That stopped her… But only for a moment. Then she was gone.
Buttrick started after her, but Kismet placed a restraining hand in his path. “She’s a killer.” The officer’s voice was strident, charged with pent-up rage. “You can’t just let her go.”
“It was her choice.” He knew Buttrick couldn’t possibly understand what he meant with the statement, but he couldn’t quite put into words exactly what the consequences of Marie’s decision would be. In spite of all the hard-won victories, he felt the burden of failure.
And when Rebecca entered the basilica a few minutes later to offer a grim but satisfied nod, he knew that this was one moment in time he would not be able to undo.
Epilogue
It was raining on the day that Pierre Chiron was laid to rest alongside his wife in the Cimetière du Montmartre and the drizzling precipitation had ignited a smoldering spark of déjà vu in Nick Kismet’s subconscious.
He had not thought to bring an umbrella, but thanks to the kindness of another attendee, he had been spared the heavens’ outpouring during the brief graveside service. Now he was alone, facing the weather and the tempest of memories alone.
In the aftermath of the confrontation at the Eiffel Tower, Kismet had discovered that he in fact knew very little about his former mentor, and most of what he thought he knew was wrong. It had come as no little surprise that Chiron had, in the last six months of his life, expressed an interest in rediscovering the faith in which he had been baptized as an infant. Because he had resumed taking communion, there was no hesitancy on the part of Church officials in honoring his willed request to be buried with Collette in the cemetery on Montmartre. The simple fact that he had made those arrangements, even taking into account the need to give outward evidence of devotion, seemed at odds with the blasphemous events that led to his death. Had he simply been hedging his bets? Or had he believed that God — not some entity living in the radiation belts, but the Almighty Lord of Hosts — would thwart his scheme at the end, thus giving him the proof he so badly needed?
Kismet remained near the elegant coffin, studying the fresh inscription on the marble headstone. “May 11,” he said aloud, and suddenly understood the source of his uneasiness. Today was the fourteenth of May, exactly eight years to the day from his first meeting with Pierre Chiron. It had been a Sunday then, and curiously, the eleventh, when Chiron had demanded and received the ultimate apotheosis, had also been a Sunday — the second Sunday of May, known traditionally in most Western lands as “Mother’s Day”. France remained one of the few countries to celebrate the holiday in June, leaving Kismet to wonder if Chiron had chosen the day intentionally, or if it had simply been a coincidence.
The headstone offered no insight however. The bland message “Loving Husband” seemed inadequate somehow, at once too polite for a man who had very nearly destroyed Paris for love of his wife, but at the same time too cold, too unsympathetic to honor a man who had been so much more. Kismet closed his eyes, trying to remember Chiron as a friend and mentor, rather than an architect of destruction. It was a tightrope walk between extremes and his balance just wasn’t that good. He touched his hand to the exterior of the coffin, as if to offer a final farewell, and then turned away. He was surprised to discover that he was not alone in making final peace with the old man.
“I’m afraid I can’t quite find it in me to grieve for him,” Rebecca observed from beneath the dome of her black umbrella.
“Then why are you here?” he countered.
“Actually, because I knew you would be here.” She moved closer, but remained aloof in her manner. Rain continued to collect on the fabric canopy and flow down in rivulets between them. She made no offer of shelter to Kismet.
Disdaining the weather, he folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t think there’s any unfinished business between us. You have my pledge of silence on the matter of your stray nuclear detonators.”
“If the worst had happened — if Chiron’s bomb had gone off according to schedule — it would have laid the city to waste. But this place—” she gestured to the basilica in the background, “—would have survived. It is far enough from the tower that, I do believe, anyone here would have survived the blast. You sent the Mossad agent here, knowing full well what she was. She would have survived, while all the rest of us — those who knew her secret — would have perished.”
“She had nothing to do with bringing that thing here. That was your doing.”
The French agent blanched, unprepared for the accusation. Kismet felt a perverse satisfaction for having trumped her, but didn’t have the heart to press the advantage. The truth of the matter was that he had wanted to protect Marie from Chiron’s madness. Even knowing what she was, and that everything they had shared had been a lie, he could not bring himself to hate her. Especially not now.
“There is one other thing that troubles me,” Rebecca said, after enduring a suitable silent penance for her ill-timed comments. “The experts who dismantled Pierre’s bomb cannot find a single reason why it did not detonate. By all rights, it should have gone off right on schedule. Any thoughts on that?”
“No.” He shook his head and loosened his stance in preparation to depart. “I don’t know anything about bombs.”
Rebecca remained at his side, unconsciously extending the umbrella to cover him as well. “Where will you go now?”
“I don’t know. Home, I suppose.” His reply was terse, intentionally framed to discourage her continued interest.
“I have been tasked with evaluating the intelligence gathered from Colonel Saeed’s villa in Nice,” she continued, oblivious to his cool manner.
“Really?”
“I am to make sure that no other embarrassing discoveries come to light.”
Kismet scowled. “If that’s your idea of a joke, it’s a damn poor one.”
“Oui. Yes, it was a joke, and yes, it was a poor choice of words. Forgive me, please.” She continued to match his steps as they crossed toward the road where their respective vehicles were parked. “I imagine we will learn quite a lot about Saeed’s trade in illicit artifacts.”
That stopped him. Not the comment, but the implicit invitation.
“What do you say?” she pressed. “Are you up for a little working vacation?”
“With you? Are you serious? I don’t even like you.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “You don’t have to like your doctor. You merely have to accept her recommendation for treatment. Besides, it’s not as if you have any secrets from me.”
Somehow, her fingers found their way into his. He stared in mute disbelief at their joined hands. And then, to his complete amazement, he said simply, “Why not?”
Less than two hundred meters from the final resting place of Pierre Chiron, a black-clad figure looked on from behind a gauzy veil. Her attention was so riveted upon the departing pair that she did not hear the man approach. Nevertheless, when he announced his presence by softly speaking her name, she did not give evidence of being startled. She did however react. “How dare you come here?” she hissed. “Does the truce mean nothing?”
The man regarded her with his single, steely eye. “You think too highly of yourself, madame. There is no longer anything to be gained by your execution. The truce stands. Even if it did not… Well, I have moved beyond the simple role of executioner, as was ever my right.”
She shook her head contemptuously then turned away.
“You should not have interfered.”
That stopped her. She turned slowly, lifting her veil to direct the full intensity of her gaze upon him. “Interfered? Are you mad? Do you know what was at stake? What Chiron sought to do?”