The technician brought up the photograph of the Russian woman taken in the lobby of Falconi’s apartment building. He cropped the photo close to her face, then applied a variety of filters and sharpeners, serving to amplify and clarify the pixel count. When he’d finished, he had a near-perfect, full-frontal portrait. “That’s as good as we’re going to get.”
“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
“Better than the girls I was at the Farm with.”
The Farm being the CIA’s training compound in rural Virginia.
“Hush,” said Neill. “That’s unpatriotic. Let’s see if she shows up in any of our registries.”
“May take a minute.”
The van hit a bump and Neill put out a hand to steady himself. He walked forward to the driving cabin. “Everything ready for our departure.”
“The bird is on the tarmac. Flight crew aboard and waiting.”
“Outstanding.”
“Sir,” called the photo tech. “We have a hit.”
“I’m listening.”
“Valentina Asanova. Ph.D. candidate in electrical engineering at Moscow State University. Graduate of the foreign intelligence school. Assigned to Directorate S, Department 9. First spotted in Dubai 2008, as part of the team believed to have assassinated a key fund-raiser for Hezbollah. Suspected of taking part in that car bombing in Sana’a in 2016.”
“That mess?” An extremist group backed by the Russians had detonated a car bomb in the center of a large religious gathering near the Yemeni capital, killing over two hundred people. The problem had been that the gathering was a wedding when the intended target was attending a funeral.
“Last known assignment to be in Mumbai. Officially retired from duty last year. Reputation as being reckless with no regard for collateral damage.”
Neill wrung his hands. Oh, Vassily, he thought. We’ve got you hook, line, and sinker. “Looks like she’s back, though I’m betting it’s unofficially. Did Mr. Riske provide her number as well?”
“He did.”
“Let’s see where she’s hiding.”
The technician input Valentina Asanova’s phone number into his computer. The number was sent to the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, where it was surreptitiously uploaded to a satellite operated by Russphon, the handset’s service provider. The satellite “pinged” the number. Less than a second later, the GPS coordinates of the handset appeared on the screen, along with an address. “She’s presently at the Gare de Lyon.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence?” The van came to a halt and Neill gazed out the window at a large nineteenth-century terminus building with a clock tower similar in style to Big Ben. It was the Gare de Lyon.
“Shall we contact Riske and tell him about the Russian?” the technician asked.
Neill didn’t respond. He’d had eyes and ears on Riske since he’d left London. He’d had a man in the lobby of the George V when Riske checked in and another at police headquarters when he’d met Commissaire Dumont. One of his men had followed Riske to Le Galleon Rouge and witnessed the fight outside the bar and, later, Riske’s visit to the ER.
So it was that Neill knew Riske was working closely with Detective Perez. He was more than a little peeved that Riske hadn’t told him, but he wasn’t surprised. Everyone had his own agenda. Nothing was ever just business. It was always personal. But then he’d bet on that all along.
“Sir?”
Neill looked away, mulling his options. He had an agenda as well, and he was no longer sure if it was compatible with Simon Riske’s.
“Can we at least send him the picture of her?”
“Quiet,” said Neill. “Unless you want the man to hear you.”
“Sir?”
Across the street a taxi had pulled up and disgorged a single passenger. He was a trim, dark-haired man dressed in a tailored blazer and slacks. Neill watched as Simon Riske paid the driver and set off at a determined clip toward the terminus.
Riske was his bird dog, not his retriever. His job was to flush the adversary out of the undergrowth, nothing more. So far, he was doing an admirable job. If the phone numbers found at Falconi’s house did, in fact, belong to Coluzzi, Neill wouldn’t need Riske much longer. He’d catch Coluzzi himself.
Neill saw no reason to offer help when help wasn’t needed.
