Watchlist by Jeffery Deaver Page A

statistics on life-span extension and self-sufficiency, give him her little speech about hope for the next generation. The women would present him with a quilt or a pot for which he could have no possible use and he’d be patronizingly pleased with them and inordinately proud of himself for making this all possible. Then maybe he’d go away and leave them in peace.
    Oh, Leonora, at least try to smile.
    The other Volunteers used to say that regularly, and precisely because their work gave them little to smile about, she’d try. She did it now, a polite smile for the angular blond man who stepped from the Jeep. He smiled back and slapped his hat against his thigh to shake off the dust. He took off his sunglasses: well trained in the art of courtesy, at least.
    “Leonora Tesla? I’m Günter Schmidt.”
    He spoke in English with a soft accent she couldn’t quite place. Not German, but no law said his German name meant he was brought up in that country. That’s what the permeability of European borders was about. It was supposed to be a good thing.
    They shook hands. Schmidt’s was soft and fleshy, as befit someone who dispensed money from behind a desk. “You’ve had a long drive,” she said. “Sit down. I’ll get you something to drink.” She indicated a stool on the hard clay under the overhang, but he followed her into the house. He’d learn, she thought. In Africa the indoor, though shadowed and appealing, was never cooler than outside.
    Still smiling, Schmidt dropped himself onto one of the rough-hewn chairs at her plank table. She handed him a bottle of BB orange soda. In a hut without electricity, of course she had no refrigerator, but she’d learned the African trick of burying bottles in a box in the hut’s clay floor, so the drink was relatively cool. “We’ll be more comfortable outside,” she suggested, resigned to try to be pleasant to this intruder.
    “No,” he said, “I’d rather stay here. Leonora.”
    She bristled at the odd way he said her name, but his expression was mild as he looked about her hut. So she shrugged, wiped her brow with her kerchief and sat beside him.
    “You’ve lived here long?” Schmidt asked, taking a pull from his soda bottle.
    “No. I don’t live anywhere long. My work takes me many places.”
    “That would account for the . . . simplicity.”
    “And yet my possessions, few as they are, are more numerous than those of the women in our programs. When you’re rested, I’ll take you to see the kiln. We’ll be covering a lot of ground today if you want to see the full scope of our work.” She stood to reach her own Jeep keys on the hook by the door.
    “No, I think we’ll stay here. Leonora.”
    She turned sharply. His smile and the mild expression in his eyes were still in place, but his hand held a pistol, pointed at her.
    Calm, Leonora. Stay calm. “What do you want?”
    “Where is Harold Middleton?”
    Tesla’s heart, already pounding, gave a lurch. But she spoke calmly. “Harold? How would I possibly know?”
    Schmidt didn’t answer her. The gun moved slightly, as though seeking a better angle.
    “Isn’t he in America, in Washington? That’s where he lives.”
    “If he were in Washington,” Schmidt asked reasonably, “would I be here?”
    “Well, I haven’t heard from him in almost a year.”
    “I don’t know whether that’s true, though eventually I’m sure I’ll find out. But it doesn’t matter. Whether you’ve heard from him or not, you know where he’d go. If, say, he were in trouble.”
    In trouble? “No, I don’t.”
    “When you worked together—”
    “When we did, I might have been able to tell you. But I don’t know anything about his life now. He teaches music; I don’t even know where.”
    Neither of them had moved since Tesla had seen the pistol. Neither of them moved now, in the stretching silence. A breeze rustled the leaves in the acacia behind the hut. Sweat trickled down Tesla’s spine.
    “Who are you? What