Courier to Paris

Courier to Paris

D. A. Ratliff

I leaned against a storefront, its awning shielding me from the heavy snowfall, my eyes glued to the antique bookshop across the street. In the warmly lit interior, an older man stood behind a counter talking to a younger woman. The man slipped three books into a kraft paper shopping bag and handed it to her. She nodded and left the shop.

A text appeared on my phone. Confirmed. Package is in bag.

The operative inside the store had eyes on the package we were seeking. Now, it was up to me. I adjusted my knapsack and followed her, aware of the black sedan that pulled away from the curb behind me. I kept my distance while keeping her in sight, which was difficult in the increasingly heavy snowfall. Progress was fortunately slow as she was wheeling a suitcase with her. She would head for the train station if she stayed true to past couriers. So far, that was the direction she was going in, and I was glad of that.

We walked two blocks and turned left toward the train station. My cohort, Niko, parked the car and dropped in behind me. Paris was the usual destination, but he was following in case there was a change of plans.

The Gare de Cornavin was busy in the middle of the afternoon. The woman paused at the departure board and then headed for the platforms to Paris. A glance at the board said the next train left from Platform 8. I nodded for my companion to keep her in sight while I bought a ticket from the kiosk, then hurried to the platform, where I paused. I never allowed distractions from my task, but this train had a special place for me. The train company painted it green for some French festival years ago. Its beautiful soft green color, vert in French, was pleasing to the eye, but it was also the location of my first assignment, the first time I followed someone on the train. Now called the Vert train, it was my beginning.

Shaking off old memories, I continued to the platform and boarded behind my target. As I sat across the aisle from the woman, Niko texted me.

Sent word to Moreau in Paris. Agents will be waiting.

As the train pulled away from the station, the full force of the falling snow drifted past the window. Fond memories of fallen snow in all its childhood wonder floated through my thoughts, but once again, I forced them back. Childhood was over, and I had a job to do.

Although over a decade older, I could pass as a college student, so I slouched in my seat, inserted my AirPods, and swayed ever so slightly as if listening to music. My target had pulled out a fashion magazine and sat quietly leaning against the window, reading.

I waited for the right moment to make contact. Over the years of being a covert operative, I learned that the first few words said to anyone determined whether they chose to trust you. I had also learned patience, and I had three hours and thirteen minutes before we reached Paris—plenty of time.

The opportunity arose forty-five minutes into the trip as the train braked sharply and slowed. While not a hard enough stop to cause injury, it did cause the bag of books sitting on the seat next to her to fall forward and into the aisle. What was I to do but assist her in picking up the books?

“Oh, my, that was quite a jolt. Here, let me help you. I think one book went underneath this seat.” I got on my knees to retrieve the book and handed it to her. “What a beautiful book. It looks like an antique.”

She tucked the two errant books back into the bag with the one that didn’t escape. “They are. Lovely bindings and quite old, I believe.”

“You collect antique books?”

“Oh no, I just… well, I went to the bookshop to buy an antique fountain pen for my sister’s birthday. She teaches philosophy at Saint-Louis University in Brussels and loves fountain pens. I mentioned to Mr. Schmid, the owner, that I was traveling to Paris to meet her for a birthday weekend, and he asked what date. He needed to get these books to an anxious buyer in Paris, so he asked if I would pick them up on my way to the train and deliver them to the gentleman in Paris. I saw no reason not to, and he offered me a nice discount on the pen for my efforts.”

“Nice of him and you.”

She smiled, and not wanting to overdo talk of the books, I suggested I get us coffee from the dining car. She accepted, and I headed for the dining car several cars away. Once out of her sight, I texted Moreau.

Made contact. Confirmed acting as courier. Maybe a pawn.

His response.

Confirm package.

That man wanted everything.

I returned with our coffees, and she asked my destination. “I’m returning to the Sorbonne. There are only two more classes, and I will graduate.”

“What are you studying?”

I gave her my rehearsed spiel. “I am an art major. I want to be a curator.”

“That sounds so romantic, dealing with works of art.”

“I have always thought so.” I decided to take a chance. “Would it be okay if I took a closer look at the books? I am very intrigued by the leather covers and tooling.”

“Of course.” She handed me the bag. “They are beautiful.”

I took the books out and laid them on the seat beside me. I picked up the first book, pretending to admire the intricate designs on the cover. But I was looking for something tangible. I ran my fingertips along the spine of the second book and felt a small bump. The microdrive we sought with the stolen NATO data. I continued to examine the third book, then placed it back into the bag and handed it to her.

“Thanks. Beautiful artistry. And allow me to apologize for not introducing myself. I’m Sofia Accola from Onex.”

“Louisa Vogel, I live in Geneva. It is nice to meet you.”

“And you.” Good, I got her name. My phone dinged, and I shrugged, holding up the phone. “My boyfriend. I should talk to him.” I took a photo of her while holding my camera up.

The text was from Moreau.

Update.

Can confirm, microdrive located under third segmented section on book spine, Collibus, author Hippolyt von Colli. Courier named Lousia Vogel, Geneva. Photo attached.

Good work. Claude will meet you at the station.

Tell him to act like my boyfriend.

You made his day. Will check out Vogel.

I continued for a bit, pretending to chat with my boyfriend while Vogel settled into reading her magazine. The Vert train would arrive at Gara de Lyon in an hour. I leaned against the window, head turned toward the view, and pretended to be asleep. Sleep was not possible as adrenaline pumped through my body. A microdrive containing stolen intel from NATO Headquarters was less than three feet from me. My instructions were to let it slip through my fingers and into the hands of the person who ordered it stolen.

That did not sit well with me.

I gazed out at the snow-covered farmland through the heavy snow, lines of trees winding through the fields like piped icing on a cake. Perhaps I took my job too seriously. My life changed after Moreau recruited me while I studied law at University Panthéon-Assas. Assas was full of innocence—a bastion of naivete in the real world. Academia will have that effect. But I did not recognize that young Erka Blasi, for the world I now lived in, was anything but naïve, and neither was I.

The International Global Polity was an ultrasecret organization that answered to a handful of political leaders, the Tribunal. No one in the organization knew who they were, but we suspected they were past heads of state who had become concerned about the political climate for the last thirty years. The leaders of IGP met with the Tribunal members, their identities disguised, only on rare occasions. An Englishman known only as Mr. Parker handled all communication.

IGP monitored issues beyond the capability of covert services from other countries, such as MI-6, the CIA, and EU INTCEN (the EU Intelligence and Situation Centre). They came to us for help and then stayed out of our way. This time, the theft pushed the Tribunal into high alert.

As the train glided across snow-covered tracks, I went over all the intel we had, and unfortunately, it wasn’t much. When the train was nearing Paris, I pretended to rouse. Vogel slept as well. Ten minutes out, I woke her.

“Louisa. Sorry to wake you, but we are close to Paris.”

“Oh, thank you. I didn’t realize I was so tired.”

We gathered our belongings. It was easy for me with only my knapsack, but she had a large purse, a suitcase, and a bag of books. She seemed harried.

“I’m not sure why I agreed to deliver this, but Schmid also gave me taxi money. I have to take the books to a gentleman waiting at Shakespeare and Company.”

“Oh, I love that bookstore. Spent many a weekend afternoon there and at the café.”

“My sister is not arriving until nine p.m. So, I have….” Her phone rang. “Sorry, my sister.”

I smiled and hurriedly texted Moreau the drop location. I wished her luck as the train slid to a stop. I rushed off the train with a friendly wave goodbye.

Claude was waiting for me, and I wasn’t surprised that he swept me into his arms and kissed me. He was supposed to be my boyfriend, but his hand on my rear was too much.

“Please remove your hand if you wish to keep it. Do you have people in place to follow her?”

“Yes, Erka. Just pretend that your passion for me is overwhelming, at least, until she exits the train. Then Wilhelm and Jorda are picking her up.” We remained embraced until he said. “That her?”

I chanced a side glance. “Yes.”

He spoke into his mic. “Target, black slacks, blue parka, gray toque, keep your eyes on the paper sack.” To me, “Car is this way.”

Wilhelm and Jorda were in a dark sedan at the taxi stand, waiting to follow the cab. We got into Claude’s car and waited as well. Claude handed me a radio and wireless earbuds. I clipped it under my shirt, and with the earbuds in place, I spoke to Moreau.

“Moreau, what about Vogel?” As I asked, Vogel’s cab pulled away, and we followed, heading for Shakespeare and Company.

“She is a banker in Geneva, has no criminal record, is unmarried, and not in a relationship. Fits the profile of the others Schmid has used for couriers.”

“Not surprised.”

“Other operatives will pick her up after the drop and maintain surveillance until we feel she is not involved.”

“Do we have eyes on the bookstore?”

“Peter tapped their security cameras as soon as we knew where she was going, and Shauna was close. She’s inside.”

The heavy snow in Eastern France had spared Paris, but a blanket of white covered the city. I checked my weapon and ammo as we crossed the Seine and turned onto the Quai de Saint-Bernard. Claude laughed.

“You expecting trouble?”

“I like to be prepared.”

“The perfect little spy.”

I glared at him. “Don’t forget it.”

Claude parked at the end of the block, and we jumped out of the car. I removed my coat, grabbed an extra jacket he had thrown in the back seat, and tucked my hair under the knit cap I wore. We were ahead of them, so we slipped behind a screen at the restaurant on the corner and waited. Three minutes later, the cab carrying Vogel turned onto Rue de la Bûcherie.

We followed the cab down the short street, stopping again behind the windscreen of another restaurant, catching Vogel as she hopped out and entered the bookstore.

Shauna, inside the store, spoke. “Contact made. Goods delivered.”

That quickly, Vogel was in the cab and on her way. I heard Moreau order another surveillance team to follow her and Wilhelm and Jorda to pick up the courier with the books. We would follow as well.

“He is exiting now. Gray parka, black pants, sunglasses, knit cap.” As I listened to Shauna’s description, the man emerged from the bookstore, and my heart stopped for a second. I knew him.

I whispered on the radio. “Moreau, that’s Valero Romanesque. He’s Albert Jensen’s second in command. Eyes sharp, there may be more of Jensen’s men here.”

“The arms dealer?”

“Yes.”

A car pulled up, and Romanesque got in and pulled away, our team picking them up as they turned onto Quai de Montebello. We were about to follow when Moreau ordered us back to headquarters. Claude shrugged. “I guess we go back to the office.”

The two-story building, nestled among taller structures, sat a block from the Eiffel Tower. Claude turned in, and sensors opened the driveway gate, allowing us access to the courtyard parking. Mr. Parker spared no expense to provide us with accessible quarters. Unknown faces coming and going in the neighborhood would not attract attention due to all the tourists wandering the area.

Miles Bannister was in the reception area. “Good afternoon. He is waiting for you in the lounge.” He pushed a button under his desk, and a wall panel slid open, revealing an elevator.

As the doors shut, I thought about the poor, unsuspecting souls who plotted to storm this office. Although he looked like a student late for a philosophy class at Oxford, Miles was British Special Forces and a deadly sharpshooter. We were well protected.

The “lounge” was two stories below ground and served as a bunker in case of attack. Enormous, containing numerous rooms and labs, the central area, known as the situation room, consisted of banks of monitors for global surveillance, a large screen for communications, and a conference table. I once asked Moreau if the chairs were like the ones used by villains in James Bond movies—ones ready to send us to our deaths if we didn’t perform. He had only glared at me. I sat down gingerly.

Moreau conducted his customary gaze about the room, checking the monitors before he began. “Ambassador Francisco Montenegro and General Adam Stevens will join us shortly. Please fill me in on the events at the bookstore.”

We complied, Moreau waiting until we finished to ask questions. He tapped the table as he did when thinking.

“Erka, what do you know of Albert Jensen and the man who took possession of the books today?”

“Only what was in the briefing on Jensen as part of our ongoing efforts to curb the arms trade. I participated in a few surveillance operations at his nightclub where we suspected he was doing business to see who was coming and going. As for Romanesque, I was part of a surveillance team working with the Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna. The AISE was monitoring an Italian arms dealer, and Romanesque showed up. The Italians were concerned about Jensen’s involvement. They had not tied any Americans to their case but could not make a connection then.”

Claude added. “I know of Jensen from briefings but have not been active on any operation concerning him.”

Moreau nodded. “Then we must….” He stopped as a soft tone rang sounded. He immediately picked up a receiver embedded into the table. “Thank you. Send them down.”

The elevator doors opened, and two men arrived. Moreau made the introductions. “These gentlemen are from NATO, and they have information for us.”

The general spoke. “Monsieur Moreau, Mr. Parker will join us and has asked that your agents remain.”

Claude and I exchanged glances. We had never seen Mr. Parker. Seconds later, another tone sounded, and a large monitor at one end of the table displayed Stand By. We waited. I noticed Moreau sat up just a tad straighter in his chair as a man appeared on the screen.

Mr. Parker could have easily passed for Miles's philosophy professor at Oxford—impeccably dressed, his voice cultured, and he minced no words.

“I will get right to the point. The General and the Ambassador are NATO representatives. We have a very grave matter and an unexpected one. Monsieur Moreau, these gentlemen will fill you in. Understand that the Tribunal is most concerned and requires expedience in resolving this situation. I expect an action plan and regular updates to begin within the hour.” The screen went blank.

General Stevens spoke first. “We have made a mistake. As Mr. Parker said, a very grave one. We requested that IGP handle the theft of sensitive data from NATO. By not involving ourselves, we felt we would insulate ourselves from retaliation created by any fallout.”

Moreau interrupted. “The fallout that you expected us to create for you and then take the blame.”

Montenegro glared at our boss. “You must understand the diplomatic repercussions if we were seen to be involved in your activity.”

I held my breath. The ambassador needed to tread carefully on such dangerous ground.

Moreau ignored him. “General, continue.”

“As you know, we have been aware of an internal threat to our security and data systems. By placing invalid data into the system, we allowed them to steal and transmit it. That tactic is working. We are beginning to see the data turn up and trace back to the source.” He paused. “However, our firewalls to keep the hackers out of our most sensitive data failed.”

“How badly?”

The general glanced around the room. “The data transported today—data we thought was information we planted—was not. On that microdrive are the codes for all military satellites currently in orbit. Whoever has that data can destroy the populated areas of Earth.”

We were professional enough not to react but human enough that the news was stunning. Moreau voiced what I am sure Claude was thinking because I certainly was.

“You want us to retrieve the data you ordered we allow to be delivered?”

General Stevens nodded. “Yes.”

Moreau escorted the NATO representatives to the elevator and then rejoined us. “Our operatives say Romanesque entered Jensen’s nightclub building and remained inside. Jensen entered an hour later. He nor any known staff members have left since then. Erka, you have never met either of these men?”

“No.”

“Then we go in and get that drive.”

~~~

Albert Jensen’s entertainment complex, L’excitation, had quickly become the place to go in Paris if you were well-heeled and connected. The multi-floor complex held three restaurants, a lounge, and a club, all a front to launder the money he makes running arms to Africa and the Middle East.

I had to make an entrance to gain his attention. Jensen was a player with a soft spot for redheads. Through the magic of Valentine Caprise, our resident makeup artist who created our disguises, I became Aimée Toussaint, heir to many European real estate holdings. My credentials online say so on all my social media accounts, conveniently created by the IGP computer gurus.

So, a grand entrance I made. With Claude as my chauffeur, I arrived at L’excitation at ten p.m. in a dark red Rolls Royce. Two doormen/bodyguards were at the entrance, and I had their attention as soon as I stepped out of the Rolls. Val had transformed me from a reasonably attractive brunette into a femme fatale. A long, natural hair red wig, makeup contours that change my face, vivid-blue contact lenses, and five-inch platform heels that made me five-nine, not my normal five foot-four inches. If that wasn’t dramatic enough, I wore a floor-length white fox coat covering a copper satin slip-style gown. The diamond necklace I wore glinted in the bright spotlight above the door.

Claude escorted me to the double glass door entrance. I dismissed him with a curt “I’ll text you when I am ready to leave,” then smiled at the doormen. Texting wasn’t necessary. I was wearing earbuds. He could hear everything, and I could listen to him. I knew there were operatives inside and outside the building as well.

“Gentlemen, I am here for a good time.” They opened the doors, and I entered the grand foyer of the complex.

Opulent is not an adequate work for the décor. A broad grand staircase sat in the center, leading to the upper and lower floors. The Club was on the lower level, and though muffled, I could feel the vibration of the music on the floor. One of the three restaurants was to my right, but my destination, the Lounge, was to my left.

Serpentine blue and green rope lighting glowed softly throughout the large, multi-level bar. Plush velour couches and leather chairs in shades of sapphire and emerald filled the space not taken up by the massive stainless steel and glass bar. A jazz band played from a stage in the corner, a cozy dance floor in front of them.

Intel said that Jensen always sat on the highest level between the bar and the band, so I made my way to that end of the bar, getting a bit of attention on the way, which was good. The more attention that I received, the more Jensen would notice.

I found an empty stool, ordered a Dirty Martini, and waited. It took less time than I thought. I had barely sipped my drink when a man tapped me on the shoulder.

“Madame, the proprietor, Monsieur Jensen, would like to invite you to his table.”

I picked up my drink and smiled. “Lead the way.”

Jensen, youthful looking in his fifties, sat on a couch with a woman, and two men sat in chairs. The location provided him with a view of the entire bar. He made introductions, and then, as I was about to introduce myself, he surprised me.

He lifted his drink and turned to his guests. “May I introduce Madame Aimée Toussaint.”

“I am flattered that you know me, Monsieur Jensen.”

“It is shameful, but I am addicted to social media and have seen you there.”

I chuckled internally. Those posts went up two hours ago, so I knew he was checking me out. “I don’t know why there is such a fuss about social media when it gives me the pleasure to meet new men.”

I slipped off the fox coat and watched his eyes trail over my body. He was living up to expectations. We chatted a bit about Paris, jazz, and the export business owned by his companions. I knew Claude heard their names, would check them, and inform me of whatever I needed to know. Jensen focused on me, and I made sure to respond in a manner that he realized I enjoyed the attention.

It wasn’t long before he suggested the woman with him leave. She rose with a glance toward me but a blank expression. She appeared accustomed to dismissal. Jenson motioned for me to sit next to him.

“Ah, that’s better. It was difficult to hear that lovely soft voice from a distance.”

“I must say, this is a more comfortable spot.”

We chatted, and two women joined the men who were with us. I slipped closer to Jensen so that my thigh touched his. He responded by touching my knee and smiling when I did not pull away.

“My dear, would you like a private tour of L’excitation?”

“I would love one.”

“Good, I will even take you behind the scenes.”

I grabbed my coat, indicating to him that I wasn’t intending to return to the bar. We exited The Lounge, and I noticed Romanesque sitting on a couch near the door, always nearby. In the grand hall, Jensen began to tell me about the architecture and the designer who did the décor. We descended the sweeping staircase and poked our heads into The Club. The noise was overwhelming, and I expressed a dislike for the music. He agreed that he didn’t like it as well.

We returned to the grand foyer. Jensen swept his arm toward the upper levels. “There are two more restaurants, boutiques, and offices on the two upper floors, but I have a suggestion. My apartment is in the building, and I have artwork I think you would enjoy seeing. And I make a delicious French 75 cocktail. Shall we?”

I gathered as much lust as I could fake and looked him in the eyes. “We shall.”

After the opulence in the rest of the building, the apartment was more understated and elegant than I expected. I tossed my fur onto the couch and wandered the room, looking at the gallery of his collected artwork.

“Impressive collection, Monsieur Jensen.”

“It is, and please, call me Bert.”

“And you may call me Aimée.” He was fussing at the bar, and I joined him as he made the French 75. He put gin, lemon juice, and simple syrup into a shaker, mixed it well, and poured it into champagne flutes. He opened a bottle of Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque Brut, an expensive bottle of champagne, topped off the drink with a twist of lemon, and handed me the glass.

“A toast to a most beautiful woman.”

“Merci.” I sipped the drink. “Delicious.” I wandered through the room, continuing to look at the art. But I wasn’t interested in art. My quest was to find the book. The couch sat away from the wall with a low bookcase and artwork behind it. I stepped into the opening, and there was the paper bag from the bookstore. Why was it not locked away? I pretended not to see it and walked into it, stumbling.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see the bag.” I bent down to pick it up and smiled at him. “Are these antique books? Are you a collector? My grandpapa was one.”

Before he could reach me, I pulled the book with the drive out of the bag. I quickly ran my finger along the spine. The drive was still under the leather. He approached and took the book from me.

“I am keeping those for a friend. He could not pick them up today.” He put the book back and slipped his arm around my waist. “My dear, I do not think you came here only to look at my etchings.”

I pulled away and headed for the hallway leading from the living room. “Your restroom? I need to freshen up.”

He grinned lecherously. “Through my bedroom, last door on the left.”

I leisurely walked down the hallway, knowing he was watching. Taped inside my thigh was a tiny syringe filled with tranquilizer. Once in the bedroom, I slipped it out, tucked it under the pillow, then ran water in the bathroom to cover my time.

When I exited the bathroom, he was exactly where I expected him—standing next to the bed, undressing. He leered at me. “Join me.”

I grinned back, and as I started to undress, the window exploded into shards of glass. A started expression covered Jensen’s face as a large hole appeared in the center of his chest, blood rapidly spreading across his unbuttoned shirt. He fell onto the bed as intense frigid air rushed into the room. I had to think quickly as an alarm was going off. His security would arrive any minute.

Claude’s voice startled me. “Erka, report.”

“Jensen down. Target here. Call the gendarmes. We need cover.”

I could hear pounding on the front door. So, I started screaming as I pulled my dress off to make it appear we were about to have sex. It was Romanesque who broke the door down and entered the bedroom, rushing to his dead boss.

“What happened here.?”

“I—I don’t know. He was standing there, and then the window exploded, and he….”

I didn’t get any further as another shot rang out, and Romanesque's head burst as a bullet struck his skull, scattering brain matter. I had to get out. I grabbed the syringe and my dress and rushed to the living room. I put on the coat, grabbed the bag of books, and fled into the hallway. Hiding around the corner from the apartment, I put on the dress, followed by the coat, and folded the bag of books, tucking the package underneath the coat.

“Claude, I’m coming out. Romanesque is down.”

I waited until a few men who had rushed up the stairs disappeared into the apartment. I hurried down the hall, pressed the elevator button, and held my breath as the door opened. No one was inside. I pressed floor two and stepped out, mingling with restaurant guests. I descended the grand staircase and noticed two IGP operatives I recognized in the lobby. As I reached the first floor, one of the two exporters with Jensen earlier stopped me.

“Aimée, have you seen Bert?”

“No, I left him about twenty minutes ago. He said he had a call to make.” I smiled and walked away.

Calmly, I passed through the front doors unnoticed by the doormen, distracted by the arrival of the police. The two IGP agents shadowed me as I left the building. Claude had parked just past the hotel and waited next to the Bentley. He opened the door for me. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Someone killed our only leads.”

~~~

Claude handed me a cup of coffee, and absently, I grabbed a pain au chocolat from the box of pastries on the conference table. I sank back against the padded back of the chair as a wave of exhaustion swept over me. I sure hope chocolate helped.

“You sure don’t look like you did when you entered L’excitation.”

I scoffed, ticked at his comment. “Saying I look better with a red wig and a slinky dress? Not to mention a coat made of dead animals that I despised wearing.”

“No, I think you look better now. At least, after you washed the brain and blood off.”

My hair was in a ponytail, and although I was wearing leggings and a sweatshirt, looking into Claude’s eyes, I had never felt more beautiful. Where did that come from?

Thankfully, the elevator arrived, and Moreau exited, only nodding at us. He grabbed a pastry and read a report on his pad before he spoke.

“First, before Mr. Parker joins us, NATO confirmed the drive recovered from the book contained the data feared stolen. Excellent job.”

I was worried about the courier from the train. “Is Vogel safe?”

“Surveillance is with her and will remain after she returns to Geneva until we are certain she is not in danger.”

“Good. I fear whoever killed Jensen and Romanesque might also like to tie up that loose end.”

“What’s going on here, Moreau?” Claude vocalized the confusion he and I felt.

Moreau said nothing for long enough that my pulse quickened. His voice was monotone and cold.

“I don’t know.”

Before we could react, the tone sounded, indicating Mr. Parker was about to appear. This time, I sat more upright. We all did. It was four in the morning, yet Mr. Parker appeared impeccably dressed and wide awake.

“Good morning. First, let me say that the Tribunal is pleased with the rapid resolution of this situation. The recovery of the stolen data is paramount to the security of all nations. However, the Tribunal is in possession of intelligence that this theft is only the beginning of a concerted effort to undermine the countries of the world. We do not know for what purpose, economic or political. We believe that the theft of the satellite codes was a warning. A warning we would best heed, Moreau.”

“Can you elaborate on the intelligence?”

Parker paused. “No, I cannot.”

“At least, do we know who the leak is at NATO Headquarters?”

“We know it is one of two people, but we are choosing to observe versus arrest for now. Suffice it to say that we have added additional safeguards to direct whoever is hacking the system to what we want them to see.”

“What does the Tribunal wish IGP to do?”

“They are most pleased with Ms. Blasi’s work and that of her team. We want her to return to Geneva and pursue the bookstore owner, Mr. Schmid. We know he sends couriers out regularly, but we are not convinced they are all concerned with stolen information from NATO. It’s time we learn what he’s doing and stop him, but first, we can trace his contact back to NATO headquarters. Time is of the essence. Notify me when the operation is underway and report regularly.”

The screen went blank, and we sat silently, absorbing what Parker had said. Moreau took a huge bite from a pastry before he spoke. “Erka, assemble your team. We have work to do.”

~~~

Forty-eight hours after leaving Geneva, I was returning. Arriving at Gare de Lyon, I smiled when I saw that our train was the beautiful green train. Claude accompanied me, now posing as Lucas Allard, a fellow art student, and my boyfriend. Some of my team had traveled before us, and two were onboard this train. There was much work left, and the Tribunal wanted results.

As the Vert train pulled out of the station, I gazed out the window at the snow, which had begun to fall in huge flakes and would soon be deepening the snow cover. The criminals we were seeking hid behind their brand of cover, but we would find and expose them. That’s our job.