“You went to school there?”
“Goodness, no. Cambridge. Arts and humanities. Hinc lucem et pocula sacra and all that. From here, light and sacred draughts. Latin motto. Very highbrow, you see. Two of my girlfriends moved to Moscow last year. We’re having a small reunion.”
“You boarded in Khabarovsk?”
“Yes. And almost got run over in the parking lot for my trouble. A big black car.”
“I remember hearing some honking, saw some commotion. Was that them?”
She nodded. “Three men, dressed like old-school KGB thugs. Quite gloomy looking. Very rude, marching around the platform like they owned the place, flashing their badges.”
Tucker struggled to keep his brow from furrowing. “Sounds like the police. Perhaps they were looking for someone.”
She took a dismissive sip of coffee. “I can only imagine.”
“It’s not you, is it? I’m not having breakfast with an international art thief?”
She laughed, tilting her head back and slightly to the side. “Oh, my cover has been blown. Stop the train at once.”
He smiled. “According to my guide, Khabarovsk’s Fedotov Gallery is a must-see for art connoisseurs. Especially for any sightseeing arts and humanities graduates from Cambridge. I almost wish I’d gotten off the train to go. Did you visit?”
She nodded, her eyes shining. “Absolutely stunning. Wish I’d had more time myself. You must go back sometime. And you, Mr. Wayne, what’s your secret? What do you do when you’re not traipsing around Siberia?”
“International art thief,” he replied.
“Ah, I thought as much.”
He patted his jacket pocket. “Excuse me,” he said and pulled out his phone, glancing at the screen. “Text from my brother.”
He opened the phone’s camera application and surreptitiously snapped a shot of Felice’s face. He studied the screen for a few more seconds, pretended to type a response, then returned the phone to his pocket.
“Sorry,” he said. “My brother’s getting married in a month, and he’s put me in charge of his bachelor party. His wife is worried it’s going to be too risqué.”
Felice raised an eyebrow. “And is it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Men,” she said, laughing, and reached across the table and gave his forearm a squeeze.
8:35 A.M.
After finishing breakfast and lingering over coffee for another half hour, the two parted company with a promise to share another meal before Tucker disembarked at Perm.
Once free, he returned quickly to his berth, pulled out his satellite phone, and speed-dialed the new number Painter Crowe had given him. It was answered immediately.
“Tucker Wayne, I presume,” a female voice answered.
“Ruth Harper.”
“Correct.” Harper’s speech was clipped, precise, but somehow not quite curt. There was also a distinct southern accent there, too.
“What do you have for me?” Harper asked.
“No nice to meet you or how are you?”
“Nice to meet you. How are you? How’s that? Warm and fuzzy enough for you?”
“Marginally,” Tucker replied.
As he paced the small space, he tried to picture what she looked like. She sounded young, but with a bite at the edges that spoke of some toughness. Maybe late thirties. But he knew Sigma operatives had prior military experience, and Harper was likely no exception, so some of that toughness could be from hard lessons learned young, an early maturity gained under fire. From her seriousness, he imagined her dark-haired, wearing glasses, a battle-weary librarian.
He smiled inwardly at that image.
“So what’s your take on the situation?” she asked.
“I think I’ve picked up a tail.”
“Why do you think that, Captain Wayne?” Her tone grew grave with a trace of doubt.
“Just call me Tucker,” he said and explained about the leather-jacketed men on the Khabarovsk train platform and Felice’s insistence they were flashing badges.
“And they weren’t?” Harper asked.
“No. They were just showing a photograph. I’m sure of it. She also claims she visited the Fedotov Gallery in Khabarovsk. It’s been closed for renovations for the past month.”
“And you know this detail how?”
“There’s not much else to do on this train but sleep and read travel brochures.”
“Anything else that makes you suspicious of her?”
“She’s pretty, and she finds me fascinating.”
“That certainly is odd. Are you sure she’s in possession of her faculties?”
He smiled at her matter-of-fact tone. “Funny.”
He decided he might—might—like Ruth Harper.
“Your accent,” Tucker said. “Tennessee?”
She ignored his attempt to draw her out, but from the exasperated tone of her next words, he guessed he was wrong about Tennessee.
“Give me Felice’s pedigree,” she said, staying professional.
Tucker passed on the information he had gleaned: her name, her background at the University of Cambridge, her friends in Moscow. “And I have a picture. I assume your wizards have access to facial-recognition programs.”
“Indeed we do.”
“I’m sending it now.”
“Okay, sit tight and I’ll get back to you.”
It didn’t take long. Harper called back within forty minutes.
“Your instinct was sound,” she said without preamble. “But you’ve picked up more than a tail. She’s a freelance mercenary.”
“I knew it was too good to be true,” he muttered. “Let’s hear it.”
“Her real name is Felice Nilsson, but she’s traveling under Felice Johansson. Swedish citizenship. She’s thirty-three, born in Stockholm to a wealthy family. She didn’t graduate from Cambridge, but from University of Gothenburg, with a master’s in fine arts and music. And here’s where things get interesting. Six months after graduating, she joined the Swedish Armed Forces and eventually ended up in Särskilda Inhämtningsgruppen.”
“SIG?”
As a member of the U.S. Special Forces, Tucker had to know the competition, both allied and enemy alike. SIG was the Swedish Special Reconnaissance Group. Its operatives were trained in intelligence gathering, reconnaissance, and covert surveillance, along with being superb, hardened soldiers.
“She was one of the group’s first female members,” Harper added.