Simon double-clicked on the number. “Nothing there either. All we know is that both phones come from Moscow.” He checked the respondent’s GPS on Google Maps. The coordinates corresponded to a place in the southwestern suburbs of the Russian capital. “Some place called Yasenevo.”
“Can we listen?”
Simon spotted the quarter note, indicating that a recording of the call had been made. “StingRay nabbed that one, too.” He hit PLAY. A high-pitched screeching tone shot from the computer. He stopped the recording.
“What was that?” asked Nikki.
“The phone is encrypted. Whoever it belongs to made sure no one could listen in.”
“Is that uncommon?”
“Depends on who the phone belongs to.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not uncommon if you’re a spy.”
“Is that who else wants the letter?”
Simon recalled telling Neill his belief that the other side—regardless of who they were—would be coming for the letter, too. He input the Russian caller’s number into StingRay, requesting a log of calls the phone had made in the last twenty-four hours. He was not prepared for what appeared next.
“Whoever called Moscow from Le Galleon Rouge placed another call to the same number ten minutes ago.” His eyes danced across the screen. “Oh no,” he said.
“What is it?”
Simon pointed to the column indicating the location of the caller. “This call was made from Luca Falconi’s home.”
Chapter 36
Valentina Asanova greeted the dawn in an anxious frame of mind. Standing naked in Luca Falconi’s kitchen, she stared out the window over a sea of mansard rooftops, drinking the espresso of which he was so proud. Though the beverage had long since grown cold, she couldn’t deny its sharp, zesty flavor. He was right. He did make a mean espresso.
Falconi would not be joining her. He was no longer in any condition to drink an espresso with her or anyone else.
Valentina finished the coffee, then washed the cup with soap and hot water, using a dish towel to ensure no fingerprints were left behind. Afterward, she spent a quarter hour passing through the apartment, wiping down any surface she might have touched. She paid particular care to the bedroom. Finally, she gathered Falconi’s clothing, folded it neatly, and set it on top of his dresser.
Finished, she observed the mutilated body. There were cuts on his belly and his feet, and one finger was missing. Falconi had talked freely and volubly. He admitted to his roles in the robbery and to having recruited the gang on behalf of Tino Coluzzi, who he named as its ringleader. He was less forthcoming about Coluzzi’s present location.
Death when it came was painless, relatively speaking. She’d nicked his carotid artery and watched him bleed out, studying his eyes as pain was replaced by fear, then acceptance, and, finally, nothing at all.
She returned to Falconi’s bedroom and rummaged in his closet for suitable clothing. She’d done her best to shield her face from the security camera when she’d entered the building. She had no intention of giving the authorities anything more than necessary. She came away with a loose-fitting leather jacket, a driving cap, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Hardly ideal but they would do in a pinch. Trousers were a problem, given Falconi’s girth. She settled on a pair of corduroys only ten sizes too large, rolled up the cuffs, then made a new notch in one of Falconi’s belts, to keep them from falling to the floor.
Before dressing, she placed a call to Vassily Borodin.
“Coluzzi’s in Marseille,” she said. “Holed up at a place called Le Coual.”
“What’s that?”
“A rat hole he built for himself outside the city. Even his closest friends don’t know its exact location.”
“You’re sure.”
She looked at Falconi’s body. “Positive.”
“Do you have a phone number? Anything we can track?”
“Falconi may have called him last night, but I’m not sure.”
“Give me the number. I’ll see if I can get a fix on it.”
