As the lunch group left, George sat back down and read the second entry in the computer list. Vera Baumberger, a Rocketdyne engineer working at Kennedy Space Center on the new orbiter Lightning, had accidentally fallen off a platform at the launchpad and died from a fractured skull.
George leaned back in his swivel chair. He read both entries once more looking for something else that could indicate a possible connection, but nothing seemed obvious. The incidents appeared to be totally unrelated. Hardly a pattern, George thought, but that was the reason why the program only highlighted the icon in yellow — a possible pattern.
He clicked back to the main screen. So far he had nothing relevant for Clandestine Services, the department George reported to, which also happened to be headed by his own uncle, Thomas H. Pruett.
George didn’t mind indirectly working for his father’s older brother. In his mind, George knew the Agency had hired him for his top-notch computer skills, but as in any other large corporation, he was concerned about rumors of favoritism spreading around the Agency. As it turned out, in the year since his arrival at Langley, George had only seen his uncle a few times, mostly outside work, when Thomas Pruett visited George’s mother. As head of Clandestine Services, his uncle was a busy man.
Also known as the Directorate of Operations, Clandestine Services was primarily composed of the so-called “area” divisions. These divisions corresponded roughly to the State Department’s geographic bureaus. His uncle had explained to him on his first day that it made a lot of sense, since most CIA operators in foreign countries worked under State cover. The largest division was Far East, followed by Europe and Western Hemisphere. George worked indirectly for Western Hemisphere and Europe since his algorithm concentrated mostly on aspects of those two areas. His data — assuming he came up with anything of significance — would first go to the office of Chief Europe Ronald Higgins, who also happened to be acting as Chief Western Hemisphere, and if the information was deemed significant, it would then be presented to the elder Pruett.
George had stopped by his uncle’s office the day before to drop off a small birthday present from his mother, but his uncle’s secretary had told him that Pruett had been out of the country for almost two weeks and would not be back for another day, something that didn’t surprise George one bit.
George locked his system and headed for the parking garage.
Cameron eyed the young CIA agent guarding Marie’s door, and nodded approvingly at the rookie’s hands-free-and-ready posture. He went into the room and smiled when he saw Marie sitting up, eating a bowl of soup. The second agent sat next to her bed drinking coffee and reading the paperback. Cameron shook his head. The agent quickly got up and left the room.
Cameron stopped halfway to her bed. She wore a white hospital gown.
“How are you feeling?”
She looked up and studied him briefly. “Fine. Much better. Do you believe my story now?”
Cameron exhaled. “Yes. We believe your story.”
She smiled. “Good. Thanks. Your two colleagues told me what you did. I guess I owe you one.”
“No problem. I was just doing my job.”
The door opened. Cameron’s case officer, Richard Potter, walked in the room. A couple of inches shorter than Cameron and forty pounds heavier — most of it around his waist — Potter gave the impression of someone who spent too much time behind a desk. The CIA official closed the door and approached the bed.
As Cameron went through the introductions, the door opened again. A middle-aged, well-built man wearing a suit under a brown overcoat stood in the doorway. The man briefly introduced himself as the Prefect of Paris police. Cameron could barely see his lips move underneath a thick but well-kempt mustache.
The Prefect removed his coat, set it on a chair next to Marie’s bed, and faced his audience of three.
“I’m afraid our initial assessment that the single-car collision was purely accidental was incorrect,” he began to say. “We think Monsieur Guilloux was murdered—”
“Damn! I knew it! I told you, Cameron,” Marie said. She turned to the Prefect. “I also tried to convince inspector Roquette, but he wouldn’t believe me. I think my husband was killed because of what he had discovered at Athena.”
“That’s possible. You do know that Inspector Roquette was killed last night at the hotel?”
“Yes,” responded Marie. “I found that out from the CIA agents outside. How was he involved in all of this?”
The Prefect briefly ran a finger over his mustache. “We have reason to believe that Inspector Roquette was responsible for your husband’s death.”
“Well, that makes some sense,” noted Cameron. “That would certainly explain why he brushed Marie off when she asked him about the investigation.”
“That’s right… bastard!” exclaimed Marie. “Wait a second. Who killed Roquette then?”
“We’re working on that right now,” said the Prefect. “We have a couple of good descriptions from witnesses. They all saw a man with gray hair and beard running out of the hotel.”
“That’s right,” agreed Cameron. “I saw him, too. You think he killed Roquette?”
“At this point we’re working under that assumption.”
Cameron tilted his head. “Do you think he was killed to break the link with the people that actually wanted Guilloux dead? According to Marie, they could be Athena’s upper management.”
“We’re trying to establish that right now. That’s all I’m at liberty to say at this moment, but please rest assured that the police are handling the case under my direct supervision. There is no need for your agency to be involved any further.”
“Just answer this,” Cameron pressed further. “If Marie’s suspicion is true, and her husband was killed because he had information that incriminated Athena in the destruction of the Russian spacecraft, then wouldn’t that make it an international incident?”
“If that’s true, yes,” the Prefect responded. “But until that is established, I can’t talk about the case anymore. This is a French police matter. We appreciate the help you have given us, but I’m afraid the matter no longer concerns you.”
“The hell it doesn’t!” Marie snapped. “The last time I was told by police that matters were being handled was the day before Roquette tried to kill me! And the only reason I’m still alive is because the CIA came to my rescue. Now after all of that you’re telling me you want the CIA out of it?”
“I’m afraid the Prefect is correct,” Potter said, cutting in. “This matter is not for the CIA. Not yet anyway.”
Although not very pleased, Cameron accepted Potter’s decision. The police would handle it for now.
The Prefect grabbed his coat, mentioned to the group that two of his men would be there within the hour to replace the CIA agents, and left the room.
Potter glanced at Cameron. “Ready?”
“In a minute, sir. I’ll meet you down by the car.”
“Two minutes. Remember, the French are in charge now. It’s their show.”
“Yes, sir.”
Potter left the room. Cameron waited until the door was closed. He sat by the edge of the bed. Marie frowned and stared out the window. Her room overlooked the Observatorie de Paris.
“You okay?”
“I guess.”
“Well, I’ve been ordered to stay out of it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep in touch. You should be out of here by tomorrow.” He reached into his coat pocket. “Here’s my direct number at the embassy. If there’s anything you need, anything, please give me a call. All right?”
She turned and looked at him. He felt overwhelmed by her green eyes. Even without any makeup, Marie was a beautiful woman. Slowly, her frown changed to a slight smile. “All right. Thanks. Thanks a lot for everything.”