Amelia Sachs said. “Nope,” Lon Sellitto replied, “she’s an interpreter.” “Translating wasn’t a cover for being a call girl? You’re sure?” “Positive. She’s legit. Been a commercial interpreter for ten years, works for big companies and law firms. And, I still checked: no rap sheet—city, state or FBI, NCIC. Looks like Moreno had used her before.” Sachs gave a brief, cynical laugh. “I was making assumptions. Escort service, terrorist. Brother. If she’s legitimate, Moreno wouldn’t have used her at any illegal meetings but odds are she’ll know something helpful. Probably she’d have a lot of information about him.” “She’d have to,” Sellitto agreed. And what exactly did Lydia know? Jacob Swann wondered, sitting forward in the front seat of his Nissan, parked in Midtown, listening to this conversation in real time, having tapped once again into Amelia Sachs’s 3G, easily tappable phone.
