Page 13 of Shadow of Doubt

Using the words he had settled on outside, he replied, “The CIA wants me to spy on you. Holidae is their point person. She made it clear what would happen if I didn’t.”

Her eyes widened. “She threatened you?”

“I don’t think she wanted to, but I also don’t think they left her with much choice.”

Sølvi didn’t respond.

Pulling his mouth away from her ear, he looked at her face and could see that she was pissed-off.Verypissed-off.

A fraction of a second later, she pulled him back in close, pressed her lips up against his ear, and said, “First, fuck herandthe CIA. There’s no way in hell we would have held back intelligence critical to the United States. She could have come to me. We’re NATO allies. The fact that she didn’t, tells me something. But the fact that she sentyouto get information, tells me something even bigger.”

“Which is?”

“Washington is scared. They must have a piece of the puzzle that we don’t. And from the little bit I’ve learned, they should be scared. In fact, the United States should be terrified.”

CHAPTER 7

PARIS

Karine Brunelle was angry. As soon as the body of Jean-Jacques Jadot had been identified, the next call should have been to her office at the DGSI—the Directorate General for Internal Security—France’s equivalent of the American FBI or the British MI5.

Instead, the Paris police—who, like most of the French public, gorged themselves on action movies depicting DGSE agents as glamorous, globe-trotting James and Jane Bonds—had called Jadot’s agency, the Directorate General for External Security.

By the time Brunelle arrived at the crime scene, the place was crawling with Jadot’s colleagues. There was no telling how much evidence had been disturbed. They might make good spies, but they weren’t homicide detectives and they definitely weren’t evidence technicians.

Flashing her creds at the door, she pushed past a burly patrol officer and called out for the lead homicide detective, “Gibert!”

As she passed the living room, she caught sight of three men in tailored suits with stainless-steel dive watches, perfectly polished shoes, and expensive haircuts who were sitting on Jadot’s couch, smoking.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, stopping to address them. “But you can’t be here. This is an active crime scene.”

“You don’t even know who we are,” said one of the men.

“You’re DGSE,” she replied, working hard to keep her temper in check. “That’s why I extended my condolences. Here’s my card,” she continued, setting it on the vestibule table. “Feel free to reach out at anytime and I will share with you whatever I can. But like I said, this is an active crime scene and you’re not authorized to be here.”

The men looked at each other as Karine, all five feet four inches of her, held her ground and slowly tapped her foot. She was in her thirties, with a thin nose, full lips, and jet-black hair cut in a short, shaggy bob. She looked more like a graduate student you’d find reading Baudelaire or Rimbaud in some café near the Sorbonne than a federal cop.

She was an introvert who understood people. And because she understood them, they often exhausted her—especially the dumb ones.

She preferred to work alone; no partner. It wasn’t that she couldn’t summon the requisite social skills, she could. In fact, when she needed, she could be quite charming—though it rapidly depleted her social battery. The problem was that she’d yet to find anyone who could keep up with her mentally.

Like most humans, she was complicated. A perfect night could mean a good book, a great bottle of Burgundy, and her phone set todo not disturb.Or it could mean a little hash, an old Nouvelle Vague film from Truffaut or Chabrol, along with a warm, naked body in her bed, male or female—as long as they knew when to stop talking and when it was time to leave.

She was the embodiment of Chhinnamasta, the goddess of contradictions. And as such, she was often difficult to read.

Now, however, was not one of those times. She was radiating a total boss bitch vibe.

Finally, it had the desired effect as one of the DGSE operatives stood up, but not before moving to stub out his cigarette in Jadot’s overflowing ashtray.

“Stop,” Brunelle ordered. “That ashtray may contain evidence. Jesus, toss your butts out the window or throw them in the street downstairs like real Frenchmen.”

The trio glowered at her as they rose and filed out of the apartment.

The patrol officer, apparently a fan of seeing people up the ladder from him get their asses chewed, smiled and flashed her the thumbs-up.

Brunelle didn’t find it amusing. She found it unprofessional. “What’s your name?”

“Leconte, madame.”

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