The Paths of Destiny
The Search for Charles duBois

September 13, 2001 continued:

Drayton, Nighthawk and Doc were waiting in the outer office when Corey and I arrived. Corey had already dismissed Nick Storm to carry on with whatever duties he had. Before he departed, he gave me a warm handshake, a pat on the shoulder with a brief “Good luck”, and an encouraging smile, that came with a knowing glance in Corey’s direction.

Corey entered, nodded to them.

“Please, come through,” she said in her brisk Senior Director persona as she and I entered the inner office.

“Lieutenant Nighthawk. Doctor James. I am Corey Lloyd Reese, your new Senior Director of the SPJ. I’m requesting that all personnel renew their Oath to the Organization at this time, and in my presence. You’ll each take the Oath — and then I’ll have an assignment for you. Is this agreeable to you?”

“Yes, Director,” Doc James said.

“Madam Director,” Nighthawk asked, “What about Parker and Drayton?”

“They’re already sworn,” Reese said briskly. “Are you ready?”

The swearing went smoothly. Then Reese asked us all to sit down.

“I want you to go to Paris. Investigate the death of Charles duBois, my immediate predecessor. He left last Saturday, on the eighth of September, for a long weekend at his home in a suburb of Paris. He wasn’t expected back until Wednesday. As — I gather — is customary, he reported in twice daily. This seems to be a security measure to ensure that the Director is safe. Not bad — provided the person being reported to is trustworthy. He last reported on the morning of the eleventh of September, 0900, local — apparently if he reported in by 1000 London time, he was within parameters. In the confusion, no one realized that he missed his evening check-in, which was scheduled between 1800 and 2100 hours.”

She settled back in her chair before continuing.

“It was surmised that with the lines busy he hadn’t been able to call across the Channel. Paris Station was contacted on a direct, secure line, thinking he might have called them. They didn’t even know he was in country, which was, in itself, strange — even if he reported directly to HQ; he would’ve let the in-country station know he was there, as a matter of courtesy — and to facilitate sending aid, if necessary. A team was finally dispatched to his villa. They found the place locked up tight as if he’d gone away. For some reason, no one thought to investigate further — then. Then his housekeeper called in — she’d gone there at her usual time and found his lifeless body.”

The expression on her face clearly boded ill for someone.

“About 1600 yesterday I received an urgent phone call — I was on leave and staying with my uncle at his home in Shrewsbury. It was Anton Greydon, calling from New York to offer me the position of Senior Director. I don’t know how he managed that one!”

Drayton smiled smugly. Judging from the smug look on Drayton’s face combined with what he had told me previously, I surmised he had something to do with that. I made a mental note to get the confirmation from him later.

“The US has been shut down since Tuesday morning,” Reese continued. “Mr. Greydon swore me in over the telephone, and then I came here. I was met at the door by Commander Conrad, brought up here, and, except for a couple of hours, I’ve been here ever since.”

She ran her hand through her hair.

“Drayton, Parker — you two I know from Uxbridge. You were on basic training for this place — I was... on convalescent leave. By the way, I’ve been given a clean bill of health — and have even had a posting since then. Short, but effective.”

A tight smile.

“The rest of you Parker vouches for, that’s good enough for me.”

A quick smile in my direction.

“So, I’m taking a chance on some relative newcomers. Good. Maybe you haven’t been here long enough to get entrenched in any of the cliques.”

She leaned forward and clasped her hands on the desk.

“There’s a helo waiting on the rooftop landing pad — draw whatever you need from Stores. Find out for me what exactly happened to Charles duBois.”

She scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“Program this into your cellphones — it’s my private cellphone number. It’s always on. With it, you can reach me twenty-four seven. Don’t hesitate to use it. I’d rather be called unnecessarily than not. Dismissed.”

We left her office and headed to Stores. Reese had obviously called ahead. Whatever we asked for was promptly produced.

On the way, I asked Drayton about the phone call Corey had mentioned. Yep, the old boy had done exactly what I thought. I couldn’t help but be proud of him. He’s a wiz at things like that. I’m glad he’s on our side. No telling what he’d do if he wasn’t.

At Stores, the equipment I asked for was simple. Two types of guns, a tranquilizer gun with plenty of shots and a Walther P99 with laser sight, silencer and plenty of ammo for it. I included some smoke and stun grenades. The rest of my equipment included a listening/eavesdropping device, a sneak-a-scope, flare gun, extra first aid gear, and the usual SPJ approved crime scene items needed for the scene of duBois’ death. I also included extra battery packs for our phones and other electronic gear; including the laptops.

I knew Drayton would have both of his laptops with him — standard issue and personal. Nighthawk had seemed to develop the habit of carrying her issued one around as well. Well, all of us had in fact. One never knew when the laptop would be needed to look up something.

Against my better judgment, I asked for a knife like the one Drayton had passed to me during the Robyn Coyne mission. I figured it might come in handy.

“You wouldn’t happen to have,” I asked the storekeeper, “any paint ball gun ammunition, by chance. Would you?”

I know it was a long shot. I was running low and knew I wouldn’t have time to get any more before we left.

“Why, yes, we do,” the squat, near balding man, said. “We’ve had to have a stockpile by order of Dr. Garrett since a little over a year ago.”

Suddenly his eyes went wide as he looked at me.

“My word,” he said with surprise and wonder in his voice. “You’re him. The one everyone has been talking about. You’re starting to become a legend around here.”

He looked at all of us in turn, eyes getting wider.

“All of you are. Your exploits since your first days of training have been the talk of the SPJ. And Lieutenant Parker, your idea of the paintball gun was just brilliant.”

He gazed at us in wonder for a moment before shaking his head.

“Well, here I am,” he said abashedly, “rattling on as if you had nothing better to do than listen to the fawning of an old stores keeper. Please, if there’s anything you may ever need that we might not have here in stores, just come replace me. I’ll see if I can drum it up for you. Any of you. Name’s Hoke. Fenimore Cooper Hoke. Call on me any time.”

“Thank you, Hoke,” I said. “We’ll do just that.”

He ducked his head appreciatively, a wide semi-toothless grin on his face.

Once we collected our equipment, we headed off to gather our necessary personal equipment. For me, that included my travel pack with my usual tools of trade; lock picks, a couple of extra changes of clothing, and my various other personal crime scene investigation equipment.

As an afterthought, there was one thing I did before joining the others. I went back to Hoke and asked him for three inconspicuous tracking devices and a monitor.

The promised helicopter was waiting on the rooftop pad. When I reached the others, I let them board the helo first while I stood by the door, made some friendly comment, and surreptitiously placed a tracking device on each one. This way, if we became separated, I’d have my own way to locate them.

I was about to enter the helicopter when a breathless young lieutenant came panting up.

“Parker? Robert Bixby Parker?”

“Yes,” I said turning around. “I’m Parker. What do you need?”

“Senior Director’s compliments, sir.”

He handed me an envelope.

’Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said as I took the envelope, and opened it up. “Carry on. Unless you were supposed to wait for a response.”

“No, sir.”

To my surprise, he saluted.

To my surprise — until I saw what was in the envelope.

My new identification card — updated to show my new rank of Lieutenant Colonel. And a full set of insignia!

“Lieutenant,” I said smartly returning the salute. “Please send my compliments to the Senior Director and give her this message. ‘Uxbridge’. You got it, Lieutenant?”

He frowned.

“‘Uxbridge’. Yes, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said and climbed into the helicopter not waiting for an answer or salute. Once settled in, I replaced my old insignia with my new. Wouldn’t have done for me to be out of uniform.

We were flown to Paris. The chopper was challenged once, but otherwise all went well. We were welcomed to Paris Station — effusively — and hurried to a waiting car which whisked us out to the villa on Rue Marcelin Berthelot, south of Paris.

The ‘bum rush’ in Paris, I realized, was to keep us from getting too interested in Paris Station. I made note of it and filed it for future reference. I also made sure the others kept it in mind as well.

A short drive later, we arrived at the villa on Rue Marcelin Berthelot.

Charles duBois certainly did himself proud. The villa, although quiet and nondescript on the outside, was sybaritic on the inside. Two and a half stories high, the main floor contained a Grande Salon, a dining room, kitchen, full bath and study.

The Grande Salon ran from the front of the house to the back, along the left side as we entered the main foyer. On the right was the study, then the bathroom, then the dining room. The kitchen was placed on the back of the house. A long hall ran from the entryway to the kitchen entrance. There was also a back entrance to the kitchen where, presumably, supplies were delivered.

The first floor — second floor by American standards — could be reached from the stairs in the foyer. Upstairs, the Master bedroom with attached bath, three guest rooms and a guest bathroom.

We didn’t see an immediate access to the half-story.

I motioned for the team to make ready for anything. Just because this place had been cordoned off as a crime scene didn’t mean some unauthorized person wasn’t around. I readied my paint ball gun, for easy access, and loaded up the tranq gun. While looking around corners, I used the sneak-a-scope before proceeding.

I asked Doc to check randomly for fingerprints as we went along. There was a possibility he might be able to replace some that didn’t belong to duBois, or those of his staff.

We went room by room:

In the Grande Salon, we found a dais for an orchestra at the front end of the house. Pass–through from kitchen for food. Chairs and small tables stacked against the inner wall. Full bar. Floor highly polished for dancing. Large picture windows opening on the professionally kept garden.

The dining room had a large, double door entrance. Inside was a long table which seated 20, and chairs for it. There was a sideboard with cupboards containing linens, dishes, silverware. Real silverware. All accoutrements were very elegant, and very expensive. Full bar.

The full bath came with a whirlpool. It had the usual offices, plentifully supplied.

The kitchen was industrial-sized with laundry on one end, four stoves, and multiple preparation surfaces of all kinds. It was luxuriously appointed for everything from a midnight snack to a full banquet. Anything missing from the dining room would be found here. And everything matched.

The study appeared normal. Desk, chair, bookshelves. Computer desk, state-of-the art computer. Satellite uplink. Ability to contact anywhere in the world at the click of a mouse. Provided by the Organization, so duBois could work from home when needed.

The guest bath was set up the same as the other. Full bath with whirlpool. Closet stocked with anything the guest might think of — but forgot to bring. Both male and female.

The guest bedrooms were rather sparse — bed, closet, nightstand. Chest of drawers, dresser. Some supplies, such as extra pillows and blankets, pajamas and negligee sets.

The master bedroom recalled Hugh Hefner’s. Huge bed, built-in bookcase, full bar. Built-in closet, chest of drawers, dresser. Clothes were all simple, elegant — and very, very expensive.

Satisfied there were no hidden intruders inside the house, we began an even more thorough search for the half-story access. Checking every innocuous thing that might be a secret latch or key to it, especially along the wall and ceilings. We even went so far as to stamp our feet on the flooring, for a possible way to get to it from there.

The first room I tried was the study. No joy.

The next room I chose at random rewarded me with some success. The Master Bedroom. It seemed as though the closet wasn’t as long as the room. I measured again — yes, the closet was a full three feet shorter. I went to the end and started tapping.

A hollow sound rewarded my efforts.

I pulled out something from my travel bag I rarely had a chance to use. A small bag of flour.

In my younger days, I used to play Dungeons & Dragons with some of my high school chums during study hall. Our dungeon master, DM for short, pit us against an invisible being, and one of my buddies accidentally knocked over an open canister of flour. He’d gotten pissed off because we couldn’t replace the being after all our efforts. It was by pure luck, the flour dumped all over the invisible being and we killed it.

Flour is light enough to float. So, I took a small bit and tossed it in varying directions toward each wall. I hoped to replace some small air current where the entry way should be. It didn’t work.

I called out to the rest of the team, to let them know what I had discovered. I figured one of them might be more patient than I was feeling at the moment in replaceing whatever might constitute an access switch. As I waited, I continued tapping on the closet wall — and was rewarded by a slight crack that opened in the center.

“Drayton, Nighthawk, Doc!!” I called out as I attempted to widen the crack with the knife I had procured from stores. “I found something.”

The door resisted at first, then sprang back, the lock broken. Inside was a spiral staircase, going up.

Taking a glance in, I pulled out my phone and texted the team letting them know what I’d found. I also let them know I was going on ahead and for them to catch up ASAP.

I climbed the stairs. There was no door at the top. There was, however, a chain hanging down from the ceiling which I realized operated a light fixture and pulled it.

The half-story was one big room. At first, it looked to be an expansion of the library downstairs in the study. File cabinets lined two walls; bookshelves took up the other two walls and the center of the room. In the corner, farthest from the steps was a desk with computer, printer, and more books.

This computer, too, was fully Internet-capable. In fact, the connection up here was a lot better, a lot faster, and a lot more secure.

And not provided by the SPJ.

After much effort, I finally cracked my way into the computer. It contained a wealth of information. But one name kept coming up, repeatedly.

Al-Qaeda.

Innocent at first. Then in more detail. It appeared Mr. duBois had been investigating them for several years, and the results of his labors were here for me to peruse.

I also found bank account records.

Now, we’re all paid generously. As we rise in the ranks, our compensation rises also — the SPJ believes in rewarding us for our efforts. But it was inconceivable to me that the SPJ would pay this well.

Just how much is a Senior Director paid?

I didn’t know — but I did have a way to check. I called up Corey, using the number she’d provided.

When she had originally given us the number and mentioned unnecessary calls, I was half-tempted to call her from my rooms, and ask her if calling just to say “hello” would be considered unnecessary. I opted to not make that call.

The call I made however, was necessary and I waited for Corey to answer.

“This is Corey,” her familiar voice answered.

“It’s Parker.”

“Excuse me, I have to take this call,” she said to someone.

“Go ahead, Colonel.”

I told Corey what happened upon our arrival in Paris, including the bum rush to the car. When I got to what I found on the computer, I gave her a quick rundown.

“It appears duBois’ financial accounts are more than what I would think a Senior Director would make,” I said and rattled off the financial information. “Corey, I think he was on the take or was moonlighting. And unless I miss my guess, with known terrorists.”

Reese was all business. She gave me the information I asked for and then rang off.

In the background I could hear other voices — one or two of which I recognized — and I surmised she was laying down the law to the Senior Commanders.

And there was no way Charles duBois could support this lifestyle on his SPJ pay.

I dug deeper into the files. There was more — this wasn’t his only residence. There was also a very nice yacht berthed at Nice, a second villa in the south of France, a castle in Germany that he was renovating — and at least three numbered Swiss bank accounts.

By the way, the Swiss had upgraded their security since Overton. He was still at large and had nothing to do with this. At least no connection I could determine.

Then I found an inventory list — artwork. Lots of artwork, including items listed as stolen and still missing. Some listed as stolen or missing since the 1940s.

Eventually, I found all I could. I needed to secure the villa, and return to Paris Station to continue my investigations there.

I downloaded the information to my laptop and forwarded encrypted copies to Drayton, Nighthawk, and Doc. I made a quick call to Corey and told her to jot down the access to one of my private email accounts. I asked her to check for a file with the subject line “Antonello’s”. I also let her know of our impending return to Paris Station and to expect a report of our replaceings there.

I wanted to make sure I had plenty of backups, in case none of us made it back alive with this information.

Once done, I headed down to the front room to wait for the others to rejoin me.

“Is there anything else we should take back with us?” Doc James said, looking around when he and the others arrived.

“What do you mean, Doc?” I asked. “Did you replace something?”

“I’ve been reading over the autopsy report. It says he died of a gunshot wound to the head — but there was an extraordinarily high level of morphine in his system. I wonder where it came from.”

“Doc, I trust you to know what you’re doing. Do what you need to do. The rest of you have any ideas or comments?”

“Yes, Parker. What’re we doing about the locked file cabinet?” asked Drayton.

“I think I’ll look around some more,” Dr. James said half to himself. “It had to come from somewhere. Let me see. The body was found in the downstairs study. There was a glass of crème de menthe on the table beside him. Did anyone keep the glass?”

“Check in the kitchen for the glass, Doc,” I said as I turned to Drayton. “Show me this file cabinet you found. Maybe I can be of some help in that regard. Nighthawk, keep Doc company. You might be able to spot something he might’ve missed while you locate the glass.”

The file cabinet was in the half-story. About halfway along the main wall, it was one of a series, but it was the only one locked. With an elaborate combination lock.

The lock, as I looked at it, didn’t appear to be too different from the combination locks I’d encountered before. Using a custom designed stethoscope, I listened for the familiar click indicating my success in getting the correct sequence. Once I believed I had the correct sequence, I tried the lock. And Voila! It opened.

“Parker — Parker!” Doc James called urgently.

“What?” I answered.

“I think I’ve found something.”

“On my way, Doc!” I called back. “Drayton, replace out what you can from this stuff in the cabinet, bring what you can and come replace me.”

Not waiting for an answer, I went to see what Doc had found.

“Morphine, Parker,” he said as he gestured to the liqueur bottles ranged on the counter.

Amaretto, Crème de Menthe, Kahlua, Grand Marnier, Chambord.

“I found the glass — some idiot washed it. So, I checked the bottle for morphine. Loaded. I checked the other bottles. Parker, they are all heavily loaded with morphine — even the ones that were still sealed. Enough Morphine to kill the average person.”

“We’re going to need,” I mused to myself, “to have someone we can trust to come over and collect all this evidence, I think. That bum rush in Paris makes me feel untrustworthy towards the local Station. Too bad Blackeagle isn’t here to guard this stuff while we take care of Paris.”

I turned to Doc.

“Doc, go upstairs to the half-story — see what Drayton found in that file cabinet. Take Nighthawk with you. If he needs help collecting anything, give him a hand. I’ll be here thinking of what I need to do.”

A few moments after Doc left, I made my decision. I called up Corey.

“Hi, this is Corey, I can’t come to the phone right now — leave your name and number and a brief message and I’ll call you back.”

Crap.

Should’ve realized even she wouldn’t be able to always answer. She’s a busy woman now. I left a brief message; explaining our replaceings, recommended someone from London come and collect the evidence we found, and why I was reluctant to leave the house unattended to take care of Paris Station. I also mentioned that Ted Westbury was trustworthy as keeping as one of her aides. Then hung up.

That’s when it dawned on me. Corey, back when had dinner in Uxbridge, ordered an Amaretto. She was also in duBois’ office, who had a fully stocked bar. I immediately called up London HQ.

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Robert Bixby Parker,” I said as soon as I got a connection. “Patch me through to the Senior Director’s secretary, Captain Miles O’Halloran. Now!”

While I was waiting to be connected, Drayton came hurrying into the kitchen.

“Parker — about these files...,” Drayton began. “Oh. When did you get to be a Colonel?”

He handed me the files.

“You need to look them over,” he continued before I could answer. “They’re all about Al-Qaeda — a lot of them have Director Reese’s name on them.”

The cabinet contained confidential intelligence reports, including a series written by Wing Commander Reese. Written over a period culminating about a year ago — about the time I was in SPJ Basic. The reports clearly indicated that Al-Qaeda was planning something big — bigger than their 1993 World Trade Center bombing.

As I read through the reports, I learned that the events of 9-11 were suspected. I also learned that intelligence to this effect was passed to Charles duBois — as neutral party — to pass on to the Americans.

It was never transmitted.

The Americans could’ve had advanced warning of the suicide attacks that occurred two days ago.

I began to understand why Charles duBois might’ve committed suicide.

“I was in the Peacekeepers, previously,” I said absently while looking over the files. “US Naval equivalent was Commander. Director Reese happened to pick up on my prior service. Just before boarding the helicopter in London, I was officially returned to my SPJ equivalent.”

I finished going over the files and looked up at Drayton.

“You met her back at Uxbridge, right?” I asked him. “Nice work on the Lanc by the way. Did she mention her prior posting to you? She told me about it when I met her.”

I then went on to explain to Drayton what Corey told me she’d found during her years in the Middle East. All the while waiting for a response from Miles.

“This is Captain Miles O’Halloran. How may I help you?”

“Captain. This is Lieutenant Colonel Parker. I’ve reason to believe the Senior Director has been poisoned.”

I went on to explain some, but not all, of what I discovered. No need to tell the good Captain about the Al-Qaeda information. Just about our replaceings with the morphine in all the bottles and Doc’s conclusions. And my suspicions the same bottles duBois had in the Senior Director’s bar may have morphine in them as well.

“She isn’t answering her cell phone. Get a medical team in there right away.”

“I have the override code to her door...”

The phone clattered down onto the desk.

I could hear his boots crossing the office. The door sliding open. His muffled gasp.

I heard him run into the inner office. My imagination pictured Corey slumped over the desk, collapsed on the floor, lying boneless on the couch. I heard his crisp voice issuing orders over the phone in the inner office, and then he came back out and picked up his own phone.

“You were right. She’s out cold. Medical is on the way.”

“Thank you, Captain,” the obvious relief showing in my voice. “She’s important to us all. I need you to get in touch with Ted Westbury. I need you to have him and Nick Storm start coordinating crowd control. If they have any questions, have them call me. They have my number.”

“Can’t do that, Colonel,” O’Halloran said. “Westbury’s on administrative leave at the express orders of the Senior Director. I can get Commander Storm though. How about one of the other Commanders? They’re all in-house, I believe.”

“Then call in Ricky Vallance in lieu of Westbury,” I replied with a grimace. “Oh and thank you Captain. I owe you one.”

“Hm. ‘Ricky’, is it?” I heard him mumble. “Yes, sir. Shall I have him call you?”

“Same as with Nick Storm, yes” I answered, “They’re to call if they have any questions about my orders. You might as well keep my number handy. You may need it someday.”

“One other thing,” I added. “I need Logan Blackeagle and a collections team sent to duBois’ villa here in France immediately. Choose people you can trust. Do not have them stop at the Paris station. Send them straight to the villa. And keep this under wraps. Understood?”

“Understood, Colonel Parker.”

Several hours later, I was still waiting for the team from HQ. They were driving over by way of the Channel Tunnel. Their estimated time of arrival was some four to six hours hence.

There wasn’t much we could do except wait — wait for the team to arrive, wait for my cellphone to ring.

Which it finally did.

“Parker,” I answered immediately.

“Storm. I understand we have you to thank for this latest crisis?”

“Commander,” I said stiffly, “If I hadn’t taken action, it might’ve meant the death of the Senior Director.”

“Relax — no one’s blaming you. It’s just that... losing two in the space of a week would have been really bad form.”

“Are you on a secure line? I need to know before I continue.”

“Yes, the line’s secure.”

I relaxed and told Storm of my team’s replaceings at the villa, our “enthusiastic” welcome at Paris Station, and my decision to have a collections group to come directly here from London instead of going through Paris.

“When will you be back?” Storm asked.

“As soon as I finish my investigation at Paris Station,” I said. “Why? Is there a problem on your end?”

“Your name’s Robert, right?”

“Of course,” I replied impatiently, “you know that, Commander.”

“It was touch and go for a while, there,” Nick said.

In the background, I could hear him lighting a cigarette.

“Then Mallory remembered that Naxalone was the specific for morphine poisoning. He sent for some — we didn’t have any on hand. When it arrived, he had her on life support. She’s breathing on her own, now, which is a good sign, Mallory says.”

I heard him take a drag from his cigarette.

“She’s still asleep. Mallory says it’s a natural sleep, not a coma, though how he can tell, I don’t know. He says she’ll wake naturally, but he can’t say when — it depends on how much of a sleep deficit she had built up before taking the morphine. She did rouse once — Mallory was with her and passed word on to me. She said ‘Robert — tell Robert’. I think I just did.”

“Commander,” I said letting loose some of the tension I had since Corey’s poisoning. “Thank you. And yes, my name is Robert. The same Robert that you’ve known since Miami; the same Robert who took over the investigation of the Section Leaders in your office just shy of a year ago; the… Sorry Commander, yes I’m the same Robert you know.”

I lit up a cigarette of my own.

“As soon as I get done here in Paris, I’ll be back in London. Just make sure there’s someone watching her at all times. And I’m counting on you and Commander Vallance to take care of any damage control where she’s concerned. The Senior Director had been on leave visiting with family when she received her promotion. So, she should be fine sleep-wise. Call me if anything changes. And thank you, again.”

I’m glad I was outside when I received Storm’s call. I don’t think it would’ve done my team any good to see me come as close to breaking down as I did.

“Aside from that,” I said more calmly than I felt. “What’s the situation over there with the rest of SPJ?”

“You’re babbling,” Storm said calmly. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. We’ll take care of her. You know — she fought it off enough to call Miss Mathers in to take over while she was out. She’s here now, rearranging everything!”

I could hear the smile in his voice.

“Just walked in the front door, calm as you please. ‘Your Senior Director sent for me,’ she said, ‘So I could deputize for her while she was away.’ If you hadn’t called, we would’ve found the Director, lad, be sure of that.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. Thank you, Commander,” I said. “I’ll give Miss Mathers a call with an update of my progress. Find out what her orders are. Is she taking up temporary residence in the Senior Director’s office? If not, is there a number I can reach her? I seem to have misplaced the one I had for her.”

“By the way,” Nick said, seemingly missing my last statement. “AVM Reese is also here Has a pimply faced boy he says is Corey’s fiancé. His name’s Joe. Not Robert.”

I was hoping I’d heard Nick correctly. Identity of my rank aside as far as I knew Corey had not deputized Briony. In addition, I knew, for a fact, unless AVM Reese believed in the practice of arranged marriages, the fiancé was a fiction, too.

Earlier in the day, I needed to call up Storm to contact Briony since I didn’t have a way of contacting her. I could’ve called up Ricky Vallance had I thought of it, but Nick’s name happened to be the first to come to mind. I knew better than to show up on her doorstep unannounced, although she gave me permission to call on her. Most likely, Roberts’ would’ve tossed me out on my ear. All the while giving me, I’m sure, a sad look of disappointment for my lack of etiquette.

“Parker, is everything all right over there?” Storm asked.

Okay, maybe I had been wrong about what I was thinking.

“Commander,” I said. “I think I need to ask you the same thing. The Senior Director has no fiancé. I know because she would’ve told me. We’ve gotten pretty close since we met.”

“Yes,” Nick said. “I saw the look on the young man’s face when the AVM introduced him. Also, I was there when she threw him out, remember? Unfortunately, right now, we’ve no choice but to admit him. He’s her next of kin, and she’s down.”

He grunted.

“Briony’s staying in Guest VIP Quarters. I offered her the Senior Director’s office, but she said something about not having the key any more. Extension 2000. She was asking for you, by the way. I’d give her a call, if I were you.”

“I’ll do that as soon as I’m done speaking with you,” I said. “Any other news of import I need to know? The collections team still hasn’t gotten here yet so we are cooling our heels here.”

“What are your plans regarding Paris?” Storm asked.

“I’ve a feeling that Paris may be hiding something related to duBois’ death,” I said.

I told Nick about Corey mentioning Paris Station being surprised that duBois was at his villa and about our “welcome” when my team and I arrived.

“That is why I ordered Captain O’Halloran to send the collections team straight here to the villa instead of going through Paris Station. I plan on replaceing out what they are hiding over there. And given what I suspect if I left this place unattended, crucial evidence may replace its way to becoming conveniently lost.”

“... ‘ordered Captain O’Halloran’...” Storm said.

“Yes, Commander,” I said. “’Ordered’.”

Then it dawned on me. I must have been more stressed than I thought.

“Nick, you did know that I was given back my Peacekeeper rank equivalent, right? Lieutenant Colonel? I seem to recall you calling me Commander in your office during the Chickering Affair investigation. It was my US Navy rank with the Peacekeepers. When I got my UNO reactivation notice, included was a letter from Ted Westbury to keep my Peacekeeper service under wraps. Since I’ve been with the SPJ, few people know of my Peacekeeper service. Heck, back when I passed as a footman during Miss Mather’s birthday dinner, Roberts’ knew of my Peacekeeper service. Apparently, so did the Senior Director. Just prior to my boarding the ’copter for Paris, I received my new ID badge and my rank insignia.”

“I haven’t spoken to the Senior Director since we got back from Briony’s home,” Storm said. “That’s right. You did mention that. Sorry — a lot has changed in the last few days.”

I lit up another cigarette.

“Speaking of Ted Westbury,” I said changing the subject. “I understand the Senior Director placed him on Administrative Leave.”

“Ted Westbury? First thing she did was place him and Robyn Coyne on paid administrative leave. Or was that the second?”

“Nick,” I asked with genuine concern in my voice, “exactly how much sleep have you gotten? I can’t order you to get some sleep. You still outrank me as a Senior Commander. But as a friend, I can suggest that you go get some shuteye. You sound like you need it. And if you try to balk at a friend’s suggestion, I’d bet Doc Mallory would order it if I made a call as a concerned party for his superior officer…”

“Not enough,” he said frankly. “Things keep... coming up, somehow. Maybe six hours? We’re all running short since the Towers went down. And now, with the Senior Director incapacitated, well none of us feel that we can take time off. Even with Miss Mathers back at the helm. She says it’s temporary, but some of us want to talk to Anton...”

He stopped abruptly as if he’d said too much.

“All of us have been through a trying time since the Towers, Nick,” I said. “And, I’m sure, there’ll be more for us in the future. But we are who we are. You, me, Ricky, Miss Mathers and the Senior Director have the strength to get through this. One way or another. And with our combined efforts we’ll come out on top in the end.”

I had pointedly ignored Nicks cut off comment. It was none of my concern for the moment. Nick and the others had more experience than I did when it came to the internal politics of the SPJ. For the moment, though, I relegated Nick’s unfinished statement to the back burner to examine later.

“As soon as the collections team gets here, I’ll head over to Paris Station. I don’t want to leave this place unattended while I’m gone and I need everyone on my team with me at the Station. That’s why I wanted Blackeagle to accompany the collections team. My teammates seem to trust him and why I told O’Halloran to pick people he could trust for the collections team.”

“Blackeagle wasn’t available,” Storm said. “O’Halloran said he didn’t know who to send, so... Senior Commander Conrad decided to head up the team himself.”

“Conrad, huh?” I said. “I haven’t met him, yet. Not really. Once very briefly at Graduation and once during the Chickering Affair when you called him and Ricky to your office. What’s he like?”

I could hear Nick light another cigarette, thinking, no doubt.

“Hard to say. American. Business-like. Hard to get to know. Like you, he came in through Peacekeepers, rose rapidly. Unlike you, we all knew about it ahead of time... Anton promoted him. Conrad’s a moneyman. No-nonsense. Made his million before he was thirty, chucked it to join up. A couple of months younger than Anton, but as different as chalk and cheese, as the saying goes.”

“Okay,” I said. “Works for me. Fellow Peacekeeper should be easy to deal with. Let me let you go. You need to get some sleep and I need to call Miss Mathers. I’ll let you know as soon as I can what’s up on my end.”

With that said, I hung up with Nick and called Briony Mathers.

The phone was picked up immediately.

“Mathers.”

“Ma’am, it’s Parker,” I said.

I didn’t remember what else to call her if there was an official title or anything. I’m chalking it up to lack of sleep.

“Commander Storm suggested I call you. I just got off the phone with him.”

“Ah, yes,” she replied. “I understand you’re in Paris? Would you report your replaceings, please?”

I gave her a concise report starting with our arrival in Paris.

“If you like,” I said as I concluded. “I can forward a copy of the material I found on Mr. duBois’ computer to you.”

“I would like that, yes.”

She gave me the information I needed so I could send it directly to her.

“Since you’re in Paris, I’m authorizing you to continue your investigations into the Paris Station. Do you need written authorization?”

“It might help,” I said. “Though you might want to fax it to me here at the villa. I’d rather have it on hand before I reach the Station. Oh, I’m not sure if you knew this or not. The Senior Director renewed my former rank within the UNO Peacekeepers. SPJ equivalent is Lieutenant Colonel.”

I figured it would be best if I had all my bases covered for entering Paris Station. Including my correct rank.

“I’ll send it immediately,” she replied. “Was there anything else?”

“Probably. Expect possible numerous complaints from Paris. Written orders or not, I expect there to be some resistance based on what I can gather. Aside from that I’ll call if I need anything.”

As Miss Mathers ended the call, the fax machine started to chatter.

Confirmation of restoration of rank.

Orders — Investigate the death of Charles duBois by any and all means necessary.

Orders — Investigate the situation at Paris Station — Carte Blanche.

signed — Corey Lloyd Reese, Senior Director.

countersigned — Briony Anne Mathers, Acting Senior Director.

And an unsigned note, “Did you know that Miles is an accomplished forger?”

Once I received the fax, I forwarded the requested information to Miss Mathers with a note thanking her for the “intuitive contribution”.

All that was left was to await Senior Commander Conrad’s arrival with his people. I went to the front of the villa and waited in an inconspicuous spot for their arrival and lit up another cigarette. Ignoring my own advice, I let the others rest and kept the watch.

I didn’t have long to wait. Two cigarettes later, three cars, flying small SPJ flags, drew up at the curb. Doors opened, and numerous very large men exited.

These soon resolved themselves into twelve — well, eleven men and one woman. Leading the charge was the one I recognized as Senior Commander James Conrad.

He hurried up the walk, the woman beside and just behind him, and strode onto the balcony that ran along the front of the house.

I went to greet Commander Conrad.

“Lieutenant Colonel Robert Parker, Commander,” I said as I came to attention with a snappy salute.

He looked me over, frowning.

“I know you from somewhere. Where?”

“Graduation and the Chickering Affair, Sir,” I answered crisply still at attention since he’d not given me leave to stand at ease.

“And now you’re a Lieutenant Colonel?” He pronounced the word American style — with a pronounced Mid-Western accent. “I understand you’re on your way to Paris Station. How soon will you be leaving, Colonel?”

“Sir, I was reinstated to my Peacekeepers rank by Senior Director Reese just prior to my leaving London. I plan on leaving for Paris as soon as I’ve been cleared by you to leave.”

“Oh, stand easy, Parker — we don’t stand on ceremony around here — or haven’t you been with us long enough to replace that out yet?”

Conrad grinned, a big, corn-fed Iowa farm-boy grin.

“I’ll need you to show me around here, first — all I know is that there’s sensitive material that needs bagging up and shipping back to Headquarters. Now, why don’t you take me in and tell me what’s going on here?”

“Of course,” I said relaxing. “Right this way. I’ll have my people coordinate with yours as to what needs to be taken. In the meantime, let me catch you up to speed...”

As I guided Conrad into the villa, I gave him a breakdown of what had happened since my arrival in Paris. In the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but think I might be able to get along with this man.