Rules of Vengeance (45 page)

The phone rang and Graves picked up.
“Bonsoir, Bertrand,”
he said.

“Pardon me, sir, but it’s Den Baxter, ERT.”

“Yes, Mr. Baxter, how can I help?”

“We caught a break. Rather a large one, actually. We found a piece of the circuit board from the phone used to detonate the bomb. My men and I were able to establish the make and model and to track down where it was sold.”

“Do you have a number?” asked Graves.

“Three, actually, sir. The buyer purchased three SIM cards at the point of sale.”

“Go ahead, Inspector Baxter.” With his heart lodged firmly in this throat, Graves dutifully wrote down each number.

   Three phone numbers. They constituted the motherlode and also his last chance. Graves ran his eyes over the numbers, wishing he felt more confident. It was a simple question of backtracking, leapfrogging from one number to the next by tracing the call history. Best case, it would yield a web of accomplices leading back to the person who had planned the operation, either Sergei Shvets or one of his deputies. Worst case (and more likely), the numbers would constitute a closed loop, with each number having contacted only the other two numbers Graves possessed.

Graves called the security office of Vodafone. He was friendly with several of the men who worked there, and was pleased when a former messmate from the SAS came onto the line. Graves gave his friend the three numbers and requested a complete call history for each, with a specific charge to check if any had either placed or received a call two days earlier at 11:12 GMT.

The response came quickly. The first number had received but a single call in its entire working life. That call was logged precisely at 11:12 GMT. Moreover, the number had since been declared technically out of operation. For “technically out of operation,” read: blown to smithereens. Graves made a star next to it. This number belonged to the phone used to detonate the bomb.

The second number on Graves’s list corresponded to the SIM card that had placed that call. To place it in an operational context, it was the bomber’s phone. This was the phone that the CCTV cameras on Victoria Street captured Emma Ransom holding at the time of the detonation.

“How much activity on this one?” Graves asked.

“Plenty. Forty or fifty calls.”

Graves was surprised. “Where to?”

“London. Rome. Dublin. Moscow. Nice. Sochi.”

“Hold it there. Did you say Moscow?”

“Several to Russia. A few placed to a cell number in Moscow four days ago. Another to Sochi the day of the bombing.”

There it was. Confirmation that David Kempa had been telling the truth. Graves had no doubt but that Emma was contacting her controller, be it Sergei Shvets or another high-ranking hood inside the FSB. “Can you get me GPS coordinates pinpointing the locations of both parties for all those calls?”

“Right down to the city block.”

“Do it.”

“What about any calls to Paris?”

“I count four made to a landline inside the Paris area code.”

“A landline? You’re sure?”

The response was a curt “Hold while I get the address.”

Graves drummed his fingers on the desk, confused. Continuing to make calls with a SIM card used in a bombing—a card purchased precisely because it was nearly untraceable—constituted a flagrant breach of protocol. It reeked of carelessness and amateurism, and did not for a moment fit with the sophisticated operation mounted to steal the IAEA’s computer codes.

“The number is registered to a G. Bahrani at 84 Rue Jean Mathieu.” There was a pause, then the man’s voice notched up a tone and fairly bristled with anxiety. “Charles, you there? Wait a sec. Jesus… okay, we got it.”

“What is it?” demanded Graves.

“We have a real-time call being placed to that address from one of the SIM cards you mentioned. The two parties are connected at this moment.”

It had to be Emma Ransom, thought Graves. “Can you listen in?”

“Negative. I don’t have that capability.”

Graves swallowed his frustration. “Where’s the initiating call coming from?”

“I can’t tell that either. The call is running on France Télécom’s towers, so the incoming signal has to be located in Paris or somewhere nearby. Hold on a sec… the call was just terminated. Duration: thirty-one seconds.”

“Get on to France Télécom. Ask them to compile a full list of all calls to that number and see how quickly they can isolate the caller’s location. I’ll have a warrant signed out by lunch. It’s about the Victoria bombing. Top priority.”

“Right away.”

“Oh, and what about the last number I gave you?”

“That one? Virgin. Never used.”

Graves suddenly had a terrible premonition.
Not used yet
. “Can you shut down that number? You know, deactivate it, so that it doesn’t work?”

“I’m pretty sure that the boys in tech services can. It’ll take some time to run the number through the system.”

“How long?”

“Noon, latest.”

Another twelve hours. Not good, but better than nothing. “Many thanks. I owe you.” Graves hung up and rang Kate Ford. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Èze. Searching the house Ransom ran to.”

“Whom does it belong to?”

“Officially it’s the property of a small corporation called VOR S.A. The company registry lists a single director. His name is Serge Simenon.”

“Serge Simenon. Sergei Shvets. Same initials, similar name. What do you think?”

“What are you talking about?”

Graves updated Kate Ford on his meeting with the Russian spy Kempa, as well as the information he’d received from Vodafone. “The cell is active, and its base of operations is in Paris.”

“My God.”

“Have you found anything there that ties into Russia?”

“There’s a trove of papers in the office written in Cyrillic and a few CDs by Russian singers. Coincidence?”

“No way. Do you still have the jet?”

“On the runway at Nice.”

“How soon can you get to Paris?”

“Three or four hours, if I hightail it. What are you planning?”

“A raid,” said Graves. “We go in at first light.”

   The sun rose in Paris at 5:42 a.m. Driving into the city from Charles de Gaulle Airport, Kate Ford watched the first rays of light strike the dome of the Sacré Coeur high on the hill in Montmartre. Her car rattled over the Pont Neuf. The cool, pleasing scent of the Seine invaded the cabin, and she caught a glimpse of Notre Dame upriver. A moment later her view was obscured and she found herself speeding through a maze of drab, unloved streets. This was a different Paris, not the home of the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe, but a dilapidated colonial outpost lined with Algerian coffeehouses, Middle Eastern cafés, and boutiques overflowing with West African clothing. As she progressed farther into the
banlieues
, the city darkened and acquired a hostile façade. Oil barrels black with soot, smoke from the past evening’s fire still curling skyward, were not uncommon. A burned-out car lying on its side occupied one sidewalk. Dumpsters overflowing with trash lined more than one alley. Everywhere graffiti assaulted the eye.

The car rounded a corner and stopped suddenly. Ahead, the street was blocked with police vehicles. A dozen men moved purposefully, putting on vests and helmets, filling ammunition clips and checking weapons. Her driver, a sergeant from the Paris prefecture, led her across the street into a corner café where the mobile command post had been established. She found Graves standing over a table studying a set of blueprints, with several black uniforms on either side of him.

The police belonged to the Black Panthers, the nickname of RAID— Recherche Assistance Intervention et Dissuasion—an elite national squad twenty-four men strong on call 24/7 for exactly this circumstance.

“They’re operating out of a one-bedroom flat on the tenth floor,” explained one of the men in black assault gear, using the tip of his Ka-Bar knife as a pointer. “End of the hall. Apartments on either side. One way in, one way out. The building has two elevators, but only one is in service. The other is stalled between the fourth and fifth floors. There are two stairwells. We can put a team in on top, but the helo might scare the prey.”

“Stick with the stairs,” said Graves. “We want them alive. They may have vital information.”

“Entendu.”

Graves spotted Kate and stepped away from the table. “You made it.”

“Had to scream at air control, but they came around. Looks like you were able to rouse the troops.”

“I had Sir Tony get on the blower. He was upset, after the snafu on your end. I think they could hear his voice across the Channel unaided.”

“Is she inside?”

“Have a look for yourself.” Graves led her to an unmarked van parked outside. Inside the rear bay sat two officers in front of a bank of monitors and instruments. “We’ve got a surveillance post set up inside a building across the road. They have a couple of infrared cameras and a laser mike on the windows. We have identified two actives inside. Both are awake and moving around the flat.”

“Early risers, eh?” Kate studied the largest screen. On it, displayed against a grainy gray background, the silhouettes of two figures could be seen walking back and forth between rooms. “Is it them?”

Graves squinted, as if he could will the fuzzy heat signatures into focus. “No visuals yet. They have the storm blinds down. But it could be. He’s in town. So’s she.”

“Shvets is in Paris?” asked Kate, who’d received a full briefing and a temporary promotion to “Eyes Only” clearance en route from Nice.

“They call him Papi. I didn’t know that. Quite the father figure. Rumor is he takes a personal interest in his more comely female agents.”

Upon learning that Shvets had masterminded the car bomb at 1 Victoria Street and the theft of the IAEA’s laptops, Graves’s first order of business had been to share the news with Anthony Allam. A diplomatic dossier was established containing all facts tying Shvets to the crime. Besides going to the prime minister, the foreign minister, and the heads of MI6 and the Metropolitan Police, the information was passed to R Section, known within MI5 as the Red House.

“R Section tracks Shvets’s position at all times,” continued Graves. “They traced the tail number of his aircraft to Orly last night. Get this— the same plane landed at Luton Airport outside London the night before the bombing.”

“So he’s supervising this personally,” said Kate.

“Oh yeah. This one’s his, all right. Something he’s running out of a shop called Directorate S. His locations correspond to calls placed from Emma Ransom’s phone. Moscow, Sochi, Paris. Shvets’s jet was in Rome two days after Emma Ransom was stabbed. We’re getting a trace on the credit card used to pay the hospital bill right now.”

“Her real name is Lara,” said Kate. “She’s a Russian, too.”

“I guess so.”

“Do you think Ransom knew?” she asked.

“I couldn’t care less.”

Kate pointed at the monitors. “What about sound? Can we listen in?”

“The storm blinds are making a hash of the lasers. We can’t find a large enough section of glass to get a clear read.” Graves tapped the technician on the shoulder. “Try the sound again.”

The policeman flipped a switch and the van filled with the babble of television news, but the words were unintelligible. He played with his knobs and the din of the news diminished, replaced by fits and spurts of classical music. He fiddled some more and a woman’s voice could be heard shouting something, then a man’s voice in reply.

“What language are they speaking?” asked Kate. “Russian?”

“No idea. Could be anything.”

At that moment the French police captain appeared at the door of the van. “We’re ready.” He looked at Kate. “You will join us?”

Kate nodded. The Frenchman issued a string of orders, and a moment later a deputy ran up, carrying a Kevlar vest. Kate took off her blazer and slipped on the vest in its place. Graves moved behind her, helping her tighten the straps. “You can stay here if you like. Safer.”

“Right,” said Kate, meaning there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell.

“That okay?” he asked, giving a final tug and pat on the back.

“Just fine, Colonel.”

Around them the Black Panthers completed their final preparations, a corps of ninjas armed to the teeth. Graves adjusted his own bulletproof vest, then removed his pistol from his shoulder holster and chambered a round. “Know something?” he asked. “I’ve never fired this in anger.”

“Even when you were in the military?”

“Even then.”

Kate racked a round and thumbed the safety off. “Beat you there. I’ve taken down two bad guys.”

“Killed?”

“Wounded.”

Graves looked at her with a newfound admiration.

The police captain summoned his troops. “Everyone ready?”

   Emma Ransom left the house on Rue Saint-Martin precisely at 5:45 a.m. She drove slowly down the country lane, her windows open, the air freighted with the smell of fertile earth and cut grass. She had dressed conservatively for the day’s work, choosing charcoal slacks, a black blazer, and a white T. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she wore little makeup. She did not carry a weapon. The only concessions to the job that lay ahead were the needle-nose pliers, Philips screwdrivers, and box of alligator clips that lay inside her purse. None of these items would be considered out of the ordinary for a trained inspector from the International Atomic Energy Agency.

After five minutes, she joined the D23 and headed in the direction of Flamanville. It was another sunny day, and she quickly put on a pair of sunglasses. She turned on the radio and listened to a patch of rock music, then switched it off.

She exited the highway at D4/Rue de Valmanoir, turning onto a feeder road that paralleled the highway. To her right, a vast wheat field swayed in the morning breeze. She continued for 10 kilometers, until she saw a sign that read, “La Reine 1 & 2. Restricted Entry. Authorized Personnel Only.” She followed the sign onto a narrow two-lane road that ran straight toward the coast. Her eyes lifted to the hillside where she’d left her car two nights earlier and retraced the steps she had taken. Ahead she saw the line of the outer perimeter fence cutting the horizon in two and the guard post in the center of the road. Immediately she noted that something was amiss and her foot lifted from the accelerator. Parked on either side of the road was an armored personnel carrier with a 50-caliber machine gun mounted on its turret. Soldiers sat inside the hatches, watching the road like hawks.