Rules of Vengeance

“And you said you would?”

“For five hundred euros, wouldn’t you?” The manager grew serious. “Do not worry. I will not tell him about you.”

“Thanks,” said Jonathan, not believing him for a second.

The manager went to his monitor and printed up a page with a phone number and the address Route de La Turbie 4, Èze, France.

Èze. A tiny medieval village carved into the mountainside overlooking the Mediterranean on the Côte d’Azur, a few kilometers from Monaco. Jonathan had driven through it, but never visited. It hardly seemed like a headquarters for a clandestine service that had employed Emma. Then again, he knew better than to be surprised.

Above the address was printed a company name: VOR S.A.

It was the same name given on the hospital bill.

52

“We tracked down the phone.”

“You’re sure?” asked Den Baxter of the Evidence Recovery Team.

“Oh, yeah. We’ve got it, all right. And there’s more, boss. You’d best get over here as soon as you can manage.”

Baxter checked his wristwatch as he ran up the stairs leading to the London Metropolitan Police’s forensics laboratory. It was just shy of nine. It had taken the Met’s team of technicians less than a day to piece together the fragments of the circuit board recovered at 1 Victoria Street and identify the make and model of the mobile phone used to detonate the car bomb aimed at Russian Interior Minister Igor Ivanov.

Twenty-one hours and forty-one minutes, to be exact.

Baxter kept track of such things.

Alastair McKenzie was waiting at the door to the lab. Baxter noted with pride that the man was wearing the same clothing as the day before. He smelled like last week’s garbage, but so what? Cleanliness might be next to godliness, but it didn’t do a thing to solve an investigation.

“Nearly killed myself getting over here,” said Baxter, taking McKenzie’s hand in his own and nearly crushing it. “Better be worth it.”

McKenzie’s answer was a tight smile and a direction to follow him.

Baxter entered a conference room and found a team of white-coated techs waiting. “Right, then,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”

“Keep in mind that we had bugger all to start with,” said Evans, the chief of the forensics squad. “Two grotty little remnants of the circuit board that Mr. McKenzie was kind enough to bring us, and that was it. We used a bit of epoxy to piece the board back together, cured it in the autoclave, and here’s what we came up with.” Evans handed Baxter a warped chunk of sky-blue plastic shaped like a wee pistol. “You can see the place for the screen, and here’s where the microphone goes. What gave it away was the placement of the ante

“Entry-level model,” piped up one of Evans’s assistants.

“Give ’em away free with a two-year subscription plan,” said another.

“But what’s most important,” continued Evans, “is that the 9500S is brand spanking new.” He took back the reconstructed piece of circuit board and held it up to the light for examination. “Problem was that we didn’t have the entire serial number. Now, every circuit board gets its own number. Costs the manufacturer a pe

Baxter said he would do his best to keep the company’s name out of the news, but if it came to trial, the circuit board would have to be admitted as evidence.

“Fair enough,” responded Evans. “Here’s where the story gets interesting. Vodafone’s been selling the phone exclusively in the UK for the past two weeks. According to their records, phones manufactured with a circuit board ending in 4571 were sold in three metropolitan areas: Manchester, Liverpool, and London. My boys spent half of yesterday and all of last night calling every sales outlet and checking to see who did or didn’t have phones with the serial numbers in question. Turns out that neither Manchester nor Liverpool has placed their wares on the shelves yet. That left London, where batches begi

“They still have them?” asked Baxter, who by now was perched on the edge of his seat, nearly driven mad by the wait.

“The store at Oxford Circus has all its phones with the serial numbers in question, and so does the sales agent in Waterloo Station.”

“So our phone was sold at Heathrow,” said Baxter.

“Five days ago, to be precise,” said Evans. “A cash transaction, I’m sorry to say.”

“The name? Was there a name?” He knew the answer. There had to be. Law required people to supply a name and identification when purchasing a mobile phone.

“Total nonsense, as was the address.”

“Dammit.” Baxter’s heart sank.

“Still, we do have some news that might be of use,” continued Evans.

“A number?” declared Baxter, rising out of his chair, fists clenched. “They sold the bloody phone with a SIM card, didn’t they?”

“SIM” stood for Subscriber Identity Module. It was the SIM card that gave a mobile phone its number as well as recording all information about calls placed to and from that handset.

“Not one SIM card, Mr. Baxter. Three.” Evans handed him a typed sheet.

Den Baxter grabbed it as if it were a lifeline. He thanked Evans profusely, then turned his attention to McKenzie. But instead of appearing happy, Baxter wrinkled his face in disgust. “We’re done here, lad. Get home now and take a shower. You smell like a rubbish bin.”