On the way down in the elevator, Dupré turned to Bill. “May I ask why you are here?”
“I see Sicard as the key to my investigation and I am a little light on personnel right now, so I jumped the next flight out of D.C.” Bill had reviewed the files and reports. Joey had written that this inspector was an honest guy and a good cop. He also knew how much Dupré knew and how much he’d been cleared to know.
“Then our talk with Monsieur Sicard should be quite interesting.”
“I am looking forward to it.”
As they emerged from the elevator into the garage, there were three SUV-type vehicles idling. Dupré opened the door of one vehicle for Bill and he, as soon as the door shut, the convoy was off and out of the underground garage. On the street they were joined by two motorcycle cops who ostensibly were there to block cross traffic ahead, then fall behind, race to the front, and do it all again at every major intersection.
Bill took notice. “This is very impressive. Are you responding to some sort of threat?”
“No, we are trying to get there before the courts, police, or whoever is protecting Sicard knows we are coming. That’s how we lost him last time.”
“I see. How good is your information?”
“Actually, because of the files you forwarded, we were able to connect with a retired French operative who worked intimately with your CIA. He identified a former safe house, which he believed Sicard would still use. One of my men positively identified Sicard as being in the house…” he looked at his watch, “…some thirteen minutes ago.”
With military precision, the two vehicles stopped in front of the house while the third circled around back. The two motorcycles sealed the street at either end. The men were out of the vehicles with heavy armor, helmets and automatic weapons. Two cops held the battering ram. Then they all froze in position as Dupré simply walked up to the door and rang the bell.
“Alo,” came over the intercom.
“Monsieur Sicard, may I have a word please?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Bill waited for something theatrical to happen, like machine guns suddenly popping out of the second floor windows or an escape helicopter launching from the roof. Instead, the buzzer clicked and Dupré just walked in. A minute later, Dupré came back to the door, pointed to Bill, and waved for him to come in. As Bill crossed the street, he was keenly aware of the eight rifles trained on the house he was about to enter and the fact that all he had was a leather portfolio as a shield. How did I get in the middle of this again?
Inside, Dupré led Bill to stuffy library that smelled of dust and aged books. Sicard was seated across the room and did not get up to greet him. He did, however, give an exasperated look, as seeing Bill genuinely surprised him.
“Percy! Oh, I’m sorry, Parnell. Or is there another name you’d like to go by today?”
Parnell Sicard, also known as Percival Cutney, Percival Smyth, and a few other ‘noms de ruse’, sat silently.
“Doctor Hiccock is here as an interested party, but I am here in a more proactive role.”
Bill could see the subtle facial changes as Parnell suddenly recognized Inspector Dupré.
“You remember me? 1997? The Pope?”
“I wish to be represented by a lawyer,” Parnell said, looking straight ahead.
“That would only be necessary if you were under arrest.” Dupré lit a cigarette. He offered one to Parnell.
He didn’t respond to the offer but instead said, “Then I don’t have to talk to you and I am free to leave.”
“No.” Inspector Dupré pulled a gun and pointed it at Parnell.
Bill resisted the instinct to object, because he had no power in France. He hoped this was a ploy, but immediately thought that Parnell was too well trained to be rattled. Then Bill’s thoughts turned ugly. What if Dupré had lost it? What if the only blemish on his long distinguished career, the bobbling of a potential Papal assassination, had affected his brain? What if he was going to settle that score with this smug operator in one shot?
“If you shoot me, you’ll have to shoot your witness here as well,” Parnell calmly said, nodding to Hiccock.
“Too melodramatic.” Dupré tossed the gun into Parnell’s lap. “Remember that gun?”
“No.”
“Look closely at the side of the grip. You see those scratches? Please point the gun at Mr. Hiccock.”
“Is that so you can shoot me, claiming I was going to shoot him?” Parnell said, leaving the gun in his lap.
Dupré pulled out his service weapon now and urged, “Please, indulge me.”
Parnell gripped the gun and pointed it at Bill.
Bill tensed; he was about to duck behind the chair when Dupré motioned for Bill to check the gun in Parnell’s hand.
“Tell me that thing ain’t loaded,” Bill said.
“Doctor, the second Sicard picked up the gun he knew it was too light to be loaded. Please look at his grip.” Dupré prodded again with his gun as a pointer.
Cautiously, Bill approached the gun from the side and put his hand over the slide as Parnell held it, still aimed at the spot he had left. He looked closely at the grip, and there, spanning the knurled wood of the grip and onto the nickel-plated metal of the gun body, were small scratches around the area where Parnell’s ring on his ring finger encompassed the grip.
“It’s scratched by the ring.”
“What does that prove?” Parnell said indignantly.
“Ah, this weapon was found at the Sofitel in a hamper, one week after the death of the Franciscan, Friar Gregory. At that time it was brought to my attention. You had already wiped it clean of fingerprints, but those scratches puzzled me.”
“And since the death of Gregory was ruled accidental by fall with no gun play, it seemed like a separate issue.” Bill was catching on but still mindful of the gun in Parnell’s hand.
“Yes. It was delivered to me because I was chief investigator at the last crime at that location. I deemed it unconnected and sent it to the evidence locker, after having its ballistics categorized, in case a bullet surfaced in some cold case,” Dupré said as he retrieved the gun from Parnell with a handkerchief. “Thanks for the new set of prints, in case a bullet ever shows up.”
“I still don’t have to talk to you.”
“I know you are expecting a squad car to intercede and some judge to whisk you away again, but — ” Dupré pulled out his portable radio and said, “Are the suspects in custody yet?”
“Affirmative; we are looking for evidence now,” the scratchy reply buzzed out.
“Please take your time, do everything twice and then check it again,” Dupré said into the radio.
“Yes, sir.”
Dupré snapped the radio back to the belt clip under his jacket and sat in the chair across from Parnell. He motioned for Bill to sit as well. “Did you know that right next door there is a man who was once associated with the Algerian separatists? Of course, it’s all circumstantial evidence, and in a few hours he will be cleared of all suspicions, but for now, all that your judge, or anybody else for that matter, knows is that this is a national security raid on a possible terrorist safe house next door. Your name and even this address is not in any official report. So my friend, let’s relax and just chat without fear of interruption, shall we?”
Bill finally took a breath. It was the same diversionary tactic he had used in the Boston op. Of course, he had no way of knowing that the ‘separatist’ next door who was being detained for twenty minutes and then released was a rug merchant who was actually only guilty of separating Dupré’s brother-in-law from his money for a supposedly genuine Turkish rug which turned out, regrettably, to have been made in China.
“What you think you know, I can neither confirm nor deny,” Parnell said.