“Yes, they did, I suppose. And otherwise? How are you holding up?”
“Fine,” said Simon. “No worries.” He wanted to give her a smile, a little something to let her know he was okay, but all he could muster was a nod of the head. He looked out the window in case his unease showed. He wasn’t fine at all. His mind was a mess of warring ideas far more bothersome than his bruised cheek. He wasn’t sure who were his friends and who were his enemies, or if he even had any friends in this matter to begin with.
As he’d discussed with Nikki, he had to assume that Neill knew the Russian woman’s location. If Simon’s store-bought StingRay could track the woman’s phone and link it to her masters in Yasenevo, then Neill—with his access to the world’s most sophisticated surveillance system—should have been able not only to alert him to her presence on the train but also to give him the precise location of her carriage and her seat number.
The question then was, why had he chosen not to warn him?
Had Neill wanted Simon killed? Or was it something else? Something subtler. Had he, despite his statements to the contrary, wanted Vassily Borodin and his ilk to know that the Americans were giving chase?
The answer was moot. Simon must base his decisions solely upon Neill’s actions, and that meant assuming Neill viewed his play in the game as complete. Simon had fulfilled his role. As desired, he’d forced the Russians to give chase. Moreover, he’d provided Neill with a list of phone numbers that likely belonged to Tino Coluzzi, allowing Neill, with help from the NSA, to find Coluzzi himself.
All of which left one question: What game was Neill playing at?
Simon was a card player. There was a saying that went round the poker table. If you couldn’t spot the sucker, you were it. Well, he told himself, he was done being Mr. Neill’s sucker.
“There’s something else,” said Nikki. “I had a call from Commissaire Dumont right before the whole thing happened.”
“Oh?”
“It was about Delacroix. The police found him dead in his apartment this morning. He’d been murdered execution style.”
“So he was the inside man. That explains how she got on to Falconi.”
Nikki nodded. “It would be good if you told Marc what you know, if only to save him some time.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
“This thing is bigger than us. We could use their help.”
“It’s the same size that it’s always been. Besides, what happens to you if we bring Dumont up to date?”
“Don’t worry about me. That’s twice someone’s tried to kill you in the last twelve hours. Want to try your luck a third time?”
The train slowed as it approached Avignon. Fields of saffron as bright as the sun gave way to low-slung warehouses and a barren industrial zone, then the weathered yellow brick of Provence. Simon looked to the head of the carriage, checking if the security officer was anywhere near. “Give me your phone,” he said.
“Why?”
Simon beckoned with his fingers.
“Absolutely not,” said Nikki.
“I’m not asking.”
“Simon, I need it.”
“We’ll get you a new one.”
Nikki slid the phone from her jeans but still would not hand it over. “You think they’re tracking us?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it if they were listening to every word we’re saying.”
Simon plucked the phone from her hand and tucked it, along with his own, deep into the crease between the seats. He stood and took down her bag from the overhead bin. “Gun?”
Nikki set the bag on her seat and, using her body as a shield, discreetly removed her pistol and holster. At the same time, she took out a lightweight jacket and wrapped the pistol inside.
“Leave the rest here,” said Simon. “You’ll be able to retrieve it later.”
“From the evidence locker?”
