phone.”
“The smartest guy at the Pentagon, huh? Talk about faint praise.”
“At least it was a compliment. When Jon calls you, he insults you for ten minutes.”
“That’s a very good point. I’m in counseling because of him.” Raskin laughed at his own joke. “So what do you need from me now? Does your Russian friend need more help?”
“Actually,” Jones said in a serious tone, “we think he’s dead.”
“Oh, man. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. We never met the guy. He was more of a friend of a friend.”
“Even so, I’m sorry for the loss. What can I do to help?”
“At this point we’re looking for confirmation of his death. As you know, he was calling us from Saint Petersburg, but we never talked to him. According to one source, he was shot and killed in some kind of fountain. Can you check to see if anything matches that description?”
“Do you have a name?”
“Richard Byrd. Although he might have been using an alias.”
Raskin went to work on his keyboard, quickly searching the main criminal database in Russia. Insiders called it Kremlin.com because its real name was written in Cyrillic and impossible to pronounce. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”
“No luck?”
“Just the opposite. I found something that matches your description. White male, mid to late forties, discovered in one of the Peterhof fountains. Single shot to the head.”
“Damn,” Jones muttered. He glanced at Payne and made a slashing motion across his neck. Payne nodded in understanding. “Was he identified?”
“Not according to this. Then again, that could mean a number of things. Maybe they’re holding his identity until they notify his family. Or maybe the killer took his wallet. The truth is I have no way of knowing without calling them myself.”
“Which is something we don’t want you to do. We need to keep a low profile on this.”
“I figured as much.”
“Next question. Can you check on Byrd’s movement during the past few months?”
“Hold on. Different database.” Twenty seconds passed before Raskin spoke again. “No visas listed for Russia, but he visited Greece, Italy, Germany, and several other countries in Europe. I can send you a list if you want.”
“Go ahead. But I won’t have access until we land.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Ramstein.”
“Then what?”
“A rendezvous in Russia.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“I wish.”
“In that case, you should tell Jon how you really feel.”
Jones laughed. “Damn, Randy! For you, that was pretty funny.”
“Thanks. Wait. What did you mean by that?”
“I’ll tell you later. First, I have one more question. I need some background information on an American named Allison Taylor. Middle name and hometown unknown. Current employer is believed to be Richard Byrd. At least until a few hours ago.”
“Hold on. That’s another database.”
Jones figured it would be. “Out of curiosity, how many databases do you have?”
“Let me put it to you this way: I have a database to keep track of my databases.”
Jones whistled, impressed. “Seriously, Randy, I don’t know how you do it.”
“Actually, it’s pretty simple. I’m the smartest guy in the Pentagon, remember?”
“That’s right. I forgot.”
Raskin smiled as he continued to type. A few seconds later, he found the information he was looking for. “Okay, here you go. Allison Renée Taylor . . . Born in California . . . Graduated from Stanford . . . Single . . . Valid driver’s license . . . Hot as hell! Seriously, you should see her photo. She even looks great on her ID.”
“Send it to me. The highest resolution possible.”
“Done.”
“What about employment? Any connection to Byrd?”
“Duh! That’s how I found her so fast. He filed a single document with the IRS. A personal-services contract. Whatever that means.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can find. Then again, I can’t stop staring at her picture. It’s really strange. No matter where I move, it’s like her eyes are following me.”
Jones laughed. “Damn! How much caffeine have you had today?”
“Define today.”
He laughed again. “Another all-nighter?”
“Another all-weeker. You know me, I never leave my desk.”
“That’s one of the reasons we love you: your dedication to your country.”
“That and the fact I do your dirty work for free.”
Jones nodded in agreement. “Yep. That too.”
“Okay, chief, I gotta jet. But send me a postcard from Siberia.”
“Not funny,” Jones said. “Not funny at all.”
17
MONDAY, MAY 19
Kalampáka, Greece
The phone rang at the crack of dawn, roughly an hour before Nick Dial planned to wake up. He rubbed his eyes, rolled over in the hotel bed, and checked his caller ID. It was Henri Toulon, the assistant director of the Homicide Division, calling from Interpol Headquarters in France.
If it had been anyone