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.”
