“Right away.”

“Oh, and what about the last number I gave you?”

“That one? Virgin. Never used.”

Graves suddenly had a terrible premonition. Not used yet. “Can you shut down that number? You know, deactivate it, so that it doesn’t work?”

“I’m pretty sure that the boys in tech services can. It’ll take some time to run the number through the system.”

“How long?”

“Noon, latest.”

Another twelve hours. Not good, but better than nothing. “Many thanks. I owe you.” Graves hung up and rang Kate Ford. “Where are you?” he asked.

“Èze. Searching the house Ransom ran to.”

“Whom does it belong to?”

“Officially it’s the property of a small corporation called VOR S.A. The company registry lists a single director. His name is Serge Simenon.”

“Serge Simenon. Sergei Shvets. Same initials, similar name. What do you think?”

“What are you talking about?”

Graves updated Kate Ford on his meeting with the Russian spy Kempa, as well as the information he’d received from Vodafone. “The cell is active, and its base of operations is in Paris.”

“My God.”

“Have you found anything there that ties into Russia?”

“There’s a trove of papers in the office written in Cyrillic and a few CDs by Russian singers. Coincidence?”

“No way. Do you still have the jet?”

“On the runway at Nice.”

“How soon can you get to Paris?”

“Three or four hours, if I hightail it. What are you planning?”

“A raid,” said Graves. “We go in at first light.”

67

The sun rose in Paris at 5:42 a.m. Driving into the city from Charles de Gaulle Airport, Kate Ford watched the first rays of light strike the dome of the Sacré Coeur high on the hill in Montmartre. Her car rattled over the Pont Neuf. The cool, pleasing scent of the Seine invaded the cabin, and she caught a glimpse of Notre Dame upriver. A moment later her view was obscured and she found herself speeding through a maze of drab, unloved streets. This was a different Paris, not the home of the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe, but a dilapidated colonial outpost lined with Algerian coffeehouses, Middle Eastern cafés, and boutiques overflowing with West African clothing. As she progressed farther into the banlieues, the city darkened and acquired a hostile façade. Oil barrels black with soot, smoke from the past evening’s fire still curling skyward, were not uncommon. A burned-out car lying on its side occupied one sidewalk. Dumpsters overflowing with trash lined more than one alley. Everywhere graffiti assaulted the eye.

The car rounded a corner and stopped suddenly. Ahead, the street was blocked with police vehicles. A dozen men moved purposefully, putting on vests and helmets, filling ammunition clips and checking weapons. Her driver, a sergeant from the Paris prefecture, led her across the street into a corner café where the mobile command post had been established. She found Graves standing over a table studying a set of blueprints, with several black uniforms on either side of him.

The police belonged to the Black Panthers, the nickname of RAID- Recherche Assistance Intervention et Dissuasion-an elite national squad twenty-four men strong on call 24/7 for exactly this circumstance.

“They’re operating out of a one-bedroom flat on the tenth floor,” explained one of the men in black assault gear, using the tip of his Ka-Bar knife as a pointer. “End of the hall. Apartments on either side. One way in, one way out. The building has two elevators, but only one is in service. The other is stalled between the fourth and fifth floors. There are two stairwells. We can put a team in on top, but the helo might scare the prey.”

“Stick with the stairs,” said Graves. “We want them alive. They may have vital information.”

“Entendu.”

Graves spotted Kate and stepped away from the table. “You made it.”

“Had to scream at air control, but they came around. Looks like you were able to rouse the troops.”

“I had Sir Tony get on the blower. He was upset, after the snafu on your end. I think they could hear his voice across the Channel unaided.”

“Is she inside?”

“Have a look for yourself.” Graves led her to an unmarked van parked outside. Inside the rear bay sat two officers in front of a bank of monitors and instruments. “We’ve got a surveillance post set up inside a building across the road. They have a couple of infrared cameras and a laser mike on the windows. We have identified two actives inside. Both are awake and moving around the flat.”

“Early risers, eh?” Kate studied the largest screen. On it, displayed against a grainy gray background, the silhouettes of two figures could be seen walking back and forth between rooms. “Is it them?”

Graves squinted, as if he could will the fuzzy heat signatures into focus. “No visuals yet. They have the storm blinds down. But it could be. He’s in town. So’s she.”

“Shvets is in Paris?” asked Kate, who’d received a full briefing and a temporary promotion to “Eyes Only” clearance en route from Nice.

“They call him Papi. I didn’t know that. Quite the father figure. Rumor is he takes a personal interest in his more comely female agents.”

Upon learning that Shvets had masterminded the car bomb at 1 Victoria Street and the theft of the IAEA’s laptops, Graves’s first order of business had been to share the news with Anthony Allam. A diplomatic dossier was established containing all facts tying Shvets to the crime. Besides going to the prime minister, the foreign minister, and the heads of MI6 and the Metropolitan Police, the information was passed to R Section, known within MI5 as the Red House.

“R Section tracks Shvets’s position at all times,” continued Graves. “They traced the tail number of his aircraft to Orly last night. Get this- the same plane landed at Luton Airport outside London the night before the bombing.”

“So he’s supervising this personally,” said Kate.

“Oh yeah. This one’s his, all right. Something he’s running out of a shop called Directorate S. His locations correspond to calls placed from Emma Ransom’s phone. Moscow, Sochi, Paris. Shvets’s jet was in Rome two days after Emma Ransom was stabbed. We’re getting a trace on the credit card used to pay the hospital bill right now.”

“Her real name is Lara,” said Kate. “She’s a Russian, too.”

“I guess so.”

“Do you think Ransom knew?” she asked.

“I couldn’t care less.”

Kate pointed at the monitors. “What about sound? Can we listen in?”

“The storm blinds are making a hash of the lasers. We can’t find a large enough section of glass to get a clear read.” Graves tapped the technician on the shoulder. “Try the sound again.”

The policeman flipped a switch and the van filled with the babble of television news, but the words were unintelligible. He played with his knobs and the din of the news diminished, replaced by fits and spurts of classical music. He fiddled some more and a woman’s voice could be heard shouting something, then a man’s voice in reply.

“What language are they speaking?” asked Kate. “Russian?”

“No idea. Could be anything.”

At that moment the French police captain appeared at the door of the van. “We’re ready.” He looked at Kate. “You will join us?”

Kate nodded. The Frenchman issued a string of orders, and a moment later a deputy ran up, carrying a Kevlar vest. Kate took off her blazer and slipped on the vest in its place. Graves moved behind her, helping her tighten the straps. “You can stay here if you like. Safer.”

“Right,” said Kate, meaning there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell.

“That okay?” he asked, giving a final tug and pat on the back.

“Just fine, Colonel.”

Around them the Black Panthers completed their final preparations, a corps of ninjas armed to the teeth. Graves adjusted his own bulletproof vest, then removed his pistol from his shoulder holster and chambered a round. “Know something?” he asked. “I’ve never fired this in anger.”