The Hammer of God

“Certainly,” said the President.

Bill left.

“Flying saucers,” the President said with disgust.

“Bonjour… Bonjour…” Yardley Haines always greeted the embassy staff with that double-metered greeting. The same way, every day, for the six years he was posted to Paris. Arriving at 7:30 in the morning gave him time to review reports and the overnights from Foggy Bottom. In fact, most of what was his overnight was midday at the State Department. His usual routine of getting the first cup of coffee from the morning brew then settling in behind his desk for at least 30 minutes of precious solitude was immediately shattered by a man who he spied already awaiting him in his office.

“Bonjour… Bonjour… Emily, who is that in my office?”

Emily, a secretary whom he shared with his counterpart, explained, “He’s a policeman. An inspector, I think. He was very insistent. Your computer is off and there are no documents on your desk. All your drawers are locked and I took your calendar out with me. It’s right here.”

“Very good; but what does he want?”

“I think a tourist died last night.”

“So? Was this tourist an FSO?”

“No. He didn’t mention that.”

“Okay, give us five minutes and then buzz me with my next appointment.”

“Sure.”

Approaching his office, Yardley took in the man seated across from his desk. He was around 50, broad- shouldered, balding spot emerging from thinning, once brown, hair. He had a small scar off the left ear in a jagged design, the kind a broken bottle would make. There was a tilt to his shoulders that the fledgling crime novelist within Yardley might ascribe to the weight of his firearm snugged in his shoulder holster. Shoes were worn but well-polished. He wore a wedding ring and had suffered a break of his left pinky. Why do policemen everywhere insist on those ratty trench coats?

“Inspector! So sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Ah, Mr. Haines; it’s Lieutenant. And not to worry; I am actually at the end of my day.”

“Night shift! Keeping Parisians safe while they sleep.”

“Unfortunately, I am sorry to say, I could not keep one American safe last night.”

“Yes, I heard. A tourist, I believe?”

“Seemingly so. Do you know this man?” He handed Haines the driver’s license retrieved from the wallet of the American. It was a New York State license with a picture.

“No, no, I can’t say I know the man.”

“Forgive me, but because you are Embassy staff and a diplomat, I must request more specificity. You cannot say you know him because you are under orders not to say, or you mean you don’t know who he is.”

Yardley was thrown. What was this cop getting at? Maybe he should look again; maybe he should wait until the Chief of Station got in and clear any answer to the local authorities through him. After all, at Yardley’s FSO pay grade, he didn‘t know everything America was doing in France.

“I don’t believe I caught your name, Lieutenant.”

“Malveau; Tristan Malveau.”

“Well, Lieutenant Malveau, I am just a mid-level Foreign Service Officer. The chances of me knowing the dead man only extend to the random possibility of having gone to school with him back in the States. May I ask why you are here? Last year we had more than 30 Americans who died in France and I don’t recall the police ever being here once.”

“A mere courtesy, monsieur. This was also found on his person.” Malveau handed a business card to Haines.

All Yardley saw was the seal of the President of the United States on the card and he was off. “Would you be so kind as to wait here, Lieutenant, while I check into this?”

“Of course.”

“The baby is not made out of glass. Although you have to be mindful of certain developmental issues, don’t overcompensate. In fact, the more you make the child a part of your life, the better the child’s development. That doesn’t mean you take a six-month old to the stock car races and then for a steak dinner, but for your sake and the child’s, you should try not to change everything all at once. Many parents… Many par… Please make sure all cell phones are off or switched to vibrate please.”

“Sorry, excuse me,” Hiccock said as he retrieved his ringing cell phone from his pocket under the glaring eyes of Janice. “I’ll just take this outside…”

He wedged his way past two other expectant couples in his row and headed for the exit in the back of the room. “Hold on,” he whispered into the phone.

Out in the lobby, he went toward the doors of the learning center to get a better signal. “Hello.”

“White House switchboard. I have Joseph Palumbo on the line.”

“Put him through, operator. Hey Joey, We’re auditing a baby catching class. What’s up?”

“They let you audit those now? Listen, we just got a call from State. There is a deceased American citizen in Paris and somehow he is connected to you.”

“Me? Who is it?”

“Don’t know but they want you over there.”

“Over where — Paris?”

“No, the State Department.”

“Now?”

“They were very insistent.”

“Okay, thanks Joe.” Bill hung up and walked back to the room. He hesitated at the door. He hated to bother everybody again, but he was practically ordered to the State Department. He entered and squeezed past the two couples again, then sat beside Janice.

“Honey, I have to go.”

“What? Now?”

“I have to get to State. Somebody died in Europe and they want to talk to me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense…”

“I know.” He handed her the keys. “You take the car. I’ll catch a cab.”

The instructor once again stopped in her dissertation. “Is there something the matter?”

“Uh, I’m sorry. I have to get back to work. So sorry to interrupt.”

With that announcement, the other two couples in the row got up and moved out to avoid further butt-facing from Hiccock.

Bill kissed Janice on the cheek. “Love you; see ya at home.”

As Bill approached the security post on the C Street entrance of the State Department, he flashed his White House I.D. A man on the other side of the magnetometer greeted him. “Mr. Hiccock, I’m Martin Kelsh, Undersecretary of State for European and Eurasian Affairs. Come this way, please.”

Four minutes later, they were in a secure videoconference room. As soon as they walked in, the grainy image on the left of two videoscreens caused Bill to utter, “Oh, no!”

On the other screen, to the right, were Yardley Haines and Frank Randall. Frank was the Station Chief of the Paris Embassy. Once Bill sat in the chair, his own image came up on a smaller monitor below the two big ones.

Frank spoke first. “Mr. Hiccock, do you know this man?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Is there anything about him or his purpose here in France that affects the national Security of the United States?”

“Nothing I know of. I mean, I doubt it, but I can’t be 100 percent certain. Why are you asking? And how did you know I knew him?”