He grabbed it as he swung his six-three frame out of bed and answered as he headed for the bathroom. The caller was a woman.“Do you still have the digits I gave you before?”The voice belonged to Emmanuelle Le Monte, one of the deeper and more intricate cogs in the Paris division of INTERPOL. The digits referred to her bank account in Switzerland.“I do,” he said.“The price is 200,000 Euros,” she said. His pulse raced.The price had never been that high.Still, she’d never led him astray. She’d never overplayed the value of the information she would provide. She had something big, and, if he gauged the tone in her voice correctly, something immediate. “Give me an hour.”“Do it and then call me back at this number in two hours.”“Okay. Throw a stone in the Seine for me.”“I will.”“A big one. Make a splash.” They met four years ago. He was on the banks of the Seine just down from the Eiffel Tower, throwing rocks in the water, ostensibly just a guy out killing time on an all-too-rare sunny Parisian day, not a guy stalking his next target who was on the right bank, up fifty meters.
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