Call After Midnight
A ringing phone in the middle of the night begins a horrific journey for newlywed Sarah Fontaine when she is given the news that her husband, Geoffrey, has been killed in a hotel fire in Berlin.Convinced that Geoffrey is still alive, she challenges special agent Nick O'Hara of the U.S. State department to prove her wrong as they crisscross Europe in a desperate search, trying to stay one heartbeat ahead of a dangerous killer and risking everything for answers that may prove fatal.
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A fan-favorite novel by internationally bestselling author Tess Gerritsen
Newlywed Sarah Fontaine has just received the news that every wife fears: her husband of two months has died abroad in a hotel fire. Yet convinced he's still alive, Sarah forges an alliance with Nick O'Hara from the U.S. State Department that has the two of them crisscrossing Europe on a desperate search for signs of life. As Sarah and Nick become quarry in the secret world of international espionage, they must risk everything for answers that may prove fatal.
Rave reviews for the novels ofTess Gerritsen
VANISH
“Gerritsen’s latest novel is a tense, taut thriller that grabs readers from the get-go and never lets up.”
—Booklist
BODY DOUBLE
“An electric series of startling twists, the revelation of ghoulishly practical motives and a nail-biting finale make this Gerritsen’s best to date.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The story zips along.… A delightfully bizarro plot twist.”
—Entertainment Weekly
THE APPRENTICE
”Well-drawn characters and a compelling story will grab readers’ interest and earn Gerritsen more admirers.”
—Booklist
“Leave the lights on, check the closets, and lock the doors before cracking [The Apprentice].”
—People
THE SURGEON
“Gliding as smoothly as a scalpel in a confident surgeon’s hand, this tale proves that Gerritsen…has morphed into a…suspense novelist whose growing popularity is keeping pace with her ever-finer writing skills.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Gerritsen fans know by now what to expect from her: a fascinating story with a gripping plot and believably human characters. Such is The Surgeon, and, in places, then some. Let new readers learn what the fans delight in.”
—Booklist
THE SINNER
“Gerritsen gives atmospheric depth to her tale… satisfyingly gritty.”
—Publishers Weekly
To Jacob,
who was always there
CONTENTS
Berlin
IT TAKES TWENTY seconds of pressure on the carotid arteries to render a man unconscious. Two minutes longer, and death is inevitable. Simon Dance didn’t need a medical textbook to tell him these facts—he knew them from experience. He also knew there could be no slack in the garrote. If the cord wasn’t taut, if it allowed just a short spurt of precious blood to reach the victim’s brain, the struggle would be prolonged. It made the whole process sloppy, even dangerous. There was nothing as savage as a dying man.
As he crouched in the darkness, Dance wound the garrote twice around his hands and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. Two hours had passed since he’d turned off the lights. His assassin was obviously a cautious man who wanted to be sure Dance was deeply asleep. If the man was a professional, he would know that the first two hours of sleep are the heaviest. Now was the time to strike.
In the hallway outside, a footstep creaked. Dance stiffened, then rose slowly and waited in the darkness beside the door. He ignored the pounding of his own heart. He felt the familiar spurt of adrenaline as it kicked his reflexes into high gear. He stretched the garrote between his hands.
A key was easing into the lock. Dance heard the metallic click of the teeth grating softly across metal. The key turned, and the lock opened with a soft clunk. Slowly the door swung in, and light from the hall spilled into the room. A shadow moved through the doorway and turned toward the bed, where a man appeared to be sleeping. The shadow raised its arm. Three bullets from a silencer thudded into the pillows. As the third bullet struck, so did Dance.
He whipped the garrote around the intruder’s neck and snapped the cord up and back. It tightened precisely around the most exposed portion of the carotid artery, by the angle of the jaw. The gun fell to the floor. The man thrashed as if he were a hooked fish and tore frantically at the garrote. He reached back and tried to claw Dance’s face. His arms and legs went out of control, wildly jerking and thrusting in all directions. Then gradually the legs crumpled, and the arms reached out one last time before going limp. As Dance counted the minutes, he felt the body’s last spasms, the seizures of starved and dying brain cells. He held on.
When three minutes had passed, Dance released the garrote, and the body dropped to the floor. Dance turned on the lights and gazed down at the man he’d just killed.
The mottled face was vaguely familiar. Perhaps he’d seen the man on a street or on a train somewhere, but he didn’t know his name. Quickly he went through the man’s clothes but found only money, car keys and a few tools of the trade: extra ammunition clips, a switchblade, a lock pick. A nameless professional, thought Dance, wondering offhandedly how much the man had been paid.
He dragged the body onto the bed and tossed aside the three pillows that had been fluffed up beneath the covers. He estimated the body’s size to be six feet plus or minus an inch. The same height. Good. Dance exchanged clothes with the corpse; it was probably unnecessary, but he was a thorough man. Then he took off his wedding ring and tried to slip it onto the corpse’s finger, but it wouldn’t quite fit over the knuckle. He went to the bathroom, soaped the ring and finally managed to jam it on the dead man’s finger. Then he sat down and smoked a few cigarettes. He tried to think of any details he might have missed.
