“No.” De Fleury smiled. “They were in the crypt. I was above them, in the church. There is a vent that carries their voice as clear as day to one of the confessionals.”
Kennedy nodded and said, “Please continue.”
“Things became very heated, with the terrorists blaming Fournier for setting them up and Fournier blaming them for ruining their best chance to kill this assassin. Fournier blamed this Samir, that was his name, for killing three innocent civilians as he was leaving the hotel.”
Kennedy and Stansfield shared a quick look and then turned their attention back to de Fleury.
“They threatened Fournier, and he threatened to drown them in the ocean. That was when they said that Libya might begin to divert some of its oil and that maybe they would start setting off bombs in France again. Fournier laughed at them and told them he’d hand the files he had on them over to the assassin and he would hunt them all down. They threatened to inform his bosses. Fournier told them his bosses knew all about their arrangement. It went round and round like that until the one named Max stepped in. Then they talked about the assassin some more and the crime scene.” De Fleury’s eyes became unfocused, and he looked at the far wall for a moment. “After that . . . I can’t really remember what they said.” His eyes focused again and he looked at Kennedy, saying, “It’s all in my report. I checked it several times. It’s all there.” He nodded. “It’s just not all up here anymore.” De Fleury tapped his head with a near translucent finger.
Kennedy didn’t realize it, but her mouth was hanging open in disbelief. She blinked several times and then looked down at the papers in her hands and quickly shuffled through them. There were eight handwritten pages, all in beautiful flowing cursive. They felt like the greatest gift she’d ever received. Everything Rapp had said was true. “Thank you, Monsignor.”
“And that,” Rollie Smith said in a jovial voice, “is why we share information.”
CHAPTER 41
PAUL Fournier was reclining on his office couch with a cold compress on his forehead, his top shirt button undone, his tie loosened, and his shoes and jacket off. He rarely had headaches, but this morning was an exception, so he’d just taken three Extra Strength Tylenol and told his number two, Pierre Mermet, that he was not to be disturbed. Fournier had worked through the night trying to manage the damage that had been done. One dead agent and another in critical condition was not good. His bosses were going to be extremely upset. If a DGSE agent was killed abroad, no one batted an eye. If one was gunned down on a Sunday night in Paris, however, it was a big embarrassment for a lot of people.
The press was going to be asking a lot of questions, and Fournier did not like talking to reporters, at least en masse. They were too unruly, too hard to manipulate when they were in a feeding frenzy. One on one was his preferred method. He found them incredibly easy to manipulate. So many of them were insecure and in constant need of validation. He’d slept with more than a few of the female reporters in Paris and had stayed on good terms with them.
Fournier played out every conceivable development. The key would be to keep the police confused, and his play with the minister of defense would go a long way in slowing the police down. Having Neville removed from the case would send a message to all of the other investigators that they needed to be careful where they stepped. The case would take on the aura of a place where careers went to die. He was amazed at Neville and her naive ways. He had hoped she would be smarter, but in the end she had asked for it.
At least in that regard, Fournier was pleased with himself. The bigger issue would be the CIA. He had surveillance photos of Hurley and his goons entering the country and driving to the very street where the shootings had taken place. Fournier’s orders to have his men follow them were completely within the charter of the Directorate. They were not monitoring French citizens, they were keeping an eye on foreign intelligence assets who had entered the country a little more than twelve hours after the massacre at the hotel.
The delicate part for Fournier would be withholding that information, so he could use it as leverage with the CIA. Turning the photo of the dead American agent over to the police would be a waste. If he could keep it private he could force the CIA to make some concessions and a fairly sizable cash transfer as well. They would be left with no choice, once presented with the photos of Hurley and his men. The conclusion was obvious. The DGSE men were not shot by some local criminals. They were too good for that. It was Hurley’s trained assassins who had been involved in the shootout. Fournier had other questions as well. Why were Hurley’s men on that particular street? Who were they looking for? Was it possible that it was the American assassin? Fournier had been working very hard for the past year to learn the man’s real identity. The closest he had come was a list of targets. His source either didn’t know the assassin’s identity or was playing him for better terms. His two men being shot would change all of that.
Fournier and his source shared the same pragmatic opinion: that it was not good for either America or France to have a killer poking the volatile nests of terrorists who ringed the Mediterranean. Fournier had deftly managed the moods and fanatical beliefs of the various groups, with one goal in mind—to keep the carnage out of France. His superiors, all the way up to the president, had given either silent approval or verbal commitments to the plan. As to the tidy sum he had collected along the way, no one in government would begrudge him for that. Even some in the press would understand, but none of them would ever find out. Fournier was convinced he’d covered his tracks. There was no way anyone would be able to find his money.
Fournier was thinking of his next move when his assistant burst through the door without knocking.
“You’re going to want to see this.” Mermet went straight for the TV and a few seconds later the TV showed a room full of reporters asking questions.
Fournier removed the cold compress from his head and turned his attention to the TV. The screen was filled with the charming face of Francine Neville. Questions were being shouted in the background and Neville was nodding.
“Yes, that is correct,” she said. “I have been removed from the case that I was assigned to barely forty-eight hours ago.”
“You’re talking about the murders at the Hotel Balzac.”
“That’s correct. Shortly after my investigators arrived at the crime scene, several DGSE employees showed up. One of them was Paul Fournier, who runs the Special Action Division for the Directorate. You’re going to want to make sure you write that name down . . . Paul Fournier. I thought it was strange that he was there, but he told me that the death of the Libyan oil minister was very much the business of the Directorate. He and several of his men had access to the crime scene for a little over an hour. The next day we discovered that certain key pieces of evidence were missing from the crime scene. We had reason to believe that it was one of Fournier’s men who took the evidence. I informed Mr. Fournier that I wanted to talk to this man, as well as several other people associated with the case.” She paused. “Thus far Mr. Fournier has proven to be very uncooperative.
“Yesterday I informed my boss, Prefect Mutz, that I needed to meet with him this morning to discuss the fact that the Directorate was interfering with a police investigation. When I arrived in his office a short while ago, Director General of Police Jacques Gisquet and Minister of the Interior Pierre Blot were in attendance. I took this as
