He made another call then, to a friend in MI6 in London, who had gotten there via Scotland Yard. Mike sat back in his big comfortable chair. He was a tall man with dark hair, brown eyes, and gray at his temples, and had played college football for Notre Dame. He was originally from an Irish family in Boston and had enjoyed his career in national security so far. There was a photograph of a pretty blond girl on his desk. The photograph was old, and he noticed it often. Becky James. They had gone through Langley together. She had been killed in an undercover operation they both worked on in Ecuador, in his early years in the CIA. She was the only woman he had ever really loved, and he had learned his lesson from that. Personal attachments were high risk when you did national security work, particularly undercover. It was a luxury he couldn’t afford, and had avoided after that, but she had been such a sweet girl. Mike was smiling when Robert Richmond picked up his direct line at MI6 in London.

“I haven’t heard from you in dog years. Where are you, man?” he said to Mike.

“In New York.” Mike always enjoyed talking to him. They had shared information on many cases for several years.

“Working on anything interesting at the moment?” He assumed the call was for business, and he wasn’t wrong.

“Nothing much. It’s been quiet,” Mike said.

“I wish I could say the same. We’ve got a lot of problems in Europe. Terrorists, Russian spies, and double agents. It feels like the Cold War again these days.”

“We’re a little more removed from that than you are. Most of the Russian spies seem to be settling in England,” Mike commented, and Robert agreed. “I had a call today about a passenger at CDG. French national. Pierre de Vaumont. The computer flagged him but there’s nothing much on him. Supposedly questionable connections, but that could mean anything.”

“Do you want me to take a look at what we’ve got on him?” Richmond offered.

“It might not be a bad idea. Maybe you have more on him than we do. You’re closer to home for him.”