Moscow Sting by Alex Dryden Page A

had been tucked under the cap, was now free and came halfway down her back. It was a rich brown and gold colour. Her face, as far he could tell in the bright sun, and in the brief moment he caught sight of it, had high cheekbones, smooth-skinned.
    It was a face that startled him—a beautiful face. But then she stooped, picked up the toy, and gave it to the boy.
    Logan left a few euros on the counter and took his coffee to a pavement seat, where he sat and watched their backs slowly retreating. The boy seemed to be constantly stopping and pointing, asking questions, trying to pick some object of interest up from the pavement, tugging his mother’s hand continually. And she was patient with him. They made slow progress.
    A hundred yards ahead of them, Logan noted, if they stayed on the same path, was the electronic sign with the day’s date written on it.
    He finished his coffee, picked up the map, and unfolded it, leaving it half open, as if he’d just been studying it. Then he crossed the street, twenty or thirty yards behind them, and walked along the far side, his camera slung over his shoulder and the map carried loosely by his side. He overtook them easily.
    The two of them, he saw, as he flicked through a revolving postcard stand, were still making slow progress. She seemed in no hurry, and the relaxed fluidity of her movements, for a moment, mesmerised Logan. She seemed to him to walk like a dancer.
    He checked the position of the electronic sign. Then he saw an alley with another café, its white plastic tables and chairs shaded by the buildings. Taking a seat, Logan produced the camera from its case and tested the light and the distance to the sign.
    They arrived in stops and starts; the boy seemed to be singing absently and was now waving a twig with some wan leaves attached to it that he must have picked up from one of the trees that shaded the road.
    As they drew level with the electronic sign, the woman seemed distracted. She was leaning down at the boy and saying something. The boy responded crossly. She gave him the baseball cap, and he seemed satisfied. Then she stood up, and as she did so, Logan pressed the shutter.
    He developed the film later that night in a hotel room in Marseille. He didn’t know if the woman was a KGB colonel, an expat British divorcée, or the Queen of Sheba for that matter. But the photograph, he was relieved to see, gave a clear picture of her face, and those who wanted her would know. He made four copies of the picture, including one for himself. The other three were for his intended customers.
    Then he fell asleep, exhausted, and dreamed of a terrified Plismy, surrounded by all the people he hated in the world, like some Benetton or Coca-Cola poster, but with the reverse message—a congregation of all the ethnic groups and religions in existence, closing in on the source of their persecution.
    At eleven thirty the following morning, Logan mailed two copies of the picture, the first to the CIA station in Paris, the second to the SIS in London. He put a price on each picture of half a million dollars—in return for which he would reveal the location of its subject.
    It was a high price. But if Plismy was right—and Logan sensed he was—then information about the woman was worth a lot of money.
    Then he boarded an afternoon flight to Belgrade, to meet his third potential customer. As he took his seat on the plane, he opened up the Sunday edition of Midi Libre and read the headline: “Magnate Russe assassiné à Londres.”
    He fell asleep, not waking until they touched down in Belgrade two and a half hours later.

Chapter 4
    A DRIAN CAREW STEPPED INTO the chauffeured car outside his London apartment on Chelsea Green. It was a Sunday morning, and he usually only stayed here during the week.
    He wished his driver Ray good morning in a way that suggested it wasn’t, and his demeanour dissuaded further conversation. Rarely in London at any time over a weekend, let alone on a