Rules of Vengeance

They had reached the farmhouse. The sound of the engine was louder now. Someone pumped the accelerator as voices called out instructions in Russian. Chagall opened a side door and entered. The farmhouse had been converted into a garage. Graves counted at least twenty automobiles parked under a canopy of heavy-duty floodlights. There was a Ferrari Scaglietti and a Lamborghini Miura. A Maserati Quattroporte and a Mercedes McLaren SLR. A Porsche 911 GT and a Bentley Mulsa

Chagall stopped in front of a sleek gray two-door sports car. “The Bugatti Veyron. The most expensive car in the world. Do you know how much it costs?”

Graves smiled politely. “A bit more than my salary, I’d wager.”

“Two million U.S. I will tell you something. If you tell me who killed Robert Russell, it is yours. No questions asked. My gift to you. What do you say?”

“Tempting.”

“It is yours, then!” declared Chagall.

“I can’t accept.” Graves shook his head politely as if awed by such a show of largesse.

“Hah!” shouted Chagall. “Another patriot.”

Graves grew serious. “Why did Russell drive to One Victoria Street immediately after meeting with you? What do you know about the attack that took place there?”

Chagall busied himself with a chamois cloth, polishing the hood of a vintage black Ferrari Daytona. “Like yours, our investigation, too, is still ongoing,” he said without looking up. “Perhaps we shall inform Her Majesty’s government when we have accumulated more reliable information.”

Graves stepped to his shoulder. “The attack on Interior Minister Ivanov was a decoy to force a mandatory evacuation of the government buildings in the vicinity so that someone could get inside and steal classified information.”

“What kind of classified information?”

“Very classified,” said Graves.

Skepticism clouded Chagall’s features. “You mean they didn’t wish to kill Ivanov? Nonsense. Everyone wants Ivanov dead.”

“I’m only telling you what our evidence suggests.”

“So what is this classified information that was so precious to them?” asked Chagall.

“You mean you don’t know either?”

“Why would I drag my good friend Lord Robbie out so late at night if I already knew? We knew something was pla

Graves knew who they were without having to ask. The FSB.

“Listen, Captain,” Chagall continued. “I shall put you in touch with my source. He is one of them, too. But a good man. A face-to-face meeting. He will tell you what he knows. You will not be disappointed. In return, you must supply him with evidence of who killed Robert Russell.”

“Is he here in London?”

“He is.” Chagall threaded his way to the rear of the garage, where a car was being unloaded from a van. Graves took up position on one side of the ramp as a metallic blue 1964 Ford Shelby Cobra slid onto the floor. “My latest acquisition,” said Chagall. “The car that beat Enzo Ferrari at Le Mans in 1964. It is my first American purchase. What do you think?”

Graves wanted to say that he’d give his right arm to drive it, but instead he settled for “It’s very nice.”

“And so?” Chagall asked as he climbed into the Cobra’s driving seat. “May I tell him that you will give him the name?”

Graves smelled the leather, the new rubber. It was, he decided, the smell of power. “Deal.”

Chagall’s anxiety melted in an instant. Gone was his earnest, near-fawning demeanor. He was back to his arrogant self. “It is better that you hear it from the source. Otherwise, I do not think you will believe it. I will make the call immediately. You are free this evening?”

“I’ll clear my calendar.”

“Excellent.” Chagall gazed up. “I have one last question, Captain. You said that Russell’s killer entered his house through the basement. But the basement is also secure. I know. I nearly purchased a residence there. Tell me, please, how did they get in?”

Graves walked around the Shelby Cobra, tapping his fingers on the door. “They hid in the trunk of his car.”

Peter Chagall’s eyes opened wide.

60

“Frontière Française-2 km.”

Jonathan slowed the motorcycle as he approached the French border. The highway split in two, the westbound lanes climbing a slight grade cut into the hillside, the opposing lanes hugging the strip of flat terrain adjacent to the coast. The early evening traffic was heavy and after another kilometer he ground to a complete halt. Bracing the bike on his left leg, he gazed out at the sea. It had been his companion these seven hours, a beckoning blue expanse that led to his destination. Above his shoulder, the slope rose steeply. There were terraced houses and gardens, and clotheslines strung between olive trees. A breeze lifted off the sea, and he tasted salt and exhaust and the rich scent of warm pine.

The line of traffic shunted forward. He rounded a bend and spotted the broad shell-shaped building that housed the customs and immigration offices. Officers in pale blue tunics and legio

So much for business as usual.

Hurriedly he checked for an exit from the highway. There were none. The last was a kilometer back. He glanced over his shoulder, and only then did he notice a police car hidden behind the exit sign. He gave the bike a little gas and advanced another 20 meters. There was no way out.

Less than a minute later, he slid beneath the shade of the portico. He had his identity card ready. The card belonged to Dr. Luca Lazio. The photograph had been taken seven years earlier and was scratched and faded. An officer approached, checking Jonathan up and down. He raised a finger and motioned for him to drive nearer. “You,” he said. “Stop.”

Jonathan extended the card and the officer grabbed it from his fingers.

“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.