Dejected, Pappy opened his fist and stared. His eyes widened. Then he looked back at Hauck.
Please, his expression said, this time with desperation. Just go away.
“Mom?”
Samantha knocked on the bedroom door.
Karen turned. “Yes, hon.”
Karen was on the bed with the TV going. She didn’t even know what she was watching. The whole ride back to Greenwich, it beat on her—Jonathan was dead. Struck by a car coming down from the hill while cycling back to his home. Charlie’s trader had been trying to tell her something. He had a family, two young kids. And just like that boy who had Charlie’s name in his pocket, who had died in Greenwich the same day Charlie disappeared—Jonathan had died the same way. A hit-and-run. If she hadn’t had the thought to go and see him, she would never have known.
Samantha sat beside her. “Mom, what’s going on?” Karen turned down the volume. “What do you mean?”
“Mom, please, we’re not idiots. You haven’t been yourself for over a week. You don’t exactly have to have a medical degree to see that you don’t have the flu. Something’s going on. Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay, honey.” Karen knew that her face was saying something different. How could she possibly tell her daughter this?
Sam stared. “I don’t believe you. Look at you. You’ve barely left the house in days. You haven’t been working out or gone to yoga. You’re pale as a ghost. You can’t keep things from us. If they’re important. You’re not sick, are you?”
“No, baby.” Karen reached for her daughter’s hand. “I’m not sick. I promise.”
“So what is it, then?”
What could she possibly say? That things were starting to piece together that were really scaring her? That she had seen her husband’s face after he’d supposedly died? That she had come upon phony passports and money? That he may have been doing something illegal? That two people who might’ve shed some light on it were dead? How do you drag your children into the truth that their father had deceived them all in such a monstrous way? Karen asked herself. How do you unleash that kind of hurt and pain onto someone you love so much?
“Pregnant, then?” Sam pressed her, with a sheepish grin.
“No, honey”—Karen smiled back—“I’m not pregnant.” A tear built up in her eye.
“Are you sad about me going off to college? Because if you are, I won’t go. I could go somewhere local. Stay here with you and Alex …”
“Oh, Samantha.” Karen pulled her daughter close and squeezed. “I would never, ever do that to you. I’m so proud of you, hon. How you’ve dealt with all this. I know how hard it’s been. I’m proud of both of you. You’ve got lives to live. What’s happened to your father can’t change that.”
“So what is it then, Mom?” Sam curled up her knee. “I saw that detective here the other night. The one from Greenwich. You guys were outside in the rain. Please, you can tell me. You always want honesty from me. Now it’s your turn.”
“I know,” Karen said. She lifted the hair out of Sam’s eyes. “I’ve always asked that from you, and you’ve given it, haven’t you?”
“Pretty much.” Samantha shrugged. “I’ve held a few things back.”
“Pretty much.” Karen smiled again, looking in her daughter’s eyes. “That’s about all I could ask for, isn’t it, honey?”
Samantha smiled in return.
“I know it’s my turn, Sam. But I just can’t tell you, honey. Not just yet. I’m sorry. There are some things—”
“It’s about Dad, isn’t it? I’ve seen you looking through his old things.”
“Sam, please, you have to trust me. I can’t—”
“I know he loved you, Mom.” Samantha’s eyes shone brightly. “Loved all of us. I just hope that in my life I’m lucky enough to find someone who loved me the same way.”
“Yes, baby.” Karen held her close. Tears wound their way down her cheeks as they clung to each other there. “I know, baby, I know—”
Then in mid-sentence she stopped. Something unsettling crossed her mind.
Lauer’s wife had said he was set to testify regarding Harbor the week he was killed. Saul Lennick would have known that. Let me handle it, Karen…. He had never told her anything.
All of a sudden, Karen wondered, Did he know?
Did he know Charlie was alive?
“Yes, baby …” Karen kept brushing her daughter’s hair. “I hope to God one day you do.”
Saul Lennick waited on the Charles Bridge in Prague overlooking the Vltava River.
The bridge teemed with tourists and afternoon pedestrians. Artists sat at easels capturing the view. Violinists played Dvorák and Smetana. Spring had left a festive mood in the city. He looked up at the Gothic spires of St. Vitus and Prague Castle. This was one of his favorite views.
Three men in business attire stepped onto the span from the Linhart Ulice entrance and paused underneath the east tower.
The sandy-haired one, in a topcoat and brown felt hat, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, and with a ruddy, cheerful face, came forward holding a metal briefcase, while the others waited a few steps behind.
Lennick knew him well.
Johann-Pieter Fichte was German. He had worked in the private banking departments of Credit Suisse and the Bundesbank. Fichte possessed a doctorate in economics from the University of Basel. Now he was a private banker, catering to the highest financial circles.
He was also known to represent some of the most unsavory people in the world.
The banker was what was known in the trade as a “money trafficker.” His particular skill was to be able to shift sizable assets from any part of the world in no matter what form: cash, stones, arms—even drugs on occasion—until they emerged in a completely different currency as clean and perfectly investable funds. He did this through a network of currency traders and shell corporations, a labyrinthine web of relationships that stretched from the dark corners of the underworld to boardrooms across the globe. Among Fichte’s less visible clients were Iraqi clerics and Afghani warlords who had looted American reconstruction funds; a Kazakh oil minister, a cousin of the president, who had diverted a tenth of his country’s reserves; Russian oligarchs, who dealt primarily in drugs and prostitution; even the Colombian drug cartels.
Fichte waved, angling through the crowd. His two associates—bodyguards, Lennick assumed—stayed a few paces behind.
“Saul!” Fichte said, embracing Lennick with a broad smile, placing his case at Lennick’s feet. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, my friend. And for you to come all this way.”
“The price of a service job.” Lennick grinned, grasping the banker’s hand.
“Yes, we are only the high-priced errand boys and accountants of the rich”—the banker shrugged—“available at their beck and call. So how is your lovely wife? And your daughter? She’s still up in Boston, is she not? Lovely city.”
“All