“We’ll see,” Adele said, sweetly. Then she got to her feet, stretching her long legs as she did and rolling her shoulders.
John, still staring at her, hadn’t noticed the shadow approaching from the other side. He jolted like a scalded cat as the door to the executive’s office opened.
Foucault glanced out in the hall. He looked up at the tall agent, frowning, then turned his attention to Adele. “Agent Sharp,” he said, “join me, if you please.”
Adele brushed past John, looking up and winking at him before following Foucault into the office. The door shut with a quiet rattle of glass.
Adele suppressed her smile at John’s startled reaction. It took her a moment to quell the satisfaction, but she finally turned to face Foucault’s desk. To her surprise, he wasn’t the only one in the room.
The TV screen was on behind him, depicting the face of Agent Lee from back in San Francisco. Additionally, the same woman from before—the one from Interpol, was standing by Foucault’s desk with a phone in one hand and a paper file in the other. The large woman eyed Adele from behind thin glasses, her intelligent eyes twinkling.
Foucault was now sitting in his chair, peering across the desk at Adele. Both the chair and the desk seemed perfectly proportioned to suit the DGSI executive’s frame.
Adele felt a sudden flash of embarrassment at her choice in footwear.
For a moment, Foucault frowned, glancing down at Adele’s slippers, but before he could say anything, Agent Lee spoke from the TV screen.
“Hey, Sharp,” she said. “I hear you’re doing good things across the pond!”
Adele smiled at her friend and gave a little wave. “Can’t complain,” she replied. “How are things stateside?”
Agent Lee nodded and flashed a thumbs-up. “Same ol’. I’ve been hearing some interesting thoughts from Ms. Jayne, here, though…”
Adele glanced at the Interpol correspondent, who had lowered the paper file and was studying Adele with a look of quiet contemplation.
For a moment, Adele felt a flash of nerves. Had she done something wrong? She cycled back through the events in Germany. The killer had died before EMS had arrived—perhaps that’s what this was about. Surely they weren’t questioning the self-defense nature of the killer’s wounds. She opened her mouth, preparing to defend herself, but before she could speak, the correspondent identified simply as Ms. Jayne, spoke first, “I’d like to offer you a job,” she said.
Adele closed her mouth, her eyebrows inching slightly up. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”
Ms. Jayne spoke in crisp, precise tones, and, without a hint of impatience, she repeated, “I would like to offer you a job.”
Adele stammered, “I-I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Foucault cleared his throat. “Look, Agent Sharp, I’m sorry for calling you in on your vacation, but as I promised on the phone, this won’t take long. Ms. Jayne here works, as I’m sure you’ve gathered—”
“For Interpol.” Adele nodded.
“Yes,” said Ms. Jayne. Her clear, crisp tones were devoid of any accent whatsoever. The occupants in the room spoke English, likely for Agent Lee’s benefit, but Ms. Jayne had the sort of voice that suggested while she wasn’t a native English speaker, she had perfected the craft. She continued, “Well, you’ll need to come with me to our headquarters in Lyon, once you return for work, and we’ll iron out the details there. For now, I’m simply looking for a verbal commitment to take back to my supervisors. They’re, of course, fully apprised of the idea.”
Adele glanced from the DGSI executive, to the FBI supervisor and back to the Interpol correspondent. “I’m still not sure I understand. What job?” she said.
“Ah, yes,” said Ms. Jayne. She rubbed her thumbs in small circles on the back of the paper file, in a sort of soothing motion. “You are uniquely positioned, Adele. Interpol has realized this. As a citizen of three countries, coupled with your involvement with multiple agencies, you’re a prime candidate for a program we’ve been working on.”
Adele stared, stunned. Agent Lee and Foucault were both watching her, motionless, as if waiting for her reaction.
“What program?” Adele said, her throat suddenly dry. She really wished she hadn’t worn the slippers now.
“A special license,” said Ms. Jayne, her head bobbing. “An experimental license to operate as a domestic agent in all three countries.” Her expression remained the same, her tone held only polite, matter-of-fact delivery.
And yet, Adele felt her heart skip a beat. “You mean like the CIA?” she asked.
But Ms. Jayne shook her head. “No. Rather, you’d be working as a shared resource between the United States, France, and Germany. You would be consulted whenever it is suspected that a relevant case has an international component. Do you understand?”
Adele paused. She glanced again between the three supervisors, not quite believing her ears. She frowned, studying the carpet beneath her feet for a moment, but then glanced back up.
They seemed to be waiting for something, though, and the silence stretched, occupying the space for a moment.
“Well?” Ms. Jayne said, at last, tilting her head ever so slightly.
“Well, what?” Adele said.
“Are you interested in the position? You are still welcome to your vacation—seven days, correct? And well deserved, of course. But your verbal agreement will allow me to start setting things in motion on our end; understand?”
Adele hesitated again. She glanced toward the screen with Agent Lee and met her friend’s quiet, encouraging smile. She glanced at Foucault; his lips were pursed and he carried an air of solemnity, watching her, waiting for her decision.
“I…” she began, thinking. “I think I’d like to,” she said, slowly. More time overseas meant more time around Robert. Around, even, John… And, perhaps, a chance to track down her mother’s killer. She said none of this though. Instead, she said, “But on one condition.”
Foucault was smiling as if washed in a wave of relief, but the expression became rather fixed at this last part. Ms. Jayne folded her hands. “If it is a matter of compensation, I assure you—”
“Not that,” said Adele, quickly shaking her head. As she spoke, her words came quicker, and she nodded at each one, uttering them with conviction. “I’ll do it, but only if Robert Henry is hired as a consultant. I’ll need people I can trust; he was my mentor at the DGSI, and he’s traveled his fair share too.”
Ms. Jayne frowned and Executive Foucault began to shake his head. He glanced up at the Interpol correspondent. “Agent Henry is of an older generation,” Foucault said, clearing his throat. “He’s been instrumental in the early days of the agency. But now, the direction we’ve been taking it, perhaps it might be better to—”
Adele frowned. “Exactly. If you don’t need him anymore, then I do.” She turned back to Ms. Jayne, nodding once. “I’ll do it—I’ll come to Lyon tomorrow, if that’s what you want. But first, you have to give me assurance that Robert will be involved. If it’s an issue of salary, you can take it out of mine.”
Executive Foucault looked ready to protest again, but Ms. Jayne spoke over him at the mention of salary. “Done,” she said, simply. “I can’t promise what capacity, but we’ll find a place for Agent Henry, you have my word.”
Adele felt a small jolt of satisfaction which she hid behind a cough and a swallow. “Well,” she said, slowly. “I—”
But before she could continue, her phone started to buzz. Adele frowned for a moment, but then her eyes widened.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she said. “So sorry.” She held up a finger and fished her phone from her pocket.