Jonathan was more conversant with the Mac’s OS X operating system. Moving the cursor to the Spotlight bar, which searched the hard disk’s contents for designated keywords, he typed in “Lara,” “Emma,” and “Ransom.”
A window opened and filled with the names of all files containing one or more of the keywords. Several had obscure titles, like “Report 15” or “Communication-February 12.” But the fifth that appeared displayed the name Larissa Alexandrovna Antonova in capital letters.
Jonathan double-clicked on the file.
The screen lit up with a scanned copy of a typewritten personnel report. The name Larissa Alexandrovna Antonova appeared at the top of the page. “Born August 2, 1976.” A black-and-white photo was attached to the upper right-hand corner. It showed a young woman, perhaps eighteen years old, with porcelain skin and eyes that dared the camera to come closer. The girl’s hair was pulled into a bun, and the collar of a military uniform rode high on her neck.
It was Emma.
Jonathan felt nothing, which was worse even than disappointment.
A stylized header was emblazoned across the top of the paper. The words looked familiar. All the same, it took him nearly a minute to sound it out for himself.
Federalnoya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti.
Federal Security Service.
The FSB.
Jonathan continued reading, losing himself in the dense, monotonous text. He was unable to decipher many of the words, but those he understood were enough. He read while the clock chimed a quarter past the hour. He read as the Peugeot pulled into the garage bay carved out of hillside below and footsteps climbed an interior stairwell. He heard nothing. He noted nothing. The present had ceased to exist. He was lost in the horror of discovery. He had disappeared into the past.
Page after page he read, as every artifice was stripped bare, every lie exposed, every falsehood revealed. It was Emma’s secret history, and in a way his own. The sheer accretion of detail was numbing. Dates, places, names, schools, principals, classes, examinations, recommendations. And then a shift from academic to military. More schools, courses, units, fitness reports, political reliability, surveillance reports, promotions, and finally, and most interesting of all, operations.
There were photographs, too.
Emma as a schoolgirl, rail thin, with the worst eczema Jonathan had ever seen and a cast on one arm. Emma in uniform, an induction picture. But how old? Fifteen? Sixteen? Too young to serve, to be sure. Emma in uniform again, now with a rank at her neck, her skin cleared up, a proud jut to her chin. Older now, maybe eighteen, her face fuller, the eyes more confident.
Emma in civilian dress receiving a diploma, shaking hands with her superior, a portly gray-haired man twenty years her senior with terrible circles beneath his eyes. On the wall was a plaque bearing a sword and a shield, the symbol of the FSB. And on the photo, a stamped date. June 1, 1994.
And then other photographs, taken when Emma was unawares.
Emma on a parade ground, passing for inspection with a corps of female cadets, rifle at her shoulder.
Emma and a girlfriend shopping on a busy urban street.
Emma in her apartment, a glass of wine to her lips.
And still more photographs. Private ones. Photographs taken in the line of duty for purposes of extortion. Photographs that sickened him. All with the stamp “Nightingale” laid across the bottom in small black script.
Nightingale. It had been her code name with Division, too.
“You are surprised?” asked a soft, cultured male voice.
Jonathan jumped in his chair. He spun and saw Alex at the door, a pistol trailing from his right hand.
“Who did you think she worked for?”
“I didn’t know,” said Jonathan. “Not you, anyway.”
“She’s Siberian. Who else would it be?” Alex waved the pistol. “Stand up. Come with me. Don’t worry. We don’t want to harm you. You were good to Lara. We are not the kind who do not show their appreciation.”
“If you want to show your appreciation, you can start by putting away the gun.”
“A precaution.”
Alex frisked Jonathan, and when he found no weapon, motioned for him to walk down the hall. “You would like some water, perhaps? Some cheese?”
“I’m good,” said Jonathan. “You can tell me one thing. What do you have Emma doing?”
“You mean Lara? I thought you knew. Isn’t that why you dragged me down to Monaco?” Alex nodded toward the living room. “Alarms everywhere. I wasn’t gone ten minutes before I was notified.”
“You paid twenty-five thousand euros to get her out of the hospital. It wasn’t for nothing.”
Alex answered with a cryptic smile.
In the kitchen he placed a phone call. He spoke rapidly. Jonathan was unable to comprehend a word. When he hung up, his face had hardened. “What did you read on the computer?”
But Jonathan had a question of his own. “Where’s Simenon?”
“Please, Dr. Ransom. You are in my home. It is my turn to ask the questions. What did you read?”
“Nothing. I don’t speak Russian.”
“Really? Tell me, then, how did you teach the doctors in Kabul?”
Of course they knew about him, thought Jonathan. Their surveillance didn’t stop with the pictures taken at Oxford. “Her personnel file,” he admitted. “I just saw a few pictures.”
“That is all? You are certain?”
“It was enough.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about. You’re sure you don’t want anything? Take an orange. They are blood oranges from Israel. We must make a drive now.” The Russian slipped his keys out of his pocket. “Stairs at the end of the hall. After you…”
“Gendarmerie. Ouvrez la porte.” The forceful voice was followed by a series of violent raps against the door.
The Russian stepped past Jonathan, his eyes going to the door.
“Stay here,” said Alex, as he advanced toward the entry.
The police knocked again. Louder this time.
Glancing around the kitchen, Jonathan picked up the first thing he saw that might serve as a weapon. It was a large cut-glass fruit bowl, and he rushed forward and brought it in a roundhouse against the side of the Russian’s head. The agent staggered and fell against the counter. Jonathan brought the bowl down on the back of his skull, sending Alex crashing to the floor. And then, possessed by an animal fury, he struck the Russian again. There came an expulsion of breath. The body shuddered and was still. The Russian was dead.