Even though Marco Alejandro is in prison for life, I broke the law and betrayed my country and my sworn oath. I take responsibility for my actions even though they were done for the sake of my daughter, Emily, who has severe cerebral palsy. The rising cost of Emily’s ongoing care drove our family to the brink of bankruptcy and put my daughter’s life in jeopardy. Everything I did, I did for her. I say this not as an excuse but as a fact.
I also state as fact that the Alejandro cartel was making similar payments to two members of the U.S. House Judiciary subcommittee on drug trafficking: Arturo San Miguel of New Mexico and Barbara Hayes of California. I helped facilitate the payments to them and will list their accounts.
I know that my role in this corruption and betrayal of my country has cost lives and for that I will be forever ashamed and dishonored. Accounts with all pertinent passwords are listed on the back of this page along with the names of others in intelligence and law enforcement who I believe have betrayed the public trust at the behest of the Alejandro cartel.
The document was signed simply Catherine Hingham.
On the back of the confession, the CIA field operative named agents of the U.S. Customs Service, the U.S. Border Patrol, the FBI, the DEA, the Treasury Department, and the Mexican national police who had succumbed to money or pressure or both. Catherine Hingham’s confession was beyond explosive and seemed to suggest an elaborate effort by the Alejandro cartel to neutralize anyone who stood in its way, despite its kingpin’s incarceration.
The information was so sensitive and the allegations so damning that after a second reading, we knew we would not be able to run the larger investigation called for by her shocking allegations.
After we took pictures of both sides of the statement and thanked Margaret Forester for her time, we went upstairs to explain the situation to Metro Chief Michaels and Police Commissioner Dennison.
Commissioner Dennison was something of a media hog, known to leak juicy items that bolstered his reputation. The trait was one of the reasons Bree had left her job as chief of detectives to join Bluestone Group. Indeed, as soon as we began to describe the contents of the confession, Dennison asked to see it, and I could tell that the commissioner was playing the publicity angles, imagining himself in the spotlight. Thankfully, Chief Michaels argued that any effort Metro Police might make as far as investigating members of federal law enforcement would be stonewalled and the FBI would end up seizing the case and eliminating our role.
“We need to turn it over to them, Commissioner, or we’ll be kept in the dark in the long run,” Michaels said. “This is bigger than Metro PD.”
The commissioner bristled at the idea and remained noncommittal throughout the day, effectively wasting an opportunity for the FBI to get a nationwide investigation up and running with appropriate speed. It wasn’t until around nine that evening that Chief Michaels texted us to let us know Dennison would contact his liaison with the Bureau first thing in the morning.
Neither of us were happy about the delay, but as Sampson had said, better late than never.
Chapter 10
Paris
Bree left her hotel on the Rue Jean Goujon in the eighth arrondissement and walked through the streets as the French capital came alive that sultry summer day. Despite the building heat, when she reached a walkway above the Seine River, she saw people jogging everywhere.
And mobs of tourists. And young lovers holding hands as they strolled by. And two well-put-together older women walking arm in arm and wearing bright summer dresses, one carrying a baguette and the other three yellow roses. Both were giggling at some shared secret when Bree passed them.
She knew well that she was in Paris on a serious assignment that had big consequences for everyone involved. But she was still enjoying the elegance of the French capital and its people, who seemed more refined and yet more relaxed than the citizens of DC.
On her stroll earlier, Bree had been enchanted by her first glimpse of Paris. Now, as she walked toward Bluestone Group’s offices, she felt herself falling head over heels in love with the city. She had to bring Alex. She had to show him—
Her phone buzzed with a text in French she mentally translated: Bree Stone, this is Marianne Le Tour. For reasons I’ll explain face to face, I’d prefer we meet away from Bluestone’s offices. Please hail a cab or call an Uber and come to the following address. It is my favorite place for coffee and croissants.
Twenty minutes later, Bree exited an Uber in front of Toujours Printemps — “Always Spring” — a café and patisserie on the Left Bank, not far from the École des Beaux-Arts. She entered and saw a woman in her fifties waving at her from the back of the café.
Bree smiled and walked toward Marianne Le Tour as the woman stood, revealing her height and her chic gray pantsuit. With every step Bree took, the head of Bluestone Group’s Paris office grew more stunningly beautiful.
Le Tour’s hair was short, lush, steel gray, and swept back. She had gently arched cheekbones and cream-colored, nearly flawless skin. But Bree decided that it must have been Le Tour’s eyes that had gotten her jobs on the fashion runways of Paris and Milan at the age of sixteen. Her eyes were shaped like a cat’s and sapphire blue, large, and sparkling. They danced all over Bree as the former model stepped forward to greet her with an air kiss and an “Enchanté.”
Bree returned the greeting and, at Le Tour’s gesture, took a seat opposite her. It was only then that she realized that Le Tour held her head artfully to show only two-thirds of her face.
As if she could hear Bree’s thoughts, Le Tour casually turned her head to reveal the faint, thin four-inch scar running from the right side of her jaw forward and down. Bree averted her eyes and in French asked, “What’s good here?”
Le Tour seemed to appreciate Bree not mentioning the scar that had ended her career at twenty-two. She gave a dazzling smile and said, “Everything’s good, but the croissants are world class. They snap open with absolute perfection. And the espresso is the best in Paris.”
“Both, then,” Bree said.
Le Tour waved to a waiter, who hustled over to take her order: a basket of pastries heavy on the croissants and two double espressos. When he’d gone, the head of Bluestone Paris said, “Are you wondering why we are meeting here?”
“Best croissants and espresso in Paris?”
“That, yes. But the real reason is that two years ago, our office did some work for the Pegasus Group and Philippe Abelmar. I’m concerned there may be lingering loyalties that could prove problematic for your investigation.”
“What kind of work did Bluestone do for Pegasus?”
“We were asked to look into a data breach. Beyond that, I’m not at liberty to say, but I assure you it has nothing to do with the allegations at hand.”
“So what kind of support can I expect?”
“Very little at first and certainly not from our cyber experts,” Le Tour cautioned. “You can text me, of course, at any time and I can point you in the right direction.”
“And if I get in hot water?”
Le Tour smiled and slid what looked like a one-euro coin across the table to her. “It’s a beacon. Press the back once, hard, and I can track your location. If you press twice, it will send an SOS straight to my cell phone. At that point, secrecy and discretion be damned, and we will come to help you with everything we’ve got.”
“Do I need a weapon?”
“And a license to carry it,” Le Tour said, nodding to the Chanel shopping bag at her feet. She took a large envelope out of her purse and slid it across the table. “Here is your alias, and the license, passport, and papers supporting it. Under the cashmere sweater in the bag, you will find a small Beretta, a waist holster, and two full clips of nine-millimeter ammunition. Please use restraint. Any shooting attracts the anti-terror teams.”