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He’d rented a Jaguar because he’d always wanted to drive one, and also because only the more expensive cars had been available by the time he got to the rental office last night, even though he’d crossed the Channel “much faster” than usual, thanks to Murray’s NATO friend. He figured he’d write off the usual amount of a rental on expenses and eat the rest of it himself. He’d never seen a rule he didn’t like to finesse, but he was scrupulously honest on his expenses. He figured his ass was more likely to be raked over the coals because of money than for any other reason. Being fond of his ass, he tried to spare it unnecessary stress.
He left the Bristol behind the wheel of the Jaguar, deeply inhaling the rich leather scent of the upholstery. If women really wanted to smell good to men, he thought, they’d wear perfume that smelled like a new car.
With that happy idea lingering in his mind, he plunged headlong into Parisian traffic. He hadn’t been in Paris in years, but he remembered that the bravest and most foolhardy won the right-of-way. The rule was you yield to traffic on the right, but screw the rule. He deftly cut off a taxi whose driver slammed on the brakes and screamed Gallic curses, but Swain accelerated and shot through a gap. Damn, this was fun! The wet streets raised the unpredictability factor, adding to his adrenaline level.
He battled his way south of the Montparnasse district to where the Joubrans had lived, occasionally consulting a city map. Later in the day he would check out the Nervi lab, eyeball the layout and more obvious security measures, but right now he wanted to go where he figured Lily Mansfield was most likely to be.
It was time to get this show on the road. After the merry chase she’d led him the day before, he couldn’t wait to match wits with her again. He had no doubt he’d win—eventually—but all the fun was in the run.
8
Rodrigo slammed down the phone, then propped his elbows on the desk and buried his face in his hands. The urge to strangle someone was strong. Murray and his band of merry idiots had evidently gone both blind and stupid, to let one woman so thoroughly make fools of them all. Murray swore he’d had experts look at the airport video, and none could tell where Denise Morel had gone. She had effectively vanished into thin air, though Murray was gracious enough to admit that she must have used a disguise, but one so clever and professional that there were no visible similarities for them to track.
She could not be allowed to get away with killing his father. Not only would his reputation suffer, but everything in him demanded vengeance. Grief and wounded pride roiled together, giving him no peace. He and his father had always been so careful, so thorough, but this
one woman had somehow slipped under their defenses and dealt Salvatore a nasty, painful death. She hadn’t even given him the dignity of a bullet, but had chosen poison, a coward’s weapon.
Murray might have lost her, but he, Rodrigo, hadn’t given up. He refused to give up.
Think! he commanded himself. To find her he first had to identify her. Who was she, where did she live, where did her family live?
What were the usual means of identification? Fingerprints, obviously. Dental records. The last wasn’t an option, because he would need to know not only who she was but who her dentist was, and at any rate, that method was used mainly for identifying someone already dead. To find someone alive . . . how to do that?
Fingerprints. The room where she’d slept while she was here had been thoroughly cleaned by his staff the day she went back to her flat, destroying any prints, nor had he thought to lift a print from any of the drinking glasses or silverware she’d used. Her flat was a possibility, though. Feeling faintly heartened, he contacted a friend in the Parisian police department who didn’t ask questions, just said that he would take care of it immediately himself.
The friend called within the hour. He hadn’t gone over every inch of the flat, but he’d checked the most obvious places and there were no prints at all, not even smudged ones. The flat had been thoroughly wiped down.
Rodrigo swallowed his rage at being so completely thwarted by this woman. “What other means are there of finding someone’s identity?”
“None that are guaranteed, my friend. Fingerprints are of use only if the subject has previously been arrested and his prints are in the database. It is the same with every method. DNA, as accurate as it is, is good only if there is another DNA sample to which it can be compared so you can say, yes, these two samples did or did not come from the same person. The facial recognition programs will identify only those people who are already in the database, and is targeted mostly toward terrorists. It is the same with voice recognition, retina patterns, everything. There must be a database from which matches can be made.”
“I understand.” Rodrigo rubbed his forehead, thoughts racing. Security video! He had Denise’s face on security video, plus much clearer pictures on her identity paperwork and the investigations he’d done. “Who has these facial-recognition programs?”
“Interpol, of course. All the major organizations such as Scotland Yard, the American FBI and CIA.”
“Are their data banks shared?”
“To some extent, yes. In a perfect world, speaking from an investigational standpoint, everything would be shared, but everyone likes to keep some secrets, no? If this woman is a criminal, then Interpol might very well have her in their data banks. And one other thing—”
“Yes?”
“The landlord said that a man, an American, was here yesterday asking about the woman. The landlord didn’t get a name, and his description is so vague as to be useless.”
“Thank you,” said Rodrigo, trying to think what this meant. The woman had been paid in American dollars. An American man was looking for her. But it followed that if this man had been the one to hire her, he would already know where she was—and why search for her anyway, when she had completed her mission? No, this had to be something totally unconnected, an acquaintance perhaps.
He disconnected the call, a grim smile twisting his lips, and punched in a number he’d called many times before. The Nervi organization had contacts all over Europe, Africa, and the Middle East, and were expanding into the Orient. As an intelligent man, it behooved him to make certain one of those contacts was very conveniently placed within Interpol itself.
“Georges Blanc,” said a quiet, steady voice, which was indicative of the man himself. Rodrigo had seldom met anyone more competent than Blanc, whom he’d never met face-to-face.
“If I scan a photograph and send it to your computer, can you run it through your facial identification program?” He had no need to identify himself. Blanc knew his voice.
There was a short pause; then Blanc said, “Yes.” There were no qualifications, no explanation of the security measures he might have to sidestep, just that brief affirmative.
“I will have it to you within five minutes,” Rodrigo said, and hung up. From the file on his desk he took the photo of Denise Morel—or whoever she was—and scanned it into his computer, which was properly safeguarded with every security measure known. He typed a few lines, and the photograph was on the way to Lyon, where Interpol was headquartered.
The phone rang. Rodrigo picked up the receiver. “Yes.”
“I have it,” said Blanc’s quiet voice. “I will call you as soon as I have an answer, but as to how long it will take . . .” His voice trailed off, and Rodrigo imagined him shrugging.
