The Dark Hour

by Robin Burcell

  “More than fine,” he replied, and she handed him the keys, then gave him the address.

  The main roads, which had been cleared and salted, were beginning to take on a gray, gritty look from the afternoon traffic. In spite of the cold, the brasseries and cafés on the Boulevard du Montparnasse were doing a thriving business. As they drove past a gothic-styled church, she glimpsed a flurry of gaudy mufflers and snowcaps—children hard at battle in a snowball war in the open place. Eventually the cafés and restaurants vanished, being replaced by the elegant apartments, embassies, and ministries of the Seventh Arrondissement, as the wide street transformed into the Boulevard des Invalides.

  Griffin turned the car into a narrow side street, which, probably because a government ministry occupied most of the block, had been cleared of snow. He turned another corner, then pulled up in front of a discreet iron gate that fronted the courtyard of a belle époque apartment with a steep mansard roof. There was no parking out front, but plenty around the corner. They walked back to the apartment, and Griffin opened the gate, its hinges squeaking as they stepped into a narrow courtyard, flanked by a staircase on either side. They took the stairs on the left, which led up to Carter’s fourth floor flat.

  “Is he expecting us?” Griffin asked.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s not,” Sydney replied.

  “All the better.”

  “Why?” she asked, thinking he was taking this very well, considering.

  “To see his reaction. Get a feel for what’s going on. If he’s covering up something or not. If nothing else, he’ll have the answers we need.”

  Made sense, she thought, as they stood outside Carter’s door, painted robin’s egg blue.

  Griffin knocked.

  No answer.

  He knocked again. Nothing. He tried the handle, found it locked, started to turn away, then hesitated. “You hear something?”

  Sydney listened. The sound barely carried through the door. A soft buzz. “Alarm clock?” she said.

  He looked at his watch. “At three in the afternoon?”

  In Sydney’s mind, there was only one reason someone didn’t shut off an alarm. Because one had set it and left, or something prevented one from reaching it.

  Griffin motioned for her to move back. Neither of them had weapons, and normally, when one broke into an apartment, one would want a gun handy.

  Sydney had a sinking feeling, however, that a weapon was totally unnecessary in this instance. And as Griffin kicked the door open, and they stepped in, then walked to the bedroom, she saw her instinct was correct. Reggie Carter, the handler, apparently had never made it out of bed. Hard to do when one was missing half one’s brain.

  Griffin hoped to find some indication of his wife’s existence, even though he knew he’d find nothing. A good handler would never keep evidence on the premises that might jeopardize him or his covert operative. Even so, Griffin made a quick search of the bedroom, riffling through the drawers, hoping to find something. Anything.

  He carefully ran his hand around the edge of the mattress, looking for a slit where one might stash paperwork that would be overlooked in an ordinary search. Coming up empty-handed, he eyed the corpse, figuring the guy hadn’t been dead that long. Probably killed sometime in the night. And if there was anything? Whoever killed him probably took it.

  A professionally staged suicide, with the gun just inches from his right hand. Someone didn’t want him talking, that much was obvious. But talking about what? That Griffin’s wife was alive or that she wasn’t? Or was there something else he knew?

  A distant siren cut his thoughts short. “We better get out of here,” Griffin said. “Careful not to touch anything. You don’t want your prints coming back to this scene.”

  Sydney nodded, started for the door, then stopped by the dining table, looking at something that had fallen to the floor, the corner of ivory paper just visible beneath an antique china cabinet. She bent down, picked it up. “An invitation,” she said.

  Before she had a chance to examine it, Griffin looked out the window, “I think the police are coming up here. Let’s go.”

  She shoved the card in her pocket, then followed him from the room. They took the back stairs, wanting to avoid running into the responding officers, and Griffin didn’t relax until they were safely back in Dumas’s hotel room. It could have been coincidence the gendarmes were called right after their arrival. Then again, maybe not.

  Dumas walked in shortly after they did. “I have news about the police investigation on the shooting in your hotel last night,” he said. “It turns out the deceased would-be robber is wanted for murder in Amsterdam . . . For Faas’s niece.”

  “His true record, or a doctored record?” Griffin asked.

  “His true record. Apparently he was a little sloppy when he climbed out the window after the murder. A pack of cigarettes fell out of his pocket onto the bathroom floor. Detective Van der Lans was able to lift a print off the cellophane.”

  “And where does that leave the investigation here?” Griffin asked Dumas.

  “My contact at the police tells me they’re taking the entire affair at face value—a good thing, since your precarious medical condition precluded the luxury of waiting for a cleanup crew to come out and sterilize the scene. Sydney did a good job of ridding the place of items that might raise questions beyond the robbery scenario she’d concocted. Had the Amsterdam murder case not come out, they might look deeper. As it is, they are not.”

  To which Sydney replied, “The second Amsterdam suspect must be the associate that Bose talked about in his call to Cavanaugh. I wonder if he’s the one who killed Becca’s handler.”

  “Her handler is dead?” Dumas asked.

  Griffin told them what they’d discovered. That was when Sydney pulled out the card she’d found on the floor, saying, “What are the chances?” She handed the paper to Griffin. “Same date, same time as marked on the calendar in the lab. And in a dead CIA agent’s apartment, no less.”

  Griffin examined the cream-colored card, an engraved invitation to the Château d’Montel Winery. “Buyer 9 P.M.” was scrawled across the top. “Hope the two of you don’t have plans for the night.”

  Chapter 61

  December 12

  ATLAS Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  Tex leaned back in his chair, exhausted, ready for a nap even though it was only midmorning when McNiel walked in. “You heard Carillo got Olivia Grogan to agree to a dignitary escort?” Tex asked.

  “Good,” McNiel said. “What about Griffin? You have an update yet?”

  “Sydney said he was out of the hospital, and they were going to follow up on a lead.”

  “What lead?”

  “I gave Dumas the information on Becca’s handler. They’re going to pay him a visit, if they haven’t already. That should at least verify if she really is a working asset and not a figment of someone’s imagination, resurrected from the dead for the sole purpose of leading us like lambs to the slaughter.”

  “I hope not. Thorndike’s last contact with her handler was that LockeStarr had lined up a buyer for their port security data that had been stolen. He was counting on Becca to recover it before it could be sold. Now he’s wondering if even that information is suspect. If she really did steal that virus, it’s hard to imagine she’d be procuring the port security data to bring to us.”

  “You think she was working a double deal? Procure the data and sell it and the virus to the same buyer?”

  “I have no idea what to think. No one’s seen or heard from her that we know of, and there’s only Thorndike’s word that she’s alive, and even that has only been through her handler.”

  “What about the witness and the sketch?” Tex asked. “Petra’s description was on the money.”

  “Petra? As far as we know, she was part of it and they killed
her in case anyone got to her. Or maybe she merely saw someone who looks like Becca—a double they arranged to make it look good. Like the ambush at the French lab, this whole thing could be a setup.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I’m not sure what to believe anymore.” McNiel sat, leaning his head on the back of the chair, clearly as frustrated as Tex was about all this. “The one thought I keep coming back to is what if it is her?”

  “That presents a whole new set of problems. I’ve run it every which way. Let’s say she’s innocent. On the one hand, she and Griffin were getting divorced, so it’s not like she needed to ask Griff for permission to take on this assignment. On the other, playing dead without telling your spouse, even if it is for the good of your country—well, it’s pretty damned low no matter how you spin it. But espionage? I just can’t see her guilty of that. Not the Becca I knew.”

  “Thorndike and I both looked at the information Izzy culled from that computer,” McNiel said. “It’s pretty damning. If she is alive, Thorndike wants her brought in. He can’t depend on her for recovering the port security data from Luc Montel before he sells it. And that’s assuming she’s even on our side.”

  Tex’s phone rang. He picked it up. “Washington Recorder.”

  “Tex?”

  “Griff. Glad to hear you’re okay,” Tex said, dreading the conversation he knew was to come. “McNiel’s here. I’m putting you on speakerphone.” Tex pressed the button, then dropped the phone in the cradle.

  “Griffin,” McNiel said. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve had better nights. I’ll get right to the point. The CIA handler? He’s dead.” Griffin told them what they’d found, including the invitation. “It may have something to do with Becca.”

  McNiel was silent for several seconds, then, “Look, Griffin. There’s no good way to tell you this. Thorndike gave the order to bring Becca in.”

  “She’s alive then?”

  “He has no idea. If she is, he wants her in custody. At all costs. There’s evidence that she stole the virus from Hilliard’s lab and sold it. We’re not sure to whom, but it’s pretty damning. I saw it myself.”

  “How can you believe that? Who would she even sell it to?”

  “Possibly the same buyer to whom Luc intends on selling that port security data. It needs to be recovered at all costs. Thorndike’s asked for our help on that.”

  “When’s the sale supposed to take place?”

  “Tonight. At Luc’s estate in France.”

  “That would explain the invitation we found in the handler’s apartment.”

  “Normally I wouldn’t ask this, but we’re out of options and time. I need you to run it. You’re the closest agent and you know all the particulars.”

  There was a long pause on the other end.

  And McNiel said, “It’ll be hard, but I can send another team, Griffin. It doesn’t have to be you.”

  “No.”

  “After last night, you have to consider this may be a setup.”

  “Can we take a chance that it isn’t?”

  “No.” McNiel visibly relaxed, probably thinking that Griffin was taking this extremely well. Tex wasn’t fooled. He knew Griffin. “How many men do you need? It may be tough to get anyone there, given the short time frame.”

  “Two should suffice. Between them, Dumas, and Fitzpatrick, we can pull this off.”

  “Fitzpatrick is out. Pearson wants her off the case and home.”

  “I’ll let her know, but she tends to be stubborn about these sorts of things.”

  “You let anything happen to her and we’ll be cleaning the latrines for Pearson over at HQ. You do not want to work for me if that happens. Are we clear?”

  “Very.”

  “Fine.” McNiel looked at his watch. “I’ll let Thorndike know about his handler. Keep me informed. And I want updates to Tex every hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tex picked up the phone after McNiel left, saying, “Griff. I’m sorry about Becca. I mean, if it turns out— It’s not like she knew you’d be going out on it, right?”

  “What am I supposed to believe?”

  “What I want to believe. That if she is alive, she’s still one of us.”

  “I’ll let you know if that holds true,” he said, his voice terse. “Call you in an hour.”

  Griffin disconnected, and Tex listened to the dial tone, thinking—hoping like hell—that if Becca was alive, she had not crossed over. Because if she had, if anything happened to Griffin because of her being a double agent, he’d fly over there and kill her himself.

  Chapter 62

  December 12

  Washington, D.C.

  Olivia tucked the tube of lip gloss into her clutch purse, heard it clink against the small bottle of perfume, then snapped it shut. She did not, however, immediately get up from the cushioned stool in front of the mirror, instead she remained there, staring at her reflection for several seconds, fingering her short locks of gray. She’d wanted to color it years ago, but her father insisted that gray hair on a woman of her stature and beauty would be translated as intelligence and wisdom. He’d been right, of course, but it didn’t stem the small streak of vanity running through her, thinking that had she colored it back then, she might have a list of lovers as long as her late husband’s had been. Then again, maybe not. She’d put the Network’s needs above her own for so long, she wasn’t sure she’d even know what to do if she had a strange man in her bed.

  Though an hour away from the actual event, her father was downstairs, and insisted on remaining until after the FBI agent arrived. He hadn’t been happy about the arrangements, but then, there was really nothing they could do.

  If either of them wanted this plan to succeed, they had no choice but to cooperate.

  Standing, she turned in front of the mirror, deciding that the knee-length black velvet gown with its white collar lent the right amount of sophistication and conservatism to someone who had only recently lost her husband, all without detracting from her looks. Satisfied, she left her dressing room and went downstairs to where her father waited.

  He was smoking a cigar on the patio. She opened the French doors, the pungent scent of smoke wafting in with the cold air. “You seem calm.”

  “I am,” he said. “I have every confidence you’ll be able to pull this off.”

  “Even with an FBI agent trailing my every move?”

  “That’s what makes this plan so beautiful. She’ll be so busy looking out for who might be trying to kill you, by the time she realizes what’s going on, it’ll be too late.”

  Chapter 63

  December 12

  Paris, France

  Sydney occupied herself watching TV after Dumas left to get intel on the dead CIA agent, even though what she wanted to do was talk to Griffin about his wife. Not that she dared broach the subject as he sat at the desk, working at the computer, trying to find something on the found invitation that might help them. And so she flicked through the TV channels, unable to understand a word of the rapid French, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible for Griffin’s sake. He might not be showing any outward signs of turmoil, but this entire operation had to be tearing him up, as evidenced by last night when he’d stormed from the room on hearing of his wife’s activities. And that was when Becca was only suspected of espionage. Now they’d moved beyond mere suspicion and wanted her brought in.

  Emotional involvement was never a good mix with any sort of operation, and were she in charge of this, she would have removed Griffin from the team.

  But Syd wasn’t in charge. And all she could do was be here for him, much as he’d been there for her in Rome when she’d been trying to find out who’d killed her friend.

  Besides, there was more to this case than met the eye, the most important fact being that no one they knew ha
d actually seen Becca, and the one man who allegedly had was now dead. So who killed him? Becca to cover her tracks? Or someone else to cover that Becca was never present to begin with? Sydney turned on the bed, propping her head up on her hand, noting the determined look on Griffin’s face as he concentrated on the computer screen. “I can’t help thinking this is a setup. That she’s not really going to be there.”

  He looked at her in the mirror over the desk. “I intend to find out.”

  She waited. He offered nothing further, and though she wanted to ask him what he’d do when—if—he saw her, she didn’t have the guts. What did one say to the spouse you thought had been dead the past couple years? You’re looking good . . . by the way, you still want that divorce?

  And that brought up another thought, one she didn’t want to look at too closely. Was Griffin still in love with Becca?

  A selfish question, she knew, and one she was saved from examining when Griffin said, “I think we can stop wondering if this invitation is legit.”

  Sydney sat up as he turned the computer screen her way, reading the text.

  “ ‘Luc Montel, head of Hilliard and Sons Laboratories, Paris Division, will be present tonight at the Château d’Montel winery.’ Apparently Luc owns the winery and is sponsoring the dinner. A gesture of goodwill among the movers and shakers who make viruses and vaccines. And with them, according to this list, will be a number of foreign and national dignitaries.”

  “We have one invitation and four agents. They’re bound to check IDs at the door, Griffin.”

  “I’m sure they will, which means the invitation is useless, other than it confirms where we’re going. With the dignitaries listed here, they’ll undoubtedly be screening for weapons. But if a couple inept socialites can crash the White House, two spies have an equally good chance of crashing a ball.”

  “You realize I’m not a spy?”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “We’ll make one out of you yet.”

  “Before you start converting me, we’ve got to hit the stores if we’re going to blend in with the haute couture.”