Kill Alex Cross

yeah, I’ve got it,” Sivitz said.
    Somewhere in there, she’d turned her attention on him. Maybe she felt like she wasn’t getting anywhere with Stroud and Lindley. But he was no baby-sitter. “Ask who her husband reports to in Saudi Arabia. We need to know who’s giving the orders here.”
    “We’ve been trying, Matt. You do know that, right?” Stroud said.
    “Pretty please?” Sivitz’s adrenaline was still high, and he didn’t give a shit whose pay grade was up the scale from whose right now.
    Stroud nodded at the interpreter, who posed the question to Mrs. Angawi.
    “‘I don’t know,’” she translated.
    “What about the Coyle kids?” Sivitz asked.
    “‘My husband says that The Family is responsible. He said as much to two of our people just the other day. The ones who are in charge now, I think.’”
    “And who are they? What are their names? What do they look like? Where are they?”
    Sivitz tried not to rush, but he was finding it difficult. Time was short.
    “‘I believe she is a doctor. The man is somewhat plain — in his looks, but also maybe in his head. I think it’s the wife who controls things. She’s very strong.’”
    “And you don’t know their names?” Sivitz tried again.
    No.
    “Or where they are?”
    No.
    “Jesus.”
    He turned and walked to the window. The Capitol dome loomed just a few blocks away. The needle of the Washington Monument stood tall in the distance. It was a great nighttime city, really. Not that he ever got to enjoy it.
    Again, the woman spoke up, followed by the interpreter. What the woman had said seemed important. Her voice had risen.
    “‘What I can tell you is where the next attack will be. Also maybe when it is scheduled.’”
    Everything in the room seemed to go still. When Sivitz turned around, Mrs. Angawi’s expression had changed. Was she smiling? The corners of her mouth looked curled.
    “Tell me,” Sivitz asked. Lindley was already dialing his phone. “Give me a location. A time. Whatever you’ve got. Then you’ll get what you want.”
    She sat back then. Yes, she was definitely smiling. She was just as smug as her husband when she wanted to be, wasn’t she?
    Taking her time now, the woman picked up the uneaten half of her sandwich and carefully wrapped it in a paper napkin. She tucked it into the purse on the table next to her and then put the purse on her lap, speaking quietly through the translator as she did.
    “‘As soon as you get me out of this godforsaken city, I’ll tell you what you want to know.’”

FIRST THING THE next morning, I was back on the trail of Zoe Coyle’s cell phone. The number I got from her friends traced to a prepaid Firefly flip model. It was the kind of thing you could pick up at any convenience store — no calling plan, no subscriber information required. Zoe had obviously gone to some trouble to keep this thing a secret.
    Fireflies were especially popular with schoolkids, since they were so small and easy to hide. Even their advertising campaign played it up — Where’s Your Firefly?
    I hated to think about where Zoe’s might be right now. Buried underground somewhere? In pieces at the side of the highway? Sitting in some maniac’s glove compartment? None of the images that flooded my mind were good ones.
    As soon as I had the signatures I needed, I faxed off an administrative subpoena for records to the phone company down in Jacksonville, Florida. I gave them exactly one hour to respond.
    When I didn’t hear back, I called and left a message for their director of security: another subpoena was on the way. He could bring those records up and present them to the grand jury himself, if that’s how they wanted to play it.
    Five minutes later, my phone rang.
    “Detective Cross, it’s Bill Shattuck with Essential Electronics. How can I help you?”
    “What don’t you already know?” I asked, cutting through the bullshit.
    “Well, I’ve got the records for the number you requested right here in front of me. Should I e-mail you a copy?”
    “Please and thank you,” I said.
    Shattuck cleared his throat. “There’s one other thing. I can send you the transaction logs for text messages and voice calls, no problem, but we just don’t have the kind of data storage you get with an AT&T or a Verizon. The actual content of any texts drops off our system after seven or eight days, and the last transaction on this phone was … let’s see. Twelve days ago. An incoming text on