Chapter 8

On December 18, I sent Paul a message through Greta’s phone. I told him I was ready to surrender. I told him I wanted to trade the children for immunity. I told him to meet me alone on the tugboat at Pier 9.

He agreed too fast.

Ben wired me with a recorder. His sister, FBI Agent Marla Reyes, listened from a van two blocks away. The state medical board had a representative on the line. Greta was already in custody, wearing a wire of her own.

At 9:00 p.m., Paul stepped onto the tugboat. He wore a black raincoat and gloves. He smiled when he saw me.

“You look tired, Nadia.”

“You look like a murderer.”

He laughed. “You have nothing. A card. A doll. A dead woman’s voice. Do you know how many experts I can pay to say that recording is fake?”

“Then why did you come?”

His smile faded. “Because I want my children.”

“You wanted to cut open your son for insurance money,” I said. “You killed Irina when she found the ledger.”

Paul stepped closer. “Irina was going to ruin everything. She was always too soft. Just like you.”

“Say it again,” I said. “For the record.”

His eyes narrowed. Then he saw the wire at my collar. He lunged.

The tugboat pitched. Paul grabbed for the recorder. I drove my elbow into his throat. He staggered back, gasping. Greta’s voice came through the speaker, high and desperate. “He’s trying to destroy it!”

Paul tore at my jacket. I brought my knee up hard. He fell against the rail. The recorder skittered across the deck.

Then the cabin light snapped on. Agent Reyes stepped out from the shadows with her weapon drawn. “Paul Kessler, FBI. You’re under arrest.”

Paul looked at me, his face twisted. “You think this ends with me? You’re still a criminal.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But you’re the one in cuffs.”