Shadow Tag by Steve Berry, Raymond Khoury Page A

They also seeded what became a close friendship between the two authors.
    “Ten years,” Khoury mulled. “Damn. Where’d they go?”
    “Sitting at our keyboards, mostly.”
    “Yeah,” he sighed. “Typing away our fantasies instead of living them. You ever think about that?”
    “What, me working for the Justice Department? Can you imagine?” Berry chuckled.
    “Maybe if they have a department that investigates restaurants with overpriced wine lists.”
    “That I could do. But seriously … looking back at it now, ten years later. You wouldn’t change anything in it?”
    Khoury chortled. “Tons.”
    “Really?”
    Khoury reflected on Berry’s question for a second, then said, “Well … the ending, maybe. Tess tossing that page from the diary into the sea. I’m still in two minds about it.”
    “Yeah, I agree. It sucked.” Berry said, deadpan.
    Khoury turned to him, mock-surprised.
    Then they both laughed.
    “Just for that, you’re buying—and I’m choosing the restaurant,” Khoury said.
    “Done.”
    They stepped across the large foyer and out into the early evening downpour, popping open their Festival umbrellas.
    “We’re going to have a hard time getting a cab in this rain,” Khoury said, pulling out his phone. “Let me see if there’s an Uber around.”
    “Hang on,” Berry said, pointing ahead. “That’s us.”
    Khoury looked up. A black Ford Galaxy people carrier, the kind commonly used as minicabs in London, was parked by the curb, waiting. A man in a black suit was standing beside it. He was holding an open umbrella in one hand and a white card in the other. The card said, “Berry/Khoury.”
    The driver, a tall, stubble-bearded man in a loose-fitting black suit but no tie, beckoned them over with a welcoming nod, as if he’d recognized them.
    Khoury looked quizzically at Berry. “You order that?”
    Berry shook his head. “No, but, whoever did we can thank later. Let’s get in.”
    They walked up to the mini-cab.
    “Mr Berry, Mr Khoury?” the driver asked courteously, and before waiting for an answer, he swung the rear door open and motioned them in. “Please.”
    Berry glanced at Khoury, shrugged, and stepped up to the car, closing his umbrella before climbing in.
    Khoury followed suit.
    And just as the driver shut the rear door, the opposite one opened and a man hustled into the car, shoving Berry into the middle of the rear bench as he closed the door behind him.
    “Hey, buddy, it’s taken—”
    Berry didn’t finish his sentence. The sight of an automatic handgun in the intruder’s hand, leveled at his gut, stilled him.
    Khoury interjected, “Whoa, what the—?”
    The man swung the gun so it was now facing him. “Shut up.” Then he glanced over to the driver, who was now in his seat.
    “ Yalla, imshi ,” he said.
    The driver nodded, put the car into gear, and drove away.
    Berry looked at Khoury, visibly worried.
    The meal would have to wait.

2
    New York City
    Sean Reilly was in a lousy mood.
    The day hadn’t started badly. Quite the contrary, in fact. Saturdays were easily in his top-two favorite days of the week. Waking up to hints of sunlight that infiltrated his and Tess’s bedroom through cracks in the blinds—much better than the ramblings of an overly-caffeinated DJ on the clock radio. Cuddling in bed instead of scrambling to get to work. Enjoying the morning paper in actual, old-fashioned print and not on an iPad, and good coffee in an actual china mug with steam rising out of it into the open air. Savoring waffles and maple syrup instead of gulping down a cold bagel while rushing into town.
    Yes indeed, the signs had been good. Even the weather—sunny with a little edge to it, a lovely New England late summer day—was cooperating. A nice, relaxing weekend split between quality time with the kids, and Netflix and chill with Tess, was on the cards. Until the phone call.
    The ominous phone call summoning him to 26 Federal Plaza.
    A call to