Valentina Asanova rolled a black fountain pen in her fingers, staring out the window at the passing countryside. She was thinking that it looked very much like the countryside outside Novosibirsk, where she had grown up. Green meadows. Fields of golden wheat. Dark, wooded hollows. And villages on every hilltop, a church ever visible, though in her case there were onion domes, not steeples. The other difference was that by late August, temperatures in Siberia had already dropped precipitously and the skies were most often gray. By October, snow blanketed the ground. By January, a shelf of hard, unbreakable rime covered the snow, and the sun rose and set during the hours she had spent inside the schoolhouse.
Valentina preferred France. She preferred working for Vassily Borodin and traveling the world in the service of her country. And so it was that she knew she must kill the man who called himself Simon Riske, or Simon Ledoux, and who had passed within an inch of her, his thigh grazing her arm, only minutes before as he walked down the aisle on the way to his seat.
Valentina slipped the fountain pen into her pocket and discreetly peered over her shoulder. The aisle was clear. She rose and made her way to the head of the train, stopping at the entrance to each car, taking time to look through the glass door and study the passengers before entering. The problem was that she could see only those facing her. Among them, many were hidden behind newspapers or obscured by others. Of those facing forward, she had only the backs of their heads to go by. Half had dark hair, and it was difficult to tell if they were male or female until she was upon them. She could discount only those who were balding, blond, or of African origin.
She had more clues to help her: Riske was traveling with a woman. Though Valentina had only seen her from the back, she had nonetheless spotted a playful streak of blue in her hair.
Valentina moved briskly through each car, never slowing, never looking anyone in the eye. She was aware that Riske had seen her the night before. If he was a trained operative like herself—and she had no reason to think otherwise—he would likely recognize her if given the chance. She had dressed modestly for the trip: jeans, a loose blouse, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked nothing like the dolled-up tart sitting at Falconi’s table in Le Galleon Rouge.
She passed through four carriages before reaching the dining car. The interior was crowded with groups of travelers clustered around high tables. At the far end, she noted a line of people waiting to order at the counter. There was no way to move quickly and unobtrusively through them. If Riske was standing in the line, she would pass him face-to-face. Any chance of surprise would be lost. From her vantage point, she was unable to get a good look at any of those in line.
She considered returning to her seat.
And then? Wait till they arrived in Marseille and take him in the station? Follow him to his hotel? Neither option pleased her. Both were full of unknowns.
Riske was on the train. To an extent, he was already her captive. She could dictate the terms of their encounter. She’d never have a better chance to eliminate him.
It came down to her following orders.
Kill Riske at the first opportunity.
Her hand dipped into her pocket, feeling for the fountain pen inside. It was more than a pen. A twist of the cap filled its sharpened nib with a dose of cyanide and strychnine, fatal within sixty seconds. The device was standard issue, the natural descendant of the umbrella used to poison the Bulgarian journalist Georgi Markov on Waterloo Bridge in London in 1978. One jab, hardly more than a pinprick, and Riske would be dead by the time she was back in her seat.
Valentina put on her sunglasses and entered the car. Head lowered, she made her way through the crowded dining car. He was not among those standing at the snack tables. She slid past the order line, the corridor narrower here, room for two abreast. She caught a patch of trimmed dark hair, a navy blazer. The man turned toward her. Glasses. Mustache. It wasn’t Riske.
She reached the end of the car and looked behind her, double-checking. It was only then that she realized she was holding her breath. She gathered herself and continued across the connecting area. To her left, the door to the restroom opened and a woman stepped out, nearly bumping into her.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“After you,” said Valentina.
The woman turned and opened the door to the next car.
It was then that Valentina saw the streak of blue in her hair.