“Where are you coming from?”
“Milano,” said Jonathan, because the motorcycle’s plates were from the industrial northern city.
“Purpose of your visit?”
Jonathan had no bags with him, no clothing other than what he wore. “Visiting a friend in Monaco,” he said.
The border guard studied Jonathan’s face, then took another look at the card. “Lazio, eh?”
“Yes.”
“A doctor?”
Again Jonathan said “Yes.”
The guard shook his head and gave him back the identity card. “Figures. Only a doctor would be crazy enough to drive on the highway without a helmet. Not even boots.” He waved him on. “Next time be more careful.”
Jonathan gave him a thumbs-up and accelerated into France.
“Next!” shouted the border guard.
61
Another night. Another inventory.
Emma laid her work kit on the bed:
Ka-Bar knife
Duct tape
Pepper spray
Taser
Flexicuffs (two pairs)
Gauze pads (one box hypoallergenic)
Sig Sauer 9mm with muzzle suppressor
Two clips ammunition
She stepped back to assess the tools she would need that night. She spotted what was missing at once. She rooted around in her bag until her fingers clasped the rectangular metallic object.
Lock picks
There. It was complete.
She sat down and handled each item, making sure all were in good working order.
She sharpened the knife.
She folded down the lead edge of the duct tape for easy tearing.
She peeled off the protective layer of plastic from the pepper spray and depressed the nozzle. A tiny cloud of vapor appeared. She sniffed it and her eyes watered. She put the canister down.
She set the Taser for 10,000 volts and checked that the batteries were charged.
The flexicuffs were fine as was. Ditto the gauze.
She screwed the muzzle suppressor onto the pistol, fed a clip into the butt, and chambered a round. She let her hand get used to the weight of the gun, taking aim at imaginary targets around the room. Then she ejected the cartridge, dropped the clip, and unscrewed the silencer.
Picks oiled and sharpened as necessary.
She sat up straight and looked at herself in the mirror. She did not blink or breathe for a minute. Another test passed.
The doors to the balcony stood open. A cool breeze freighted with salt and brine carried from the sea, ruffling her hair. She rose and stepped outside. The room on the third floor of the Hôtel Bel-Air in Bricquebec near the Normandy coast offered a panoramic view over pastures, hedgerows, and beyond them, stretching to the horizon, la Manche. The English Channel.
She returned inside and replaced all the items in her work kit, which she slid beneath the bed. From her handbag she retrieved a map of the département and studied the grid between Bricquebec and La Reine. Running a nail over the map, she located the Rue Saint-Martin. It was denoted as a country road running in a straight line 4 kilometers between Bricquebec and the neighboring hamlet of Bredonchel.
Emma grabbed her laptop from the desk and set it on the bed. Accessing the CD that Pierre Bertels of the International Nuclear Safety Corporation had provided earlier, she quickly located the address of M. Jean Grégoire, chief of security of La Reine. Navigating to Google maps, she entered the address 12 Rue Saint-Martin, Bredonchel, France. A picture of lush green countryside appeared. She zoomed down to an altitude of 100 meters. Though the image was blurred, she could tell that the home was a typical Normandy farmhouse, with a slate roof, two chimneys, and a clay bocce court in the back. She switched to street view and was granted a crystal-clear snapshot of the home taken from the front drive.
She returned to satellite view and noted that there were no other homes within 200 meters of 12 Rue Saint-Martin. This pleased her. Two hundred meters was officially defined as “shouting distance.”
Emma changed into jeans and a T-shirt and washed up. Before going downstairs, she put a scarf around her hair and donned a pair of wraparound sunglasses. On the way to the door, she picked up her camera and attached the telephoto lens. The clerk at the front desk didn’t give her a second look as she left.
The drive to the Rue Saint-Martin took twenty minutes. Signs pointed to historical names like Bayeux and Caen, and more than once she passed small, immaculate cemeteries with hundreds of white gravestones, each with an American flag at its base. She knew little about these places or the battles that had raged on these fields. Her knowledge of the Second World War was centered on cities with names like Stalin-grad, Leningrad, and Kaliningrad.
Nowhere were road names or street designations posted. She relied on the car’s built-in navigation system to guide her. Reaching the fork for Rue Saint-Martin, she slowed to 30 kilometers per hour and rolled down both windows. There was only one house on the road. It was the house she had seen on the computer. The front door had been repainted, but otherwise it appeared identical. As she passed, she raised her camera and fired off a dozen pictures in rapid succession. She continued another kilometer before turning around and driving back the way she had come. Surely she wasn’t the first tourist to become lost along these unmarked lanes.
She drove faster this time. As she approached she observed activity in front of the house. A girl with red hair jumped off her bicycle and dumped it on the lawn as she ran toward the front door. A blond boy, no more than three, followed her, shouting excitedly.
Emma did not slow. She kept her eyes ahead, even as her throat tightened. She had not known there would be children. A voice reminded her who she was and why she was there. It was Papi’s voice, and it put steel into her heart.
Two additional subjects, she noted with a measure of dispassion that would do Papi proud.
She would need four pairs of flexicuffs.
62
Night was falling and the coastal air remained warm and scented with pine and jasmine. Jonathan slid down the hillside, spraying dirt and rubble, taking refuge behind an outcropping of rocks and boulders. Below him the medieval town of Èze clung to the mountainside, a collage of clay tile roofs and rustic masonry. A steeple breached its midst like an upturned dagger. Farther down, running like a ribbon along the hillside, was the Moyenne Corniche, continuing toward Cap Ferrat and the bay of Villefranche. A church bell tolled nine o’clock.
Jonathan dropped his rucksack to the ground and dug inside it for a pair of binoculars. He’d purchased the item, along with a cell phone, water, and other necessities, at the Hypermarché store in Menton, courtesy of Luca Lazio’s credit card. Putting the binoculars to his eyes, he studied a villa perched on the opposing escarpment. It was small and old, fashioned from blocks of white stone, its chipped tile roof the same sun-bleached ocher as every other roof on the Côte d’Azur. Off to one side was a terrace surrounded by a metal railing. On the road below, a mailbox fronted the villa, with “58 Route de La Turbie” painted in white lettering.
Something moved on the terrace. French doors stood open, when a moment ago they’d been closed. A shadow floated inside the house. A man or woman. Instinctively, Jonathan pressed himself against the rocks. He remained still, eyes trained on the sheers billowing from the open doors. An enormous tabby cat wandered outside and plopped down beneath a wrought-iron table. Several minutes passed, and there was no further sign of the figure.
Jonathan slipped the new cell phone from his pocket. A single number was programmed into its memory. He punched speed dial and brought the phone to his ear. The call went through and began to ring.
Just then the figure appeared on the terrace. A man, Jonathan’s age. Slim, medium height, with black hair and a complexion that begged for the sun. He was dressed in a dark suit and open-collared shirt. Both his clothes and his bearing were too formal for a summer’s eve on the French Riviera. He was on the job.
“Alió,” he answe
red. French spoken with a foreigner’s accent.
“Is this VOR S.A.?” responded Jonathan, also in French. “I’d like to speak to Serge Simenon.”
Jonathan had found VOR S.A. listed in an online registry of corporations domiciled in the Alpes-Maritimes. The name of its sole director was included, along with information stating that the company had been founded ten years earlier with a modest capital of one hundred thousand euros and that it maintained offices in Paris and Berlin. VOR S.A.’s principal business activity was listed as “international trade.” It was, he decided, a suitably amorphous term for spying.
“Who is calling?”
“My name is Jonathan Ransom. Mr. Simenon knows who I am.”
“Please hold the line.” The accent betrayed the soft t and jagged s of Central Europe. But where? Germany? Poland? Hungary? Still peering through the binoculars, Jonathan watched as the man put him on hold and called another number. He spoke a few words, then his voice was back. “Mr. Simenon says he does not know you.”
“Tell him that I’ve just come from Rome and that I know he paid Emma Ransom’s hospital bill.”
Silence.
“And tell him that I know exactly what Emma is planning to do,” Jonathan added, with a certain recklessness, like a man who’d tossed his last chip onto the table.
Another click as Jonathan was put on hold. More conversation as the man on the terrace began to pace, his posture stiffer than it had been a minute before. Then the voice: “May I ask where you are, Dr. Ransom?”
“I’m in Monaco. Meet me at the Café de Paris in fifteen minutes.
Place du Casino. I’ll be sitting at a table outside. I’m wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt.”
“No need. We know who you are.”
“Wait,” said Jonathan. “Who are you?”
“I am Alex.”
The call was terminated. Jonathan looked on as the pale, dark-haired man named Alex continued his conversation with Simenon. The exchange was brief, but even at this distance eventful. Several times Alex nodded his head with Pavlovian obedience. A man receiving his orders. He completed his call and put the phone away.
Transfixed, Jonathan observed him draw a pistol from the folds of his jacket, rack a round, then replace it. The man bent to pet the cat, then rose and disappeared inside.
A minute later, the door to a garage bay half hidden among the boulders and scrub 50 meters down the road from the villa opened. A white Peugeot coupe backed onto the road and roared down the hill.
Jonathan waited until the car was out of sight, then he waited two more minutes after that. Convinced that “Alex” intended to keep their appointment, he scrambled up the hillside and stuffed the rucksack and its contents into the motorcycle’s saddlebags, straddled the bike, and navigated the winding road to the villa. He parked up the road, just beyond a bend. He did not bother with the stairs. Instead he jogged to the wall fronting the terrace and nimbly climbed the protruding stones. Five minutes after he’d hung up the phone, he was standing on the villa’s terrace.
Oblivious to the intricate system of motion sensors installed throughout the villa, Jonathan entered the house. His presence activated a silent alarm. The signal did not go to the French police. Instead it directed a message to Alex’s phone, and to another location more than a thousand kilometers away.
The villa was larger than it had appeared from across the hill. At first glance, it was a man’s home. The furniture was sparse and modest. A high-end sound system held pride of place in the living room. There was a plasma-screen television and a leather recliner, and a framed poster for the 2010 World Cup. The kitchen was so immaculate as to appear unused.
Jonathan advanced from room to room, methodically pulling out drawers, scanning shelves, opening closets. Reaching the end of the hall, he found a door that was locked. Without hesitating, he backed up a step or two, then delivered a ruthless kick below the handle. The door didn’t budge. Returning to the kitchen, he searched drawers for something useful, settling on a stainless steel meat tenderizer. He ran back down the hallway and attacked the lock with precise, brutal blows. The handle bent, then broke. The lintel splintered and the door opened.
It was a study decorated in a proletarian style. Metal file cabinets lined a wall. There was a map of Europe above the desk and an old Revox shortwave radio on a side table. The MacBook Pro on the desk, however, was decidedly more modern. The laptop was open, the screen-saver showing a photograph of Earth floating serenely in space.
Jonathan sat down and hit a key. The screen flashed to life, flagged with dozens of icons. He noticed immediately that the letters weren’t Latin but Cyrillic. Alex’s accent wasn’t Hungarian or Polish. It was Russian.
At first the symbols were incomprehensible. Jonathan spoke only a tourist’s rudimentary Russian, picked up during a six-week teaching stint in Kabul, Afghanistan, shortly after the American invasion in the winter of 2003. As many Afghani doctors had been trained during the Russian occupation twenty-five years earlier, he’d been given the choice of Russian or Pashto. He chose the former.
Jonathan was more conversant with the Mac’s OS X operating system. Moving the cursor to the Spotlight bar, which searched the hard disk’s contents for designated keywords, he typed in “Lara,” “Emma,” and “Ransom.”
A window opened and filled with the names of all files containing one or more of the keywords. Several had obscure titles, like “Report 15” or “Communication—February 12.” But the fifth that appeared displayed the name Larissa Alexandrovna Antonova in capital letters.
Jonathan double-clicked on the file.
The screen lit up with a scanned copy of a typewritten personnel report. The name Larissa Alexandrovna Antonova appeared at the top of the page. “Born August 2, 1976.” A black-and-white photo was attached to the upper right-hand corner. It showed a young woman, perhaps eighteen years old, with porcelain skin and eyes that dared the camera to come closer. The girl’s hair was pulled into a bun, and the collar of a military uniform rode high on her neck.
It was Emma.
Jonathan felt nothing, which was worse even than disappointment.
A stylized header was emblazoned across the top of the paper. The words looked familiar. All the same, it took him nearly a minute to sound it out for himself.
Federalnoya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti.
Federal Security Service.
The FSB.
Jonathan continued reading, losing himself in the dense, monotonous text. He was unable to decipher many of the words, but those he understood were enough. He read while the clock chimed a quarter past the hour. He read as the Peugeot pulled into the garage bay carved out of hillside below and footsteps climbed an interior stairwell. He heard nothing. He noted nothing. The present had ceased to exist. He was lost in the horror of discovery. He had disappeared into the past.
Page after page he read, as every artifice was stripped bare, every lie exposed, every falsehood revealed. It was Emma’s secret history, and in a way his own. The sheer accretion of detail was numbing. Dates, places, names, schools, principals, classes, examinations, recommendations. And then a shift from academic to military. More schools, courses, units, fitness reports, political reliability, surveillance reports, promotions, and finally, and most interesting of all, operations.
There were photographs, too.
Emma as a schoolgirl, rail thin, with the worst eczema Jonathan had ever seen and a cast on one arm. Emma in uniform, an induction picture. But how old? Fifteen? Sixteen? Too young to serve, to be sure. Emma in uniform again, now with a rank at her neck, her skin cleared up, a proud jut to her chin. Older now, maybe eighteen, her face fuller, the eyes more confident.
Emma in civilian dress receiving a diploma, shaking hands with her superior, a portly gray-haired man twenty years her senior with terrible circles beneath his eyes. On the wall was a plaque bearing a sword and a shield, the symbol of the FSB. And on the photo, a stamped date. June 1, 1994.
And then ot
her photographs, taken when Emma was unawares.
Emma on a parade ground, passing for inspection with a corps of female cadets, rifle at her shoulder.
Emma and a girlfriend shopping on a busy urban street.
Emma in her apartment, a glass of wine to her lips.
And still more photographs. Private ones. Photographs taken in the line of duty for purposes of extortion. Photographs that sickened him. All with the stamp “Nightingale” laid across the bottom in small black script.
Nightingale. It had been her code name with Division, too.
“You are surprised?” asked a soft, cultured male voice.
Jonathan jumped in his chair. He spun and saw Alex at the door, a pistol trailing from his right hand.
“Who did you think she worked for?”
“I didn’t know,” said Jonathan. “Not you, anyway.”
“She’s Siberian. Who else would it be?” Alex waved the pistol. “Stand up. Come with me. Don’t worry. We don’t want to harm you. You were good to Lara. We are not the kind who do not show their appreciation.”
“If you want to show your appreciation, you can start by putting away the gun.”
“A precaution.”
Alex frisked Jonathan, and when he found no weapon, motioned for him to walk down the hall. “You would like some water, perhaps? Some cheese?”
“I’m good,” said Jonathan. “You can tell me one thing. What do you have Emma doing?”
“You mean Lara? I thought you knew. Isn’t that why you dragged me down to Monaco?” Alex nodded toward the living room. “Alarms everywhere. I wasn’t gone ten minutes before I was notified.”
“You paid twenty-five thousand euros to get her out of the hospital. It wasn’t for nothing.”
Alex answered with a cryptic smile.
In the kitchen he placed a phone call. He spoke rapidly. Jonathan was unable to comprehend a word. When he hung up, his face had hardened. “What did you read on the computer?”
But Jonathan had a question of his own. “Where’s Simenon?”
“Please, Dr. Ransom. You are in my home. It is my turn to ask the questions. What did you read?”
Rules of Vengeance Page 33
