“I remember,” said Hirsch. “Do you really think it’s the same man?”
“Why not?”
Hirsch lit a cigarette and leaned his chair back, balancing on two legs. “Anyway, you’ve gotten our attention. It’s not something we can ignore. Are you ready to tell us the name of your client?”
Danni set her clasped hands on the table. “Luca Borgia. Italian industrialist. Billionaire. Right-wing fanatic. Bankrolled the Northern League for years. Old-school fascist. A latter-day Mussolini with a great head of hair and a beautiful blond mistress.”
“I thought your shop sold only to governments.”
“Borgia is family.” Danni explained the Italian’s ties to the company, giving Hirsch an edited version of the events that had brought her to the smoke-filled room in the middle of the night.
“So the first voice is Borgia,” said Hirsch. “I wouldn’t have said he’s Italian. Maybe a Swiss who’d gone to school in the States.”
“The second’s a Saudi,” said Danni. “I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
Avi Hirsch nodded ruminatively. “I’m tempted to say I know him. Maybe it’s just a hunch, but I’m guessing he’s one of us. A professional.”
“If we’re right about the identity of the Doctor, that would figure. Can you run the recording through the VP database?”
“VP” for “voiceprint.” The Mossad maintained a library of several thousand voiceprints belonging to individuals deemed worthy of interest to the Jewish state—politicians, military officials, public figures with some tie to Israel, and, of course, terrorists.
“Easier if we run the Saudi’s cell number,” said Hirsch. “We have a few people at Saudicom. But since you’ve been such a sweetheart to bring this information to our attention, we’ll do both. Like I said, he sounded familiar. And not in a good way. He gave me a bad case of heartburn. I make it a point to follow my gut.”
Danni forwarded him a copy of the recording. “All yours.”
“Anything else you want to tell me?” asked Hirsch.
“Someone else is on to Borgia. Actually, there are two of them. A reporter for theFinancial TimesAsia named London Li. Solid record. Won some awards. And an American named Simon Riske, some kind of fixer out of London, used to be a banker, runs an automotive restoration operation these days. He was at the embassy in Bangkok when the shit hit the fan.”
“And he got out?”
“The sole survivor. Apparently, he was a friend of De Bourbon.”
“And they’re giving chase?”
“Looks like it.”
“To what effect?”
“Like I said, the whole thing is tied to a fraud. One of those involved was the vice chairman of Harrington-Weiss, a man named Hadrian Lester. Lester is dead. Killed himself a few hours ago. Jumped from the seventieth floor of a hotel in Singapore apparently after meeting with Riske, who’d beaten him up or tortured him in some way.”
“Riske told him something he didn’t want to hear.”
“Probably that he knew about Lester’s involvement in the fraud.”
“Sounds about right. Something made Lester jump.” Hirsch pulled a face. “Seventy floors. I’m impressed.”
Danni laughed.
“This guy, Riske, he a pro?” Hirsch asked. “Retired Agency? FBI? Blackwater?”
“Not that I know,” said Danni.
“Maybe we should hire him.”
“Another day, Avi.” Danni tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Borgia with Lester’s help sicced an assassin on the woman, London Li. A man named Kruger. Riske broke up the play. Borgia’s ticked off. He’s sending Kruger after both of them now.”
Hirsch wrote down the names, then summoned an assistant. “Run them down,” he said, tearing the sheet from a notepad. “I want everything you can find. Trade favors if you need to. This is important.” Then to Danni: “Any idea where these two crusaders are as of now?” asked Hirsch.
