‘Desayeva,’ said Callahan. ‘So what? She’s like a honeybee on steroids – she gets around a lot.’
‘But look who else is there.’ Andrews pointed at several specific photos in turn. In each one another familiar figure appeared, each time in close conversation with the Russian woman and clearly on very familiar terms with her, judging by the way she was hanging on her arm.
It was Carly Ledhoffen.
Callahan frowned. ‘I’m going to play devil’s advocate here: Ledhoffen’s a fashion and social freak, we all know that. She’s also keen to let people know she’s from a wealthy background. Desayeva collects rich people like I collect parking tickets. Why wouldn’t they meet?’
He shrugged. ‘I thought that, too. But it gave me an idea.’
Callahan scowled. ‘Don’t tell you got creative with another camera. I don’t think my heart will take much more.’
‘No. I promise. What if there was more to these photos? What if Desayeva and Ledhoffen weren’t merely fashion show buddies? What if Dalkin’s no more than a convenient point of contact for Desayeva, and the real connection is Desayeva … and Ledhoffen?’
Callahan blinked. ‘What – Ledhoffen supplying the information directly?’ He stared at his desk, trying to see a negative. He couldn’t. Or maybe he didn’t want to. ‘That’s a jump. A fucking big one if you don’t mind my French.’
‘True. But we know there’s a line of connections, right? Ledhoffen to Dalkin and Dalkin to Desayeva. Links in the chain. We might have jumped to the wrong conclusion about which way the links ran, that’s all.’
Callahan wanted to believe it but was still unsure. Andrews had a useful way of talking things out; the young man had none of the interference of long-held field experience or cherished ideas blinding him to finding conclusions even if they were unacceptable. Even so, it was tenuous. A court of law would rip the chain apart like tissue paper.
‘I met Muhammed Ali once,’ he said. ‘It was at an airport and our flights had been grounded due to snow. That doesn’t make me a fight fan. See where I’m going?’ He glanced at his watch and made a decision. ‘I have a meeting to go to. In the meantime, get me a meeting with Bill Warner and his team. I’d like to get inside his mind.’
‘About what?’
‘Get him to run a deep check on Ledhoffen’s phone calls and accounts. There has to be a hook we can use. We need to bring this thing to an end.’
FORTY-FIVE
It wasn’t the time for heroics. Whoever it was had the drop on me and was lying somewhere in the reeds on the river bank, way off-centre of where I was pointing my rifle. By the time I dragged it into position he’d have blown me off my feet.
A soft laugh came from low down, then the man moved and got to his feet, rattling the reeds where he’d been hiding. He wore hunting gear with a cellphone clipped to the front of his jacket. He was short and squat, with the high cheekbones of a Slav and crooked teeth, strong looking and somewhere in his forties, probably a contract man. He was grinning at his good fortune like he’d won first prize in a pig-sticking contest.
And I was the pig.
I shrugged, wondering where the second man had got to. I lifted both arms out from my body, demonstrating that I wasn’t a threat. I dropped my shoulders in a slump to signify defeat, and swore. It was the kind of thing he’d be expecting. Defeat, then submission.
He motioned for me to drop my rifle, using the business end of his AK-47. It looked clean, if a little battered around the woodwork, but these things are readily available for a song all over the world, and I figured this team, like the others, would have got their weapons from local sources. Easy come, easy go, and no trace back to the organizers of their mission.
I dropped the rifle and held my palms out, then sank to a sitting position on the ground, crossing my ankles. He lost the grin in favour of a suspicious scowl, as if this had been too easy. Then he tilted his head towards the phone on his jacket and said something short and sharp which I couldn’t hear.
It was probably something along the lines of ‘Got him’.
Shouting came from deep in the trees. I hadn’t got long. The others would be here soon and it didn’t take rocket science to know that when they arrived they wouldn’t be looking to take me away in one piece. That wasn’t their mission. All this guy had done was merely delay the inevitable.
He motioned for me to move away from the rifle, which I did, in case he suddenly recalled his orders, which were probably to shoot me on sight. I used my hands to propel myself across the grass in an awkward hopping motion, grunting and making a meal of it. When he told me to stop, I stopped.
Which was about the same moment he must have realized that each time I’d moved, my hands were closer to my body … and closer to anything I might have concealed in my waistband.
The Sig.
Then my cellphone vibrated in my pocket. Great timing. ‘Jesus – look at that!’ I stared past him at the other side of the river, my eyes wide open as if I’d seen the ghost of my long-dead grandmother.
It would have taken any man a massive effort to have avoided turning his head out of instinct. But all I needed was a fraction of movement. When he turned to look, the rifle barrel dropped away a few inches, and I rolled sideways, lifting the Sig out of my waistband. I shot him once, mid-section. When in doubt, aim for the body mass.
He fumbled with the rifle, at the same time looking down disbelievingly at the hole in his jacket, before
