Page 54 of The Collector
Gabriel included Magnus Larsen’s travel plans in the by-the-bookrequest for an operational charter that he delivered to Rimona that evening at six fifteen. An analyst by trade, she read the file twice.
“For the record,” she said at last, “you have no proof that Lukas van Damme’s murder is connected to some phantom eighth South African weapon.”
“Not a shred,” agreed Gabriel. “But I know he wasn’t killed over just a painting.”
“Why would an advanced nuclear power like Russia be mixed up in a scheme to acquire two chunks of thirty-year-old South African highly enriched uranium?”
“I can think of several possibilities, none of them good. But I’m convinced that Magnus Larsen is involved.”
“What makes you think you can turn him around?”
“The dead girl in his past.”
Rimona removed a photocopy of Ingrid’s passport from the file. “You’re only going to get one bite at the apple. Are you sure you want her to take it?”
“She’s perfect.”
“At least let her spend some time with the instructors.”
“Eli and I will work with her in Berlin.”
Rimona exhaled slowly. “Who else?”
“Mikhail, Natalie, and Dina.”
Rimona placed the file in her out-box. “If you so much as order Lebanese carry-out while you’re in Berlin, I want to know about it.Beforeyou order it, not after. You will seek permission for everything you do. Otherwise, you will be begging for your life. Do we have a deal?”
“We do.”
Rising, he started toward the door.
“Why didn’t you say my name?” Rimona asked suddenly.
Gabriel turned. “I’m sorry?”
“When I asked about personnel, you named everyone from the old team but me.”
“You’re the chief now, Rimona.”
Her smile was brittle. “The chief who fell off her kick scooter.”
Gabriel went into the antechamber and pressed the call button for the director’s private lift. “And one more thing,” she shouted from the office that once was his. “No Moscow.”
28
Vissenbjerg
If there were two fringe benefits to Gabriel’s unexpected return to the secret world, they were Travel and Transport, the Office units that moved field agents securely through airports and train terminals around the world and then supplied them with untraceable vehicles when they arrived at their destinations. Gabriel’s Audi A6 sedan was waiting on the second level of the parking garage of Copenhagen Airport with the key taped inside the left-rear wheel well. He tore it loose, then, crouching, searched the undercarriage.
“Looking for something in particular?” asked Ingrid.
“My contact lens.”
“I didn’t realize you wore them.”
“I don’t.”
He unlocked the doors and dropped behind the wheel. Ingrid slid into the passenger seat and frowned. “You could have rented a hybrid, you know.”
