She poked her head around the doorframe. Grégoire was sound asleep on his back, snoring quietly, his mouth open wide. His wife lay on her side, separated from her husband by several inches. Emma walked to his side of the bed, placed the Taser against his bare chest, and fired the 10,000-volt charge. Grégoire bucked, then lay still. The scent of burned flesh soured the air. Before he’d settled, she’d slapped a strip of tape across his mouth. Her left hand pulled down the blankets. She dropped the Taser and with both hands grasped his limp arms in an effort to secure the flexicuffs. One arm was pinned behind his back. She struggled to lift him. Grégoire’s wife awoke and bolted upright in bed. Emma dropped his arms and reached for the Taser. The stun gun was not where she’d left it; she saw that she’d placed the duvet on top of it. The woman started to scream. Emma backhanded her across the mouth. Leaping onto the bed, she pinned Grégoire’s wife down and taped her mouth. The woman was wiry and fit. A mother’s fear amplified her strength. She shoved Emma violently, sending her sprawling onto the floor. Emma jumped to her feet, her vision blurred, her head throbbing. Grégoire’s wife was sliding out of bed, working to pull the tape from her mouth.
Kill her.
Emma’s hand dived into her bag. Her fingers closed around the pistol as her thumb dropped the safety. She thought of the little girl and released the pistol. With a cat’s agility, she stretched out an arm and took hold of the woman’s hair. She gave a single brutal tug, and the woman crashed to the floor. Emma dropped to a knee and brought her elbow onto the bridge of the woman’s nose, immobilizing her.
Up again. Breathing hard now.
Emma found the Taser and rammed it against the woman’s shoulder. Grégoire’s wife shuddered, eyes rolling back into her head, saliva issuing from her mouth.
Panting, Emma stood, sweat streaming down her back. She looked at Grégoire. Thankfully, he remained unconscious. She went to his side of the bed and cuffed his wrists. More tape bound his ankles. She returned to Grégoire’s wife and bound her similarly.
In their room, the children continued to sleep. Emma stepped toward the boy, then halted. The nightlight fell upon his face, and she observed his long, graceful eyelashes, his unblemished cheeks. An angel’s hair, she thought, looking upon his blond locks. Three years old. He would forget.
Then she heard a sound emanating from the parents’ room. A grunt. The efforts of a man struggling to free himself. A split second later came a thud as Grégoire rolled off the bed and hit the floor.
Emma returned her attention to the boy. She moved quickly. Tape. Cuffs. She did not look at his terrified eyes.
The girl was awake. She sat up, staring at Emma. A vision from her worst dreams. A wraith in black. Tears fell from her eyes.
How old? Emma wondered. Six? Seven? Old enough to remember. Old enough never to forget. Emma wanted to say something, to tell her not to be afraid, that everything would be all right. It was a stupid thought.
Peeling off tape, she pressed it over the child’s mouth and cuffed her hands.
Then Emma left the room, closing the door behind her.
She walked into the parents’ bedroom and saw Grégoire struggling to his feet.
There was no time for mistakes.
Quietly she closed the bedroom door and reached for her pistol.
66
Charles Graves returned to his office in a state of agitation. He slid behind his desk and rang his assistant. “Get me Delacroix in Paris,” he said, asking to be connected to his opposite number at the SDEC. “If he’s at home, wake him up. It’s an emergency.”
“Right away, sir.”
Graves put the phone down and loosened his tie. He felt uncomfortable, and not a little embarrassed at having to wake his colleague with so little information. He might as well shout that a tsunami was coming, but he didn’t know precisely where along the French coast.
There were over seventy nuclear installations in France. Kempa suspected that the attack might take place against one of the newer facilities. That lowered the number to ten-if he was correct. An evacuation order would cause panic. France would never shut down its power grid on the basis of a rumor. Pride, as well as pragmatism, would force the French to brazen it out.
The phone rang and Graves picked up. “Bonsoir, Bertrand,” he said.
“Pardon me, sir, but it’s Den Baxter, ERT.”
“Yes, Mr. Baxter, how can I help?”
“We caught a break. Rather a large one, actually. We found a piece of the circuit board from the phone used to detonate the bomb. My men and I were able to establish the make and model and to track down where it was sold.”
“Do you have a number?” asked Graves.
“Three, actually, sir. The buyer purchased three SIM cards at the point of sale.”
“Go ahead, Inspector Baxter.” With his heart lodged firmly in this throat, Graves dutifully wrote down each number.
Three phone numbers. They constituted the motherlode and also his last chance. Graves ran his eyes over the numbers, wishing he felt more confident. It was a simple question of backtracking, leapfrogging from one number to the next by tracing the call history. Best case, it would yield a web of accomplices leading back to the person who had planned the operation, either Sergei Shvets or one of his deputies. Worst case (and more likely), the numbers would constitute a closed loop, with each number having contacted only the other two numbers Graves possessed.
Graves called the security office of Vodafone. He was friendly with several of the men who worked there, and was pleased when a former messmate from the SAS came onto the line. Graves gave his friend the three numbers and requested a complete call history for each, with a specific charge to check if any had either placed or received a call two days earlier at 11:12 GMT.
The response came quickly. The first number had received but a single call in its entire working life. That call was logged precisely at 11:12 GMT. Moreover, the number had since been declared technically out of operation. For “technically out of operation,” read: blown to smithereens. Graves made a star next to it. This number belonged to the phone used to detonate the bomb.
The second number on Graves’s list corresponded to the SIM card that had placed that call. To place it in an operational context, it was the bomber’s phone. This was the phone that the CCTV cameras on Victoria Street captured Emma Ransom holding at the time of the detonation.