Prague, September 4, 2012, 10:00 p.m. “Nicolei was disappointed he was not invited. He finds you fascinating.”“I needed to speak to you alone, but he actually can help us.”“Help us?”Chris handed Valentina Petrov two photographs, the first a close-in image of an amoeba-shaped birthmark on a woman’s right shoulder, a portion of a diamond necklace appearing at her neck; the second a full view of the lounge of the National Hotel’s bar with Marko Dravic sitting in the center and a partial rear view, slightly blurry, of a woman in a strapless black cocktail dress on the far right. He watched as the beautiful Russian spy took them in. They were sitting in his penthouse, drinking a special vintage Cristal Champagne that he had ordered for the occasion. “Let’s toast,” he said, lifting his glass, when she looked up at him.“To what.”“To our joining forces.”“Chris…”“Yes?”Valentina shrugged her lovely shoulders. “I’ve had the photograph enhanced,” Chris said.“I’m afraid I can be of little help.”
