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“Jeremy!” he cries out. “So you’ve made it.” He gives Jeremy a two-handed pumping handshake—I half expect to see the traditional kiss on the cheeks, but maybe Jeremy is too Anglo-Saxon for that. Jeremy pulls away and says, “Amy, may I introduce Victor Martin, with the DGSE. Victor, Amy Cornwall, from our counterparts at Langley, and prior to that a captain in the American Army, in intelligence affairs.”
The DGSE is the General Directorate for External Security, or as they say in these parts,la Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure.Victor approaches me, I hold out my hand, and he gives it a quick shake.
“Amy,” he says. “Charmed.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “This is my first time in France.”
“I trust you’ll enjoy it.”
Victor then steps back, gestures to the two vehicles—Peugeot sedans—and says, “This way, s’il vous plaît.We have a briefing arranged that’s only ten minutes away.”
We start walking and the muscle up ahead splits into groups of two, each going to one of the Peugeots. As we move along, Victor and Jeremy hang back, and I overhear a brief conversation in French between the two.
“Who is she again?”
“American CIA paramilitary.”
“Why is she here?”
“She’s helping me hunt Rashad.”
“A woman? Jeremy, please—let me handle this.”
“No, she stays with me.”
“Why?”
“Because I promised. And because I need her.”
We get to the Peugeots and Victor gestures to the lead car and says, “Madame Amy, if you wish, you can enter the lead vehicle, and we will be right behind you.”
I open the door to the second Peugeot. “I wish to ride with Jeremy.”
Victor purses his lips. “It will be crowded.”
I wait for Jeremy to enter before me. “We won’t mind.”
Actually, it is crowded with the three of us—me, Jeremy, and the French intelligence officer—shoved into the rear seat, but I don’t care, even if my pistol is digging into my right ribs. But I don’t move or shift or do anything to display that I might be uncomfortable, not in front of these two men.
Even though I’m being shoehorned in, the ride is comfortable—much more comfortable than I’ve been used to in the last few days, bouncing around in up-armored Humvees, the interior all metal and sharp edges. As we race along a wide expanse of runway, passing aprons holding Lockheed C-130 Hercules four-engine transport aircraft, Victor says, “Where is Oliver? Is he on his way to London?”
“No,” Jeremy says, the words simple but as hard as iron. “Oliver is dead.”
“Oh, Jeremy. My condolences.”
“He was beheaded.”
Victor shakes his head, says a brief prayer in French.
I keep quiet, and so does Jeremy.
Exactly ten minutes later the two Peugeots pass through the wide-open doors of an aircraft hangar and park near three Puma helicopters, their blades secured to landing struts. We climb out of the cars and the muscle goes ahead of us, to an office at the right side of the building. Everywhere there are large signs sayingNE PAS FUMER.
Victor leads us in and there’s a desk on one side, a cluster of phones and computer terminals, and nearby, a conference table. Three young men in slacks, white shirts, and neckties are sitting in front of the terminals. The muscle takes up positions near the door and in the corners of the room. On the other side of the room is…
What?
Yeah.
