Page 2 of Shadow of Doubt

Jean-Jacques Jadot had spent a rainy weekend at his seaside cottage in Brittany, only venturing outside for a short walk along the windswept coast.

The remainder of the time, the snowy-haired, sixty-two-year-old French intelligence officer had pored over his files.

The rot can’t be this widespread,he had thought to himself.The treason this deep.Yet the evidence was all there.

Not a single agency appeared to have been untouched. Not even his beloved DGSE, France’s equivalent to Britain’s MI6 or the American CIA.

Worse still, the penetration ran right to the top, compromising a key member of the French president’s cabinet. The gravity of the situation was clear.

What wasn’t clear, however, was its raison d’être. Russia didn’t need French nuclear technology. Neither did it need France’s submarine technology. It was a rather poorly kept secret that the Russians had already stolen schematics for France’s new Barracuda-class nuclear attack subs.

So then what was it all about? Why go to such extraordinary lengths?The investment in this kind of espionage operation, not to mention the risks, was almost unfathomable.What intelligence did France have that the Russians wanted so badly?

That question had spun endlessly in Jadot’s mind over the last two and a half days.

Rising only occasionally to place fresh logs on the fire or to prepare another mug of tea fortified with cognac, he had sat in his favorite chair, trying to connect the dots and deconstruct the Russian plot.

But no matter how much of his considerable intellect he had applied, the answers refused to reveal themselves. Before he knew it, the weekend was over and it was time to leave.

While a local taxi idled in the drive, Jadot closed up the cottage and then made himself comfortable for the twenty-minute drive into Saint-Malo. There he picked up dinner from his favorite brasserie along the Place Chateaubriand, walked the rest of the way to the station, and boarded the last TGV to Paris.

As the high-speed train raced through the darkened countryside, Jadot ignored his food and stared at his reflection in the window.

He was no longer a young man. He had been with the Directorate General for External Security for over three decades. His time in the espionage game was coming to a close. This case would be his legacy.

Exposing the breach of the French intelligence community was not only his duty, it was his chance to leave a deep and indelible mark. It was critical, therefore, that he choose his steps with caution; that he get everything right. There was zero room for error.

Turning his eyes from the window, he forced himself to eat. It was important to keep up his strength. He was about to step into a minefield. Tomorrow he would meet with a colleague from the CIA’s Paris station—one of the few people he felt he could trust. Then he would put his plan, as ill-conceived as it was, into action.

Two and a half hours later, his train arrived at the Gare Montparnasse in Paris’s 15th arrondissement.

The rain, which had lashed the windows of his cottage throughout the weekend, had pushed inland and was now pouring down on the capital. Finding a cab would be impossible, so Jadot opted for the Métro.

He rode for seven stations, transferred at Châtelet, and thenreemerged above ground at the Hôtel de Ville. Turning up the collar of his jacket against the elements, he headed for his apartment in the Marais.

Even though it was getting late, there were still several establishments doing a brisk business along the Rue Vieille-du-Temple. Under soft lights, patrons laughed over bottles of wine, chatted over cups of coffee, and enjoyed each other’s company over plates of food.Conviviality. Human contact.

He thought about popping into Robert et Louise—the little restaurant across the street from his apartment—just for a nightcap. The glow from its wood-fired oven, the rumble of the dumbwaiter as it shunted up and down, the heavy “neighbor’s pour” the barman treated regulars to—all of it had a way of putting him at ease. There was, however, an additional, more professional reason the idea appealed to him.

Ever since stepping off the train in Montparnasse, he had felt eyes on him, as if he were being watched.

Per his training, he had conducted multiple surveillance detection routes. He covertly scanned the faces he saw on the Métro, changed carriages several times, and literally took the long way home once he had exited the subway system. Still, he hadn’t seen anything.

Either he was being followed by someone exceptionally skilled, or his mind—and maybe even the rain—were playing tricks on him. A stiff calvados and a perch on a barstool with a view of the street would help him sort it all out.

Inside Robert et Louise, he hung his wet coat on the rack. The air was redolent with the scent of roasted pork, chicken, lamb, beef, and veal. He could practically hear the sizzling of fat as it dripped from the spits in the open kitchen.

Grabbing a seat at the end of the scarredcomptoir,he didn’t even need to place his drink order.

Within seconds of his sitting down, the barman was busy uncorking a bottle filled with gold-colored liquid.

“Quel putain de temps,” the man said as he set a generously filled snifter of apple brandy in front of Jadot.Pretty shitty weather, eh?

“Plus mal demain,” the intelligence officer replied.Worse tomorrow.

They made small talk for a few moments before a waitress signaled that she needed the barman to make a round of drinks for her.

Sipping his calvados, Jadot kept his eyes on the front door of his building across the street.

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