Rules of Vengeance

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 Cha

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. Ru

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 do

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, ru

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 answered. 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.