Chapter 75

CHAPTER 75

CIA S TATION

U.S. E MBASSY , P ARIS

O NE WEEK LATER

Karine Brunelle looked up as she heard a hiss, and the door of the sensitive compartmented information facility opened.

Poking her head out, Director General de Vasselot said, "You can come in now."

Brunelle stood, adjusted the pleats in her skirt, and entered. She had never been to the American Embassy before, much less the highly secretive CIA offices within, and had changed her outfit four times that morning.

It was stupid, and she knew it. All that mattered was that she appear professional. Afterward, however, she had another meeting, and it was important to set the correct tone for that one as well.

The SCIF was similar to the ones at the DGSI. The only difference was that this one seemed to be a little more modern and up-to-date.

Once the door had closed, de Vasselot made the introductions. "Karine, I would like you to meet James Jansen. Jim is now acting station chief until the CIA decides who should succeed Ray Powell."

Brunelle shook hands with Jansen, accepted a seat, and declined coffee.

"Congratulations on your promotion," he said, sitting down at the conference table across from her. "Fastest assistant deputy director in DGSI history."

"Thank you."

"And she reports directly to me," de Vasselot added, "so you'll be seeing a lot of her."

"I look forward to it."

Brunelle smiled politely, her hands folded in front of her. She hadn't been told what the meeting was about but had figured it was probably going to center on Powell's death. She hadn't been looking forward to it and had barely slept at all last night.

"As we conveyed to Director General de Vasselot," Jansen continued, "we want to apologize for the actions of Raymond Powell. Neither the CIA nor the United States holds you, in any way, responsible for his death. In addition, we want to commend you for your work. You did an amazing job."

This was not what Brunelle had been expecting. "Thank you," she managed to say.

"With that, I wanted to make myself available to answer your questions."

"What questions?"

"Any questions you may have. If they're in my power to answer, I will."

She looked at him. " Any questions?"

"Yes," Jansen replied. " Any questions."

An hour after saying hello to James Jansen, Karine Brunelle said goodbye and agreed to meet with Director General de Vasselot back at DGSI headquarters later that afternoon.

Leaving the embassy, she skirted the Place de la Concorde with its Luxor Obelisk and headed in the direction of the Palais Garnier to a small bistro called Les Bacchantes. It took its name from the Greek tragedy by Euripides. Gibert had selected it as a good spot for an early lunch, but she couldn't help but wonder if it was also supposed to be somehow symbolic of their romantic relationship.

She found him at a quiet table in back. As she approached, he stood and pulled out her chair. The moment she was seated, the waiter arrived with a bottle of champagne—and it wasn't an inexpensive one either.

"What's this?" she asked.

"We're celebrating," Gibert replied.

"Celebrating what?"

"Your success. All of it."

"I had a little help," she admitted.

"Then we're toasting our success and I'm doubly glad I selected such a good vintage."

After Gibert had tasted the champagne and the waiter had filled their glasses and left the table, he proposed a toast, "To success."

Raising her glass, Brunelle clinked it against his. "To success," she repeated.

"So," the cop asked, after savoring a nice long sip, "how'd your appointment go?"

"Remember when Powell died, and I worried we were never going to get any answers?"

Gibert nodded and took another sip from his glass.

"Well, I've got answers now," she continued. "Lots of them."

"Good thing I picked such a nice, quiet spot. Tell me all of it."

Brunelle took another sip herself and then launched into everything she had learned. Twenty minutes later, the waiter refilled their glasses and took their lunch orders.

When he had left the table again, Gibert said, "But who killed all the Russians in the Bois de Boulogne and at that medical clinic?"

"That was one question I was not given an answer to. Powell's replacement, this man Jansen, hinted that the Kremlin has some sort of a beef with another foreign intelligence service."

"And the passports in that one dead guy's pocket?"

Brunelle smiled. "Meant to throw us off the track and keep us guessing."

"What about how Jadot's killer had a key that allowed him to disappear behind a faux fa?ade for a Métro airshaft?"

"Allegedly, he was an incredibly resourceful assassin."

"Was?"

She nodded. "I'm told he's dead too. Along with his getaway driver."

"So, somebody got to them before us."

"Correct."

"But why is France ground zero for all of this?" Gibert asked. "Why can't these people handle business in their own respective countries?"

"Apparently, it had something to do with Elovik, the military attaché."

"Who was the mastermind behind the entire spy ring," said the cop, shaking his head. "Was there anything that guy wasn't into?"

"According to our sources, he's now vanished, so we may never know."

"What was his raison d'être? Why set up that spy ring? Did it have a military purpose of some sort?"

Brunelle nodded. "By recruiting spies in our government, Moscow bragged that they could get their hands on any classified NATO intelligence it wanted, particularly as it applied to Ukraine. And, post-Brexit, with Britain out of the EU, the Russians are very nervous about the leadership role they see France growing into. The Kremlin about lost its mind when President Mercier suggested French troops could soon be sent to Ukraine."

"So Jadot was poised to expose everything, but made the mistake of turning to Powell, who was on Russia's payroll and sold him out."

"Correct," she replied. "But as you wisely said, the best thing about this was that we got the list. Without it, we never would have known who the traitors were."

"And without you," the cop said, "the government might never have come up with such a clever plan to bring them all in at once, get as many as possible to confess, and control the fallout."

"I don't know how much fallout we contained. It's still a massive scandal."

"Don't undersell what you did. It could have been much worse. Playing to their egos and gathering them up in one fell swoop was a stroke of genius."

"We got lucky," Brunelle admitted.

Raising his glass, Gibert proposed another toast. "To luck."

Clinking her glass against his again, she took another sip.

"How's MoMo?" he asked after swallowing his champagne.

"He's good."

"What about his buddy, Amir?"

"Still pissed-off, but he'll get over it," said Brunelle. "Which brings us to why we're here. Outside of Amir's apartment, when you agreed to log the flash drive into evidence for me, you said you wanted a favor in return. Your text said that meeting you for lunch today would be that favor. What does that mean?"

"It means that I want to apologize. Properly apologize. I am sorry for lying to you. I should have told you the truth about my wife. I didn't. That was wrong. I still think you're a little bit crazy, Karine, but you are the most intriguing woman I have ever known. I wish our circumstances had been different. Someday, I hope you can forgive me."

"Thank you," said Brunelle. "I was very hurt. Still am to a degree. But as long as we're apologizing, I'm sorry if I caused you any unnecessary pain."

Raising their glasses, they clinked. There was no toast. There didn't need to be. It was an act of détente; of something very painful, for both of them, finally being laid to rest.