“Make sure the duty officer patches us into their feed in real time. If these phone numbers really are Coluzzi’s, I don’t want to wait to find out about it. I want to hear every word he says, as he says it.”
Neill stood up to stretch, careful not to hit his head against the roof. The van was a Mercedes Sprinter with blacked-out windows and fitted with a standard surveillance package. There was a StingRay, similar to Simon’s, if many times more powerful, a directional microphone hidden beneath the van’s opaque turret, high-def cameras linked to facial-recognition software, and much, much more. All with direct access to the new combined intelligence database code-named “Beast,” which linked together the combined resources of the CIA, the Pentagon, the FBI, and a dozen other three-letter agencies, including the DEA, ICE, NGA, and IRS. It had taken 9/11, fifteen years of haggling, dozens of false starts, and twenty billion dollars, but the United States intelligence and law enforcement communities were finally functionally integrated.
Ten years earlier, he’d needed a month to shepherd a request for information from one agency to another. Today, he could do it in a few seconds from an automobile traveling at eighty miles per hour along a highway three thousand miles from Washington, DC. That, concluded Neill, was progress.
“What can you do with the picture?” he asked a second tech seated on the opposite side of the van.
The technician brought up the photograph of the Russian woman taken in the lobby of Falconi’s apartment building. He cropped the photo close to her face, then applied a variety of filters and sharpeners, serving to amplify and clarify the pixel count. When he’d finished, he had a near-perfect, full-frontal portrait. “That’s as good as we’re going to get.”
“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
“Better than the girls I was at the Farm with.”
The Farm being the CIA’s training compound in rural Virginia.
“Hush,” said Neill. “That’s unpatriotic. Let’s see if she shows up in any of our registries.”
“May take a minute.”
The van hit a bump and Neill put out a hand to steady himself. He walked forward to the driving cabin. “Everything ready for our departure.”
“The bird is on the tarmac. Flight crew aboard and waiting.”
“Outstanding.”
“Sir,” called the photo tech. “We have a hit.”
“I’m listening.”
“Valentina Asanova. Ph.D. candidate in electrical engineering at Moscow State University. Graduate of the foreign intelligence school. Assigned to Directorate S, Department 9. First spotted in Dubai 2008, as part of the team believed to have assassinated a key fund-raiser for Hezbollah. Suspected of taking part in that car bombing in Sana’a in 2016.”
“That mess?” An extremist group backed by the Russians had detonated a car bomb in the center of a large religious gathering near the Yemeni capital, killing over two hundred people. The problem had been that the gathering was a wedding when the intended target was attending a funeral.
“Last known assignment to be in Mumbai. Officially retired from duty last year. Reputation as being reckless with no regard for collateral damage.”
Neill wrung his hands. Oh, Vassily, he thought. We’ve got you hook, line, and sinker. “Looks like she’s back, though I’m betting it’s unofficially. Did Mr. Riske provide her number as well?”
“He did.”
“Let’s see where she’s hiding.”
The technician input Valentina Asanova’s phone number into his computer. The number was sent to the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, where it was surreptitiously uploaded to a satellite operated by Russphon, the handset’s service provider. The satellite “pinged” the number. Less than a second later, the GPS coordinates of the handset appeared on the screen, along with an address. “She’s presently at the Gare de Lyon.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence?” The van came to a halt and Neill gazed out the window at a large nineteenth-century terminus building with a clock tower similar in style to Big Ben. It was the Gare de Lyon.
“Shall we contact Riske and tell him about the Russian?” the technician asked.
Neill didn’t respond. He’d had eyes and ears on Riske since he’d left London. He’d had a man in the lobby of the George V when Riske checked in and another at police headquarters when he’d met Commissaire Dumont. One of his men had followed Riske to Le Galleon Rouge and witnessed the fight outside the bar and, later, Riske’s visit to the ER.
So it was that Neill knew Riske was working closely with Detective Perez. He was more than a little peeved that Riske hadn’t told him, but he wasn’t surprised. Everyone had his own agenda. Nothing was ever just business. It was always personal. But then he’d bet on that all along.
“Sir?”
Neill looked away, mulling his options. He had an agenda as well, and he was no longer sure if it was compatible with Simon Riske’s.
“Can we at least send him the picture of her?”
“Quiet,” said Neill. “Unless you want the man to hear you.”
“Sir?”
Across the street a taxi had pulled up and disgorged a single passenger. He was a trim, dark-haired man dressed in a tailored blazer and slacks. Neill watched as Simon Riske paid the driver and set off at a determined clip toward the terminus.
Riske was his bird dog, not his retriever. His job was to flush the adversary out of the undergrowth, nothing more. So far, he was doing an admirable job. If the phone numbers found at Falconi’s house did, in fact, belong to Coluzzi, Neill wouldn’t need Riske much longer. He’d catch Coluzzi himself.
Neill saw no reason to offer help when help wasn’t needed.
“Mr. Riske is fine on his own,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
Neill put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “Let’s get to the airport. The plane’s waiting.”
Neill arrived at Orly Airport thirty minutes later.
The van passed through a special security gate and drove across the tarmac to the Gulfstream jet parked anonymously at the far corner of the airfield. Unlike Valentina Asanova, Neill did have a plane at his disposal.
He’d be in Marseille in a little more than ninety minutes. Well ahead of his bird dog.
Chapter 42
Nervous, flighty, and fatigued from a poor night’s sleep, Tino Coluzzi parked his car and walked the three blocks downhill to the port. The sky was a flawless blue. A light breeze scalloped the sea’s surface. Gulls wheeled and turned overhead, crying lustily. The beautiful morning failed to lift the mantle of dread. A Russian assassin had killed Luca Falconi, his best friend. Worse, Falconi had seemingly told her everything he knew about him and about Le Coual. And in case that wasn’t enough, Simon Ledoux, a man he’d thought dead and buried these long years, was not only alive but on his way to find him.
It had come to this.
One call.
Coluzzi crossed the Place aux Huiles and soon came in sight of the harbor. His heart sank. Panicked, he looked left and right. Nowhere did he see the Solange’s proud navy-blue hull, the sharp bow, the skull and crossbones fluttering from the fantail.
Ren had lied to him. He had not tried to reach Borodin after all.
In a daze, Coluzzi crossed to the quai and ran to the Solange’s mooring. In place of the two-hundred-foot superyacht was an eighteen-foot tender, bobbing at the dock. A lone crewman in white shorts and striped sailor’s tunic busied himself wiping down the seats. Coluzzi lowered his head, feeling as if he were the brunt of some cruel practical joke. He thought of the briefcase cached at Le Coual and the letter returned to its hiding place inside it.
Now what?
“Mr. Coluzzi?”
Coluzzi looked up to see the young crewman waving. “What do you want?”
“Mr. Ren departed at dawn for Entre les ?les.”
“I can see that.”
“Come aboard. He asked that I bring you.”
“To Entre les ?les?”