From her vantage point in the rest area outside Riske’s car—the two-meter-long no-man’s-land between carriages—Valentina watched the American rise from his seat and head her way, followed by the woman she’d guessed to be his companion. Valentina retreated a step, seeking refuge in the bathroom. She tried the handle and found it locked. A brusque male voice registered his protest. In her fatigued state, she nearly shouted for him to hurry up and get out.
The American was ten steps away, four rows from the door. Turning, she rushed to the adjoining car and traversed its length. The next bathroom was vacant. She entered and locked the door, counting to sixty to allow Riske to pass. In that time, she removed the pen from her pocket, loosened the cap, and cocked its pocket clasp to ninety degrees, charging the nib with poison.
After a minute, she opened the door cautiously. Her eyes reconnoitered the rest area. The American was gone.
She walked to the next car in time to observe the woman nearing the far exit. The American opened the door and let her pass in front of him. When they were both out of view, Valentina entered the carriage, moving slower now, aware that the dining car was immediately ahead.
A steward came through the door, pushing a beverage cart. His colleague held the door for him, offering Valentina a clear view of Riske, back to her, and the woman standing in line in the dining car.
“Excuse me, madame.”
Valentina stepped aside as the steward passed. She advanced to the end of the carriage, peeking through the glass, her view blocked by a knot of passengers leaving the dining car. The element of surprise was vital. She couldn’t allow Riske to see her approach, not even for a second. It was imperative no one witness her stabbing him with the pen.
The onslaught of the poison’s effects was rapid and dramatic. Within seconds, the victim realized that something was horribly wrong. The heartbeat accelerated. Muscles tightened. Eyesight blurred. A terrific pounding pressed on the temple. Body temperature rose three to five degrees. The skin flushed. Perspiration increased. Taken together, the reactions made the victim feel as if his head were about to explode.
As the poison attacked the central nervous system, the victim became paralyzed. His muscles began to spasm. He could no longer speak. Pain became unbearable. He frothed at the mouth. Often, he vomited copiously.
In the final stages, the nervous system stopped functioning altogether. The person collapsed. His lungs no longer worked. In the last seconds before death, he suffered the sensation of asphyxiating, his mouth open but unable to draw a breath.
There was nothing subtle about it.
Valentina slipped the pen from her pocket, concealing it in her palm as she advanced. She caught a glimpse of Riske’s dark blazer, his neatly trimmed hair, the sharp profile of his nose and jaw. The woman was still at his side, the two deep in conversation. The dining car was more crowded than when she’d passed through earlier. A number of passengers waited near the service counter, and she guessed that the dining steward was behind in filling orders.
Valentina stepped away from the window. Reluctantly, she decided that it might be necessary to reconsider her course of action. It would do no one any good were she to kill Riske and herself be captured. Her primary goal was Coluzzi, not Riske. She looked at her watch. Two hours remained until they reached Marseille. She needed to act wisely and bide her time. The odds were in her favor that she’d have another chance at Riske.
Resigned that she must wait, she glanced back into the dining car as a group of five left a table and made their way to the opposite exit. Riske’s companion moved rapidly to the vacant spot, placing her handbag on the table. A moment later, another group of three or four left by the same exit. In seconds, the dining car had gone from packed to empty.
Valentina gripped the pen in her fingers, eagerly reappraising the situation.
Two women stood behind Riske, but the passage beside him was free of traffic, providing an open conduit. The American’s back was to her, his face raised to the menu posted behind the counter. His companion was at the far end of the car speaking on the phone, gazing out the window.
There would never be a better moment.
Valentina dropped her hand to her side, the pen extended, nib up. Confident that she had made the right decision—the only decision—she pushed open the door and entered the dining car.
Chapter 47
Simon leaned closer to Nikki as they stood in line. “What do you want? Coffee? A croissant?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“Nothing to eat? We didn’t hang around to get our room service.” He studied the menu posted on the wall. “I’m thinking a ham and cheese baguette and a Coke.”
“You’re a real gourmet.”
“I haven’t eaten much since leaving the emergency room. I don’t care what I have as long as it’s filling.”
“Thank you, but I’ll wait for a bouillabaisse in the Vieux-Port. Cheese toast. A glass of wine.”
“What happened to Paris’s toughest cop?”
“I’m tough, not a cretin. I’ve waited this long. It might as well be something good.”
“You may be waiting a lot longer. We’re hitting the ground running. You haven’t forgotten that we’re not the only ones looking for Coluzzi.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Nikki. “Any ideas where he’s at?”
“A few. We need to poke around here and there, ask some questions.”
