“She—she never told me,” Speer gasped.
“What did she look like?”
“Ah—” Speer blinked as he tried to focus his thoughts. “Brown hair. Brown eyes, I think. I did not care how she looked, you understand?”
“Old? Young?”
Again Speer blinked, several times. “Thirties?” he said, making it a question, as if he wasn’t certain of his memory.
So. It had definitely been Denise who had given him the million dollars. Speer didn’t know who had given her the money—that was another trail to follow—but this confirmed everything. Rodrigo had known instinctively from the moment she disappeared that she was the killer, but it was good to know he wasn’t wasting time chasing down false leads.
“You made a poison for her.”
Speer swallowed convulsively, but a spark of professional pride lit his blurry gaze. He didn’t even deny it. “A masterpiece, if I do say so. I took the properties of several deadly toxins and combined them. One hundred percent lethal, if even a half ounce is taken. By the time the delayed symptoms are presented, the damage is so severe there is no effective treatment. I suppose one could try a multiorgan transplant, assuming there just happened to be that many organs available at one time and they were all a match, but if there was any toxin left in the system it would attack those organs, too. No, I don’t think that would work.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Rodrigo smiled, a cold smile that, if the doctor had been more sober, would have frightened him senseless. Instead he smiled back.
“You’re welcome,” he said. The words were still hanging in the air when Rodrigo broke his neck and let him drop like a rag doll.
7
Swain lay in his hotel bed the next morning staring at the ceiling and trying to logically connect the dots. Outside a cold November rain was pelting the windows; he hadn’t yet adjusted from the much warmer climate of South America, so he was definitely feeling a chill, even though he was snug in bed. Between the rain and jet lag, he figured he deserved a rest. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was totally slacking off; he was thinking.
He didn’t know Lily, so he was hampered in his effort to figure out what she would do. So far she’d proven herself to be inventive, bold, and coolheaded; he’d have to be on top of his game to outthink her. But he did love a challenge, so instead of running around Paris flashing a photograph of her and asking strangers on the street if they’d seen this woman—yeah, like that would work—he tried instead to anticipate what she would do next, so he could get just that one half-step ahead of her that he needed.
Mentally he listed what he knew so far, which wasn’t much.
Point A: Salvatore Nervi had killed her friends.
Point B: She had then killed Salvatore Nervi.
Logically, that should be the end of it. Mission accomplished, except for the little detail of getting away from Rodrigo Nervi alive. But she’d managed that; she had made her escape to London, pulled that slick disguise switcheroo and then doubled back. She could possibly have gone to ground here in Paris, using yet another of her seemingly endless supply of alternate identities. It was also possible she’d left the airport, changed her appearance yet again, then returned and taken yet another flight out. She had to know that everything any passenger did in an airport, outside of the restrooms, was caught on some camera somewhere, so she would expect that eventually anyone looking for her would nail down the switches she’d made, and from there be able to run the passenger list and deduce the identities she’d used. She had been forced to do her quick changes to throw off Rodrigo Nervi and buy some time, even though that meant she’d burned three aliases and wouldn’t be able to use them again without raising all sorts of red flags that would get her caught.
With that time, however, she could have left the airport and assumed yet another name and appearance, one that hadn’t been caught on the airport cameras. Her paperwork was good; she knew some talented people. She’d be able to sail through security checkpoints and Customs with no problem. She could be anywhere by now. She could be back in London, snoozing on a red-eye flight back to the States, or even sleeping in the room next to his.
She’d come back to Paris. There had to be some significance in that. Logistically, it made sense; the flight was short, giving her time to land and get away before security could painstakingly go over and over the video to tell how she’d done it, then by process of elimination narrow the list of passenger names down to the one she’d used. By coming back to Paris, she’d also involved yet another government and bureaucracy, slowing the process even more. She could, however, have done the same thing by flying to any other European country. Though the London-to-Paris flight was just an hour, Brussels was even closer. So were Amsterdam and The Hague.
Swain locked his hands behind his head and scowled at the ceiling. There was a great big gaping hole in that reasoning. She could have gone through Customs in London and walked out of the airport long before there was any chance of someone watching the security tapes and figuring out which disguise she’d used. If she didn’t want to stay in London, she could then have simply changed her disguise and gone back a few hours later to catch another flight, and absolutely no one would have made the connection. She’d have been home free. In fact, that would have been a much smarter move than staying in the airport with all those surveillance cameras. So why hadn’t she done that? Either she didn’t think anyone would be able to pick up her identity switch, or she’d had a compelling reason for coming back to Paris at that particular time.
Granted, she wasn’t a field officer, trained in espionage; contract agents were hired for each individual job, sent in to perform a specific duty. Her file mentioned nothing about her being schooled in disguise or evasion techniques. She had to know the Agency would be after her for screwing up the Nervi deal, but it was possible she didn’t know the extent of surveillance in major airports.
He wouldn’t bet the farm on it.
She was too smart, too on top of things. She’d known cameras were watching her every move, though she’d thrown enough curve balls at them to keep them occupied for a while. And she might have decided that giving them more time, by leaving Heathrow and returning later, would give them a chance to . . . do something. He didn’t know what. Scan her face into the facial-recognition data bank, maybe? She was in the Agency’s data bank, but not anywhere else. If, however, someone had scanned her facial structure into Interpol’s database, the cameras at the airport entrances would then have been able to come up with a match before she could get to her gate. Yeah, that could be it. She could have been afraid Rodrigo Nervi would try to have her entered into Interpol’s data.
How could she avoid that danger? By having cosmetic surgery, for one thing. Again, that would be the smart thing for a woman on the run to do. She hadn’t opted for that, though; instead she’d come back to Paris. Maybe going into hiding and not coming out until after she’d had cosmetic alterations would have taken too long. Maybe there was some kind of time limit for something she wanted to get accomplished.
Such as? See Disneyland Paris? Tour the Louvre?
Maybe killing Salvatore Nervi was just the opening act, instead of an end unto itself. Maybe she knew the Agency’s best of the best—namely himself, not that she knew him from Adam’s house cat—was on the job, and it was only a matter of time before she was grabbed. That kind of faith in his abilities made him feel all warm inside. At any rate, say his thinking was on the right track: she had something she wanted to do, something so urgent that hours counted, and she was afraid she wouldn’t have time to do it.