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The result was the same. Whether or not Frank lived, he was out of commission, unreachable. Swain had been a field officer for a long time, but he’d been in the field, working with various insurgents and military groups in South America; he hadn’t actually spent much time in CIA headquarters. He didn’t know very many people there, and they didn’t know him. He’d always considered it a bonus that he was seldom at headquarters, but now that put him in a bind, because he had no one he knew well enough to trust.
So there would be no more help from Langley, no more requests for information. He tried to work the angles on what this meant to his particular situation. The way he saw it, he had two options: he could pull the plug on Lily right now and complete his stated mission, then hope to God that Frank lived so he could root out this damned mole—or he could stay here, work with Lily in cracking the Nervis’ security, and try to find out from this end who the mole was. Of the two, he preferred staying here. For one thing, he was already here, and no matter how good the security was at the Nervi complex, it wouldn’t be anything compared to the security at Langley.
Then there was Lily. She touched him and amused him and turned him on way more than he’d expected. Yeah, he’d found her attractive from the get-go, but the more time he spent with her, the better he knew her, the more intense the attraction became. He was getting in deeper with her than he’d ever planned, but it still wasn’t deep enough. He wanted more.
So he’d stay here and do the best he could to work things from this end, totally on his own. He’d been playing along with Lily’s scheme to break into the lab complex out of his own curiosity—that, and a strong desire to get into her pants—but now he needed to get serious about it. And he wasn’t totally alone; he had Lily, who was no novice, and he also had his unknown caller. Whoever he was, the man was well-placed enough to know what was going on, and by warning Swain he’d placed himself on the side o
f the angels.
Thanks to the handy-dandy little cell-phone feature that listed incoming calls, Swain had the guy’s number, both literally and figuratively. A person almost couldn’t make a move today without leaving an electronic or paper footprint somewhere. Sometimes that was a blessing, sometimes a curse, depending on whether you were searching or hiding.
It was possible the guy even knew the name of the mole, but Swain doubted it. Otherwise, why give him a generic heads-up? If it had mattered enough for him to warn Swain, then he’d have given the name if he’d had it.
But you never knew how much information anyone had that they didn’t know they had, bits and pieces they simply hadn’t put together yet into a cohesive whole. The only way to find out was by asking.
He didn’t want to call his unknown informant back using his cell phone, on the off chance that the guy didn’t want to talk to him and wouldn’t answer after seeing his phone number listed as incoming. Likewise, he didn’t want this guy to know he was staying at the Bristol; just seemed safer that way. He’d bought a telephone card the day he’d arrived in France, figuring he’d never use it but wanting to have it just in case his cell phone batteries died unexpectedly or something. Leaving the hotel, he walked down Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, bypassing the first public phone for one farther down the street.
He was smiling as he dialed the number, but this smile was totally lacking in humor. It was more like the smile of a shark as it closed in on lunch. He glanced at his wristwatch as he listened to the phone ringing: 1:43 AM. Good. He was probably getting the guy out of bed, which is what he deserved for hanging up the way he had.
“Yes?”
The tone was wary, but Swain recognized the voice. “Hi there,” he said cheerfully, in English. “I didn’t disturb anyone, did I? don’t hang up, now. Play along and all you’ll get is a phone call. Hang up on me and you’ll get a visit.”
There was a pause. “What do you want?” Unlike Swain, the guy on the other end spoke in French; Swain was glad he knew enough of the language to get by.
“Nothing much. I just want to know everything you know.”
“One moment, please.” Swain heard the man speaking quietly to someone, a woman. Though it was difficult to tell what he was saying with the phone away from his mouth, Swain thought he caught something about “taking the call downstairs.”
Ah. So he was at home.
Then the man returned to the phone, saying briskly, “Yes, what may I do for you?”
Smoke screen for the wife’s sake, Swain thought. “You can give me a name, for starters.”
“The mole’s?” He must be out of earshot of his wife, because the guy had switched to English.
“Definitely, but I was thinking of yours.”
The man paused again. “It would be better if you do not know.”
“Better for you, yes, but I’m not worried about making things better for you.”
“But I am, monsieur.” Firmness there now; the man wasn’t a milquetoast. “I am risking my life and the lives of my family. Rodrigo Nervi is not one to take betrayal lightly.”
“You work for him?”
“No. Not in that sense.”
“I’m feeling a little dense, here. Either he pays you or he doesn’t. Which is it?”
“If I give him certain information, monsieur, he does not kill my family. Yes, he pays me; the money further incriminates me, yes?” Bitterness entered the quiet voice. “It is an insurance that I will not talk.”
“I see.” Swain eased off on the smart-ass tough-guy act—or at least he racheted down his behavior—though, it came so naturally to him, it probably wasn’t an act. “Something puzzles me. How did Nervi even know I was here, that he would be asking about me? I assume that’s how my name came up, and how you got my phone number.”
“He was searching for the identity of one of your contract agents. I believe it was a facial-recognition computer program that identified her. The mole accessed her file, and there was a notation that you had been dispatched to handle the problem she caused.”
“How did he know she was a contract agent?”
