Part 14 (1/2)

”They might even make a.s.sumptions,” Butler added. ”If they begin to stir the bleeding hearts in our own governments it could create a rather unhealthy environment for us.”

”Understood. As far as I'm concerned, none of what I hear today has to be shared.”

”That would be nice,” Cheval said, ”but not realistic. What we have to tell you, you will most certainly want to share.”

Cheval reached under the table and grabbed a manila file. It was simple enough looking, and intentionally so. She placed it in the center of the table and hesitated for a long moment. Her light brown eyes slowly drifted away from the file and settled on Rapp. She looked as if she still hadn't figured out precisely how she was going to handle the exchange of intel.

Rapp had seen the file before, and it had always carried information that was far more valuable than its worn, simple appearance would lead one to believe. Ingenious on Cheval's part, Rapp had always thought. The files at Langley were made of st.u.r.dy, heavy stock. The important ones were red, although Rapp had known a few people over the years who had used Cheval's method of misdirection. Typically, though, the really important stuff was in red files with letters strewn across the label. Some designations were easy enough to figure out, like Top Secret, but most were covered with phrases like Eyes Only and a string of letters that were nonsensical to the uninitiated. All of it was Compartmentalized Intel. Some had locks and most had twine clasps-the kind you had to twirl around a little disk to secure and unwind to open. The twine wasn't there to defeat prying eyes. It was there to give a person pause, one more step to go through to get the thing open, and hence an extra few seconds to consider just what the h.e.l.l you were doing.

The CIA was funny about that. They liked their people to keep their attention focused on their particular area of expertise. During Rapp's tenure he'd seen two complete overhauls of the system and a bunch of little modifications. At the end of the day, one of the quickest ways to land yourself in serious trouble was to get caught opening a file that was none of your business. The French and the Brits operated with similar constraints, so Rapp had guessed long ago that Cheval's worn file had likely never been carried through the security checkpoints at the DGSE headquarters in Paris.

Cheval asked, ”Have your services made any headway on the ident.i.ty of the men who carried out the attacks?”

”Very little.” Talking to two colleagues like this, Rapp was slightly embarra.s.sed to admit that they had made zero progress. The race to find out what had happened had been going on for a week, and they were still wandering around the starting line looking for clues.

”Nothing?” Butler asked, looking surprised.

”As far as the six guys who raided the CTC are concerned . . . there isn't really anything left to identify. The surveillance footage doesn't give us anything useful. They were dressed in full SWAT gear, complete with balaclavas, goggles, helmets, gloves, heavy vests . . .” Rapp shrugged, ”There's nothing to see.”

”Physical evidence?” Cheval asked.

Rapp thought about the stew of body parts that had been created when all six suicide vests were detonated at the same time. They were still finding bits and pieces in the woods a couple of hundred yards away. The men had ended up at the base of the twenty-foot-wide parking ramp. The smooth, poured-concrete walls looked like an old subway car that had acc.u.mulated five years of graffiti, but instead of spray paint it was chunks of bone and flesh and lots of blood, and instead of a half decade, it had happened in the blink of an eye. ”They've been able to identify six separate sets of DNA, but that's about it.”

”Surely, there's a fingertip or two to be found,” Butler said.

”I've seen a lot of nasty s.h.i.+t over the years, George, but this one was disgusting.” Rapp thought about it for a second and then corrected himself, saying, ”I take that back. It wasn't disgusting . . . it was bizarre. There was nothing left, except chunks of indistinguishable goo.”

”But you did manage to get six separate sets of DNA?” Cheval asked.

”That's what I was told.”

She asked, ”FBI?”

”Yes.”

”We might,” Cheval said guardedly, ”have a relative in our possession.”

”Can you get me a DNA sample?” Rapp asked.

Cheval and Butler glanced at each other.

Rapp picked up on it and asked, ”What?”

”It would be best if you gave me what you have. I will see if I can get a match.”

Rapp gestured with his hands as if to say, no big deal. ”I think I can take care of that. This relative,” he continued, ”sister, mother, father?”

”Brother,” Cheval answered.

”Where'd you find him?”

”This stays here.”

”Of course,” Rapp said.

”One of my teams picked him up in Casablanca.”

”Moroccan?”

”Yes.”

”Active investigation?”

Cheval shrugged her slender shoulders as if to say, ”who knows?”

Rapp gave her a disbelieving frown. Cheval ran the DGSE's Directorate of Intelligence. Anything on the covert side of the business fell into her purview. ”How can that be?”

”My operative who brought this to my attention,” she paused, ”how do I say this?” After a moment of searching for the right description, she smiled at Rapp and said, ”He reminds me a lot of you.”

Rapp grinned. ”Tall, dark, and handsome . . . highly intelligent. Women hanging on his every move.”

”Don't forget delusional,” Butler added with a wry smile.

Rapp chuckled.

Cheval smiled and said, ”He does not follow directions well.”

”Ahhh,” Butler said while nodding at Rapp. ”He has authority issues. I think I know the type.”

”Yes, that is the phrase. He has authority issues. Very difficult to manage. Unnerving at times.” Cheval smiled at Butler and he nodded as if to say, ”I share your pain.”

Rapp laughed at both of them. ”Well, if he's so difficult, why do you put up with him?”

The question had a solemn effect on Cheval. ”You know why I put up with him?”

”Because he gets things done,” Rapp said with a bit of pride in his voice.

”That is correct. He is extremely effective, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

”What?”

”Let's just say I know how Irene feels.”

Rapp was well aware that Kennedy and Cheval shared a history that went all the way back to Beirut nearly thirty years ago. ”You're afraid he's going to land you in jail one day.”

”No.” Cheval shook her head.