Kill Alex Cross

stairs on the far side at full speed and almost barreled over the railing. Even now, she felt proud of herself. She was good at this, very skillful.
    “We have to wait!” Tariq’s voice sounded over the radio as he scanned the area for Hala.
    Then the mother bitch’s answer. “ You wait,” she said. “We’re leaving right now.”
    As Hala hit the sidewalk, she saw the van pulling away from the curb, its side door still open. A taxi swerved to avoid being hit. The van didn’t slow down. It ran a fast left turn through a red light and was gone into the night.
    Tariq was still there, looking around frantically. The poor man seemed lost.
    “I’m here,” Hala said. “To your left, Tariq.” Come to mother .
    He ran toward her and they met in the middle of the sidewalk.
    “What should we do?” he said. “They drove away. They left us, Hala!”
    The sound of police sirens was already closing in around the neighborhood. They had no money for a cab, or even the subway, once it started running. If the van was apprehended, it could even be unsafe to go back to their hotel room.
    Still, there was one place. Hala wasn’t supposed to know about it, but she did. The question was, Which way from here? She was completely turned around in an unfamiliar part of this large American city, this enemy outpost, their capital. It was impossible to know which way to run.
    But staying put was no option. “This way,” she said, picking a direction. They’d figure it out. “Just run. Run as fast as you can, Tariq. Follow me.” I will take care of you, as I always do, my love .

IT’S NOT LIKE my phone rings in the middle of the night all the time — but I’m sure it does more than most. “Alex Cross,” I answered. There was a click, then two short beeps. That meant a secure line of some kind. Whose line?
    “Detective Cross, this is Betty Chow with the CIA Directorate of Intelligence. I’m very sorry for the hour, but I’m calling to ask you to come to a meeting out here at the counterterrorism center in Langley.”
    That woke me right up. What had happened now? And what was the CIA suddenly doing in the mix? For that matter, what was I doing in it?
    “Can you tell me what this is regarding?” I asked while wiping the sleep from my eyes. “That would help.”
    “I’m not at liberty to discuss any details, but you’ll be fully briefed at the center,” she said.
    I looked at the clock. It was just after four a.m. “When’s the meeting?” I asked.
    “We’re set to convene at five-thirty, Detective. Can I tell them you’ll be here?”
    I didn’t even know who Betty Chow meant by “them.”
    “I’m on my way,” I said.
    “And, Detective? I’m to stress that this is a classified matter and that you’re not to tell anyone where you’re going this morning, under penalty of federal law.”
    “Of course,” I told her, and hung up.
    I thought about calling Bree anyway. She was still on duty, working the graveyard shift these days, and might even have some idea about what had happened to initiate all this. But then I thought the situation through again. If I was getting secure calls from the CIA on classified matters, there was a good chance — a very good chance — they were already listening in on my line.
    I got dressed quickly and left the house in the dark.
    Figuratively and literally in the dark.

THE USUALLY LONG drive to CIA headquarters in langley took no time at all without traffic.
    What I got off the car radio was that two police officers had been killed sometime overnight at the Brentwood rail yard. Was that why I had been summoned to the CIA? Doubtful. I figured it must be something even worse. But what did they know that I didn’t? I didn’t like being on the wrong side of this mystery again.
    Bree, after so many nights on duty, would be exhausted when she got home and would wonder where I was. I missed her like crazy. That’s a good thing, but sometimes it feels so bad.
    An escort met me inside the main entrance to the agency’s complex. He took me up to one of the nicer conference rooms on the sixth floor, where most of the two dozen high-backed leather chairs were already taken.
    I recognized only a few people around the table. Ned Mahoney was one of them.
    He came right over and shook my hand. A little formal for Ned. “Alex. It’s good to see you,” he said. “I mean it. This’s been about the craziest week of my life.”
    I hadn’t laid eyes on him since this