Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

P ARIS

Ray Powell lived in a small but elegant apartment in the heart of the Latin Quarter on the Rue des écoles. Had he been willing to travel further out, his salary as the Paris station chief would have secured him more space, but he preferred to be in the center of the action. The Sorbonne, Notre Dame, the Luxembourg Gardens, and the famous Shakespeare and Company bookstore were all within a five-minute walk.

It had taken Brunelle a series of after-hours phone calls to arrange the meeting. Her section chief had called the deputy director of the DGSI, who in turn had reached out to the director general herself, who was in the middle of dinner atop the nearby Peninsula Hotel at L'Oiseau Blanc.

A no-bullshit woman, Audrey de Vasselot had asked for Brunelle's cell number so she could speak with her directly. De Vasselot wanted to know what Brunelle had learned, why a face-to-face meeting was necessary, and why it couldn't wait until tomorrow. Brunelle made her case as professionally and succinctly as she could.

Ten minutes later, the director general texted her with Powell's address and his invitation to discuss her case at his apartment.

Gibert was able to secure one of the Shangri-La's chauffeur-driven Mercedes and after tipping the waiter and barman, they headed out.

It was still raining as they crossed the Pont des Invalides and headed down the Quai d'Orsay. At Boulevard Saint-Michel, they headed away from the Seine and deeper into the Latin Quarter.

Two blocks after Boulevard Saint-Germain, they turned left onto Rue des écoles and soon arrived at Powell's building. It was nineteenth- century Haussmann-influenced architecture—creamy Lutetian limestone with wrought-iron balconies and a four-sided, steeply slanted mansard roof. Inside was a large, atrium-style staircase where you could look all the way up to a skylight in the roof.

As the station chief lived on the sixth floor and, as neither Brunelle nor Gibert were keen on that many flights of stairs, they climbed into the uncomfortably small elevator and rode up together.

A cordial man in his late fifties, Powell greeted them at the door in jeans and a gray V-neck sweater over a white oxford shirt. Along with his calfskin loafers and tortoise-shell glasses, he looked more like an architect or a stockbroker than a spook.

"Let me take your coats," he offered as he gestured his guests inside.

Brunelle and Gibert thanked him, and after he had hung their jackets in the vestibule, they followed him into the living room.

The apartment was tastefully decorated. There were leather sofas, plenty of books, and a sturdy brass bar cart loaded with liquor. Various black-and-white photographs, as well as a series of paintings and sketches, were hung salon-style in a myriad of gold and silver frames. Two worn Persian carpets, a marble bust of what may have been Julius Caesar, and a pair of highly polished Art Deco accent tables rounded out the look.

There was not one but two balconies and even on a rainy night, the views through the rain-dappled portes-fenêtres were worth whatever Powell was paying for the place. It was one of the chicest bachelor pads Brunelle had ever seen.

"Can I offer either of you something to drink?" the station chief asked, nodding at the bar cart. "I've got just about everything."

Not one to ever turn down a freebie, Gibert sauntered over to examine the selection. "Is that what I think it is?" he asked pointing to one of the bottles.

Powell nodded. "You've got a good eye. Pappy Van Winkle. One of the best American bourbons you'll ever taste." Uncorking the bottle, the station chief poured some into a Glencairn glass and handed it to him.

Gibert swirled the bourbon to help aerate it. Then, after taking a moment to appreciate its rich color, he brought the glass to his nose and inhaled. The aromas were amazing. It was now time to taste.

Taking his first sip, he allowed the warm liquid to cover his palate. The taste was incredible; better than he had imagined it would be.

"What do you think?" Powell asked.

"Marvelous," Gibert replied.

"That's the ten-year," the station chief replied. "And you're right, it is absolutely marvelous. Best thing I've ever tasted. The ambassador is a huge Pappy fan as well. He keeps a bottle of the 23 at his residence, which he breaks out for V-VIPs. Crossing my fingers that someday I'll make the cut." Smiling, he turned to Brunelle and asked, "What can I get for you?"

"Thank you, but I'm okay," she replied, still in business mode.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Positive."

"Shall we sit then?" Powell asked.

After pouring a small portion of the bourbon for himself, he took a seat on the sofa facing his guests. "Director General de Vasselot asked me to help in any way I can. So what can I do for you?"

Brunelle had made it clear to Gibert in the car that she would be doing the talking and that he should follow her lead.

"Are you familiar with a French national named Jean-Jacques Jadot?" she began.

Powell nodded. "Yes, I am."

"Are you aware that he was found murdered this morning?"

"Yes. It's absolutely terrible."

Brunelle studied him. "How did you learn about it?"

"Most U.S. embassies employ a retired high-ranking police officer as a liaison. Ours put the word out as soon as he heard. Jean-Jacques and I were actually supposed to meet for breakfast this morning. He never showed."

"Did you report this to the Paris Police, DGSI, anyone?" Gibert asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I felt it was premature."

Gibert looked at him. "Premature? How so?"

The station chief chose his words carefully. "Jean-Jacques was a friend. He was also a colleague. I had a lot of respect for him. With that said, I don't know anything about who killed him or why. Injecting myself into the story, especially before I had more information, could have brought unwanted attention to the embassy. It's our policy to avoid that kind of thing."

"Did you and Monsieur Jadot often meet for breakfast?" Brunelle asked, taking back control of the conversation.

"No. If we saw each other, it was normally over drinks," he replied.

"Whose idea was it to meet for breakfast?"

"It was Jean-Jacques's. He was at his cottage in Brittany over the weekend and reached out. He said he needed to talk about something and asked if I could be available first thing this morning. I told him he didn't have to wait, that we could talk over the phone if he wanted, but he turned me down. He said that it had to be in person."

"And you didn't find that a little unusual?"

"Maybe," said Powell. "But that was Jean-Jacques. He was old-school."

"How so?"

"He was a spy's spy. Moscow Rules and all that. Don't call when you can write and don't write when you can meet in person. That was one of his favorite maxims."

"Then you believe he wanted to meet with you in order to discuss something intelligence-related?"

"I don't know what he wanted," Powell replied.

"Whatever it was," Gibert interjected, "it was obviously important because he wanted to see you first thing. Was he having romantic problems? Money problems?"

"We didn't discuss those things."

"I thought you said you were friends."

"We were friends," the station chief responded. "But those weren't the kinds of things we talked about. Jean-Jacques was a confirmed bachelor. I never heard him discuss women, or men. He didn't talk about money either. With an apartment in the Marais and a cottage in Brittany, I figured he was doing fine."

"So what did you talk about?" Brunelle inquired. "As friends."

Powell thought for a moment. "He talked a lot about climbing. He enjoyed sports. History was also another favorite subject. And movies. He loved American movies."

"Did you ever discuss business?"

"Define business. "

"Your work as intelligence operatives."

"On occasion. As appropriate."

"Did you first meet each other here in Paris?" she asked, testing his truthfulness.

The station chief shook his head. "No. In Beirut. We were both stationed there at the same time."

"From what I understand, Jadot was recalled. He didn't finish out his time in Beirut."

"Correct."

"Do you know why?"

Powell swirled the bourbon in his glass. "Jean-Jacques discovered that the French ambassador had been turned by the Russians."

Brunelle looked at him. "He was absolutely certain of that?"

"One hundred percent. But when he transmitted the information back to Paris, there was quite a bit of foot-dragging. The ambassador was extremely well-connected. If he was outed, it was going to cause a lot of headaches and a lot of embarrassment for the élysée Palace."

"So what happened?"

"Well, while he waited for an answer, Jean-Jacques kept sending updates to headquarters, along with ideas on how they might take advantage of the ambassador having been compromised. His ultimate desire was to double the ambassador back against the Russians. But failing that, he wanted to limit the classified material the man was receiving and possibly even start feeding him bogus intel in the hopes that it would be passed along to Moscow."

"And was he successful?"

Once more, the station chief shook his head. "The DGSE was getting ready to send a special counterintelligence team to Beirut to handle the situation. Jean-Jacques believed that they were going to quietly remove the ambassador and do any necessary damage control. When he yet again confronted headquarters about it, they accused him of insubordination and brought him home. Shortly after Jean-Jacques arrived back in Paris, the ambassador died by suicide."

"You seem to know a great deal about the situation," said Brunelle. "How is that?"

"Beirut is a big city, but it's a small town when it comes to expats, especially those in our line of work. The DGSE and the CIA cooperated on several intelligence-gathering assignments. That's how Jean-Jacques and I became friendly. At the end, when he was being recalled, he was pretty angry. He was also concerned."

"About what?"

"He was worried that the French ambassador might not be the only one who had been compromised. The deeper he dug, the more convinced he was that he was correct. If the ambassador wasn't removed, if he was left in his position, Jean-Jacques was concerned what kind of damage could be done going forward."

"So he read you in?"

"Yes," said Powell, taking a sip of his drink. "He didn't trust anyone at the DGSE or at the embassy any longer, but he trusted me and asked me to keep an eye on things."

"Did you or Monsieur Jadot ever confront the ambassador?"

"No, neither of us did."

"Then what pushed him to suicide? The timing seems incredibly coincidental."

"I agree," the station chief replied. "According to Jean-Jacques, the ambassador had no known history of depression or suicidal ideation. His thinking was that if the Russians had indeed compromised other people working for the French government, maybe one of them had leaked Jean-Jacques's reports back to Moscow. If the Russians learned that the DGSE was on to the ambassador, maybe they murdered him and made it look like a suicide."

"Why not just murder Jadot instead?" Brunelle asked.

"I think by that point, considering all the reports he had sent back to headquarters, the cat was already out of the bag. It was probably just easier to murder the ambassador, make it look like a suicide, and cut their losses. But you're not incorrect. I think part of the reason Jean-Jacques told me everything was in case he ended up dying, especially if it was under suspicious circumstances, at least someone would still be alive to pursue the truth."

"Perhaps that's why he wanted breakfast with you this morning," she said, thinking out loud. "Maybe he needed to share something with you in case anything happened to him. Any idea what that might have been?"

" Might have been?" Powell replied. "Sure, I have an idea. But without additional information, without evidence, it would only be speculation."

"Speculation," Brunelle offered, "is just another word for hypothesis. It's ninety percent of what we do at this stage."

Once again, the station chief chose his words carefully. "After returning from Beirut, Jean-Jacques was preoccupied with the possibility that the Russians had turned other people in the French government, including inside the intelligence services."

"Do you know if he ever found any proof?"

"Every time I saw him, he was pulling on a new thread, yet he never seemed to have uncovered anything. At least nothing he ever shared with me."

"Did he have any enemies that you know of?"

"Anybody who'd been in the game as long as Jean-Jacques probably made a lot of enemies. He absolutely hated the Russians. I'm guessing it was probably mutual." There was a pause before Powell added, "Speaking of which, can you confirm for me how he was murdered."

"We purposefully haven't made the information public yet."

"We heard it was an ice axe."

Brunelle shot Gibert a look. She had no doubt the CIA station chief had gotten that information from his own contacts within the DGSE, possibly from the very men Gibert had allowed access to the crime scene.

"That's correct," she conceded, "but I would ask that you please keep it confidential."

"It's almost too on the nose," Powell mused.

"Excuse me?"

"If it was the Russians who killed him, it's rather unimaginative, regardless of Jean-Jacques's love of history. Or maybe I'm totally wrong. Maybe it was designed to send a message."

"I'm sorry," Brunelle replied. "I'm not following you. What are you talking about?"

"August 1940. When Stalin decided Trotsky had become too much of a threat, he sent an assassin to kill him. The weapon the assassin used was an ice axe."