of known terrorists, drug smugglers, human traffickers, and fraud artists to create profiles and lists of places they may currently be. All was being compiled to form accurate profiles and spread those out across the globe.
Rideau navigated her way past the people who were making phone calls, setting up videoconferences, and assisting law enforcement representatives in other countries with complex skip-tracing. Many were leaning back in their chairs, speaking into their Bluetooths and monitoring various video feeds, eating potato chips, and guzzling coffee and sodas. These people were the ones who made it happen. They were the blood of Interpol. They were what Interpol had been originally created for: communication.
Sylvie, her security guard, stepped out of the elevator with her and vanished from her side, likely to be retasked to another detail.
Rideau passed Vincent Marcello, who smiled and waved at her briefly, but continued spinning slowly in his chair while he communicated with someone across the world. “Yes, Director. Yes, you have that much correct. But the woman that you’re after is a con artist who’s fled to her home country. She lives in North Korea, and they haven’t been very uncooperative lately answering our questions—”
Rideau tapped Claudine Noëll e on her shoulder as she walked by. Noëll e was standing up in her cubicle and stretching, her dress jacket flung on the floor beside her desk. “ Les numéros de compte ne sont pas assorti, monsieur ,” she was saying into her mini-headset. “ Je suis très désolé .” When she felt Rideau’s gentle touch, she whispered “Hello” to her before going back to her conversation. “ Nous devrons regarder ailleurs —”
She had her own corner office tucked away in the east wing of the building, and it was one that usually had a beautiful view of a number of Lyon’s greater architectural achievements, but Rideau often kept the shades drawn over the Plexiglas windows. When she entered, she shut the door behind her and the room’s extra-thick walnut-paneled walls and soundproofing technology allowed it to diminish all the noise from the floor outside to a barely audible murmur.
Rideau set her briefcase on top of the table and took her jacket off. She looked at her watch. Still on time. The others would probably be waiting already. She established the link thr ough Interpol’s protected servers, and within seconds the faces popped onto her screen. Her screen was cut into four sections. Only two of them were currently filled with video. The top left window was filled with her old friend Mitchell Hamis, a handler for the operative on the other screen directly to his right, Corvas Desh. The two of them were sitting side by side in one of the rooms of the safe house the IB and the CBI (India’s own Central Bureau of Investigation) had allowed them to work out of.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “How are we?”
“Fine,” said Mitchell. “You look lovely as ever.”
Rideau smiled politely. “ Merci ,” she said. Mitchell was ever the gentleman, and Rideau was not above flattery. She would take it wherever she could get it, because her cruel aunt and a deranged grandfather had raised her, making certain she knew she was homely. But sometimes the very cruel and the very deranged were the only honest people.
“Is Gregori there?” asked Desh.
“Not yet. But I’m expecting him… ah !” The door opened, and in stepped Gregori Matveyev, the six-foot-five-Russian with round and massive shoulders, head bald as a bowling ball and a severe face etched in stone. “Good morning, Comrade Matveyev. How are we this morning?”
“Not terribly bad.”
“Is the French cuisine agreeing with you any more today than it was last week?” Metveyev had had a terrible bout of food poisoning the week before, and had seen it as a sign he should never have left the Motherland, and lamented his
Rideau navigated her way past the people who were making phone calls, setting up videoconferences, and assisting law enforcement representatives in other countries with complex skip-tracing. Many were leaning back in their chairs, speaking into their Bluetooths and monitoring various video feeds, eating potato chips, and guzzling coffee and sodas. These people were the ones who made it happen. They were the blood of Interpol. They were what Interpol had been originally created for: communication.
Sylvie, her security guard, stepped out of the elevator with her and vanished from her side, likely to be retasked to another detail.
Rideau passed Vincent Marcello, who smiled and waved at her briefly, but continued spinning slowly in his chair while he communicated with someone across the world. “Yes, Director. Yes, you have that much correct. But the woman that you’re after is a con artist who’s fled to her home country. She lives in North Korea, and they haven’t been very uncooperative lately answering our questions—”
Rideau tapped Claudine Noëll e on her shoulder as she walked by. Noëll e was standing up in her cubicle and stretching, her dress jacket flung on the floor beside her desk. “ Les numéros de compte ne sont pas assorti, monsieur ,” she was saying into her mini-headset. “ Je suis très désolé .” When she felt Rideau’s gentle touch, she whispered “Hello” to her before going back to her conversation. “ Nous devrons regarder ailleurs —”
She had her own corner office tucked away in the east wing of the building, and it was one that usually had a beautiful view of a number of Lyon’s greater architectural achievements, but Rideau often kept the shades drawn over the Plexiglas windows. When she entered, she shut the door behind her and the room’s extra-thick walnut-paneled walls and soundproofing technology allowed it to diminish all the noise from the floor outside to a barely audible murmur.
Rideau set her briefcase on top of the table and took her jacket off. She looked at her watch. Still on time. The others would probably be waiting already. She established the link thr ough Interpol’s protected servers, and within seconds the faces popped onto her screen. Her screen was cut into four sections. Only two of them were currently filled with video. The top left window was filled with her old friend Mitchell Hamis, a handler for the operative on the other screen directly to his right, Corvas Desh. The two of them were sitting side by side in one of the rooms of the safe house the IB and the CBI (India’s own Central Bureau of Investigation) had allowed them to work out of.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “How are we?”
“Fine,” said Mitchell. “You look lovely as ever.”
Rideau smiled politely. “ Merci ,” she said. Mitchell was ever the gentleman, and Rideau was not above flattery. She would take it wherever she could get it, because her cruel aunt and a deranged grandfather had raised her, making certain she knew she was homely. But sometimes the very cruel and the very deranged were the only honest people.
“Is Gregori there?” asked Desh.
“Not yet. But I’m expecting him… ah !” The door opened, and in stepped Gregori Matveyev, the six-foot-five-Russian with round and massive shoulders, head bald as a bowling ball and a severe face etched in stone. “Good morning, Comrade Matveyev. How are we this morning?”
“Not terribly bad.”
“Is the French cuisine agreeing with you any more today than it was last week?” Metveyev had had a terrible bout of food poisoning the week before, and had seen it as a sign he should never have left the Motherland, and lamented his
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