Page 130 of Shadow of Doubt

“Congratulations on your promotion,” he said, sitting down at the conference table across from her. “Fastest assistant deputy director in DGSI history.”

“Thank you.”

“And she reports directly to me,” de Vasselot added, “so you’ll be seeing a lot of her.”

“I look forward to it.”

Brunelle smiled politely, her hands folded in front of her. She hadn’t been told what the meeting was about but had figured it was probably going to center on Powell’s death. She hadn’t been looking forward to it and had barely slept at all last night.

“As we conveyed to Director General de Vasselot,” Jansen continued, “we want to apologize for the actions of Raymond Powell. Neither the CIA nor the United States holds you, in any way, responsible for his death. In addition, we want to commend you for your work. You did an amazing job.”

This was not what Brunelle had been expecting. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

“With that, I wanted to make myself available to answer your questions.”

“What questions?”

“Any questions you may have. If they’re in my power to answer, I will.”

She looked at him. “Anyquestions?”

“Yes,” Jansen replied. “Anyquestions.”

An hour after saying hello to James Jansen, Karine Brunelle said goodbye and agreed to meet with Director General de Vasselot back at DGSI headquarters later that afternoon.

Leaving the embassy, she skirted the Place de la Concorde with its Luxor Obelisk and headed in the direction of the Palais Garnier to a small bistro called Les Bacchantes. It took its name from the Greek tragedy by Euripides. Gibert had selected it as a good spot for an early lunch, but she couldn’t help but wonder if it was also supposed to be somehow symbolic of their romantic relationship.

She found him at a quiet table in back. As she approached, he stood and pulled out her chair. The moment she was seated, the waiter arrived with a bottle of champagne—and it wasn’t an inexpensive one either.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“We’re celebrating,” Gibert replied.

“Celebrating what?”

“Your success. All of it.”

“I had a little help,” she admitted.

“Then we’re toastingoursuccess and I’m doubly glad I selected such a good vintage.”

After Gibert had tasted the champagne and the waiter had filled their glasses and left the table, he proposed a toast, “To success.”

Raising her glass, Brunelle clinked it against his. “To success,” she repeated.

“So,” the cop asked, after savoring a nice long sip, “how’d your appointment go?”

“Remember when Powell died, and I worried we were never going to get any answers?”

Gibert nodded and took another sip from his glass.

“Well, I’ve got answers now,” she continued. “Lots of them.”

“Good thing I picked such a nice, quiet spot. Tell me all of it.”

Brunelle took another sip herself and then launched into everything she had learned. Twenty minutes later, the waiter refilled their glasses and took their lunch orders.

When he had left the table again, Gibert said, “But who killed all the Russians in the Bois de Boulogne and at that medical clinic?”

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