When they arrived twenty minutes earlier, Carmen had marveled at the interior of the nineteenth-century edifice. Soft purple lighting illuminated both walls, causing the long, narrow wing to glow like some futuristic nightclub. Arched floor-to-ceiling windows provided scenic views of central Geneva.
CERN had spared no expense, bringing in a chamber orchestra and the finest in food and drink. She imagined the gala was exactly the kind of event that Alexander Mironov would thrive in, provided the table conversation didn’t turn to physics.
The two operatives were able to get on the guest list due to some fine last-minute hacking by Brett Foster, who composed a convincing email letting the event organizer know there would be two last-minute additions, Mariella Bigatton and her journalist boyfriend, Keith Swinson.
While Brett made the arrangements, Carmen and Reid traveled to the Rue du Rhône, one of Geneva’s finest shopping destinations, to obtain appropriate attire. Reid was a reluctant participant, and due to time constraints, he ended up purchasing an ill-fitting suit that Carmen would later say fit only slightly better than a tablecloth.
Carmen, on the contrary, enjoyed the afternoon. The stylish operative visited a half-dozen stores before finally settling on a long black Valentino dress with a one-shoulder neckline. She topped off the look with a silver-buckle Chanel clutch.
She smiled as she thought about the expression that would spread across the Oracle’s face when the credit-card bill arrived in Arlington. If he inquired about the questionable cost, she was already prepared to remind him that a woman going to a black-tie affair with cheap accessories would be the equivalent of a man showing up in a suit and flip-flops. Besides, the purchase of the expensive clutch could be considered utilitarian, since her Beretta PX4 Storm Subcompact pistol fit snugly inside.
“Looking good?” Carmen asked, rolling her eyes as she looked down at his poorly hemmed pants. “I may have to turn you back in. That suit is just not happening.”
“Oh hush, and just be glad you have some male muscle to back you up.” Reid accepted a flute of champagne from one of the servers. “At some point this evening, I’m sure you’re going to need me to get you out of some nastiness. Trouble swirls around you like flies at a fast food dumpster.”
“I see. Hmmm. So is that the same kind of protection you provided in Croatia two years ago?” She was referring to an operation in which Reid and Skinner had been pistol-whipped by a man disguised as a female beggar, only to later be saved by the supreme marksmanship of a certain female Italian operative.
“So now we’re digging up old war stories? What you didn’t realize is that Ross had specifically asked us to put you in a situation that would test you. A training exercise of sorts.”
“A training exercise, huh? The look on your face when that ‘woman’ pulled out her Smith & Wesson and placed it against your temple indicates otherwise.”
Reid smiled and took a long sip of champagne. As he lifted the glass up, he used the opportunity to scan the crowd around them. In a low voice, he asked, “Anything so far?”
“Not a thing,” replied Carmen. “I feel like I’d know him immediately. Mironov, that is. Granted the photos and videos weren’t good, but there is something about him — his size and posture — that would be a dead giveaway. As for Marrese, I doubt I’d recognize him even if he came by with a tray of wine.”
If there were only a few pictures of Mironov, then there were even fewer pictures of Marrese. Historically, the Catholic Church always kept their exorcists out of public view — they were rarely named publicly, and they certainly weren’t photographed. The best pictures Delphi had been able to obtain were cloudy stills from CCTV footage taken in and around Geneva. The former priest could be seen hopping out of a car and disappearing into a restaurant or café with Mironov. As Carmen studied the stills, all she could make out were a flash of dark hair and the hint of facial hair. How did he know about the positioning of the cameras? Why did he always seem to be on the concealed side of a group?
“The crowd is much larger than I expected,” Carmen said. “And it doesn’t look like they’re going to be taking their seats anytime soon.”
“Keep in mind, this is a social event. Yes, there will be speakers later, but that may be the only thing that gets people into their seats.”
“You know, we may want to split up,” Carmen suggested. “I think it might allow us to cover more ground.”
“Agreed. I’ll move toward the stage and then cut to the left and across to the other side.”
“Perfect. And while you’re doing that I’ll head back toward the entrance and then come around in your direction so we can compare notes. Oh, and Keith… don’t you dare leave with anyone else, hun.”
Reid winked and lifted his flute before disappearing into the crowd.
Carmen took one last look at the pictures on her cell phone. The first was a photo of Mironov at a podium in a rare publicly circulated image. It was almost seven years old and had been taken at a distance. His brown hair was combed straight back with several quarts of gel, a styling quirk that Carmen had been told was still in operation. Reid had joked that anyone with blow-dried hair could be immediately eliminated.
Carmen used her thumb to swipe the screen and move to the next image. It was a grainy picture of several men entering a small restaurant in Old Town Geneva. As was always the case, Marrese, or at least a man reputed to be Marrese, was positioned on the far side of the group. About the only thing visible was one side of his head and the jet-black hair.
As she studied the photo, Carmen suddenly frowned and pulled the phone closer to her face. Could it be? It didn’t seem possible. Though he was facing the restaurant with only the side of his head visible, it seemed as though his eyes were turned directly toward the camera.
“Is that a picture of your boyfriend?” asked a nearby voice in French.
“Cosa?” Carmen jumped slightly and looked up to see an older man, probably in his sixties, standing next to her. He had silver hair and the kind of large-rimmed glasses that were popular in the seventies. His speech was slightly slurred, indicating he had made good use of the free wine.
“No,” she answered in English. She knew most Swiss spoke passable English. “Actually I’m just checking my email. I know, I know… they always tell me to leave work at the office, but I never can seem to resist.”
The old man grabbed her forearm and leaned closer, speaking in heavily accented English. “So, there is no boyfriend?”
Carmen was using the arm the man grabbed to pin the clutch against her body, so she stiffened her muscles to hold everything in place. The last thing she needed was for a drunken pervert to shake her arm and cause the loaded revolver to tumble out to the floor. “Uh, I do have a boyfriend, but he’s not here at the moment.”
“Ooh la la,” said the man, squeezing Carmen’s arm. “A shame he couldn’t make it.”
Carmen pulled back, but he kept his hand in place. She didn’t want to cause a scene, so she let it stay there for the moment. “He’s here,” she said, gesturing toward the front with her wineglass. “He just went to use the restroom.”
“Les toilettes? But the bathrooms are over there,” he insisted, nodding in the opposite direction.
Carmen shrugged. “Well, I guess it may take him a while then.”