Kill Alex Cross

attorney,” he said again. “I insist you take me back to the mosque this instant! Right now! Do you hear me? Are you recording this? ”
    Sivitz stood up fast. His chair slammed back onto the concrete floor.
    “Listen to me,” he said. “Listen very carefully. If you ever want to see your wife again, you’re going to drop this pathetic act of yours and start talking to us. Who is your contact in Saudi Arabia?”
    “Are you threatening my wife? ” The man was shaking with rage now.
    “No, Faizal. You are . What I’m saying is that you’re both going to spend the rest of your lives in separate American prisons at the rate you’re going. So tell me, who’s running your ops in the District?”
    “This is illegal! Racist! Outrageous —”
    “Where are Ethan and Zoe Coyle?”
    Angawi reeled back then and spit in the agent’s face.
    Sivitz saw red. He cocked a fist and came at him until Angawi was cowering with his hands up around his head. This meant he wasn’t immune to pain. Good to know.
    It took another breath for Sivitz to pull himself back from the edge. He wasn’t going to hit this cripple. There would be no bruising. No physical proof of anything. Instead, he reached down and took Angawi’s chin in his hand.
    “Look at me,” he said.
    Slowly, the man’s eyes came up to meet his.
    “You want to keep wasting your people the way you’ve been doing, you go right ahead. Put your wife on that list while you’re at it. Doesn’t make any difference to me. But just so you know — we’re not leaving this place until you give me something I can use. And — I will hurt you.” Sivitz stepped back and let go of his face. He looked visibly shaken now. “Names, Faizal. Places. Targets. You know what I want.”
    Angawi took a deep breath. For the first time, it was hard to tell which direction he might go in. Maybe they were making some progress here, after all.
    “I … demand … to … see … my … attorney,” Angawi said. It was so slow as to be mocking. Then he folded his hands on his lap and bowed his head, either at rest or in prayer. It was hard to tell which.
    Sivitz watched for a minute, then turned away. He took out a pack of gum and unwrapped a piece as he headed for the door. “Goddamn, I miss cigarettes,” he growled to no one.
    It was going to be a long night.

THE HALLWAY OFF the loading dock had been cleared of all personnel except for a lone armed agent at the far end. The guard pushed the elevator button for Sivitz as he approached.
    “How’s it going in there?” he asked.
    Sivitz ignored him and got onto the elevator without a word.
    He rode to the sixth floor, where another agent was on post. Continuing down the hall, he passed a long row of dark offices until he came to the last one, with a light showing under the door. The placard next to it had his name engraved in block letters beneath a small rendering of the CIA seal.
    Sivitz knocked twice, then opened the door with his key.
    Inside, Mrs. Angawi was sitting at the conference table with a female translator from Langley. Peter Lindley was there as well, and Evan Stroud from the Directorate of Intelligence, who had jobbed Sivitz in for this one. All four had Styrofoam containers of sandwiches and chips in front of them and bottles of water from the kitchen down the hall.
    “How are we doing in here?” Sivitz asked. “Everybody nice and comfy?”
    The translator quietly relayed the question to Mrs. Angawi, who came back in a torrent of Arabic.
    “‘I want to leave this building, this city. It’s a cursed place,’” the translator said, speaking for the woman as she went. “‘I shouldn’t be here anymore. It’s not safe for me.’”
    “Tell her she’ll be in a hotel tonight, perfectly secure. Once we have everything we need, other arrangements can be made,” Stroud answered.
    Sivitz kept his thoughts to himself. The woman seemed a little simple to him. It was amazing that the Bureau had put this much stock in her. Although, by the same token, all of her intel had been good so far. Maybe her own people had underestimated her, too.
    He also noticed that her hijab was down around her shoulders, even with these strange men in the room. That spoke volumes about her.
    “‘I want a new life,’” she went on through her translator. “‘My husband is not the same man that I married. I can’t stand by and watch this happen anymore. I have friends here. American friends, do you understand?’”
    “Yeah,