“Any ideas?”
Simon shrugged. “Whatever it is, it has people in Washington and Moscow worried.”
Nikki scrolled down the list, going back one day, then another. A few messages in French popped up. There was one from the manager of the George V thanking him for his visit and offering his sympathy about the robbery. And a similar note from the manager of Cartier.
“Something’s wrong,” said Simon. “Two hundred seventy unread messages.”
Nikki looked up. “So?”
“How often do you check your email?”
“If I’m busy, a few times a day. If I’m not, every other minute.”
“Exactly. The last message the prince opened was from Jean-Jacques Delacroix on Sunday night.”
“Two hours after the robbery,” said Nikki, noting the time stamp.
Simon read the message aloud. “‘Dear Prince Abdul Aziz, I’ve just heard about the terrible affairs of this evening and wanted to inquire as to your and the princess’s well-being, as well as that of your children. Please let me know soonest if there is anything I or the hotel can do on your behalf to be of assistance in this difficult time.’”
“Did he respond?” asked Nikki.
Simon opened the Sent Mail box. “He did.” He read the missive aloud. “We are fine, Jean-Jacques. No one important was harmed. Thank you, my friend.”
“‘No one important,’” said Nikki. “Just the bodyguard. Nice. And then? Anything more?”
“That’s it. Nothing was sent since Sunday night.”
“And no more messages were opened since then either.”
“That’s a long break.”
“Too long.” Nikki looked at Simon. “What do you think?”
“I’m thinking it’s not good for your health to come in contact with that letter.”
Simon worked his way through the messages in reverse chronological order. The prince received nearly one hundred emails a day. Besides the correspondence from his family, there was junk mail from bookstores and department stores, newspapers and magazines, and one from his bank with a receipt for his withdrawal of ten thousand euros from the Bois de Boulogne branch.
Then he saw a name that increased his unease tenfold. The sender was [email protected]. The header read, Handover details. The message, Kalamatos Airfield, Cyprus. Designation: KMTS. Radio frequency: 560 Hz. Sunday. 2300.
“Borodin,” said Simon. “Ring a bell?”
“Something with music?”
“That was Alexander Borodin. Nineteenth-century Russian composer. This is Borodin, V.” He typed the name into his Google search bar. “‘Borodin, Vassily,’” he read aloud from a Wikipedia entry. “‘Director Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.’”
“Now we know who’s angry at us.”
“Cyprus,” said Simon. “A nice neutral location to hand over the letter…after which the prince fell off the map.”
“You think something happened to him?”
Simon considered this. There was no question that something had happened to the prince that prevented him from checking his email. The question was what. “Maybe it wasn’t so neutral after all.”
He typed Borodin’s email address into the search bar to bring up all past correspondence. A dozen messages appeared dating back over a year. The most recent was a message sent by the prince to Borodin dated the previous Wednesday. “‘Prize in hand,’” Simon read aloud. “‘Will transport to Paris. Advise handover.’”
“Is the ‘prize’ the letter?” Nikki asked.
“Must be,” said Simon. “What everyone’s dying to get their hands on.”
“Next.”
“Last Monday. There’s a note instructing the prince to call a number with regard to ‘picking up a certain package.’” Simon opened a new window and typed the ten-digit number into the search engine. “Alexandria, Virginia, area code,” he said, waiting for the reverse listing to pop up. “That’s across the river from the capital.”
“How accurate is that?”
“Not very. I need to run the number past my contacts to get a name and address. It will take time.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“Easiest guess is whoever stole the letter from the CIA, or who was in possession of it at that time. But, like I said, that’s a guess.”
“Keep going.”
The next few messages between the men provided a clearer picture of their relationship and the events leading to Borodin requesting the prince’s assistance with “a matter of utmost delicacy.” It was in one of these messages that Borodin had attached a photograph captioned “Red Square 1988.”
“Take a look.”
“Who is it?” asked Nikki.
“You don’t know?”
“That’s, um…the Russian guy with the port-wine birthmark on his forehead.”
“Mikhail Gorbachev.”
“Yeah, Gorbachev.”
“And the other guy?”
“The one shaking the kid’s hand?”
“Yes, the man shaking the boy’s hand.”
“He’s an American. He was president. Um…”
“Ronald Reagan.”
“Yes, Reagan. The cowboy. It’s your country. Why should I know?”
The photograph showed Reagan and Gorbachev along with a coterie of aides taking a stroll through Red Square. It was an informal “action” shot taken as Reagan extended his arm to shake the hand of a young Russian boy, a tourist by the look of him, about ten years of age.
“Okay,” said Nikki. “Reagan and Gorbachev from a million years ago. What’s the big deal?”
“Not sure.” Simon studied the picture more closely and it hit him. “You see anything funny?”
“No,” said Nikki, without interest.
“What about that guy?” Simon pointed to a slim man standing directly behind the boy, a person he took to be the boy’s father. “Look familiar?”
“No.”
“Sure about that?”
The father appeared to be in his midthirties, with high cheekbones and an Asiatic cast to the eyes. His blond hair was already thinning. He wore a short-sleeved shirt with a camera around his neck. The picture had been taken thirty years earlier, but Simon recognized him at once. Unlike many Russians, this one did not drink alcohol and was famed for his physical pursuits. He had aged well.
“It can’t be,” Nikki gasped.
“Why not?” Simon zoomed in on the blond man. To his eye, there was no doubt. The “father” of the boy was Vladimir Putin, leader of the Russian Federation. “It says the picture was taken in 1988. If I’m not mistaken, Putin was assigned to East Germany at the time. They must have brought him in for the job. Makes sense. Do you think Gorbachev would let just anyone into Red Square when the president of the United States was visiting? He couldn’t take a chance there might be some dissident eager to voice his discontent. The loss of face would have been incalculable. Every last person in Red Square that day must have been KGB.”
“And the boy?”
“Future KGB.” Simon smiled, but only for a moment. His eye had shifted to a man standing directly behind Ronald Reagan’s shoulder, an American in a khaki suit standing with a hangdog look about him. “No,” he murmured.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” said Simon. “Just surprised.” But for a few seconds longer he continued to study the pallid man in the khaki suit. If he wasn’t mistaken, the man was Barnaby Neill, and he and Vladimir Putin were looking directly at each other.
“And so?” Nikki asked when Simon closed the photograph. “What does it mean?”
“Another piece of the puzzle.”
Continuing to scroll through the messages, Simon spotted a receipt from the Four Seasons Hotel, Washington, DC, for the prince’s stay in the U.S. capital the week before.
And he picked up the letter in DC.
Thirty minutes later, after digging through the prince’s emails and finding nothing further of interest, Simon closed the laptop. He gazed outside. Everything looked so pretty on the surface. Clean. Well ordered. Idyllic. Only when you looked closer did you notice the cracks.