“You just went online and conjured up a sequestered subject?”

“Looks like the facial recognition software is some kind of back door to some sequestered records,” Holly said. “Anyway, we didn’t get his sequestered record, just his old service record.”

“That should have been sequestered, too,” Rick said. “Somebody must have fucked up.”

“Oh, that never happens at the Agency,” Holly said, restraining herself to a slight sneer.

Rick sat, staring into his fizzy water.

“What’s the matter, Rick? Are you seeing some sort of problem here?”

“Come on, Rick,” Stone said, “cough it up.”

“Cough what up?”

“You’re the station chief, Rick. If this guy’s Agency, you would know all about him, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know a fucking thing about him,” Rick said, “and I very much doubt that he’s Agency.”

“So what was he doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?” Stone asked.

Rick didn’t have an answer for that.

“Why don’t you call Lance and ask him to retrieve the guy’s sequestered service record?” Stone asked innocently.

“I’ll do that immediately after hell freezes over,” Rick said. He looked at Holly. “Can you imagine what kind of can of worms that could open?”

“All hell could break loose,” Holly replied.

“I imagine we’re going to run out of metaphors in a minute,” Stone said. “Not to mention clichés. What are we going to actually do?”

20

Rick pointed a finger at Holly. “You call Lance,” he said.

“Don’t point that thing at me,” Holly replied, “I’m just a visitor here. I’m on vacation, sort of.”

“You started this.”

“Nope. We’re on your turf, here, Rick. You’re new at this, but you’re going to have to learn what a station chief does.”

Rick looked at his watch. “It’s six A.M. at Langley,” he said. “Lance won’t be in the office yet.”

“The Lance I know gets in at seven,” Holly said.

“I’ll e-mail him,” Rick said, getting out his phone.

“Is that phone encrypted?”

“It is.”

“All right, e-mail him. He’ll get it when he arrives at his office, in an hour, or maybe he’ll get it at breakfast. I expect he’s used to getting e-mails at breakfast.”

Rick typed a short message. “Done.”

“That was brief. What did you say?”

“‘Request sequestered service record of John, NMI, Simpson, thirty-nine, U.S. Army.’ That’s all he needs.”

“Would you like some breakfast while we await a reply, Rick?” Stone asked.

“I’ve already had breakfast. I could use some lunch, though.”

Stone looked at his watch. “By the time room service delivers, it will be lunchtime.”

“I’ll have a lobster club sandwich on rye toast, and a Heineken.”

“Holly?”

“Corned beef on whole grain with mayo, and a diet Coke.”

Stone ordered the food and a roast beef sandwich for himself, then hung up. “Half an hour or sooner.”

“What’ll we do until then?” Rick asked

“Anybody got a deck of cards?” Holly asked.

“What do you want to play?” Stone asked, rummaging through the wet bar snacks.

“I don’t play cards, but I know a card trick.”

Stone stopped looking.

“So,” Rick said, “did the ambassador grab your crotch at dinner?”

Stone rolled his eyes.

“I rescued him,” Holly said.

“Was he any safer with you?”

“Stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” Stone said.

“Tell us something juicy from your station, Rick,” Holly said. “We all have top secret clearances here.”

“Juicy?”

“Juicy.”

“Well, let’s see: we caught a pickpocket who stole one of our officers’ cell phones and was trying to sell it at the Paris Flea Market.”

“That’s what you call juicy?”

“All right, the ambassador grabbed Stone’s crotch at dinner last night. That juicy enough?”

“We already know about that: surprise us.”

Rick took a breath to say something, and his cell phone made a musical noise. “That’s an e-mail,” Rick said, digging the phone from its holster. He pressed a button. “It’s from Lance,” he said. “Message is as follows: ‘NO FILE EXISTS.’” He stuffed the phone back in its holster.

“You’re being stonewalled,” Holly said.

“Maybe there’s no such file,” Stone said.

“We already know there’s a file, we’ve read half of it.”

“But not the good half.”

“I’ll give you that. What’s your next move, Rick?”

“What’s my next move? Why is it my move?”

“It’s your station, so Simpson is your guy.”

“He’s not my guy—I never saw him before last night.”

“Have you put any people on this?”

“Why should I put my valuable people on it? It’s the Paris police’s case, not mine.”

“Don’t you want to know what the guy was doing in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen?” Stone asked. “Before the Paris police find out?”

“My bailiwick doesn’t extend to Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”

“Then what were you doing there last night?” Holly asked.

Rick pointed at Stone. “He called me.”

“You’re pointing again, Rick,” Stone said. “When I called you, you came. Why?”

“I’m supposed to take reasonable steps to keep you alive,” Rick said.

“Reasonable steps? That’s all my life is worth to the Agency? What about extraordinary steps?”

“Getting me out of a warm bed in the middle of the night is an extraordinary step. I answered the call, and look where it got me. The Paris police think John, NMI, Simpson is my guy, and now they know you’re my guy.”

“They didn’t know that before?”

“Not to my knowledge. Well, there was that incident last year when we thought somebody was trying to kill Lance, but they were really trying to kill you. They can remember that far back, I guess.”

“So you lost nothing by coming to Mirabelle’s kitchen?”

“I didn’t gain anything, either.” Rick’s cell phone made the e-mail noise again, and he looked at it. “Oh, shit,” he said.

“Now what?” Holly asked.

“Bad news: Lance wants me on a secure video conference at the station in an hour.”

“Oh, goody!” Holly laughed.

“The good news is, he wants you there, too.”

“Not me?” Stone asked. “I feel left out.”

“Oh, all right, you can come, too. Where’s my sandwich?”

21

An hour later, lunched, hunched over a conference table, and nicely groomed, they sat and stared at a large blank screen in a double-soundproofed, double-doored room.

“He’s six minutes late,” Stone said, consulting his watch. “How does this go?”

“It goes when Lance gets around to it,” Rick said.

The screen suddenly came to life, and Lance Cabot sat, glowering at them. “I heard that, Rick,” he said.

“Only joking, boss,” Rick replied quickly.

“What the hell is going on over there?” Lance demanded.

“Where would you like me to start?” Rick asked.

“Start with the John, no middle initial, Simpson part.”

“Well,” Rick said, “late last night—or perhaps more accurately, in the middle of the night—Mr. Simpson took a shotgun round to the chest from a weapon held by Mirabelle Chance. It happened in her kitchen, and Stone was a proximate witness.”

“And what was Stone doing in the kitchen of the daughter of the prefect of police in the middle of the night?”

“Stone?” Rick said. “You want to take that one?”

“Lance,” Stone said, “you have a fevered imagination—use it.” Stone, as a non-Agency employee, felt no need to kowtow to Lance Cabot.

“Jesus God,” Lance said. “Is there no woman you won’t take to bed?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Stone said.

“There seem to be times, Stone, when you don’t think at all.”

Stone let that one go. “As long as we’ve got you on the . . . line, Lance, who the hell is John, no middle initial, Simpson?”