by Vince Flynn
Kennedy nodded.
“The third man was polite. He was dark-skinned, but his French was much better than that of the other two. His name was Max. They started talking about the murders at the hotel. Fournier said to one of the angry men . . . I can’t remember his name but it is in my notes. He said, ‘You came here to kill one man and now I have nine bodies to deal with.’ Fournier said, ‘I gave you this assassin on a silver platter and you fucked it up so badly I spent the entire day cleaning up your mess.’ ”
“You were there while they talked about this?” Kennedy asked.
“No.” De Fleury smiled. “They were in the crypt. I was above them, in the church. There is a vent that carries their voice as clear as day to one of the confessionals.”
Kennedy nodded and said, “Please continue.”
“Things became very heated, with the terrorists blaming Fournier for setting them up and Fournier blaming them for ruining their best chance to kill this assassin. Fournier blamed this Samir, that was his name, for killing three innocent civilians as he was leaving the hotel.”
Kennedy and Stansfield shared a quick look and then turned their attention back to de Fleury.
“They threatened Fournier, and he threatened to drown them in the ocean. That was when they said that Libya might begin to divert some of its oil and that maybe they would start setting off bombs in France again. Fournier laughed at them and told them he’d hand the files he had on them over to the assassin and he would hunt them all down. They threatened to inform his bosses. Fournier told them his bosses knew all about their arrangement. It went round and round like that until the one named Max stepped in. Then they talked about the assassin some more and the crime scene.” De Fleury’s eyes became unfocused, and he looked at the far wall for a moment. “After that . . . I can’t really remember what they said.” His eyes focused again and he looked at Kennedy, saying, “It’s all in my report. I checked it several times. It’s all there.” He nodded. “It’s just not all up here anymore.” De Fleury tapped his head with a near translucent finger.
Kennedy didn’t realize it, but her mouth was hanging open in disbelief. She blinked several times and then looked down at the papers in her hands and quickly shuffled through them. There were eight handwritten pages, all in beautiful flowing cursive. They felt like the greatest gift she’d ever received. Everything Rapp had said was true. “Thank you, Monsignor.”
“And that,” Rollie Smith said in a jovial voice, “is why we share information.”
CHAPTER 41
PAUL Fournier was reclining on his office couch with a cold compress on his forehead, his top shirt button undone, his tie loosened, and his shoes and jacket off. He rarely had headaches, but this morning was an exception, so he’d just taken three Extra Strength Tylenol and told his number two, Pierre Mermet, that he was not to be disturbed. Fournier had worked through the night trying to manage the damage that had been done. One dead agent and another in critical condition was not good. His bosses were going to be extremely upset. If a DGSE agent was killed abroad, no one batted an eye. If one was gunned down on a Sunday night in Paris, however, it was a big embarrassment for a lot of people.
The press was going to be asking a lot of questions, and Fournier did not like talking to reporters, at least en masse. They were too unruly, too hard to manipulate when they were in a feeding frenzy. One on one was his preferred method. He found them incredibly easy to manipulate. So many of them were insecure and in constant need of validation. He’d slept with more than a few of the female reporters in Paris and had stayed on good terms with them.
Fournier played out every conceivable development. The key would be to keep the police confused, and his play with the minister of defense would go a long way in slowing the police down. Having Neville removed from the case would send a message to all of the other investigators that they needed to be careful where they stepped. The case would take on the aura of a place where careers went to die. He was amazed at Neville and her naïve ways. He had hoped she would be smarter, but in the end she had asked for it.
At least in that regard, Fournier was pleased with himself. The bigger issue would be the CIA. He had surveillance photos of Hurley and his goons entering the country and driving to the very street where the shootings had taken place. Fournier’s orders to have his men follow them were completely within the charter of the Directorate. They were not monitoring French citizens, they were keeping an eye on foreign intelligence assets who had entered the country a little more than twelve hours after the massacre at the hotel.
The delicate part for Fournier would be withholding that information, so he could use it as leverage with the CIA. Turning the photo of the dead American agent over to the police would be a waste. If he could keep it private he could force the CIA to make some concessions and a fairly sizable cash transfer as well. They would be left with no choice, once presented with the photos of Hurley and his men. The conclusion was obvious. The DGSE men were not shot by some local criminals. They were too good for that. It was Hurley’s trained assassins who had been involved in the shootout. Fournier had other questions as well. Why were Hurley’s men on that particular street? Who were they looking for? Was it possible that it was the American assassin? Fournier had been working very hard for the past year to learn the man’s real identity. The closest he had come was a list of targets. His source either didn’t know the assassin’s identity or was playing him for better terms. His two men being shot would change all of that.
Fournier and his source shared the same pragmatic opinion: that it was not good for either America or France to have a killer poking the volatile nests of terrorists who ringed the Mediterranean. Fournier had deftly managed the moods and fanatical beliefs of the various groups, with one goal in mind—to keep the carnage out of France. His superiors, all the way up to the president, had given either silent approval or verbal commitments to the plan. As to the tidy sum he had collected along the way, no one in government would begrudge him for that. Even some in the press would understand, but none of them would ever find out. Fournier was convinced he’d covered his tracks. There was no way anyone would be able to find his money.
Fournier was thinking of his next move when his assistant burst through the door without knocking.
“You’re going to want to see this.” Mermet went straight for the TV and a few seconds later the TV showed a room full of reporters asking questions.
Fournier removed the cold compress from his head and turned his attention to the TV. The screen was filled with the charming face of Francine Neville. Questions were being shouted in the background and Neville was nodding.
“Yes, that is correct,” she said. “I have been removed from the case that I was assigned to barely forty-eight hours ago.”
“You’re talking about the murders at the Hotel Balzac.”
“That’s correct. Shortly after my investigators arrived at the crime scene, several DGSE employees showed up. One of them was Paul Fournier, who runs the Special Action Division for the Directorate. You’re going to want to make sure you write that name down . . . Paul Fournier. I thought it was strange that he was there, but he told me that the death of the Libyan oil minister was very much the business of the Directorate. He and several of his men had access to the crime scene for a little over an hour. The next day we discovered that certain key pieces of evidence were missing from the crime scene. We had reason to believe that it was one of Fournier’s men who took the evidence. I informed Mr. Fournier that I wanted to talk to this man, as well as several other people associated with the case.” She paused. “Thus far Mr. Fournier has proven to be very uncooperative.
“Yesterday I informed my boss, Prefect Mutz, that I needed to meet with him this morning to discuss the fact that the Directorate was interfering with a police investigation. When I arrived in his office a short while ago, Director General of Police Jacques Gisquet and Minister of the Interior Pierre Blot were in attendance. I took this as a positive
sign that they were taking my accusations seriously. I soon found out that they were there for an entirely different reason. Minister of the Interior Blot had received a call last night from the minister of defense, who said he was in possession of a very detailed file that claimed I have been stalking and sexually harassing Paul Fournier for several years.” She paused again and looked around the room, giving the reporters a chance to catch up. “Full disclosure . . . Mr. Fournier and I dated briefly four years ago and we parted amicably. In the years since then I have married and have two beautiful children. I have not seen nor have I spoken to Mr. Fournier during this time. Somehow, though, this file contains statements from three women who claim I was threatened by their relationship with Fournier and that I stalked them.
“When I asked to see this file, I was told by Minister Blot that he had not seen the file, but he and the minister of defense had decided it would be best for the short term if I was removed from the case. In all my years with the police I have never been removed from a case. I have not received so much as a tiny mark against me. I am routinely ranked among the top commandants by my peers and I am often given very high-profile cases. I demanded to see the file and was told that was not going to happen. That the best thing for my career would be to simply step aside and let someone else handle the investigation. I was not given a choice in the matter, so I am stepping aside, but I am not going to do so quietly. I’m going to file an official complaint, and I want to see this fabricated file that Mr. Fournier used to con the minister of defense. And I’m also asking all of you to look into the Directorate’s involvement in this case. Their charter is to operate outside France, not to manipulate and interfere with police investigations here in Paris.”
A reporter shouted, “Can you confirm that two Directorate agents were involved in a gunfight in Montparnasse last night?”
Neville paused for an instant and then said, “Yes, I can. One of the agents was killed, and the other one I’m told is in critical but stable condition at a local hospital.”
The room erupted with questions coming from dozens of reporters. After about ten seconds Neville held up her hands and quieted the group. “I suggest you track down Mr. Fournier and ask him your questions. He is probably sitting in his office at the Directorate’s headquarters at 141 Boulevard Mortier plotting his next deception.”
Fournier was now up sitting on the edge of the couch. His eyes were locked on the TV as Neville stepped from behind the podium and left the room. He could hear his phone ringing from across the office but he made no effort to see who was calling. His mind was racing to find a way to limit the damage done by the stupid bitch. If she’d only just taken her banishment with grace he could have spared her the public embarrassment he’d now have to put her through. He quickly decided he could weather this minor storm. It would come down to he said she said, and he could provide fake evidence from now until the end of time. Neville had made a drastic miscalculation.
A woman with a flustered expression poked her head in the outer door and said, “Sir, the minister of defense is on line one and the director is on line two. They both want to speak with you immediately. They seem very upset.”
Fournier looked at Mermet, who merely shrugged. Fournier turned to his secretary and said, “I’ll speak to the minister first. Tell the director I’ll call him back as soon as I can.” Fournier rose from the couch and felt his headache begin stabbing at his temples. He picked up the handset on his desk, punched line one, and started to lie.
CHAPTER 42
THE interrogation room was used most often for debriefing assets, but occasionally it had been used for rougher stuff. The walls were painted off white and the floors were plain concrete. A six-by-four-foot metal table was anchored in the center of the room. Hurley sat on one side and Victor on the other. As much as Stansfield was inclined to authorize the screws being put to Victor, he thought there was a better way to proceed, so he calmly looked through the one-way glass and watched Stan Hurley walk Victor through the events of the last fourteen hours.
Kennedy approached the glass and said, “Sir, I think you need to hear what Thomas has to say.”
Stansfield looked at Kennedy and nodded. Dr. Lewis joined them at the glass and asked, “Have you been reading all of my reports?”
“Most of them.”
With a thorough man like Stansfield, that meant that either his reports had ceased to be important or that he was swamped with other work. Lewis took this in stride. “Have you read my most recent reports on Victor?”
“No.” Stansfield watched Victor’s face and listened to his voice as it was played over the ceiling speakers.
“Bramble, or Victor as most of the men call him, has become increasingly difficult to deal with.”
“Most of the people in this outfit are difficult to deal with,” Stansfield said without a hint of humor. “But continue.”
“He is not well liked.”
“I assume you mean by Mitch.”
“Yes, and pretty much by everyone else.”
“That’s not true,” Stansfield interjected. “Stan and Victor get along fine.”
“That’s because Victor is his trained dog,” Kennedy said.
“And Stan would say the same thing about you and Mitch.”
“Victor and Mitch are very different people.” Looking at Lewis she said, “Explain.”
Lewis nodded and turned his focus on Stansfield. “In my last report I outlined several serious concerns about Victor. I have noticed an extensive contempt and abuse of the rights of others. He is deceitful and lies to his colleagues with ease, especially if it will lead to his own personal gain. He is extremely irritable and aggressive and is prone to fighting even at the least hint of a slight. He has a reckless disregard for the safety of others, often manifesting itself in practical jokes that only he finds humorous. He shows almost no remorse when he hurts one of the recruits . . . in fact I think he takes a perverse joy in inflicting pain on others.”
Stansfield drummed his fingers on the ledge in front of the glass for a second. “You just described a good portion of the men I’ve worked with over the years,” he lamented.
Lewis cleared his throat. “On the surface it may sound like that, and you undoubtedly have worked with many tough men who share one or two of these qualities, Stan being chief among them, but I can assure you, there are seven traits that outline antisocial personality disorder and Victor has all seven.”
Stansfield looked away from the interrogation and regarded the doctor. “How many does Stan have?”
“Three . . . maybe four.”
“And me?” Stansfield asked with a straight face.
“Only one,” Lewis said, and then with a slight smile he said, “but then again I would need more time to properly observe you . . . but I wouldn’t worry. As a general rule you need to have at least four of the traits to be classified with the disease.”
“And Mitch, how many does he have?”
“Just one or two.”
“This assessment of yours . . . how serious is it?”
“Very.”
“And you’re confident that if I brought in someone else for a second opinion that person would reach the same conclusions.”
“Very confident.”
“Can this problem be resolved with treatment?”
Lewis waffled for a second and then shook his head. “It would take a great deal of time and effort and the patient would have to be willing.”
Looking through the glass Stansfield asked, “And do you think Victor would be willing to undergo treatment?”
“No.”
Stansfield stared through the glass and said, “Stan’s not going to like this.”
“No he isn’t, but he’s blind to the realities of the problem. This is far bigger than Stan and who he likes or dislikes. I put all of this in my report. People like Victor are extremely volatile. They usually end up in jail, or financially ruined, or both.”
Stansfield stepped b
ack from the glass. “We don’t recruit Boy Scouts to this work. You two both know that. The Boy Scouts are all over at the FBI. We need guys who are willing to bend the rules . . . do certain things that your average mentally stable individual would never consider.”
Lewis nodded and said, “And you hired me to keep an eye on things . . . to make sure we have guys who know not to cross certain lines, and I’m telling you Victor will cross any line as long as it helps him get what he wants.”
“You know I called Stan last night and I told him to pull Victor and his team?”
Lewis nodded.
“Victor claims they were in the process of packing up when Rapp sent in the decoy.”
“I’m aware.”
“Do you believe him?”
Lewis measured his response. “I’m not sure I believe anything Victor says.”
“Anything else?”
“It’s one thing to have him down at the farm brutalizing recruits . . . but turning him loose in Paris . . .” Lewis shook his head. “That was a bad idea.”
“And why didn’t you bring this to my attention sooner?”
“I did put much of this in my most recent report.”
Stansfield turned his cold, gray, calculating eyes on the doctor. “I receive a lot of reports. Why didn’t you come to me?”
Lewis sighed and said, “I wasn’t there when he was recruited, but over the past year, I’ve grown increasingly concerned. And then there’s Stan to consider.”
“What about him?”
“The two of you are very loyal to each other.”
“We have a history, Tom, but I know how Stan ticks.”
“Permission to be brutally honest, sir?”
