“Madame Guilloux n’est pas, ici! Fiche-moi la paix!”
Cameron still remembered enough French to realize that the old woman had just told him to shut up. He clenched his teeth in response to the rude remark, and was about to cut loose with the worst of his French when he noticed someone to his left.
“You’re five minutes late,” said a deep feminine voice in flawless English. Cameron turned his head and saw the tall, trim figure of Marie Guilloux across the hall. She wore a pair of tight-fitting blue jeans and a San Francisco Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt, and was holding the elevator door open.
“Are you just going to stand here, Mister…?”
Cameron walked in her direction. “Name’s Cameron Stone and I’m still a few minutes early, Mrs. Guilloux.”
“Marie, please. I never liked being called that even when my husband was alive. Come, let’s go upstairs before someone spots us.” Cameron stepped into the tiny elevator, barely big enough for the both of them. Marie closed the door. With his body almost pressed against hers, Cameron heard the old elevator make a few worrisome noises before it finally started moving upward. He just stood there, uncomfortably still, his face only inches away from hers. He kept his eyes trained on a spot on the wall, but felt Marie’s eyes on him. She studied him.
“You speak without an accent,” he finally said, trying to break the ice and pretend he was not bothered by her nearness.
“That’s because English is my native tongue. I was born and raised in Florida, Cameron. My maiden name is Roberts.”
The elevator stopped on the third floor. She opened the door and got out. “This way.” He followed her to the end of the corridor. She pulled out a key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. “Not bad for twenty-five bucks a day,” she said as she opened the windows overlooking rue de Cujas.
“You’re going to have to forgive me, but this is not at all what I expected this meeting to be like.”
She sat on one of two beds and gave him a puzzled look. “Oh, why is that?”
“Well, for starters this place, and your attitude. It all appears totally out of character for the grieving widow I read about in the papers this morning.”
“You’re the one who’s going to have to forgive me. It should be obvious to you that the reason I’m meeting you here is because I didn’t want anybody to know I was talking to the CIA. Perhaps the Agency sent the wrong person for the job.”
Cameron frowned. “Look, lady, the reason I said that was because I was told this assignment was only a simple deposition. If it’s something more than that. I’d like to know right now.”
“Why? So you can leave?” She got up and walked toward the windows.
“No. So I can determine if this place is safe enough, and also find out exactly how you got here. Just because you’re dressed like a tourist and you’re staying in this dump doesn’t mean no one followed you.”
She turned around and faced him. “All right, all right. I apologize. For a moment I thought—”
“I’m a trained operative, not a psychic. Now tell me, what was so important that it forced you to use the emergency code you gave us. And how did you get it? As far as we can tell you’re not associated with the Agency.”
“From my late husband.” Cameron frowned again.
“Well, here I am. Now, what is it that you wanted to tell us?”
Marie turned around, put both hands on the windowsill, pulled her chin up, and let the breeze swirl her long black hair. A very attractive woman, Cameron noted.
“It’s about the night before he died,” she said, her back still to him.
“Hmm… what about it?” Cameron sat on the bed and loosened his tie.
“He’d just spent a week trying to work out some launch problems in Kourou, and was on his way back here when he called from the plane. He sounded worried, concerned.”
“Well a man in his position. So much responsibility. It would seem natural to be—”
“No, it wasn’t like that. Claude and I worked many hours together, both here in Paris and in Kourou. As a matter of fact, developing the guidance system for the Athena V is how we met in the first place, and over the next few years we learned to work effectively under the enormous pressures associated with keeping to a tight launch schedule. Sure he had his bad days with Athena, and so did I, but the other night was different. He wasn’t upset or angry, or worried about anything expected; instead he seemed unusually nervous. For a few moments I even recognized an ounce or two of fear in his voice.”
“Look, this is very hard for me to say, but I don’t see why the CIA needs to be involved.”
“Please let me finish.” She turned around and faced him. “After he managed to calm down, he told me that the rumor about the Russian craft was true. Then he gave me the CIA code in case something—”
“Wait. Back up. What rumor? What about the Russians?”
Marie ran a hand through her hair, briefly closed her eyes, and sat on the windowsill. “A few months back a Russian spacecraft exploded soon after reaching orbit. The rumor some of us at Athena heard was that it had accidentally collided with one of our own satellites. One of our technicians at Kourou Mission Control had spotted an Orbital Termination message on one of the screens. No one had thought much of it at the time. After all, during the testing stage of the Athena V we’d placed several satellites in orbit which Athena now uses to monitor weather patterns prior to launches. Now and then one of those satellites falls down to such low orbit that it becomes useless. We usually terminate it by firing its rockets and letting it burn during re-entry. After we got news of the Russian craft exploding at roughly the same place and time as one of our satellite terminations, rumors began floating around the agency that we had accidentally blown up the Russian craft. But the board of trustees quickly squashed those rumors without much investigation, officially closing the matter. Claude seemed particularly distressed by this. He wanted to find out if indeed Athena was at fault, but the termination records appeared to have been erased from the memory banks of the tracking computer.”
“All right. What are you trying to tell me?”
“I don’t think his death was accidental, the way the papers said.”
“You’re saying someone killed him?”
“I think so. Claude told me that he and a few other scientists managed to retrieve part of the data that had been erased from memory. He said that the bits and pieces of data they recovered indicated that the Russian craft didn’t blow up accidentally at all. It was intentional. And he claimed to have proof that incriminated Athena’s upper management.”
“What did the French police have to say about Claude’s death?”
“The police were useless. They said the death was accidental. I told them I didn’t agree with their conclusion and gave them my reasons. I told them that they were closing the case too quickly and that they should do more work investigating.”
“And? What did they say?”
“An inspector by the name of Philippe Roquette called me a half hour after I finished talking with the initial investigator. I told him what I’d told the investigator, and he assured me that the situation had been professionally and thoroughly handled. He said that he’d approved the official statement, that Monsieur Guilloux had indeed died in a car accident. Then he said he had other business to deal with and hung up.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. Do you see now why I contacted the American Embassy?”
“Well, perhaps you should have…” Cameron stopped and walked toward the door.
“What’s the—”
“Shh.” He held up his left hand and grabbed the Beretta with his right. Slowly he dropped to a crouch and pressed his back against the wall next to the door. The footsteps had stopped again. He had heard them outside several seconds ago. Whoever it was had gone up and down the hall twice. Maybe a maid, he thought, but quickly discarded it as a possibility. Kind of late in the day for maid service. A lost tourist? Perhaps, but why stop in front of this door twice?