses and one of those plastic coated street maps of Paris tourists use.

“Later, security cameras show him entering a restroom in the Richelieu Wing shortly after the now missing janitor, who appeared to have a similar bag. We suspect a switch was made in the restroom.”

“They had every detail planned out, didn’t they?” She looked first at Moreau and then Macho Male.

The younger man ran a tanned hand down his red-and-gray-striped necktie. “I was able to analyze the security data to follow his movements throughout the museum. He checked his watch often. So, yes, everything was timed to the second.”

“What does all of this have to do with me? Why do I need a guard?”

The second in command focused his dark eyes on her. “You saw enough of him to give a good description and sketch his face. If he took your passport and your hotel keycard, he did so for a reason. That reason being you two made eye contact. He’ll want to find you and neutralize your threat to him and his organization.”

A chill galloped up her spine like a runaway horse. “Neutralize? You mean—” she swallowed and fiddled with the hem of her top. “This terrorist wants to kill me?” Her eyes darted around the interrogation room searching for a safe anchoring point. Oh, good Lord! She willed herself to sit still, to keep from screaming, to keep her breathing even so she wouldn’t hyperventilate. Mostly she willed herself to make logical steps. Her life was ruled by logic and routine. Safety resided in routine.

The older man stood. “Niko will escort you to your hotel and then to a safe house for the weekend. You have an appointment at ten on Monday morning. Niko will take you to the American embassy, where they’ve been apprised of your situation. Although the embassy is open all weekend, the officer—the only officer, it seems—who issues replacement documents for stolen passports won’t be in his office until Monday.” His face twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. “Another one of your government’s budget cutbacks, it would seem.” He sniffed in arrogance.

Thoughts of kicking him came to mind.

“Your government’s employee is in Norway on vacation. When he returns Monday, the embassy will have all the necessary information required to issue you a new passport. Then you’ll be able to return to the United States.

“You’ll be safe enough in Niko’s care. My apologies to you from the French government for this inconvenience. We value our tourism and our guests.” The man sounded like an insincere infomercial. He stood to leave, his hand in his pants pocket, jingling his change.

Alyson stood also. “Wait, this is Thursday. You mean to tell me I’ll have to hide until Monday morning?”

Macho Male pushed away from the wall. “Ms. Moore, shall we go? I’ll explain our plan on the way to your hotel. I believe you’re staying at the Madison on Boulevard Saint Germain.”

“Yes, but…” She watched the door close behind the field supervisor and then turned to stare at the man assigned as her protector. “I’ve read about terrorists. Watched shows about them. I just never thought I’d come within a hundred feet of one. Now I’m being told…” She shook her head and exhaled a slow breath. Someone wanted her dead. She was being put into protective custody. She cleared her throat, a nervous habit. “This is bizarre. So utterly bizarre. I’m so…” She shrugged and lifted upturned palms in a helpless gesture.

He stepped closer. The scent of his cologne, understated yet powerful, made her body respond. Her stomach fluttered and her breathing hitched.

“So…what?” His head tilted to the side as if he were truly interested in her response. That one little movement touched her, temporarily putting her at ease.

“Insignificant. I’m an insignificant tourist, Monsieur…? Sorry, I’m not retaining names very well at this moment.”

“Niko is fine.”

“Niko.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and looked away. “Look, all I saw was the terrorist’s face. I didn’t see any secret plans or overhear anything confidential. Just a face. Maybe he wore a disguise.” She thought of the sketch she drew shortly after arriving at police headquarters. “Maybe he really doesn’t look anything like my sketch.” Maybe I’m trying to discount the obvious. I’m in very real danger here.

“Based on your sketch, Interpol made a match. Believe me, he’s lethal. Very lethal. Until today we thought him dead. You’ve exposed him. He’ll be out for revenge.”

Alyson swallowed. “Revenge. Just for seeing his face. Look, how extreme is that?”

The young man sat on the corner of the table and crossed his arms. “That’s what terrorists are, Ms. Moore: Extreme. Unreasonably extreme. Ziyad Dembri, the man you saw today, went to great lengths to fake his death two years ago. A burned body and phony dental records were involved. He evidently had plastic surgery on his nose to further complete his new identity. Because no one at Interpol was on the lookout for him, he was able to fly under their radar.”

She closed her eyes briefly. “Until I identified him today.”

“You got it. Now Interpol believes Dembri was the mastermind and perpetrator of several attacks here in Europe and in the Middle East. Those attacks carried his MO, but with his reported death, authorities didn’t know who to blame. Now, with your sketch, they do.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” She’d stuck her nose in it now.

“Many innocents have died because of him. Now he’s been identified, his ability to move about undetected has been removed. He’ll be very angry with you and, yes, out for revenge.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Leave it to me to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. To be the one to see his face.”

“The French have an expression. ‘Vengeance est un plat mieux carne froid.’ Revenge is a dish best savored cold. As with all terrorists, Ziyad Dembri is a very coldhearted, vengeful executioner. He’s part of a larger terrorist ring called The Red Hand. The red in their name has multiple meanings. Not only does it pertain to their communist leanings but also to the large quantity of blood on their hands. No member of their group hesitates to murder. Their leader, whoever the shadowy figure is, goes by the nickname ‘the Architect,’ as in the Architect of Death.” He stood and walked toward the door.

Alyson followed, stopped as he opened the door and glanced up at him. “Red Hand? The Architect of Death?” She gave an involuntary shudder. “What nationality are they? I’ve never heard of them.”

Niko cupped her elbow and escorted her from the room. “Algerian, Syrian and Iranian. Radical, as all these types of groups are. The difference is they shun publicity. No interviews, no video tapes sent to television stations and no YouTube videos. Instead they leave a macabre calling card.”

“What do you mean?”

“They leave a handprint of the victim’s blood.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” Her hand flew to her mouth and then dropped to her stomach. She was going to be sick. “Don’t they leave fingerprints when they do that?”

“Latex gloves.”

What manner of hornets’ nest had she stirred up? A terrorist faking his death. Bloody handprints left at the scenes of crimes. Could this day get any worse?

Niko stopped to glare at a male coworker; disheveled, early thirties with a massive neck and shaved head. A weary expression on his face, he was slouched in his chair with his feet crossed on top of a cluttered desk.

Niko shoved the man’s feet down. “Any updates I should be aware of?”

The man, intimidating with a scar running the length of his cheek, handed Niko a sheaf of papers. “These faxes just came in. Most important ones are on the top.” He ran his hands over his face in a scrubbing motion. “Man, I need sleep.”

Niko nodded as he scanned the pages. “Ms. Moore, this slovenly person is Jean-Luc LeFevre, one of our unit’s field agents. Surprisingly, one of our best.”

Jean-Luc tucked in his blue shirt as he stood. “Enchantẻ, Madame. Please, forgive my appearance.” He extended his hand, and she shook it. “I had a night flight from China and made the mistake of answering my phone once my plane landed.” He jerked his head in Niko’s direction. “Seems this little twerp can’t make a move without me. So, of course, I came straight from the airport to offer my assistance.”

“Kiss my ass.” Niko shuffled through the papers. “Ms. Moore is interested in neither your life’s history nor your inflated opinion of yourself.”

Jean-Luc laughed, obviously pleased he irritated his superior. The beam of affection in his eyes for Niko, along with the smile, softened his hardened features.

Niko looked up from the papers he studied. “Did Giselle give you Ms. Moore’s bag?”

“She locked it in the bottom drawer of your desk. I’m surprised she had a key.” Jean-Luc crossed his arms and glared at Niko. “Still.”

“Tell her I want it returned.”

“Do your own dirty work, buddy.” Jean-Luc sat again and turned to his computer.

Well, now, what was all this about? An office romance gone bad, perhaps? She glanced at Niko, wondering how he’d treat a woman. She pegged him for a user and a leaver. Granted, she could be wrong; she had been wrong about her ex-husband.

Niko led Alyson to his orderly desk and signed a form on a clipboard before extending it to her. “Sign please for the return of your shoulder bag. It was searched, of course.”

“Of course.” Alyson signed and placed the clipboard back on the desk. “Seems my whole life was searched. I’d hate to see how French authorities would have handled me if I’d done something wrong.”

Niko unplugged his laptop and slipped it into his briefcase along with the papers Jean-Luc gave him. Then he shrugged into a charcoal suit coat and retrieved his revolver from a drawer, slipping it into a holster at the back waist of his pants. “Precautions are necessary when terrorists are involved.” After removing her yellow leather shoulder bag from a locked drawer, he grabbed his briefcase. “This way please.” He led her to the elevator.

“Interrogations, bombs, terrorists out for revenge, bloody handprints. This is a nightmare.”

He punched the button labeled “le Garage Couvert” and ran a hand down his necktie. “Our world is manipulated by terrorists, Ms. Moore. It’s our job to hunt them down, kick the rock they’re hiding under, and kill them when they scatter like the cockroaches they are.”

She looked at him from the corner of her eyes. He sounded cold and menacing. She gave an involuntary shudder.

“Do I frighten you, Ms. Moore?” She nodded just as the elevator doors opened. He took her arm and led her to the cars parked on the right. “Good.” His eyes scanned the parking area. “Stay afraid. Maybe that will keep you alive.”