Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

The Shangri-La was a five-star luxury hotel with jaw-dropping views across the Seine to the Eiffel Tower. Tucked away deep inside and out of sight was its sumptuously decorated, yet intimate, Le Bar Botaniste.

Green velvet sofas, strewn with tiger-print pillows, sat beneath enormous oil paintings of brightly festooned Bedouin horses. Heavy draperies, tied back with knotted silk cords, sat at each end of the bar. Hand-fashioned copper cups filled with fresh herbs had been placed on every table. Terrariums and exotic plants kept under glass were scattered throughout.

In the quietest and darkest corner, Gibert sat at a table— their table. This was where their affair had started, meeting halfway between their offices at Le Bar Botaniste.

It was a perk of Gibert's job. Tasked with high-profile, celebrity cases as part of his portfolio for the Paris police, he was known at all of the top hotels in town. Each of their general managers had his direct cell phone number and could call him at any time. In exchange for Gibert's discretion and his ability to handle situations in such a way that the hotels' reputations were protected, he was afforded certain perks. Among them were free drinks, free food, and the occasional complimentary suite.

There was one thing Brunelle could say for her time with him—it hadn't been boring. In fact, it had been quite exciting. He was an excellent lover and highly intelligent. What he wasn't, however, was honest.

The picture he had painted of his marital situation wasn't even close to the truth. His wife had not moved out of their home, he was not six months into a trial separation, and he had no intention of seeking a divorce.

Once the real truth became known, Brunelle had cut off all ties with him. But instead of taking it like a man, owning up to what he had done, and moving on, Gibert had doubled down, telling her that he was profoundly in love with her and that he was, in fact, going to leave his wife. It was quite a spectacle.

The more he pressed his case, the less respect she had for him. She ignored his phone calls, his texts, and his emails, yet they kept coming.

Then one night, absolutely hammered, he had shown up at her apartment. He had done it, he claimed. He had left his wife and he begged Brunelle to take him back. She stood her ground. Things got heated. When he refused to leave her apartment, Brunelle called the police.

As she wasn't interested in pressing charges, just getting him to leave, they took Gibert back to his office and let him sleep it off. The next morning, he crawled back to his wife.

Brunelle had not seen or spoken with him until this morning at Jadot's apartment. She didn't know what to make of his choice of the Botaniste for their meeting. If there was some kind of subtext to it, he had wasted his time. She had absolutely zero interest in rekindling anything with him. This meeting was business and only business.

Entering the hotel, she had made her way back to the bar and had found Gibert exactly where she knew he would be. Had he had the temerity to have ordered for her, she would have been hard-pressed not to throw the drink right at him. It was bad enough that he had picked this spot. At the very least, she expected him to remain professional.

When she arrived at the table, she saw that he hadn't ordered anything for her, just a cocktail for himself. It was his usual, and one of the most expensive things on the Botaniste menu—a Sazerac made with Hennessy X.O cognac.

"Thank you for coming," he said, sliding his chair back in order to stand and greet her properly.

Brunelle waved him off. "Don't get up," she said, pulling out her own chair and sitting down.

"Have you heard about Oslo?"

"Only what's been on the news. We haven't had an agency-wide update yet. You?"

"Email and text blasts went out to officers calling for enhanced vigilance. Other than that, all quiet."

A tense moment of awkward silence passed between them. It was difficult being back in this setting under such different circumstances.

"Something to drink?" he asked, trying to reduce the tension.

She loved the Botaniste's Golden Martini. It used to be her all-time favorite, but this wasn't a social event. Not wanting to send the wrong signal to Gibert, she opted for something nonalcoholic. "Tisane," she replied. Considering the weather, the infusion of herbs and spices, simmered in hot water, was probably exactly what she needed.

After getting the waiter's attention and placing the order, Gibert was all business. He removed a manila envelope from his briefcase and handed it to her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A summary of Jadot's service file, most of which is redacted."

Brunelle opened the envelope and pulled it out. "How'd you get your hands on it?"

"Like I said, a little professional courtesy goes a long way."

"The boys in Action Division."

"They want this solved just as much as we do. Probably more."

"Speaking of which," she replied, flipping through the pages of the summary, "I sent you an email before I left the office. Did you receive it?"

Gibert took a sip of his drink before saying, "I did and I'm already ahead of you. Forensics found some chipped paint near one of the apartment's rear windows."

"Outside or inside?"

"Inside, on the floor. But the paint appears to be from the exterior side of the window. We think that's how the killer made entry."

"Have you spoken with the neighbors in the adjacent buildings?"

"We're in the process, along with expanding our search for additional CCTV footage."

"Good," said Brunelle, pausing as the waiter brought her tisane and set it on the table. Once the man had departed, she said, "Based on the summary, it looks like Jadot was a career intelligence officer, charged with recruiting and running spies. He had postings at a variety of French embassies around the world, eventually rising to senior positions toward the end."

Gibert nodded. "Correct."

"His last posting was just over a year and a half ago at the embassy in Beirut," she stated, looking up from the file at Gibert. "Isn't that about the time the French ambassador there died by suicide?"

"That's how it was reported," Gibert replied, taking another sip of his drink.

"Meaning what? It wasn't a suicide?"

He shrugged. "No one knows for sure."

Brunelle pulled up a news article about the incident and checked the dates. "It looks like Jadot got pulled from the embassy and returned to Paris right before it happened. He didn't finish out his rotation. Why not?"

"According to what I was told, off the record, Jadot believed the ambassador had been compromised."

"Compromised by whom? The Lebanese?"

Gibert shook his head. "The Russians."

Jesus, she thought. It was always shocking when someone in government service was suspected of being an asset for a foreign country, much less an actively hostile foreign country. "So, what happened?" she asked. "Did Jadot blow the whistle? Is that what caused the ambassador to take his own life?"

"Allegedly, he was told by his superiors to back off."

" Back off? Why?"

"They wanted to mount some sort of counterintelligence operation."

"And?"

"And," said Gibert, "he didn't think they were moving fast enough. He kept pushing. That's what got him recalled."

"So Jadot returned to Paris and shortly thereafter the ambassador died by suicide."

"Yes, but according to my guys, Jadot claimed never to have confronted the ambassador."

"Then who did?" she asked.

"They think Jadot, angry over being recalled, may have told someone else before he left."

"Such as?"

"No one knows," he replied with another shrug.

"That's it? That's all you've got?"

Gibert shook his head, reached back into his briefcase, and withdrew something else. "There's also this."

"Is that what I think it is? You actually cracked it?"

"Yep," he replied, punching in the passcode and sliding Jadot's phone across the table to her. "We've got a new guy in digital ops. Crazy good."

She couldn't believe they had opened Jadot's phone before MoMo could open the flash drive. Picking it up, she began scrolling through it. "Did you learn anything?"

"A little bit," said Gibert, taking a sip of his Sazerac. "We know he spent the weekend at his cottage in Brittany. We know what train he took to Paris from Saint-Malo. And we can map his movements via the Métro as he made his way to Robert et Louise from the Gare Montparnasse."

"And you're pulling all the corresponding CCTV footage?"

"Again, one step ahead of you."

Brunelle continued to look through Jadot's phone. "Anything else?"

"Have you looked at his calendar yet? He had a breakfast meeting this morning, which he obviously didn't make."

Clicking over to today's date, she read the name of the man Jadot was to have met with and her eyebrows went up.

"So," said Gibert, marking her expression, "you recognize who his rendezvous was with."

"Ray Powell," she replied, nodding in a bit of disbelief. "The CIA's Paris station chief. Why would the two of them be having breakfast together?"

"I asked my guys at the DGSE the same question. They couldn't figure it out either. But they did tell me something interesting."

"What was that?"

Leaning back in his chair, Gibert raised his glass to finish off what was left of his drink and responded, "Powell was in Beirut at the same time as Jadot."