Simon was out of his league. At some point in the last twelve hours his profession had changed. He was no longer a consultant for a corporation worried about industrial espionage or an investigator for a bank concerned about a larcenous trader or a recovery specialist for an insurance company tasked with retrieving a stolen watch. None of those involved having a gun aimed squarely at your chest or discovering the body of a man who’d been tortured to death with a sharp instrument. He had moved on to shakier ground. Soon, the choice of whether or not violence was required to complete his assignment might no longer be his. The list of professions that required a man to maim or kill for his country was short. He was neither a soldier nor a spy. He most certainly wasn’t an assassin. To his mind, that left one thing. He was a secret agent.
He did not like the sound of it.
Entering his hotel room, he threw off his jacket and, with haste, gathered his clothes and packed his bags. In a stroke of good fortune, he’d nabbed the last seat on the 9:16 to Marseille. Once finished packing, he called Neill.
“Mr. Riske,” said Neill. “It feels too early for you to have good news for me.”
“You’re right about that,” Simon said. “I take it you haven’t been contacted?”
“Not a peep.”
“You still think he has it?”
“Why else would he risk getting us riled up? We have no choice but to continue working on this assumption. I gather this isn’t a social call.”
“We’ve got company.”
“Oh?”
Simon brought Neill up to date on his efforts to track down Coluzzi, including his belief that Falconi was killed by a Russian assassin. He left out the part about hurting Falconi’s friends and being saved by Nikki Perez.
“Seems they’re more desperate than we are,” replied Neill.
“The person she called was in Yasenevo. I wasn’t familiar with the name, so I looked it up.”
“Now you know who we’re up against.”
“The SVR.” There he’d said it.
“Sounds about right.”
Simon exhaled loudly as he walked to the window. The sky was cloudless. The Arc de Triomphe was a few blocks in one direction. The River Seine in the other. All he had to do was say “I quit,” wire Neill back his money, and the job would be over. He could spend the rest of the day visiting the Louvre, strolling through the Jardin du Luxembourg, or even take the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower. He could be a tourist like everyone else in town at this time of year.
And then what?
He looked at his overnight bag and his case of electronic gear sitting by the door.
And then he’d have failed. He’d have failed Ambassador Shea at the London embassy. He’d have failed Barnaby Neill, and he’d have failed his country. Of course, there was more to it than that. It was no longer just about the letter. Maybe, as he’d admitted to Nikki, it never had been. Should he quit, he’d no longer have the ticket he needed to go after Tino Coluzzi, and by “ticket” he meant the official permission. The monsignor would not approve of revenge for revenge’s sake.
“I have a picture of her,” he said. “It’s blurry. I need you to clean it up.”
“Send it over and I’ll do my best,” replied Neill.
“Just do it fast. If she’s anywhere near me, I’d like to think I have a chance.”
“Does she have any idea that you’ve seen her?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“And did she see you?”
“There’s a chance she got a look at me in the bar. We have to assume that Falconi told her I was asking about Coluzzi, too.”
“How long did you speak with him?”
“A couple of minutes. Five tops.”
“She’d have to be awfully perceptive to put two and two together.”
Simon thought back on the past night. While she might not have noticed Falconi speaking with him earlier, she wouldn’t have missed Falconi, Jack, and the other two thugs escorting him outside for their little tête-à-tête. She might even have been standing in the crowd that had witnessed the fight. But that was Simon’s problem. “You’re right about that,” he said.
“Keep at it. Try and be as quiet as possible.”
“Things may get noisier when I hit Marseille.” Simon made it a point not to mention Nikki Perez. Neill had been clear in his instructions not to involve a foreign law enforcement agency. Simon justified asking for Marc Dumont’s help by not having revealed who his employer was or the true reason for his visit. He was certain Neill would object to his enlisting Nikki in his efforts. It was a rule never to disobey a client. He still needed her help, even if not entirely for the right reasons.
“There’s more. I found several phone numbers in Falconi’s apartment. My guess is that they belong to Coluzzi. Falconi was his man in Paris. He’d have to know how to reach his boss. If Coluzzi uses any of the numbers, I want to know what he’s saying and where he is.”
“That’s a tall order.”
“A man like you should need one call to see it done.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Are you saying the NSA doesn’t have the capabilities?”
“I’m saying that the NSA has a backlog of requests a mile high.”
“Then I’m guessing what’s in that envelope isn’t as important as you thought,” said Simon.
“You might want to take that up with the person who dispatched Mr. Falconi.”
“It’s time you told me what I’m going after.”
“You know who’s involved. You’ve seen what they are capable of. I’ll let you use your imagination.”
“Mr. Neill—”
“Mr. Riske.” The voice was curt and commanding. “Listen to me. Once you know it, you can’t un-know it. There are people who wouldn’t be happy that you have that knowledge in your head.”
“Are you one of them?”
“I trust you implicitly or you wouldn’t have been offered the job.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’ll see what I can do about the phone numbers.”
“Thank you.”
“When are you off to Marseille?”
“Nine. Arrive at one.”
“Keep in touch.”