CHAPTER 3: The Parisian Sojourn
“It’s so beautiful. I can see all of Paris!”
The blazing sun was slowly inching its way towards the highest point of its daily journey through the cloudless, deep blue sky, and Valeri Trove was feeling just as happy as she had ever been. She stood atop the Eiffel Tower, and, like the small number of giddy tourists that surrounded her, she was reveling in the beautiful view of the city before her eyes. The buildings, the river, and the clear blue sky all seemed to blur together as one, reminding her of the beautiful paintings that she used to adore as a child.
All of the terrible memories from the night before—the perilous car chase, being thrown over a concrete cliff inside of a car, and then being trapped inside of that car as it was on the verge of exploding—had vanished. It was a new day, and a clean slate. All wounds heal in time. But time was one thing that Valeri Trove didn’t have…
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Jonathan Smythe replied as he walked up beside her and leaned against the railing. He lifted his right hand behind her back, intending to place it on her shoulder, but hesitated. After last night, something had changed inside of him. This was an extraordinary woman—one whom he had risked the entire mission and his own life for. Why? He knew. But he would never admit it to either himself or to her. Falling in love is not something that Echelon agents were supposed to do. Not with civilians, and especially not with fellow operatives. His hand still hovered above her shoulder, waiting for his decision.
‘What does this woman need?’ he thought to himself, his mind racing. Warmth? Compassion? Was she sensitive and fragile, like the woman who stared back at him with fear in her eyes as she was trapped underneath the overturned car? Or was this the cold, confident woman who glanced at him from the driver’s seat with a smile that said, ‘I know you, and I’m not afraid.’ Smythe bit his lip. He had no idea. His hand dropped back to his side.
“What are you thinking?” she asked him softly, her gaze never leaving the beautiful sights in front of her. More relaxed now, Smythe leaned closer in on the railing, his elbow touching hers.
“I’m thinking… somewhere out there, is the disk. Somewhere else out there, God-willing somewhere very far away, is the warhead. We can’t allow those two to come together. The danger that that would cause the entire western world is unfathomable. What could we do? Evacuate all major cities?” He laughed. “No. There is nothing that we could do.”
Smythe shifted uncomfortably. He peered over his shoulder, to ensure that they were not being overheard. Today, however, was an especially chilly day in Paris, and it was the month of October—the off-season. Only a handful of tourists were milling about; most others had left the popular site to enjoy a noon-time lunch at a fancy restaurant or a café. Their conversation was going completely unnoticed.
“These men… these, terrorists, they have the upper-hand,” he continued, “God only knows what their demands will be.” He sighed as he watched the people wandering about down below. ‘They have no idea,’ he thought.
“Do you regret it?” Trove suddenly broke the silence, and turned to look at him in the eyes. He matched her gaze.
“Regret what?”
“Coming back for me.”
“No,” Smythe snapped back. For a moment their eyes remained trained on each other, studying each other’s reactions.
“Tell me more about this warhead,” Trove said slowly with a more serious tone, as she turned back towards the view.
“The warhead Cancer is not supposed to exist,” Smythe begun, “and according to all current government documentation, it doesn’t.” He felt a sudden feeling of unease. “It was said to have been in the developmental stages during the Cold War. The Russians were looking into finding a way to counteract the growing western movement towards air defense. You see, the ability of the Soviets to launch a missile, even a nuclear warhead, would mean nothing if the west could track the projectile’s flight and shoot it down. First blood would have been drawn, and the west would then retaliate.”
“The Russians would have been at a huge disadvantage,” Trove added. The look on her face had grown more serious. No doubt the gravity of the situation had dawned on her. The few tourists remaining on the observation deck were busy taking photos, and so their conversation remained unnoticed.
“Right,” Smythe continued, “but the answer was clear: stealth camouflage.”
“You mean the ability of an object to clone its surroundings, and appear invisible to the naked eye?” Trove asked, sounding interested.
“No,” Smythe shook his head, “not in this case. The warhead itself is completely visible. But to the western satellite defense system—the network of satellites set up to track all foreign and unidentified projectiles through their energy signal and wake—a stealth camouflaged missile would be completely undetectable. The Soviets would have had the ability—and the threat—of launching a nuclear strike, without detection. We would not even be able to pinpoint where the strike came from.”
“Which would leave us no one to retaliate to,” Trove sighed. “We could blame the Russians, but we would have no proof. We would lose any backing if it came to war. Brilliant.”
“Of course,” Smythe agreed.
“So then what happened?” Trove asked.
“Well, the Berlin Wall fell, and the Cold War was over. That was a long time ago. Research and development funds were pulled and the Cancer program was put on the shelf. Cancelled.”
“Or so they had us believe,” Trove speculated.
“Yes,” Smythe agreed, “I have no idea how the Cancer warhead project was completed, or by whom. But according to what I overheard at the embassy, the warhead is active.”
Valeri Trove shifted closer to Smythe and turned towards him, placing her right hand on his. “Are there more than one?”
“What?” Smythe asked, surprised at her sudden move.
“Warheads.”
“No one knows that,” he admitted, “There is so much that we still don’t know.”
“Did you learn anything else at the embassy?” she asked, edging closer to him. Smythe, suddenly feeling uncomfortable, slipped his hand away from hers, and turned back towards the view.
“Yes,” he said after a few moments of silence, “The man responsible is American.”
“An American?” she repeated, sounding surprised.
“Yes. But that’s what perplexes me the most,” Smythe explained, “The disk that he stole from our old friend Vladimir Petrov contains the co-ordinates of cities and landmarks in the west only.”
“A traitor?” Trove asked, still keeping her eyes trained on Smythe.
“Who knows these things…” Smythe trailed off. He watched as various Parisian lovers walked about hand-in-hand below. “We must recover that disk. Everything depends on it.”
Just then, they were interrupted by a loud commotion coming from behind them. An unruly tourist was fighting off a large security guard, who looked like he was interrogating him.
“Get your bloody hands off of me,” the harassed man shouted in frustration, pushing the guard away from him.”
“Sir,” the guard said sternly, “weapons of any kind are not allowed on the tower.” He reached for an electronic device that was hooked onto the man’s belt. “I’m going to have to confiscate that.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” he cried. Smythe cracked a smile at the scene unfolding before his eyes. “Tell him, Jonathan!” Trove suddenly looked back towards the commotion, surprised. Smythe smiled and walked towards the man.
“You’ve never seen this type of camera, now have you?” he asked the security guard innocently.
“Sir…”
“C’mon now,” Smythe cut him off, speaking to the other man now, “show the officer. Here take a photo of my wife and I. It’s a beautiful view.” The man was about to protest when Smythe held up his hand, silencing him. He quickly pulled Agent Trove towards him from the railing and smoothly placed his arm around her shoulder.
“Big smile, honey, we’re in Paris.”
Both of them gave award-winning, toothy grins as the man reluctantly pulled the device from his waist and quickly snapped a photo of them without giving them a word of warning. He then turned to the security guard and showed him the digital photo on the screen: just a happy pair of tourists. Without saying another word, the guard gave Smythe one final look, then turned and walked away.
“Miles Fairbanks, you old dog,” Smythe said as he punched the man called Fairbanks on the shoulder, chuckling. “How did I know that it would be you that they would send? It has been quite a while, hasn’t it?”
“Oh, pipe down, Jonathan, you know I don’t like it when you play games like that,” Fairbanks shrugged.
“Buck up, old chap,” Smythe snapped back jokingly, “it got rid of the pest, now didn’t it?” He motioned towards the security guard, who was now at the opposite end of the observation deck.
“Yes, well,” Fairbanks stammered, “you are good for something after all.” He snickered.
Smythe motioned him towards the railing, where Trove was standing, but Fairbanks took one look and hesitated.
“The Eiffel Tower,” he grumbled, “of all places, why did it have to be the Eiffel Tower?”
“I know you don’t like heights, that’s why,” Smyth chuckled. “Let me introduce you to the Mrs.” Reluctantly, Fairbanks shuffled towards the observation deck railing. Smythe held out his hand and said, “Miles Fairbanks, meet Valeri Trove. Excuse me, Agent Valeri Trove.”
“A pleasure, my dear,” Fairbanks said politely as he took Trove’s hand in his and gave it a soft kiss. “…And let me tell you how very deeply sorry I am that you are ‘married’ to that bloke over there,” he said as he motioned his head towards Smythe, “My condolences, really.” Trove laughed.
Smythe gave him a quick slap on the back that caused him to shuffle forward towards the railing and jump in surprise. “Good God man, don’t do that!” Fairbanks screamed in panic.
“Valeri,” Smythe said, sounding more serious, “Miles Fairbanks will be our on-site tech-support here in Paris. Any questions about any of the gadgets that you will be using, he’s the man to ask. The best there is.”
For a moment, Fairbanks blushed, “Yes, well…”
Smythe interrupted, “He will also be our on-site mission communications support and he will be keeping surveillance of both us and any targets.”
“Right,” Trove nodded.
Miles Fairbanks shoved in between Smythe and Trove to begin their briefing, but from the two of them he stuck out like a sore thumb. Along with his pale white skin—which made it seem as if he had not been out in the sun for ages—he wore rectangular-shaped, red-rimmed glasses and had short, curly blond hair. He wore a dress shirt under a dark brown blazer, along with navy blue suspenders and dark blue dress pants. He looked like the definition of a techno geek, if there ever was one.
In contrast, Jonathan Smythe pulled off a smoother, more subtle look. He wore his favourite black leather jacket over a white dress shirt, along with light-coloured trousers. He fit in well with the other tourists. Trove wore a high-cut, burgundy blouse, along with a grey fall jacket. Despite the chill in the air, she wore a medium-length skirt, and heels.
“Right, then,” Fairbanks continued. He took a quick look behind them to ensure that they were not being overheard, and then held out the device that had earlier masqueraded as a camera so that both of them could see. The high-resolution screen showed a simple, wireframe map, with a flashing white dot in the center. Trove looked confused. Although it took him a moment, Smythe recognized the image in front of him.
“The luxury car…” he said in a low tone. He turned towards Trove, who was standing on the other side of Fairbanks. A sudden look of realization swept over her face. He continued, “This map is showing the location of the black luxury car when I hit it with the tracking bug.” He pointed towards the screen, “this part along the top is the waterway, while this line here represents the high wall.” Trove nodded.
“Very good,” Fairbanks said, impressed. “This is the activation point of the tracking bug.” He pressed a button on the side of the device, and the image began scrolling as if in fast-forward. Smythe’s heart began to beat a little faster. The car was moving through the city, towards the outskirts. His blood was pumping faster through his veins, and his palms became sweaty. The car had now cleared the city-limits of Paris and was now moving along a rural road. After a few minutes, it stopped moving beside a large structure that looked to Smythe like a mansion.
“What is this place?” he whispered to Fairbanks, locking eyes with him.
“The Chateau de Lion.”
“The House of the Lion,” whispered Smythe. His heart beat a little faster. “I’ve heard that name before, though I can’t place it.” He looked up from the screen at Fairbanks, while Trove leaned closer. “Enlighten me.”
“The Chateau de Lion is one of the many residences of one of France’s most well-respected billionaires, Léon Devereaux. You’ve no doubt heard of him. Son of a wealthy shipping magnate, he was born into the family fortune, literally. His mother died during the throes of his birth, and only through emergency medical procedures did he survive—a miraculous birth indeed. His father died soon afterwards, some say out of grief. He was raised by a series of nursemaids and servants, his childhood funded by the trust fund set up by his late father before he had passed away. As the years went by, the family business began to struggle and its value plummeted under the bickering members of the board who were left to run the company. It was almost over for one of the most prominent shipping firms in Western Europe.”
“What happened?” Trove asked, as she pulled a long, purple scarf out of her purse and began to wrap it around her neck. Despite the sun-soaked sky, the air was beginning to chill. Smythe held his jacket closed as Fairbanks continued his story.
“Hm. What happened next is quite extraordinary, actually. At the age of sixteen, by order of his father’s will, he gained full control of the family business. Slowly, but surely, he began to turn the fortunes of the corporation. The shipping lines expanded beyond Europe and revenues soared, spurred on by a sudden influx of cash from foreign investors. Once again, the shipping company was back on the radar, a rising force to be reckoned with. Then, without explanation, Devereaux went into hiding.”
“Hiding?” Smythe repeated.
“He became a recluse,” Fairbanks continued, “and disappeared off of the face of the earth. No one saw him again for a decade, although records indicate that he was still running the business, pulling the strings from some unknown location. He was a ghost. And while his company continued to prosper and increase its territory, Léon Devereaux, at least in the eyes of the public, ceased to exist.”
“Until four years ago,” Smyth cut him off, “I remember now. The inaugural Meridian Gala. It was on the Echelon’s radar when it happened. Intel gathered nothing out of the ordinary, despite the event’s significance, at least in terms of Devereaux.
“Right,” Fairbanks nodded.
“What’s the Meridian Gala?” Trove asked, turning first to Agent Smythe, and then to Fairbanks, waiting for one of them to answer.
“The Meridian Gala,” Fairbanks replied, “was a prestigious, invite-only event to raise funds for charity, though that was undoubtedly a cover for something else. It was widely-covered in the media at the time, as many of the world’s wealthiest investors attended. But that wasn’t the only reason for the attention that the event attracted.”
Trove looked back at Smythe.
“The gala was significant,” Smyth continued for Fairbanks, “because it was hosted by Léon Devereaux. It was the first time he had come out of seclusion in ten years. People wanted to see him, this orphan, who had taken a family business in ruin and turned it into one of the greatest shipping empires on the east side of the Atlantic. And they got what they wanted. Devereaux had grown into a man with undeniable charisma. He had an aura
about him that commanded attention, deference. Attraction. The Meridian Gala was a smashing success, raising an unbelievable amount of money. And then, just as quickly as he appeared, Devereaux went into hiding again. Unlike the last time, however, he left with a promise. He promised to return from seclusion once again, to host the next iteration of the gala. The Meridian Gala will take place, as it did the first time, at the Chateau de Lion. The very mansion we are looking at on screen. The location of the disk.”
“When will the next gala take place?” Trove asked, as both she and Smythe turned to Fairbanks, who was typing away on his device.
Fairbanks smiled, “The next Meridian Gala, will take place tonight.”
Smythe and Trove both looked back at each other with surprise, obviously caught off-guard.
“And the theme,” Fairbanks continued, “is a masquerade.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
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