Barid Hafezi was in his office at the University of New Orleans, checking the footnotes to a paper on the effects of corporate ownership of the news media that he was preparing for an upcoming journalism conference, when the phone on his desk rang. He stared at the phone for a moment. These days, every time the phone rang, he felt a twist of fear bloom in his gut. But he knew better than to ignore it.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was smooth, faintly mocking. “You know who this is?”
Barid squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.”
“Good,” said the Scorpion. “I want you to do something for me tonight.”
“I have other commitments.”
“Cancel them. There’s a bar at the corner of St. Charles and Lee Circle. The Circle Bar. You know it?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to go there. Have a few drinks.”
“I am a Muslim. I don’t drink.”
“You’re going to drink tonight. You have a credit card, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Pay for the drinks with a credit card. Leave the receipt on the table.”
Barid felt a rush of helpless rage. “What is this about?”
“That’s one of those questions you’re not supposed to ask, remember? You still have the package I sent you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to take it with you to the Circle Bar. Leave it there, on the table with your credit card receipt.”
“That makes no sense. No one takes a Koran to a bar.”
The voice at the other end of the phone laughed. “Mohammed Atta did.”
“And then he died. Along with nearly three thousand other people. Did you set him up, too?”
The man on the other end of the phone was no longer laughing. “The Circle Bar, tonight. Or do I need to remind you what I’ll do to your children? Your little girl is very pretty, you know. While your son—”
Barid bolted up from his chair. “You bastard. You stay away from my—”
But the line was dead in his hand.
Lance Palmer took the steps to Colonel F. Scott McClintock’s porch two at a time.
Their background check on the Colonel had turned up some nasty surprises. Yes, the man was October Guinness’s VA shrink. But Lance didn’t like the fact that the psychologist’s time in the Army had been spent in intelligence. There were even hints that he’d been involved with the Army’s old remote viewing projects back in the seventies and eighties. Lance supposed it was possible McClintock was the original link between the Guinness woman and Youngblood’s program. But the fact that she’d called the Colonel this morning worried him. It worried him a lot.
“Colonel McClintock?” said Lance when the old man answered the door. “Lance Palmer, FBI.”
Colonel McClintock was a good six feet four inches tall, and still upright and solidly built despite his silver hair and lined face. He subjected Lance’s FBI credentials to a slow scrutiny before nodding pleasantly. “Gentlemen. How may I help you?”
“We have some questions we need to ask you. May we come in?”
The Colonel’s expression was professionally blank. “Actually, I was just on my way out.”
Lance gave the man a tight smile. “I’m afraid it’s important. We won’t take long.”
McClintock hesitated, then opened the door wide. “Glad to help in any way I can. What’s up?”
They followed him into a book-lined study with a worn, tapestry covered sofa and a wide antique partner’s desk. “We’re investigating the murder of Dr. Henry Youngblood and the disappearance of October Guinness. We understand you’ve been treating her through the VA.”
McClintock settled himself in a leather armchair and motioned for them to sit. “What do you mean, Tobie’s ‘disappearance’? Has something happened to her?”
“We don’t know. She’s mentally unstable, isn’t she?”
“No.”
Lance leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. “Really? It was our understanding she’s suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s unstable.”
“She thinks she has ‘visions,’ doesn’t she?”
McClintock reached out to fiddle with the heavy bronze statue of a man on a horse that stood on the round oak table beside his chair. It was a moment before he spoke. “Are you familiar with remote viewing?”
Lance had a flicker of surprise. It was the last thing he’d expected the Colonel to bring up. Lance settled back in his seat. “That’s the project Youngblood was working on, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Did Miss Guinness ever talk to you about the various sessions she did with Youngblood?”
“No. She never talked to anyone about them. I think the entire program made her uncomfortable.”
Lance nodded. It was good news. He didn’t want to have to kill Colonel F. Scott McClintock. There were already too many bodies piling up down here as it was.
“Then why did she participate in it?” asked Hadley.
The Colonel shrugged. “She needed the money, among other things.”
“Has she by any chance contacted you since last night?”
“No. But I wish she had. With all that’s been going on, I’ve been worried about her.”
Lance and Hadley exchanged a quick glance. Lance cleared his throat. “According to our records, Colonel, Miss Guinness called you this morning.”
McClintock’s poker face never faltered. “Tobie is my patient. I’m afraid that means her call to me this morning is protected by doctor/patient privilege.”
“Did she tell you where she is?”
“No.”
It was a lie, of course, and they all knew it. The silence in the room stretched out, tense and brittle. Then the phone on the desk began to ring.
Thrusting up from his chair, McClintock had taken two steps toward the desk before Hadley moved to block his path. “Leave it,” said Palmer.
The phone rang one last time, then an answering machine somewhere at the back of the house kicked in. McClintock glanced from one man to the other. “I think you’d better leave now.”
Hadley took another step forward, getting right in the Colonel’s face. “You’re lying, old man, and we know it. Where is she?”
Reaching out, Hadley thumped the old man’s shoulder, shoving him back toward his chair. Only, rather than staggering backward, the Colonel pivoted with Hadley’s push and reached up to grasp Hadley’s arm and pull him forward.
Caught off balance, Hadley stumbled into the chair, knocking it over and going down with it in an awkward tumble.
Lance started to reach for his gun, but had to duck when the Colonel grabbed the bronze statuette from the side table and hurled it right at his head. “Stop him!” Lance shouted as McClintock bolted for the door.
Still only half to his feet, Hadley managed to grab one of the man’s legs. Yanking out his Glock, Lance brought the heavy butt down on the back of the old man’s head.
The blow dropped McClintock to his knees. Lance hit him again, the dull thwunk of the impact echoing through the silent old house.
“The son of a bitch,” said Hadley, and kicked the man in the face.
The sound of a woman’s voice from the sidewalk outside brought Lance’s head around. “Let’s get out of here.”