Another nod. The gaze unwavering.
Borodin returned to his desk. He had forgotten how striking the woman was. The blue eyes. The white-blond hair. She was undoubtedly beautiful, but it was her air of maturity and intelligence that elevated her allure to another level.
Valentina Borisovna Asanova was a child of the state, an orphan raised in government institutions. As a youth, she’d excelled at gymnastics and spent her teen years as a member of the national team. After an injury ended her sporting career, she’d studied electrical engineering at Moscow State University. Later still, she’d graduated at the top of her class from the Russian foreign intelligence academy.
Indeed, she possessed the entire package. Intellect, physical prowess, beauty, ambition.
There was, however, something else that had recommended her to Vassily Borodin. As a child, she had suffered abuse at the hands of a succession of counselors, teachers, and coaches. Sadly, such treatment was the norm for the cold, unregulated institutions run by the state. If a child complained, she—or he—was simply abused worse. As a caring human being and a father, Borodin abhorred such treatment and was ashamed to be part of any apparatus that had allowed it to go unchecked. As director of the country’s spy service, however, he took a different view.
Valentina Asanova’s years of trauma had left her a clinical sociopath with limited emotional capability and an abiding antipathy toward her fellow man. In short, she possessed no conscience. Her battered psyche’s greatest need was recognition. In the greatest of Russian traditions, her sole ambition was to serve the state.
She was the ideal recruit.
“Harass and intimidate,” he went on. “That’s your mandate, isn’t it?”
Again the nod. He noticed that she’d placed her hands under her thighs and that her features had settled into a resigned grimace.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Major, but a hallmark of H and I is stealth, is it not? The job does not demand physical confrontation. On the contrary, it is to introduce an element of fear, an intimation of terror, of uncertainty; to frighten the target without actually doing any physical harm.”
The muscles in the woman’s jaw tightened. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Borodin noted a daub of color in her cheeks that had not been there a moment earlier. He spun his monitor so she might see it. “This story just hit the wires. ‘Ambassador’s wife attacked by assailant in Berlin.’ At the ambassador’s residence, no less.” He paused to allow her to read a few lines. “Any comment? It was you, wasn’t it? I can’t imagine who else would wish to break into the American ambassador’s house precisely when he was attending a meeting to which we were not invited.”
A vein at the woman’s temple had magically appeared. Even at a distance, he could see it pulsing with frightening intensity.
Borodin turned the monitor back toward him and adopted a less benign tone. “Well?” he demanded. “I suppose you think it was a success because you weren’t caught. Don’t you realize it doesn’t matter if they can’t prove anything? The Americans know who was behind it. Damned careless of you. But then that’s something of your trademark, isn’t it, Major?”
Still no answer, the grimace as tight as a death rictus.
“Just what the hell did you do to the woman? Answer me!”
Valentina Asanova slid forward in her chair. Her hands came free of her thighs. She began to stand, her very pretty lips opening. Borodin felt the force of the wrath, as if hit by the concussion of a grenade. But as quickly, she relaxed. With a schoolgirl’s modesty, she adjusted her skirt, ran a hand across the gold chain at her neck, and offered a polite, subservient smile. “May I inquire why you requested my presence?”
Borodin sat back in his chair and expelled the breath he’d been holding. “I’m glad to see you don’t let your emotions get the best of you all the time.”
“No,” she replied with good humor. “Not all the time.”
They eyed each other, but neither laughed.
Borodin slid a dossier across the desk. “I have a job for you.”
Chapter 14
Simon arrived at the Gare du Nord at four p.m. The station was hot and as crowded as a Moroccan bazaar. A new custom of placing pianos in train stations had spread across Europe. An elderly man with wild gray hair played a lively boogie to no one’s apparent appreciation. Simon kept a tight grip on his bag as he negotiated his way to the taxi stand. Young North African males accosted him at every step, aggressively demanding to help with his bag, shouting offers of rides in their own cars or on the back of a motorcycle. He ignored them.
Once outside, he was discouraged to find that the line for taxis stretched around the block. He turned the corner and walked north to where cabs joined the queue. He raised a hand in the air. A moment later, a liveried sedan pulled over. Cabbies didn’t like waiting any more than he.
“Quai des Orfèvres,” said Simon, climbing into the back seat.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
Simon handed him a ten-euro note. “Vite.”
The driver nodded officiously and put the car into gear.
Simon settled in and enjoyed the sights. On the way, he called the workshop. He informed his floor boss, Harry Mason, that he would be gone for a few days and that he should order the dynamometer for the engine shop. “You sure? That’s an expensive piece of kit.”
“Do it,” said Simon. “And pass me to Lucy.”
“She’s been working like a dervish on that Dino you started last night.”
“Is that so?”
“Odd, if you ask me.”
“Better keep a sharp eye, Harry. Maybe she’s after your job.”
“That’ll be the day.”
Simon waited as Harry Mason went to find Lucy. Traffic was only marginally awful. He gripped the armrest as the driver accelerated through the streets, then slowed dramatically to cross the Pont Neuf. He hated being driven by others, taxi drivers most of all.
“Where are you off to, then?” asked Lucy Brown by way of a hello.
“Paris. Business.”
“Never been.”
“One day I’ll take you. School trip.”
“For that guy who was in here this morning?”
Simon gritted his teeth as a work van zeroed in on them, only to veer away at the last moment. “Did you deposit the check?”
“Straightaway at lunch.”
“You know what I do when I make a little money? I buy myself a gift. Nothing too big. Just something to congratulate myself.”
“So what did you get, then?”
“A dynamometer for the shop. Just gave Harry the green light to order it.”
“Sexy.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“Funny you mention that, because I already got something.”
“You did? What is it?”
“A watch.”
“I thought no one was wearing watches these days.”
“Oh, I’m not going to wear it. At least, not all the time.”
“You’re not?”
“Nope.”
“Okay,” said Simon. “I’ll bite. Why did you buy it?”
“So you’ll show me just how the hell you did what you did last night.”
“Goodbye, Lucy.”
The headquarters of the Paris police department, better known as the Police Judiciaire, or PJ, was located at 36 Quai des Orfèvres in a nineteenth-century stone building that ran the length of a city block along the Seine. Men and women hurried up and down the broad limestone stairs. New recruits in their royal-blue uniforms climbed aboard a bus to the academy. Police cars ferried in and out of the lot, beginning a shift or returning after a long day. The rest of Paris might have shut up shop and gone on vacation, but the police were afforded no such luxury. Certainly not after a high-profile robbery that had made headlines around the globe.