on each person less than a split second before moving on to the next. Quick and dirty assessments, but evidently accurate, because he walked straight up to me and said in English, ‘Are you the American?’
I nodded and said, ‘I figured the Brit would get in before you.’
‘I didn’t,’ the guy said. ‘Because I left in the middle of the damn night.’ Then he stuck out his hand and said, ‘Yevgeniy Khenkin. Pleased to meet you, sir. You can call me Eugene. Which would be the direct translation. Gene, for short, if you like.’
I shook his hand and said, ‘Jack Reacher.’
He sat down on my left side and said, ‘So what do you make of all this shit?’
His diction was good, and his accent was neutral. Not really British, not really American. Some kind of an all-purpose international sound. But very fluent. I said, ‘I think either you or I or the Brit has a serious problem.’
‘Are you CIA?’
I shook my head. ‘Retired military. I busted our guy once. Are you FSB or SVR?’
‘SVR,’ he said, which meant Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, which was their foreign intelligence service. Like the CIA, or the DGSE, or MI6 in Britain. Then he said, ‘But we’re all still KGB really. Old wine, new bottles.’
‘Do you know your guy Datsev?’
‘You could say that.’
‘How well?’
‘I was his handler.’
‘He was KGB? I was told he was army. Red, and then Russian.’
‘I suppose he was, technically. Maybe that’s what it said on his pay cheques. On the rare occasions there were pay cheques. But a guy who shoots that well? Better employed elsewhere.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Shooting the people we wanted shot.’
‘But not any more?’
Khenkin said, ‘Do you follow soccer?’
‘A little,’ I said.
‘The best players get big offers. One week they’re dirt poor in some little village, the next week they’re millionaires in Barcelona or Madrid or London or Manchester.’
‘And Datsev got an offer like that?’
‘He claimed to have a vest pocket full of them. He got mad at me when I wouldn’t match them. And then he disappeared. And now here we are.’
‘How good is he?’
‘Supernatural.’
‘Does he like fifty-calibre rounds?’
‘Horses for courses. At that range, sure.’
I said nothing.
Khenkin said, ‘But I don’t think it’s him.’
‘Why not?’
‘He wouldn’t agree to an audition. He has nothing to prove.’
‘So who do you think it is?’
‘I think it’s your guy. He has something to prove. He was in prison fifteen years.’
I heard a cell phone ring, and I waited for Khenkin to dig in his pocket to answer it, but he didn’t, and I realized the ringing was in my own pocket. The phone Scarangello had given me. I hauled it out and checked the screen. Blocked, it said. I pressed the green button and said, ‘Yes?’
It was Scarangello. She said, ‘Are you alone?’
I said, ‘No.’
‘Are we being overheard?’
‘By three separate governments, probably.’
‘Not on this phone,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I just heard from O’Day. The chromatograph tests are in on the fragments you brought back from Arkansas.’
‘And?’
‘They’re not the same bullets. Not armour piercing. They were match grade. Cast and machined for improved accuracy.’
‘American made?’
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Those things are six bucks each. Is O’Day following the money?’
‘The FBI is on it. But this is good, right? Overall?’
‘Could be worse,’ I said, and she clicked off, and I put the phone back in my pocket.
Khenkin asked me, ‘What’s American made and six bucks each?’
I said, ‘That sounds like the start of a joke.’
‘What’s the punchline?’
I didn’t answer, and then the same elderly waiter came by and Khenkin ordered coffee and white rolls, with butter and apricot jam. He spoke in French, again fluent but not rooted in any physical part of the world. After the waiter left again Khenkin turned back to me and said, ‘And how is General O’Day?’
I said, ‘You know him?’
‘Of him. We learned all about him. Studied him, in fact. Literally, in the classroom. He was a KGB role model.’
‘I’m not surprised. He’s doing OK. He’s the same as he ever was.’
‘I’m glad he’s back. I’m sure you are, too.’
‘Did he ever leave?’
Khenkin made a face, not yes, not no. He said, ‘We understood his star was fading. Periods of relative stability are bad for an old warhorse like him. A thing like this reminds people. There’s always a silver lining.’
Then another black Citroën nosed through the pedestrian chaos and turned into the alley. Driver in the front, passenger in the back. It stopped at the green door, and waited a beat. They’re expecting you, monsieur.