United States Customs Service. Customs people in the US, she knew from experience, tended to be plodders, more mulish and stubborn than innovative, more bureaucratic than maverick. But they also had unending access to federal records. So he was a contact she would nurture if she could.
The one man in the room whom she did know loitered outside the introductions. He was an Italian national, tall and trim with short dark hair. His name was Gian Antonio Rizzo. He was immaculately dressed in a Via Condotti suit. Rizzo was recently retired from the municipal police in Rome after having put in a quarter century on the job in that city, often with distinguished results. He also had had a less-evident employer over those years, off the books and off the record, one based in Langley, Virginia, which was how Alex happened to know him.
They had worked together in Paris. Alex had not seen Rizzo since she had checked out of the American Hospital in Neuilly two months earlier. Rizzo gave her a brief hug and spoke in English as a courtesy. They exchanged a few words, but little of substance with the other men present. There was an unspoken expectation between them that they would talk more afterward.
Rivera, the curator, glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. It was 9:00 a.m., the given time of the meeting. He moved to the head of a round conference table as an assistant closed the door to the room and departed.
Taking the cue, the assemblage of law enforcement people within the room moved to seats at the conference table. Rivera stood at the head of the table.
Rivera waited for all others to sit, then eased into his own chair. He quietly turned on an anti-bugging device that sat on the table before him.
Alex sat thoughtfully at the round table in the conference room, her new IBM laptop open in front of her. She glanced at the others and there was much she could already conclude.
First, whatever she was here for was no small matter and probably had some larger import than anything that was shared around the table today. Second, by the assemblage of people around the table, whatever the heist had been, it had already escaped the boundaries of one country—with potential repercussions to match.
And third, if Rizzo was there, it wasn’t a coincidence. Her employers were hooking her up with someone she knew.
TWELVE
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND, SEPTEMBER 7, 9:32 A.M.
C olonel Tissot finished breakfast and prepared to address a day of business. As a merchant of munitions that were sold in the world’s gray economy, he was a busy man on most days, particularly in a “neutral” capital like Geneva. The beauty of five hundred years of Swiss neutrality was that Switzerland was a perfect place to conduct the commerce of warfare.
Well, why not? The Swiss banks and their codes of secrecy were there for a reason, were they not?
A fastidious man, quiet and unassuming in public, Tissot dressed in a light gray suit, one of several that he had bought on a recent visit to London. He tended to be a creature of habit, leaving between nine and ten each morning to meet his clients. He was, however, wary enough to alter his movements from day to day. One never knew when some pest from the past with some grievance, real or imagined, might step forth.
Tissot locked the double bolts on his door and stepped a few paces to the private elevator that served his floor. He checked to make sure he had both of his cell phones, one in his trouser pocket, the other with a small handgun in the briefcase he carried. He knew that Stanislaw would call him during that afternoon with a progress report of his drive down the southeast coast of France.
Tissot had a rueful admiration for his employee. The man had made a lifetime occupation of killing people, first in the military and then for hire. Well, it was a mean, unforgiving world, and everyone had uses for men like Stanislaw, who were just smart enough to get a job done and just dumb enough not to try thinking on their
The one man in the room whom she did know loitered outside the introductions. He was an Italian national, tall and trim with short dark hair. His name was Gian Antonio Rizzo. He was immaculately dressed in a Via Condotti suit. Rizzo was recently retired from the municipal police in Rome after having put in a quarter century on the job in that city, often with distinguished results. He also had had a less-evident employer over those years, off the books and off the record, one based in Langley, Virginia, which was how Alex happened to know him.
They had worked together in Paris. Alex had not seen Rizzo since she had checked out of the American Hospital in Neuilly two months earlier. Rizzo gave her a brief hug and spoke in English as a courtesy. They exchanged a few words, but little of substance with the other men present. There was an unspoken expectation between them that they would talk more afterward.
Rivera, the curator, glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. It was 9:00 a.m., the given time of the meeting. He moved to the head of a round conference table as an assistant closed the door to the room and departed.
Taking the cue, the assemblage of law enforcement people within the room moved to seats at the conference table. Rivera stood at the head of the table.
Rivera waited for all others to sit, then eased into his own chair. He quietly turned on an anti-bugging device that sat on the table before him.
Alex sat thoughtfully at the round table in the conference room, her new IBM laptop open in front of her. She glanced at the others and there was much she could already conclude.
First, whatever she was here for was no small matter and probably had some larger import than anything that was shared around the table today. Second, by the assemblage of people around the table, whatever the heist had been, it had already escaped the boundaries of one country—with potential repercussions to match.
And third, if Rizzo was there, it wasn’t a coincidence. Her employers were hooking her up with someone she knew.
TWELVE
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND, SEPTEMBER 7, 9:32 A.M.
C olonel Tissot finished breakfast and prepared to address a day of business. As a merchant of munitions that were sold in the world’s gray economy, he was a busy man on most days, particularly in a “neutral” capital like Geneva. The beauty of five hundred years of Swiss neutrality was that Switzerland was a perfect place to conduct the commerce of warfare.
Well, why not? The Swiss banks and their codes of secrecy were there for a reason, were they not?
A fastidious man, quiet and unassuming in public, Tissot dressed in a light gray suit, one of several that he had bought on a recent visit to London. He tended to be a creature of habit, leaving between nine and ten each morning to meet his clients. He was, however, wary enough to alter his movements from day to day. One never knew when some pest from the past with some grievance, real or imagined, might step forth.
Tissot locked the double bolts on his door and stepped a few paces to the private elevator that served his floor. He checked to make sure he had both of his cell phones, one in his trouser pocket, the other with a small handgun in the briefcase he carried. He knew that Stanislaw would call him during that afternoon with a progress report of his drive down the southeast coast of France.
Tissot had a rueful admiration for his employee. The man had made a lifetime occupation of killing people, first in the military and then for hire. Well, it was a mean, unforgiving world, and everyone had uses for men like Stanislaw, who were just smart enough to get a job done and just dumb enough not to try thinking on their
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