‘I said he wasn’t on the balcony. He was in the dining room, prone on the dining table, the end part of which was about the size of an eight-by-four sheet of plywood. He was aiming over his partner’s head. Think about it. Two snipers. One is cross-legged behind the planter. The other is prone on the table. They’ve been there thirty minutes. They’re in the zone. They’re breathing slow. They’re just floating along. The French doors are open. The one behind the planter is set up on the glass shield. He’s chambered with an armour-piercing round. He’s chosen the exact same aiming point Ms Nice did. Purely by instinct. Above and behind him, the one on the table is chambered with a match-grade bullet. He’s set up on the French guy. On his temple, probably. Maybe the guy’s wearing body armour under his suit. Not much of an impediment, probably, but why risk an unknown factor? The head is better. So it’s right there in the scope. He’s just waiting for the glass to break.’

‘But it didn’t.’

‘So they beat feet and get the hell out of Dodge. But Kott stays in Paris. He’d prefer to stop the investigation right there. He camps out and watches that balcony, day after day. Or maybe he’s tipped off by the French. You should check. But whichever, finally he gets his chance. Three investigators show up. When he saw me in his scope he must have thought he’d won the lottery. His little heart must have gone pit-a-pat. Then he calmed down and pulled the trigger.’

‘And hit Khenkin by mistake?’

‘Not by mistake. He got me centre mass, a dead-on bull’s-eye, a no-doubter, an Olympic gold medal right there. I was a dead man from the moment he pulled the trigger. But the bullet was in the air nearly four seconds. And there was a gust of wind. I remember seeing it. I remember the muzzle flash, and then the snap of a flag, and then Khenkin got hit. Because the wind moved the bullet. Only about a foot and a half, over sixteen hundred yards. It nudged it just a little, right to left as it flew, from my chest to his head.’

‘You can’t prove that.’

‘I can,’ I said. ‘If it was Datsev aiming at Khenkin, then Bennett would have been killed. He was next in line. You can’t argue with the wind. It was right there. The flags went crazy, and then stopped just as fast. It was gusty all morning. Check it out.’

O’Day was quiet for a spell. Then he said, ‘Two shooters. Jesus.’ Then he said, ‘We have to give this theory to London and Moscow. If we’re all behind it, that is. Rick?’

Shoemaker paused a beat, and nodded.

‘I’m in,’ he said.

‘Joan?’

Scarangello said, ‘Better to think two if it’s really one, than one if it’s really two. We should err on the side of caution.’

O’Day didn’t ask Casey Nice.

I said, ‘I’m going to London now.’

O’Day said, ‘Now?’

‘I don’t mind about the picture in his bedroom. I don’t even mind that the little runt just took a shot at me. That’s an occupational hazard, for a cop. But he was careless and he missed. He shouldn’t have tried on a windy day. He killed an innocent man. That’s different. That was a mistake. And like you said, I caught him once. I can catch him again.’

‘And then what?’

‘I’m going to twist his arm out of his shoulder socket and beat him to death with his own right hand.’

‘Negative,’ O’Day said. ‘You’ll go to London when I tell you to. This is a complex business. Preparations must be made.’

‘You can’t give me orders. I’m a civilian.’

‘Helping his country. Let’s do it right.’

I said nothing.

He said, ‘Khenkin wasn’t an innocent man. He was KGB. He did bad things.’

I said nothing.

He said, ‘I told you so.’

‘Told me what?’

‘It’s not the same with a sniper out there.’

Scarangello asked, ‘Will they work together in London too?’

‘Probably,’ I said. ‘It’s a target-rich environment. It would double their firepower.’

‘So who’s in the frame for the second spot? Carson or Datsev?’

‘I’m not a gambling man.’

‘If you were?’

‘Then Carson. Khenkin said Datsev wouldn’t audition. I didn’t read that as hype. It felt authentic to me.’

‘Wait until we’re ready,’ O’Day said. ‘Then you can go to London.’

TWENTY-ONE

THE CONFERENCE ENDED and I headed downstairs and out the red door, aiming for my corrugated quarters, but Casey Nice caught up to me steps later and said, ‘You want to go get some dinner?’ Which sounded like a fine idea to me. The last hot food I had eaten was the croque madame, in Paris, paid for by Yevgeniy Khenkin himself.

I said, ‘Where?’

‘Off post,’ she said. ‘Barbecue or something.’

‘You have a car?’

‘More or less.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘Deal,’ I said.

‘I should change,’ she said. She was in a black skirt suit. Dark nylons, good shoes. Perfect for D.C. or Virginia, maybe not so much in a country shack outside of Fayetteville.

I said, ‘I’m happy to wait.’

‘Five minutes,’ she said.