by John Sneeden
Once outside, the woman looked in both directions. At first, Delgado thought she was simply checking traffic before crossing the street, but after pausing the video and studying her eyes, he realized she wasn’t checking the traffic after all.
She’s looking for tails.
Shortly after checking her surroundings, the woman turned to her right and walked out of the frame. Delgado noticed something odd about her gait, so he replayed the sequence. There. He saw it more clearly this time. Even though she was trying to suppress it, she was clearly walking with a slight limp. Perhaps something from the accident?
Seeing there was quite a bit of time remaining on the video, Delgado let it continue running. His patience was rewarded. Three minutes later, the woman came into the frame again, this time from the opposite direction. As best he could tell, she had made a clockwise trip around the block. But instead of coming to a stop, she pivoted and walked back in the direction she had just come from.
She’s doubling back to see if anyone followed her.
Approximately three minutes later, she entered the frame a third time and stopped just past the entrance to the parking deck. She had her phone out and stared at the screen, something Delgado recognized as another countersurveillance measure. She wanted any onlookers to think she was reading a text or email when, in reality, she was taking an inventory of the faces around her.
After standing in place for a full minute, the woman finally put away her phone and crossed the street. She moved directly toward the camera, which Delgado believed was affixed over the entrance to the Glebe Food Hall.
She’s going to the coffee shop.
The video ended soon after she disappeared from sight.
Delgado played the video again and paused it several times in an attempt to note any distinguishing features on the woman’s face. Unfortunately, the hat and sunglasses covered too many of her features. He was able to see a small patch of dark hair at the top of her neck. It had either been cut short or was tucked neatly into the hat.
Despite the poor quality of the CCTV camera, Delgado made screen shots of the woman’s lower face. He would compare them to any photographs he could find of Drenna Steel. He doubted it would tell him much, but at this point, it didn’t matter.
The truth was right in front of him.
The CIA’s top assassin was still very much alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Washington, DC - Nice, France
On the evening after her conversation with Driscoll, Drenna took a Delta flight from Dulles to Paris Charles de Gaulle. In a move common among intelligence officers, she purchased two tickets: one in the name of Sophie Pernot—a false identity Drenna used when traveling to French-speaking nations—and the other in the name of Pascal Pernot. She believed the double purchase might throw off anyone who was searching flight records for single females leaving the country.
Soon after boarding the plane, Drenna realized the second ticket had provided another unintended benefit—it put an empty seat between her and an amorous Frenchman named Jean Pierre. As soon as the warning to fasten seat belts was turned off, he ordered the first of what would be at least a half dozen mini bottles of red wine. Once the alcohol hit his bloodstream, he began a not-so-subtle campaign to seduce Drenna. He offered to take her to lunch after they touched down in Paris, and after that, he promised to give her a personal tour of the city. Drenna assumed the tour would probably end at his flat.
Fortunately, the drinks finally took their toll on Jean Pierre, who passed out two hours into the flight. He got up twice to visit the restroom, and his face hinted at a severe case of nausea. By the time they touched down at Charles de Gaulle, he looked like a man who would barely be able to climb into a cab.
After a four-hour layover in Paris, Drenna boarded an Air France Airbus A320 for the short flight to Nice. She got a short nap before the wheels finally touched down at the Côte d’Azur Airport at 3:37 p.m. Once there, she stopped briefly to purchase a large cappuccino inside the terminal then used her burner phone to order an Uber, which she met just outside the baggage claim area. The driver of the silver Renault was a middle-aged Moroccan man whose face seemed frozen in a perpetual smile.
“Bonjour,” he said as she climbed into the back.
“Bonjour,” she replied. “Je suppose que vous avez l’addresse.” I assume you have the address.
“Oui. Nous y serons dans dix minutes.” Yes, we’ll be there in ten minutes.
Drenna had chosen a small boutique hotel on the Promenade des Anglais, the famous boulevard that ran along the Mediterranean Sea. The stunning views and plethora of shops and cafés made it a prime destination for tourists. It also happened to be close to the restaurant where she would meet Simon Driscoll.
As the Renault bore her north up the coast, Drenna’s thoughts turned to the investigation. She wondered if coming to France had been worth the risk of being exposed. If Petrov had ordered her death, he had to have had help from someone in the US government, likely someone in the CIA. And if he had help from someone in the CIA, that person might also have the ability to track her down via electronic surveillance. Drenna had passed in front of several dozen airport cameras during her journey from Washington to Nice.
She didn’t need to panic. The mole, assuming there was one, probably believed she was dead. Geoff had provided her with regular updates, and the CIA’s official position was still that she had died in a tragic accident. Geoff hadn’t seen any memos to the contrary, nor had he heard any whispered speculation that she might be alive.
But even if the mole suspected she was alive, he or she would have a difficult time finding her on their own. Use of the agency’s most powerful tools would require approval from at least two upper-level managers, and such approvals were monitored closely. Unless they wanted to risk being exposed, the mole wouldn’t be able to monitor CCTV feeds from airports, train stations, and bus terminals.
The Renault pulled up in front of the hotel seventeen minutes after leaving the airport. Drenna went inside and checked in under the alias Sophie Pernot. She made a point of telling the clerk, a cute twentysomething named Zoey, that she needed two key cards, one for herself and the other for her husband, Pascal, who she said would arrive in a few hours.
After finishing at the front desk, Drenna took the elevator to her room on the third floor. Exhausted from the long trip, she stripped off her clothes and entered the tiny shower stall that was typical of those in small European hotels. She stood perfectly still, letting the warm water beat on her tired body.
Twenty minutes later, she stepped out and toweled off. The mirror was fogged, so she used the hair dryer provided by the hotel to clear away enough moisture to see herself. She stared at her reflection for a full minute. Her appearance had changed so much that she scarcely recognized herself. Before leaving the States, she had visited a small salon and asked one of the stylists to give her a short and spunky cut as well as color her hair blond. Several hours later, her transition was complete. The woman known for her long raven-colored hair was now a bobbed blonde.
Drenna left the bathroom and picked up her phone, which she had left on the nightstand—4:40. She was supposed to meet Driscoll at five, so she quickly slipped on a floral dress and stylish sandals. The attire would certainly draw the British agent’s eye, but she knew there was nothing she could wear that wouldn’t do that. He was a known womanizer, and wearing a trash bag probably wouldn’t prevent his typical string of flirtatious remarks.
She emerged from the hotel five minutes later and turned north on the Promenade des Anglais. The meeting was set to take place at Le Jardin, a small family-owned restaurant that faced the Mediterranean. Drenna had checked online and discovered Le Jardin specialized in seafood and the wines of Provence. She wasn’t going to complain about the choice. Driscoll had a number of annoying qualities, but the man did have good taste.
She arrived at 4:58. At the front of the restaurant, a red awning hung over a dozen or so outdoor tabl
es. Drenna knew not to look for Driscoll there. Like any good spy, he would be at a table inside, probably one at the back. The only time spies sat on the street was when they were conducting surveillance.
As Drenna stepped under the front awning, she sensed someone was watching her. It was an instinct she had developed over years of working in the field. In France, it might be a man admiring her appearance, but she felt certain this was something else. Curious, she stole a glance to the right as she walked toward the front door. Her eyes quickly found a man sitting by himself at one of the tables, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. A spotter. Even though he had shifted his gaze to his phone, she had seen a flash of confusion in his eyes. It was as though he had expected to see a woman arrive at a certain time, only to be surprised by her appearance.
Drenna wondered who the man was. She felt reasonably certain he was one of Driscoll’s spotters, although she couldn’t be certain. If he wasn’t, then obviously, that wasn’t a good sign.
After stepping inside the restaurant, she heard the roar of lively conversation.
“Vous voulez une table?” a female voice asked above the din. You want a table?
Drenna turned to see a brown-haired server coming toward her. Drenna shook her head. “Je cherche mon ami.” I’m looking for my friend.
“D’accord.” Okay.
After the server walked off, Drenna scanned the restaurant’s interior. The fifteen or so tables were mostly full, but she saw no sign of Driscoll. That was odd considering he was obsessive about being on time.
She frowned. Something seemed off. First, she saw a man watching her outside, and then, she couldn’t find the man she was supposed to meet. Were the two things connected? A text from Driscoll had been waiting on her phone when the plane touched down in Nice. He’d asked if they were still on for dinner, and she had replied that she was on the ground and would make it on time. She wondered if she should have sent him another text before leaving the hotel.
Looking toward the rear of the main dining area, she saw restaurant employees moving in and out of a swinging door. The kitchen. Although she would likely get yelled at for entering an area reserved for staff, she would pass through it, slip out the back, then call Driscoll.
She took one final look around. She still didn’t see him at any of the tables. She turned and moved boldly toward the swinging doors. Exude confidence. Do that and you’ll make it out into the alley before someone gets up the nerve to question you.
She had taken only three steps when a strong hand grabbed her shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Drenna spun around, her hand instinctively balled into a fist. A grinning man stood behind her. Just over six feet tall, he had light-brown hair that was cut short on the sides and longer on top. His handsome face was bronzed, but the tan seemed more like something that had been sprayed on rather than acquired in the sun.
“I’m a little surprised,” Simon Driscoll said. “I never would’ve thought you’d look so good with short hair. Still hot, I must say.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get punched in the face.”
“Feisty too. Enhances the attraction.”
Drenna shook her head. “You’re late.”
“Actually, I was in the loo.” He gestured toward a table in the back corner of the room. On it were a bottle of beer and a plate of mussels. Apparently, he had already gotten started. “Shall we?”
As they moved in that direction, the British agent placed a hand on the small of her back. She batted it away. The man was persistent. She had to give him that.
“You really shouldn’t wear those cute little dresses,” Driscoll said as he took a seat on the far side of the table.
Drenna sat down across from him. “You’re in rare form, even for you. Might I suggest a cold shower when you get back to your hotel?”
“You can’t even take a compliment?” He gestured toward the front door. “I tell you what. Later tonight, take a stroll down le promenade and see what the reaction is. I think you’ll discover I’m one of the few gentlemen in this city.”
“Congratulations. You’re one step above drunken tourists.”
“So, how was the trip?” Driscoll asked in an obvious attempt to change subjects.
“You mean aside from getting propositioned by a drunk?”
Driscoll lifted a brow. “That good? I won’t ask for details.”
“Thank you.”
Driscoll seemed about to say something else when their server appeared. After glancing at the wine menu, Drenna ordered a glass of the Mâcon-Villages Chardonnay.
“By the way, who’s the new guy?” Drenna asked after the woman walked off.
Driscoll’s brow furrowed. “New guy?”
“Your spotter at the table out front.”
Driscoll let out an audible sigh. “Was it that obvious?”
“Tell him to ditch the cigarette prop next time. And the confused look on his face didn’t help either. I guess he wasn’t expecting to see a blonde.”
Driscoll flashed a reluctant smile. “That’s Alan Bowles. Actually, he isn’t new. He’s just new to my team. Despite the faux pas out front, he’s a smart lad. Graduated near the top of his class at Oxford. In fact, he’s so smart they pulled him out of the field a year ago in order to head up a special project at Vauxhall Cross. He recently finished that up after almost a year in London.” Driscoll took a swig of beer then set the bottle on the table. “I think he’s glad to get back out in the jungle, but between you and me, he’s a little rusty when it comes to the craft.”
“So how did he end up with you?”
“They gave him several assignments to choose from. I think they felt a little guilty about keeping him behind a desk for so long. We had worked well together in the past, so he asked to be placed on my team.”
“That explains everything. I’ll give him a pass on the cigarette prop. Looks like he has a low-quality instructor.”
“Funny. At least you didn’t notice my other mate.”
Drenna nodded at the bar across the room. “I assume you’re referring to the Indian guy in the dark coat.”
Driscoll shook his head. “I won’t even ask how you figured that one out.”
“Actually, I have to confess I didn’t spot him when I first came in. But I did see him glance over here twice since we sat down. I guess he’s trying to figure out why you’re sitting with a short-haired blonde and not a brunette.” Drenna frowned. “I’ve never seen him before either.”
“His name is Vinay Rana. He’s second in command at our Marseilles office. I brought him in because he knows Nice about as well as anyone at MI6.”
The server brought Drenna’s Chardonnay to the table. After she walked away, Drenna looked at Driscoll. “You told me on the phone that you picked up a valuable piece of information. Let’s hear it.”
“I was hoping you would ask.” Driscoll’s face twisted into a smile. “We managed to find Botha, and we’re hoping he’ll lead us to the Phantom.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Drenna had to admit she was shocked to hear that Driscoll’s team had already located Botha. It was nothing short of impressive. Like Nikita Petrov, Botha was one of the cagiest and most cautious criminals on the planet.
“Did you pick him up on CCTV?” Drenna asked.
“Unfortunately, electronic surveillance is no longer an option. We lost access shortly after finding the footage I sent you. Nice’s security team discovered that someone had breached their firewall, and they blocked us.”
“Did they realize it was MI6?”
“We don’t think so,” Driscoll said. “In fact, we could go back in if we wanted to. My tech guy says he could punch through the protections they put in place, but he also said there was a risk in doing so because if we got caught a second time, then the authorities would know that they’re dealing with a sophisticated hacker. And if they suspected that, there’s a good chance they would bring in the DGSI.”
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“So how did you find him?”
Driscoll pulled the plate of mussels in front of him and speared two with a tiny fork. “To be honest, I have to give Alan Bowles all the credit. He pulled Botha’s dossier and went back through everything we had on the man. In particular, he focused on his habits.” Driscoll ate the mussels then looked at Drenna. “I’m sure you remember his biggest weakness?”
Drenna thought back on her knowledge of Botha’s dossier. It had been a while since she had read it. While little was known about his personal life, she did remember that he was a known philanderer. “Women?”
“That’s true of about ninety percent of the men we have to deal with. I’m talking about something much more specific to him.”
Drenna thought for a moment but was unable to come up with anything. “Sorry, you got me.”
“He’s a connoisseur of expensive scotch.”
Drenna nodded. “Now that you mention it, I do remember he had a penchant for whiskey in general and scotch in particular. But how did that help you find him?”
“If you’ll remember, he was known to frequent a number of bars in Cape Town. I think Alan just put two and two together. He had already been seen walking around Nice in the evening, so why not assume he was going to get his fix at one of the local watering holes.”
“Why take that risk?” Drenna asked. “Why not just send one of his men out to buy a few bottles of his favorite brand?”
“I think it goes back to what you said before. Whiskey isn’t the man’s only weakness. He could certainly drink on his own, but the lure of going out in search of female company is just too strong.” Driscoll paused briefly. “You also have to remember that he and Petrov believe they pulled the wool over our eyes in Montenegro, and that gives them a false sense of security. In their minds, the only way they get caught is if they happen to cross paths with an intelligence officer. And what are the odds of that happening in Nice? It’s not exactly known as a hotbed of spies.”