Sherlock raised her hand. “Congresswoman McManus, let me tell you something you obviously do not know. You may not remember Dr. MacLean hypnotizing you and eliciting such a story from you, but know that no confession made under hypnosis would stand up in court, even if it were recorded. The lawyers could tear it down in a matter of moments, if, that is, the judge even allowed it. So you see, there’s no reason to deny being hypnotized by Dr. MacLean.”
There was stony silence. Well, that didn’t work, Sherlock thought.
Savich pulled out his small notebook and settled back in his chair. He asked pleasantly, “So you know nothing about rigging a bomb and putting it on the Cessna you knew Dr. MacLean would be flying in?”
“I know nothing about that! Nothing about the attempts on Dr. MacLean’s miserable life! How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
Savich said, more steel in his voice now, “Would you please tell us your whereabouts on May eighteenth at about three o’clock in the afternoon? That was the afternoon Dr. MacLean was nearly run down by a dark sedan here in Washington.”
She didn’t spew this time. She became quiet and still. Her lips were moving, as if she were whispering a mantra, or ritual words, to get herself back in control. She said, slowly and precisely, spacing her words as if explaining something to an idiot, “I am calling my lawyer. I cannot imagine what you think you’re doing bursting in on a representative in the Congress of the United States of America and conducting yourself in such a manner. I will have both of your jobs for harassing me. If necessary, I will ensure that your supervisors are fired, as well. Do you hear me?”
Sherlock said calmly, “Congresswoman McManus, can you begin to imagine what would happen to your public career if what Dr. MacLean is saying gets out? Just a whiff of it?”
“Now you have the gall to threaten me? You want to ruin me by spreading malicious gossip?”
“No, ma’am, we would not do that. But you know as well as we do that an allegation of that nature, even a mention of it behind someone’s hand, could snowball and ruin you quite effectively.”
Savich raised a hand before she could speak. “We don’t know what the truth is about these matters, ma’am, but we felt it our duty to inform you of these allegations.”
The door opened and Nicole Merril stepped in.
Obviously McManus had pressed a call button.
“Please see these people out, Nicole.” She rose slowly, stared at them both with cold assassin eyes. “If you wish to speak to me again, you may not. You will speak only with my lawyer. Nicole will give you her name. If any of this absurd conversation leaks to the media, I will come after you personally. Good day.”
After Savich fired up his Porsche, he turned to Sherlock. She saw he was grinning like a loon.
“That was more fun than outshooting you at the firing range. I guess that does it for our popularity with her at this point. You think she’s running scared? Or is she planning our destruction?”
Sherlock said, “Oh, we got her all stirred up, that’s for sure. And yes, she’s scared. I could feel the tension pouring off her.” Sherlock leaned her head back against the Porsche’s soft-as-sin leather seat, closed her eyes.
Savich said as he turned into traffic, “Let’s have some lunch, then pay a visit to Pierre Barbeau and his charming wife. I think we’re on a roll.” He nodded to the agent parked down the street. “I wish we could tap her phone. But at least we’ll know if she meets up with somebody.”
Sherlock smiled when the wind tore through her hair as the Porsche swerved gracefully around a big honking SUV.
THIRTY-FIVE
Sherlock said, “Remember how Sean was whooping and hollering, grabbed our hands and pulled us ‘round and ‘round that maypole at DuPont Circle?” Savich shot her a grin as he passed the circle and smoothly turned right off New Hampshire Avenue NW onto Eiger Street.
She was still smiling when they drove by the very ritzy modern condo building where the Barbeaus lived. “I guess I was expecting another huge Georgian set back in a beautiful yard. Although now that I think about it, is it possible their being French makes a difference?”
Savich laughed as he parked the Porsche a half block down, not far from one of the South American embassies. He gave Sherlock a grin, leaned over and kissed her. “You taste like the cheddar cheese from your taco.” He lightly rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. He then ran his fingers through her tangled hair, his fault, she’d told him long ago, whenever she rode with him in the Porsche.
He sat back to admire his handiwork. She said, “You sure no one can tell I was riding in a convertible at wind-tunnel speeds?”
“Nah,” he said, “you’re perfect.”
They looked over the immaculate grounds, at the blooming flowers planted in heavy ceramic pots and wooden flower boxes lining the walkways, everything swept and clean, the grass meticulously mowed. The sun was bright overhead and it seemed to Sherlock that the petunias and purple rhododendron were stretching up to reach it. She thought her deep red rhododendron at home was more brilliant.
“Maybe there’s something to having someone do all the work for you. Everything’s got a high shine.”
Savich shook his head. “I like to sweat over my own lawn mower.”
“A doorman, now isn’t that uptown? And he’s even wearing a spiffy uniform. I believe those are Green Bay’s colors.”
“The French National Police can’t cover much of this expense,” Savich said. “Lucky for him that his income is nicely subsidized by the large number of euros in Mrs. Barbeau’s bank accounts.”
“Her family is big into train construction and maintenance throughout Europe,” Sherlock said, as they walked up the flagstone walkway to the glass-fronted building. “At least we know Pierre Barbeau didn’t work today. You think he’s lying low?”
“Maybe. I heard he and his wife haven’t been seen much. They’re still torn up about their son’s death,” Savich said.
The doorman glittered in his green-and-gold uniform. He was startled, clearly, when Savich showed him their FBI creds, but he recovered quickly. “You wish to see the Barbeaus?”
“Yes, please give them a buzz,” Sherlock said. “We know they’re both home.”
When they stepped out of the elevator on the ninth and top floor, it was onto pristine gold-white marble. The Barbeaus’ condo occupied half of the floor.
On the second ring of the doorbell, they heard the sharp click of heels. A young woman, her complexion swarthy as a pirate’s, and wearing, of all things, a classic French maid’s black-and-white uniform, opened the door. She was a bit out of breath.
“Qui? May I help you?”
As she stepped forward, Sherlock wondered if the maid was the real French deal, or if she was amusing herself. Sherlock pulled out her ID. “I’m sure the doorman called up. As you see, we are FBI. We would like to see Mr. and Mrs. Barbeau.”
The young woman turned quickly and disappeared through an arched doorway to the left. She immediately came back, heels loud and sharp on the marble floor, her face flushed. She apologized for leaving them in the entryway, and showed them into the starkly modern, entirely white living room. Savich hated white on white, but the view of all the historic residences through the floor-to-ceiling windows was very nice indeed. He saw his Porsche hugging the curb, boxed in now by a Beemer and a Mercedes, royalty, to his mind, surrounded by minions.
A good five minutes passed before Pierre Barbeau and his wife, Estelle, appeared in the doorway, both wearing casual chic, which for her meant tight designer jeans, a jeweled belt, and a silk blouse, and for Pierre, a short-sleeved golf shirt, black pants, and Italian loafers. He was holding a Diet Coke. Mrs. Barbeau looked like a thoroughbred—thin, sharp bones, the angle of her head arrogant, her chin high, and she stood straight and tall. She knew her own worth, Savich thought, and her opinion of her own worth was very high indeed. He looked more closely and saw the pain in her dark eyes, the new lines etched around her mouth. How fragile
she looked in her expensive clothes. There was no doubt in his mind the woman was hurting.
Pierre Barbeau looked exhausted, like he was slowly bleeding, the life draining out of him. His black eyes were sunken and shadowed, his flesh loose on his face. There was no way this man could have planned and executed an escape for his son, not with his ravaged face and dead eyes. Pierre Barbeau looked like an old man who no longer cared about anything. He said as he paused in the doorway, “Tommy from downstairs told us two FBI agents were here. I do not understand. What would the FBI want to speak to us about?” Neither he nor Mrs. Barbeau appeared to want names or a handshake, which was fine by Savich.
Savich said pleasantly, “I believe you are both acquainted with Dr. Timothy MacLean?” He didn’t move from where he and Sherlock stood by a corner window that looked back toward DuPont Circle over the roofs of a dozen historic buildings.
Because Pierre Barbeau’s face was already stark with misery, Savich saw only a small change at the mention of MacLean’s name. He looked like he wanted to spit in contempt, but wasn’t able to dial it up. He sneered instead. As for Mrs. Barbeau, there was instant dagger-cold viciousness in her eyes, her hatred for Timothy instantly overcoming her grief. Savich didn’t want to, but he knew he should fan that hatred if he wanted to find out the truth as quickly as possible. They walked slowly into the living room and sat together on a white sofa, Pierre still clutching the Diet Coke. Savich and Sherlock sat opposite them.
Pierre Barbeau squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, but not to the same arrogant height as his wife’s, and kept his sneer in place. He said, his voice low, an old man’s tremor sliding through it, “Dr. MacLean? Well, yes, both my wife and I have known Timothy and Molly for many years now, but in reality who can you ever really know?” He shrugged. “Oh, we were friends, shared meals, talked about our families, our children ...” He swallowed, and his hand trembled when he brought up the Coke can to rub his cheek. To wipe away tears he knew could roll down his face any moment? “We knew their children, they knew Jean David.”
If Sherlock closed her eyes and only heard him speak, she’d have thought he sounded very sexy with that lovely accent, not so heavy that he sounded like a cartoon to an American ear. But looking at him, she saw a man utterly beaten down, like Atlas, holding the weight of the world, but ready to drop it.
“Yes, we are acquaintances,” Estelle said, her accent more pronounced. “Most everyone in our circle is acquainted with him. I will instruct Lissy to bring us coffee.”
“We’re fine, Mrs. Barbeau,” Savich said. He watched them exchange a look, then move closer together—protection from more bad news?
Pierre said, “Now, what is this about? What is it I can tell you about Tim—Dr. MacLean?”
Savich said, “You visited Dr. MacLean at his office and told him your son had passed on classified information to a terrorist organization and then two CIA operatives were killed. You asked him if he would provide a psychological defense for your son. Dr. MacLean told you he could not do this, it was both unethical and illegal. He advised that your son turn himself in immediately or he would be constrained to go to the authorities himself since there were more lives at risk.
“You did not want to hear this—understandable, since Jean David was your son.
“A week later your son drowned in the Potomac. You went out despite a bad-weather advisory—winds, rain, fog. When the storm turned violent, you became ill. You said you and Jean David headed back to shore, but you didn’t make it. A speedboat rammed your boat, not seeing you in the thickening fog. You went overboard, and your son went in to save you. The people on the speedboat did what they could. You were rescued but your son wasn’t. Is that what happened, sir?”
“Yes, it is what happened,” Pierre said. “His body still hasn’t been recovered.”
“We know. We’re very sorry. We are here because there have been a total of three attempts on Dr. MacLean’s life. Are you responsible for the attempts, Mr. Barbeau?”
Pierre looked as if he’d been kicked in the stomach, his pale face flushed a dull red. He jumped to his feet and began pacing in front of them, his hands twisting the Coke can. He yelled, “Timothy Mac-Lean is a monster! He’s never understood what it’s like to live in a foreign country where everything is different, everything you do is questioned and doubted, everyone thinks differently and despises you for what you think, and there is always a rush to judgment. I did not wish to believe this of him, but it is true. Timothy was fully prepared to slander my son’s good name, our good name! He is the one who should be in your American jail—not my son, not Jean David, who is now dead because of that man, who was supposedly our friend. Kill him? Gladly, but I did not.”
“Mr. Barbeau,” Sherlock said, “we appreciate that you would feel very strongly about this, that you are grieving. You assured Dr. MacLean that Jean David had no way of knowing the woman he was involved with fronted for a terrorist group headquartered in Damascus, and that she passed classified information to them that he had given her.
“I’m happy to tell you that two days ago, Homeland Security arrested her and most if not all of her associates, a lovely present to our country that Dr. MacLean helped make possible. She has admitted to seducing your son, to manipulating him to get information for her terrorist group.”
“Yes, we heard of the arrests, naturally,” Estelle said, dismissal in her voice, “but I paid no particular attention because that has nothing at all to do with us or France. This woman—it does not matter what lies she tells.”
Estelle rose to stand beside her husband. “None of this had anything to do with Jean David—nothing, do you hear me? He was an innocent boy, and whatever happened, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t. Don’t you understand? Our son is dead.”
Savich realized he’d thought Pierre Barbeau a strong suspect in the attempts on MacLean’s life, but not now, not after meeting him, watching him, listening to him. This man looked shattered, he looked ready to bury himself in his misery.
MacLean was right. If anyone in this family was trying to off him, it was Estelle Barbeau. Her grief was as great and as consuming as her husband’s, but there was violence and promise in her eyes. She said, her voice calmer now, more conciliatory, “This is very painful for us, Agent Savich. I do not know why you wish to dredge it up. My husband told you we had nothing to do with any attempts on Dr. MacLean’s life. So what is your point? What do you want? Our son is dead, he is beyond your silly American laws.”
“Silly?” Sherlock couldn’t help herself, she lost it. “I wonder how silly you would consider our laws if a terrorist group blew up the Eiffel Tower.”
Estelle flipped her hand. “But such a thing would not happen. We live in peace with our Muslim countrymen.”
Now that was a claim that wouldn’t bear scrutiny.
Savich took a breath and said, “Mrs. Barbeau, if you would please give us your whereabouts on these two dates.” He looked down at his notebook to confirm the dates when Estelle rode right over him.
“Our son is beyond any pain you would inflict upon him for his youthful lapse in judgment. He was a boy, only a boy, an idealist, and a woman trapped him. An old story, to be sure, a tried-and-true one that will happen again and again. Jean David is dead. Let him and his name rest in peace. I hope Dr. MacLean dies. He should die, but neither of us is responsible for any attempts on his worthless life. How many times must we tell you that?”
Savich said, “The most recent attempt put him in the hospital.”
Pierre looked bewildered, Savich thought, no mistaking it. “You honestly believe that Estelle or I would try to kill Tim—Dr. MacLean? That is nonsense, absolute nonsense. Yes, we blame him for Jean David’s death, but to actually try three times to kill him? That is absurd. Your FBI is absurd.”
Sherlock said, “On the contrary, it makes a great deal of sense, sir. There is your belief that he is responsible and there is revenge. And what would happen if Dr. MacLean decided to go public
with your son’s activities?
“If this became known, would you still be received at embassy functions here in Washington? In New York? What about your job here?
“Indeed, sir, I can’t imagine you could have happily continued your career with the French National Police. Tell me, sir, did you imagine what it would be like to return to France to face your family and friends, all of them knowing what your son did? Could you imagine bearing that? Could you imagine your wife bearing that?”
It was too much, and Sherlock wanted to kick herself. If they were innocent, she had caused needless pain for these grieving parents.
Estelle waved a fist at them, the diamonds glittering madly off a huge ring on her right hand. “You listen to me. What our son did or did not do, none of it is important any longer. Jean David is dead, do you hear me? He is dead! All his thoughts, his deeds, his beliefs dead, drowned in a tragic accident—your damned Coast Guard couldn’t even find him! And none of it would have happened if Dr. MacLean had kept quiet, as a doctor is supposed to do.
“Let me tell you, doctors in France are discreet, they do not preach. They do not make threats or issue ultimatums! But here? Obviously nothing is sacred here. The ethics of your American doctors, well, they have none, their behavior is inexcusable.”
THIRTY-SIX
Someone found out that Timothy had spoken to his friend Arthur Dolan, and Dolan conveniently died. A coincidence? Savich didn’t believe in coincidence. But how could the Barbeaus have found out about it?
He said, “You are right that Dr. MacLean spoke to several people about your son. Are either of you interested in knowing why Dr. MacLean betrayed your confidence?” Savich studied their faces as he spoke. Estelle’s face was frozen in rage; Pierre looked like he didn’t care, only wanted the earth to open up beneath his feet so he could slip away.
Estelle said, “We are not interested in any paltry excuses. The man is an abomination. We want you to leave now. We have nothing more to say.” She jumped to her feet. Her husband, however, remained seated, rolling the Diet Coke can between his hands.
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