Fear No Evil(Alex Cross #29)(9)
“We need to turn it over to them, Commissioner, or we’ll be kept in the dark in the long run,” Michaels said. “This is bigger than Metro PD.”
The commissioner bristled at the idea and remained noncommittal throughout the day, effectively wasting an opportunity for the FBI to get a nationwide investigation up and running with appropriate speed. It wasn’t until around nine that evening that Chief Michaels texted us to let us know Dennison would contact his liaison with the Bureau first thing in the morning.
Neither of us were happy about the delay, but as Sampson had said, better late than never.
Chapter
10
Paris
Bree left her hotel on the Rue Jean Goujon in the eighth arrondissement and walked through the streets as the French capital came alive that sultry summer day. Despite the building heat, when she reached a walkway above the Seine River, she saw people jogging everywhere.
And mobs of tourists. And young lovers holding hands as they strolled by. And two well-put-together older women walking arm in arm and wearing bright summer dresses, one carrying a baguette and the other three yellow roses. Both were giggling at some shared secret when Bree passed them.
She knew well that she was in Paris on a serious assignment that had big consequences for everyone involved. But she was still enjoying the elegance of the French capital and its people, who seemed more refined and yet more relaxed than the citizens of DC.
On her stroll earlier, Bree had been enchanted by her first glimpse of Paris. Now, as she walked toward Bluestone Group’s offices, she felt herself falling head over heels in love with the city. She had to bring Alex. She had to show him—
Her phone buzzed with a text in French she mentally translated: Bree Stone, this is Marianne Le Tour. For reasons I’ll explain face to face, I’d prefer we meet away from Bluestone’s offices. Please hail a cab or call an Uber and come to the following address. It is my favorite place for coffee and croissants.
Twenty minutes later, Bree exited an Uber in front of Toujours Printemps—“Always Spring”—a café and patisserie on the Left Bank, not far from the école des Beaux-Arts. She entered and saw a woman in her fifties waving at her from the back of the café.
Bree smiled and walked toward Marianne Le Tour as the woman stood, revealing her height and her chic gray pantsuit. With every step Bree took, the head of Bluestone Group’s Paris office grew more stunningly beautiful.
Le Tour’s hair was short, lush, steel gray, and swept back. She had gently arched cheekbones and cream-colored, nearly flawless skin. But Bree decided that it must have been Le Tour’s eyes that had gotten her jobs on the fashion runways of Paris and Milan at the age of sixteen. Her eyes were shaped like a cat’s and sapphire blue, large, and sparkling. They danced all over Bree as the former model stepped forward to greet her with an air kiss and an “Enchanté.”
Bree returned the greeting and, at Le Tour’s gesture, took a seat opposite her. It was only then that she realized that Le Tour held her head artfully to show only two-thirds of her face.
As if she could hear Bree’s thoughts, Le Tour casually turned her head to reveal the faint, thin four-inch scar running from the right side of her jaw forward and down. Bree averted her eyes and in French asked, “What’s good here?”
Le Tour seemed to appreciate Bree not mentioning the scar that had ended her career at twenty-two. She gave a dazzling smile and said, “Everything’s good, but the croissants are world class. They snap open with absolute perfection. And the espresso is the best in Paris.”
“Both, then,” Bree said.
Le Tour waved to a waiter, who hustled over to take her order: a basket of pastries heavy on the croissants and two double espressos. When he’d gone, the head of Bluestone Paris said, “Are you wondering why we are meeting here?”
“Best croissants and espresso in Paris?”
“That, yes. But the real reason is that two years ago, our office did some work for the Pegasus Group and Philippe Abelmar. I’m concerned there may be lingering loyalties that could prove problematic for your investigation.”
“What kind of work did Bluestone do for Pegasus?”
“We were asked to look into a data breach. Beyond that, I’m not at liberty to say, but I assure you it has nothing to do with the allegations at hand.”
“So what kind of support can I expect?”
“Very little at first and certainly not from our cyber experts,” Le Tour cautioned. “You can text me, of course, at any time and I can point you in the right direction.”
“And if I get in hot water?”
Le Tour smiled and slid what looked like a one-euro coin across the table to her. “It’s a beacon. Press the back once, hard, and I can track your location. If you press twice, it will send an SOS straight to my cell phone. At that point, secrecy and discretion be damned, and we will come to help you with everything we’ve got.”
“Do I need a weapon?”
“And a license to carry it,” Le Tour said, nodding to the Chanel shopping bag at her feet. She took a large envelope out of her purse and slid it across the table. “Here is your alias, and the license, passport, and papers supporting it. Under the cashmere sweater in the bag, you will find a small Beretta, a waist holster, and two full clips of nine-millimeter ammunition. Please use restraint. Any shooting attracts the anti-terror teams.”