incessant throbbing pulse of a crisis.
Finally, she heard the voices—as if the volume of a movie soundtrack were suddenly turned on but kept low and garbled—the weeping and screaming, the cries for help.
A man wandered past, dazed, calling out in French, calling for someone.
She saw the dark uniform of police about ten meters away, and one of them, a woman, seemed to be coordinating with other responders.
Vanessa raised one arm to flag her, calling out:
“Nous avons besoin d’aide!”
Just as someone grabbed her shoulders roughly from above and wrenched her to her feet, pain bolted from her head and shot down her left side. A male voice demanded,
“Vous êtes américaine?”
It happened so quickly Vanessa twisted against his forceful grip, barely getting out the words:
“J’ai besoin d’aide!”
But there were two men and she was caught between them—one man ordering the policewoman to take over with the girl, the other effectively detaining Vanessa. At once she felt exposed, vulnerable, outraged—and afraid.
They almost lifted Vanessa off her feet, turning toward the Place du Carrousel, forcibly escorting her away from the site of the blast. They were French, plain clothes, and from their tone and sense of command, she guessed French intelligence or military.
Still, she would try to protect her identity; as a NOC, she was a covert operative with nonofficial cover. She couldn’t count on official government protection if an operation went south.
I’m a Canadian tourist,
she protested in French,
just trying to help that girl. She was so hurt. Where are you taking me?
One of the men responded curtly,
“Nous savons qui vous êtes.” We know who you are.
Of course the French had been aware of this operation. It should have all gone smoothly. She shook her head. Everything was coming too fast.
Then the possibility that she was at the center of this destruction hit her like a tidal wave. This was no random suicide bombing—this was timed exactly with a CIA operation. Someone had gone to great trouble to target her op. How had something so bad happened again? She staggered under the feelings of anger and guilt pressing down on her . . .
She shook her arms free, but she didn’t attempt to resist the men; she caught traction and moved with them. Almost at a jog they paralleled the Place du Carrousel, under the arch and onto Quai François Mitterrand.
Horns blaring, traffic was at a standstill, quickly backing up into the distance. Breathing hard, Vanessa worked to keep her balance on the slick surface.
Suddenly, for an instant, she felt absolutely alone. Was Hays still tracking her? She reached up, touching her ear, realizing for the first time that she’d lost the earpiece, probably when she was knocked down by the blast force.
She heard footsteps, shouting, and suddenly more men were rushing at them. One was calling out to her, his voice familiar, his Panhandle twang bleeding through beneath the strain—
Jack!
“You okay?” he called out.
“Yeah. You? Tell me that’s not your blood,” Vanessa said, taking in his spattered clothing.
He shook his head grimly. “I tried to help.”
She was so grateful to see him alive she would have hugged him if she hadn’t been strong-armed toward the gray waters of the Seine.
3
Kilometers away from the heart of the city and the Louvre, where the Champs-Élysées became A14, in the section of Paris known as La Défense, three men emerged from the main entrance of a six-story metal-and-glass building. Although no sign advertised the location of SARIT—Société Anonyme de Recherche en Ingénierie et Technologie—the firm occupied all floors of the building.
The men wore dark slickers embossed with bold white lettering:
SÉCURITÉ
. They had disabled the cameras within the building, but additional security cameras were posted along the walkways of La Défense. The men kept their brimmed caps pulled low over their faces. Less than five minutes
Finally, she heard the voices—as if the volume of a movie soundtrack were suddenly turned on but kept low and garbled—the weeping and screaming, the cries for help.
A man wandered past, dazed, calling out in French, calling for someone.
She saw the dark uniform of police about ten meters away, and one of them, a woman, seemed to be coordinating with other responders.
Vanessa raised one arm to flag her, calling out:
“Nous avons besoin d’aide!”
Just as someone grabbed her shoulders roughly from above and wrenched her to her feet, pain bolted from her head and shot down her left side. A male voice demanded,
“Vous êtes américaine?”
It happened so quickly Vanessa twisted against his forceful grip, barely getting out the words:
“J’ai besoin d’aide!”
But there were two men and she was caught between them—one man ordering the policewoman to take over with the girl, the other effectively detaining Vanessa. At once she felt exposed, vulnerable, outraged—and afraid.
They almost lifted Vanessa off her feet, turning toward the Place du Carrousel, forcibly escorting her away from the site of the blast. They were French, plain clothes, and from their tone and sense of command, she guessed French intelligence or military.
Still, she would try to protect her identity; as a NOC, she was a covert operative with nonofficial cover. She couldn’t count on official government protection if an operation went south.
I’m a Canadian tourist,
she protested in French,
just trying to help that girl. She was so hurt. Where are you taking me?
One of the men responded curtly,
“Nous savons qui vous êtes.” We know who you are.
Of course the French had been aware of this operation. It should have all gone smoothly. She shook her head. Everything was coming too fast.
Then the possibility that she was at the center of this destruction hit her like a tidal wave. This was no random suicide bombing—this was timed exactly with a CIA operation. Someone had gone to great trouble to target her op. How had something so bad happened again? She staggered under the feelings of anger and guilt pressing down on her . . .
She shook her arms free, but she didn’t attempt to resist the men; she caught traction and moved with them. Almost at a jog they paralleled the Place du Carrousel, under the arch and onto Quai François Mitterrand.
Horns blaring, traffic was at a standstill, quickly backing up into the distance. Breathing hard, Vanessa worked to keep her balance on the slick surface.
Suddenly, for an instant, she felt absolutely alone. Was Hays still tracking her? She reached up, touching her ear, realizing for the first time that she’d lost the earpiece, probably when she was knocked down by the blast force.
She heard footsteps, shouting, and suddenly more men were rushing at them. One was calling out to her, his voice familiar, his Panhandle twang bleeding through beneath the strain—
Jack!
“You okay?” he called out.
“Yeah. You? Tell me that’s not your blood,” Vanessa said, taking in his spattered clothing.
He shook his head grimly. “I tried to help.”
She was so grateful to see him alive she would have hugged him if she hadn’t been strong-armed toward the gray waters of the Seine.
3
Kilometers away from the heart of the city and the Louvre, where the Champs-Élysées became A14, in the section of Paris known as La Défense, three men emerged from the main entrance of a six-story metal-and-glass building. Although no sign advertised the location of SARIT—Société Anonyme de Recherche en Ingénierie et Technologie—the firm occupied all floors of the building.
The men wore dark slickers embossed with bold white lettering:
SÉCURITÉ
. They had disabled the cameras within the building, but additional security cameras were posted along the walkways of La Défense. The men kept their brimmed caps pulled low over their faces. Less than five minutes
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