Just then an embassy staff member knocked on the doorframe that led to the veranda at the ambassador’s residence. “Mr. Palumbo, there is a Director Dupré at reception.”
Joey found the director in the library. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. How did you get in here?”
“My brother-in-law works here as your community information officer.”
Joey couldn’t find the words so he smiled and said, “In August 1997, were you involved in an investigation of the death of a priest at the Sofitel? I have the file and it is signed by a Sergeant Dupré, who I assume isn’t another brother-in-law.”
“No, yes, that is me. As I remember, I found no evidence of foul play. How, may I ask, did you come into possession of that police file?”
“It is the underlying case the judge used to snag Sicard from us at the station.”
Joey had read a lot of expressions on the faces of a lot of criminals, bosses, and women. Dupré’s read as genuinely surprised. Joey decided to push a few buttons. “Director, you set me up. You were in on this whole charade.”
“Yes, I could see why you would think that. May I see the file?”
Joey handed him the folder. “You are not denying it then?”
“I am not denying that you think it. I want to see if I should apologize or thank you.”
Joey looked at the French cop wondering what his angle was. Dupré studied all the papers, the reports, and the little stamps and signatures. After a few minutes he said, “Would you like to come with me?”
“Where?”
“To find out who this Sicard is.”
Ten minutes later, they were at the back door of a mosque. The director reached down, unstrapped a small .32 caliber pistol from his leg and handed it to Joey. “Just in case.” He then unsnapped the strap on his service Glock and left his jacket buttons opened.
Joey stuffed the .32 into his waist and let his coat hang free as well. The director knocked on the door. Soon it was opened by a man in imam’s garb.
“Ah my friend, perhaps you have a minute to chat,” Dupré said sweetly as he flashed his French tin.
“Of course,” the man of Allah responded to the man of the law.
“Are we alone?”
“Yes. Who is this man?”
“He is working with me; he is here to observe.”
“What can I help you with?”
“I was thinking the other day of when I interviewed you years ago in the case of Friar Gregory; you remember that unfortunate affair?”
“Yes. Very tragic.”
“Indeed. Back then you were working as a counterman at the hotel. You said there was no one who inquired or came to see the priest prior to his being found dead.”
“If that is what I said then, that is what happened.”
Suddenly, Dupré pushed his forearm across the man’s chest and dropped him back across a table, knocking over a vase and some artifacts, which crashed on the floor, reverberating throughout the entire old stone church-turned-mosque. Dupré pulled his gun and stuck it in the man’s chest.
Joey was observing this interesting interrogation technique when he heard hurried footsteps approaching the room, Dupré cocked his head toward the door and Joey pulled the .32 cal. When five men burst in he waved it at them saying only, “Uh, uh, uuuh!”
Dupré pulled out a picture of Sicard. “You never told me about this man.”
“I never…”
“Don’t even think of lying, and don’t waste our time. Now, who is this man?” Dupré emphasized his request with a jab of the 9mm to the rib cage.
“He is one of you. No?” The man said, scared out of his wits.
“I ask the questions. How do you know him?”
“He’s a killer, an assassin.”
“Who was he to kill?”
“Why, don’t you know?”
“Refresh my memory, si vous plez.”
“The Pope.”
Joey tightened the grip on his pistol and felt a chill run down his spine.
Five minutes later they emerged from the side of the mosque, got in Dupré’s car and sped away.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess what I saw back there wasn’t recommended Metro police procedure.”
“Here, as director of intelligence, I have more — latitude.”
“So now Sicard is an assassin. Hired by whom to kill the Pope?”
“Time to dig; how’s your French?”
“Sucks, but I have an associate who is part French. She’ll be in Paris early this afternoon.”
“I’ll start without her; join me at my headquarters at two p.m.”
XII. QUIET LITTLE WEEKEND
Bill had hoped for good weather. This little family outing was going to be a real once in a lifetime experience. President Mitchell had offered him Camp David. It was the perk of all perks. He felt odd, loading up the Escalade as if they were going to the beach, but instead going to a historic place where world leaders hobnobbed. Little Richard Ross Hiccock would ride the ‘horseys’ and fish in the lake where presidents and their families played.
Janice was looking forward to it as well. Bill planned to spend a lot of time with Richie, and she was looking forward to some downtime and a chance to get back to writing more of her book on brain disorders. Janice came out of the house with Richie and a little bag of stuff. Bill snapped his fingers and ran back inside the house; a second later he emerged, locked the front door, and got in the front seat. “I almost forgot my Nikon. I want to have some good pictures of this.”
On the drive to Fredrick, Maryland, they chatted about whether or not to change the pool service, if they should get a bigger TV for the family room, and if they should invite both sets of parents to the house for the holidays. All in all, a pretty mundane conversation to have on the way to an ultra-class resort with a detachment of US marines as a personal protection force.
Bill’s secure phone rang. He couldn’t find it. Janice started moving around the things in the front seat, and then looked in the back. Richie had it and was waving it around as it rang.
She answered it and then handed it to Bill saying with an air of resignation, “Hold for POTUS.” She knew a call from the President of the United States couldn’t be good. She only heard Bill’s end.
“Yes sir. Of course, sir, I completely understand. No, not at all. Of course. Thank you, sir.” He ended the call and placed the phone in his shirt pocket.
“So…”
“Last week a particle physicist had a breakthrough.”
“Okay, and the president called you — why?”
“He wants me to meet with this guy.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh, Bill; we were counting on this weekend.”
“We are still having our weekend. The president is flying this guy in and he’s going to come to Camp David. It should only be a few hours. I’m sorry, but it is his place, you know.”
“Well, I guess that’s not too bad.”
“So then you’re not disappointed?”
“I should make like I am so I can get you to do my bidding.”
“Your wish is my command.”
“I got plans for you, big boy.”
Bill knew that tone and that look. This was going to be a good weekend!
As soon as Bill went past the gate his immediate thought was, it easy to see why FDR first called this place Shangri-La. It was a beautiful patch of Maryland countryside. The grounds were, as he expected, meticulously kept. It was Navy neat, with the Seabees assigned to run it and the Marines assigned to protect it. Little Richie ran from the car and took to the place like he was visiting Grampy and Granny Alice. While watching him run down the path toward the horses in the paddock, Janice gave him one of those looks a wife gives to her husband that says, “You did good.”