Nessa stared at a list of the men and two women who were suspected of having employed Elata over the last decade; it was not a long list, but every name was a prominent member of the art community and the world at large. Two had net worths that topped that of several countries. To say that their wealth and power protected them was an understatement—though with the right evidence, such as a sworn confession from the master forger himself, even the difficult might be attempted.

Others had tried to take Elata down. To fantasize like this was dangerous.

Her boss wanted him. More—he wanted the Picassos. He salivated over them—phony or real made little difference. Find them, and his career would be made; the French government would undoubtedly issue a medal.

Her boss wasn’t kidding. He’d authorized her to go “anywhere in pursuit of tangible leads.” Whatever resource she wanted, she could have.

As long as she succeeded.

Nessa pushed the thick pile of papers into the case folder. It was late, far past quitting time; the other offices were dark. She shoved the printouts and her notes into the top drawer of her desk, locked it, and went to leave.

The phone rang. She nearly blew it off, but then decided to pick it up—sometimes her ma called her here when she couldn’t reach her at the apartment.

Then again, her mother was sure to ask her whether she had a boyfriend for the umpteenth time. Perhaps she should just let it ring.

Nessa grabbed it a half second before the voice-mail system would have taken over.

“Nessa Lear,” she said.

“Put more snap into it, lass. You want ’em tremblin’ before they start talking to you.”

“Gorrie!”

“I won’t argue with you,” said her old partner. “It’s too good to hear your voice.”

“How are you?”

“Up to the kilt in muck n’ mire.”

“You’re drivin’ roun’ Inverness in a kilt these days? Do you carry your bagpipes with you?”

“ ’Neath the kilt.” His voice suddenly downshifted. “Ness, dearie, I need a favor.”

“Favor?”

“I have a string of accidents that add into something more than accidents, if you know what I mean. Murder, I think.”

“In Inverness?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“How can I help?”

Gorrie told her about the records involving the nuclear plant’s waste. Interpol had a database of international terrorists, and he wondered if he might have her check the names against them. He also had the name of the transport company that moved the waste.

“This isn’t an Interpol matter,” she told him.

“I know,” said her old partner. “But I’m beginning to think the woman at UKAE is involved. Constance Burns. Ever hear of her?”

“Not at all. You want me to run her name too?”