by Cherry Laska
An appointment had been scheduled for Professor James Hamlin, aka Mark, at Chevalier-Fort Chemicals. When the assistant showed Mark into the office of Marcella Tabor, the Director of Recruitment was clearly surprised. She had presumed that the visiting Harvard professor would either be a genius geek or a stuffy old man. On the other hand, Mark was prepared for the beautiful thirty-two-year-old executive. He was planning on using all his charm to throw her off balance for whatever slight advantage it might provide.
“Bonjour, Monsieur. Pardonnez-moi de regarder. J’étais – ”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Tabor. I’m so sorry, darlin’,” Mark said, interrupting Marcella. “I don’t speak a lick of French. I sure am hoping you speak English.”
“Yes. I was saying that I was sorry for staring. I am surprised you are so young and well, frankly, so handsome. I blame my previous experiences with scientists for my preconceived notions about professors.” She laughed. She approached Mark and offered her hand. He shook it with measured firmness. She motioned for him to have a seat on a red leather sofa. Marcella sat in the sleek chair next to him. The Director’s office was decorated with modern art and furniture in rich colors. Apparently, Chevalier-Fort Chemicals wasn’t on a tight budget.
Marked smiled sweetly. He found her honesty and boldness refreshing. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”
“My pleasure. May I get you something to drink?”
“I’m not adjusted to the Paris time. Mmm, mmm,” he pursed his lips and slowly blinked. “I’d give anything for a cup of coffee, Madame Tabor.”
“Oh it’s Mademoiselle, but s’il vous plaît, call me Marcella.”
Mark grinned. “Only if you give me your word you’ll call me Jimmy.”
“Oui. Jimmy it is. Chevalier-Fort Chemicals is very happy to do anything we can for a visiting Harvard professor. We regard Harvard as one of the finest institutions of higher learning, fully comparable to our Sorbonne. What brings you to Paris?” Marcella smiled, tilting her head.
“Marcella, I’m only here for a few days before attending the ICIC. Are you going?” He already knew she was not on the registration list.
“I’m afraid I am unable to attend this year for good reason. My grandmother is celebrating her 100th birthday.”
“Impressively good genes, Marcella.”
She batted her eyelashes. “So, what can I do for you while you are here?”
Jessica was impressed with Mark’s effectiveness.
“There are two reasons I came to see you today. First, I believe the work Chevalier-Fort Chemicals is doing would make for an interesting lecture for my graduate students. I wanted to get up close and personal to find out as much as I could about the company and what y’all are working on. Second, I thought it would be mutually beneficial for your company and my students if we met.”
Marcella’s assistant brought in the coffee on a beautiful silver tray and placed it on the coffee table. Marcella thanked her assistant and dismissed her.
“Jimmy, you’re very correct. I would love to discuss with you the opportunities Chevalier-Fort Chemicals has to offer your students. Conversely, you can tell me whom I should keep my eye on. C-FC is making some amazing progress in numerous areas. We’re expanding and are always looking for the best new researchers.” She poured the coffee while eyeing Mark inquisitively. “I’ll give you all the information I can to help you with your lecture as long as you do two things for me.”
“And what might those two things be, Marcella?”
“First, you must promise that your lecture will reflect Chevalier-Fort Chemicals in a positive light.” She was silent waiting for him to agree.
“Absolutely. I can’t imagine I would, but if I discover anything that wouldn’t reflect well, I’ll give you a chance to explain first.”
Marcella contemplated this for a moment. “Oui. Mercí. Second, I would be remiss in my duties if I did not play your hostess while you are here in my city. If you’re free this evening, I would very much like for you to accompany me to a party hosted by our company’s president, Jacque Lefèvre.” She sat back and crossed her shapely legs.
Mark could see why this woman was the Director of Recruitment. She was very direct, charming, and quick witted—a combination that commanded a man’s complete attention. He liked her style. “I’m free this evening and would love to meet Monsieur Lefèvre. Will you agree to give me a personal tour of your facilities and let me speak with some of the researchers and their support personnel?”
“I can arrange that. I believe this is the start of something very good for us both. Merveilleux, Jimmy–wonderful.”
Mark heard Jessica say, “Tres bon, Jimmy. Keep up the charm, and let’s see what they’ve got.”
32
THE CONSTANT ALL-OVER ITCH WAS driving Moreau out of his mind, but there was nothing he could do. He was lying on his bug infected mattress, pathetically asking himself for the hundredth time why this had happened to him. Tears rolled down his pudgy cheeks. He was a brilliant man who had achieved success in a powerful position and was distraught at how he had destroyed his life. Moreau watched a rat scurrying across his cell and accepted as fact that he wouldn’t survive in here very long.
He remembered when the French government had feigned outrage and embarrassment when the prison doctor published her diary exposing the prison’s inhumane conditions and violence to the world a few years earlier. At the time, he thought very little about it. Now, he was living in the nightmare. La Sante was still ranked as one of the ten worst prisons in the world.
Moreau had broken during the inspector’s questioning and admitted to his crime of selling chemicals, but his fear of the angry Iranian and the merciless Cubans had given him the strength to keep the few details he knew to himself. He was thankful when the inspector had announced there would be no more questions, but his relief was short-lived. He was sent to this awful prison and locked in the small cell with three other men. He didn’t know their names or what their crimes had been. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want this to be reality, but it was.
Moreau looked through the cracked lenses of his glasses at the peeling paint and bit back a sob. He rolled onto his side and faced the wall. He felt pain in all the parts of his body from his earlier beatings. An hour after he had been locked behind the solid blue door, the biggest of the men in the cell had started the attack, delivering a multitude of blows before flipping Moreau over and violently raping him. His screams didn’t bring any help. The men had laughed at him when he had pleaded and offered money or favors from powerful friends. The brutality continued with Moreau’s cellmates taking turns doing whatever they wanted.
Moreau heard the creak of the cell door but didn’t move for fear it would bring attention to him. “Shower.” A glimmer of excitement washed over him. This would be the first one he was allowed since his arrest. He carefully stood up and moved toward the door. The guard shoved the other cellmates back. “Only him,” the guard said, pointing to Moreau. He didn’t know what to make of this but felt fear seeing the others glaring at him.
The guard didn’t say anything as he led Moreau through the dimly lit filthy prison or while he watched Moreau undress. The guard shoved him into the empty shower. Moreau’s instincts told him something was not right, but he had no choice but to follow the guard’s commands. Moreau stepped into the weak stream of luke-warm water and began to wash himself with the bar of soap he found on the shelf. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to have hope. He turned his head and noticed the guard was no longer in the doorway. Moreau had been left there by himself. He tried to fight off the panic knowing something bad, something very bad, was about to happen.
Four men filed into the large, open shower and came directly at Moreau. Before he knew it, he was pinned down on the slimy floor, unable to move. He frantically struggled and cried out for help.
”I didn’t tell them anything. I didn’t talk.”
“And you never will. Hold him
still,” one of the attackers barked. The man had a syringe. Moreau felt the sting under his arm. “Done.”
The men let Moreau go and quickly left the shower. He tried to get up, but failed, slipping several times on the wet, soap scum-covered tiles. Terrified, he thought, What did they give me? As a chemist, his mind ran though many possibilities—none of them were good. He finally managed to get to his feet just as prisoners began coming in the shower area. Moreau tried to make his way against the flow of naked bodies filling the room but was bumped and pushed backwards. The sensation of searing whitehot knives stabbing his heart hit. He gripped his chest in pain and dropped to his knees. The dirty water sprayed his face as he futilely looked up for help.
33
JOE WASN’T IN THE SUITE when Jessica got back from the mosque and still hadn’t returned by the time she disconnected from Mark after his tour of C-FC. She analyzed everything she’d seen and heard. She started thinking about her call with Anderson and moved from the desk to the sofa. She didn’t like that it had bothered her so much. The guys tried to down play it, but it was obvious Joe and Mark had picked up on how crappy Anderson treated her. She now knew she’d been kidding herself that her kids hadn’t seen it too. The realization that she had exposed them to that made her sad. She would have to show them there was more to life by what she did from here on out.
Jessica jumped when Joe sat down next to her. “I didn’t see you.”
“Yeah? I was talking to you, but you were really gone there. I didn’t mean to startle you. You okay?”
“Crap. Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. I was just … lost in thought.” She changed the subject by filling him in on what she’d seen at the mosque, which wasn’t much. She told him Mark had done well at C-FC and went into detail. When she finished, Joe put his hand on her arm.
“Jessica. I can tell you’re upset. Everything you’re going through has got to be tough. You know you can talk to me.”
She wasn’t sure she could talk about it without breaking down, so instead gave him a weak smile. “Thanks. It is hard, but I’ll be fine. We have things to take care of. Can we talk about this later?”
Joe winced. His muscles got tight around his jaw. “Sure,” he said. He stood and went into the other room, feeling angrier than he could logically explain.
Jessica felt terrible. She followed him to the bedroom and found him standing in front of the window. She moved to stand in front of him, so they could both see the view of the beautiful Paris skyline. She rested the back of her head against his chest. After a few minutes, she whispered, “Tell me.”
“I wasn’t just being nice, you know. There was a time when you thought of me as your best friend. I understand we’ve been out of each other’s life for a long time, but I still feel that close to you, and I hope you feel the same way. Handle things the way you need to, but I am here for you, whether you accept it or not.”
“Joe, I’m so sorry. I know I can talk to you, and I know you want to help. I was trying to be strong—professionally and personally. I wasn’t sure I could handle getting into it without crying, and I didn’t want to dump that on you. The situation I’m in is hard because I have to think of my kids.” She sighed and managed to say, “Before, when you came in, I was thinking about them. It makes me so sad to think how my bad marriage may have influenced them. I’m disappointed and embarrassed that I’ve allowed Anderson treat us the way he has.” She felt Joe’s muscles relax, but his breathing was still shallow and rapid.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this.” He took a deep breath. “And I’m really sorry I got upset. I shouldn’t have. It’s just you … you mean a lot to me.” He wrapped his arms around her. “You always have, and I can’t stand to see you hurting. I don’t want to leave you to go through something bad by yourself ever again.” He hugged her tighter. “I do know if your kids are anything like you, they’re smart and strong, so they’ll be okay.”
She didn’t feel so alone in his arms, and she soaked up the comfort. “Thank you.” The words came out softly, almost like a breath. “I mean it. You’ve always been so good to me and always make things better. Just like now. You are helping me.” She rotated in his arms to face him. “You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and you always will be. I’m happy to have you back in my life. You have no idea.” Joe drew Jessica closer, hugging her tightly. Her hands were trapped between them, pressed into his hard chest. She could feel his pounding heart.
He whispered, “Oh, I have an idea, because I’m happy too.” He loosened his grip. She moved her arms down his torso, wrapped them around his back and squeezed. She laid her head on his chest. After a while, he kissed the top of her head. She leaned back, looked up, and smiled. He said, “Remember, anytime you need anything, I’m here. You don’t have to be strong with me.”
“You’re my boss.” They laughed.
“Technically, yes, I am. However, our friendship trumps all that,” he said. He let go of her and glanced at his watch. “Hey, I have a scheduled call. We have a little time before lunch. What’re your plans?”
“I need a workout. I’d like to go to the gym to burn off some calories. French food always puts on beaucoup de poids.”
Joe laughed. “Poids. That’s pounds, right? Really? A workout is good, but I don’t think you have to worry about gaining weight.”
“You mean you don’t have to worry. You don’t know what a woman’s metabolism gets like at my age, especially after having children. It takes a lot of exercise combined with a low-carb, low-calorie diet just to maintain.”
“Okay. Okay,” he said and threw his hands up in surrender. “Keep doing whatever you’re doing. You look great.”
34
MARK KNOCKED ON GéRARD DEPARDIEU’S door. This Gérard was an independent foreign affairs reporter and was no relation to the famous French actor with whom he shared his name. After a moment, the door opened.
“Bonjour. Well look who is at my door. John Mitchell. Please, come on in.”
John Mitchell was one of Mark’s many aliases. A few years back, when France was having a lot of issues with its Muslim population over the law prohibiting wearing a hijab in public, violence had broken out. The CIA had sent Mark in as John Mitchell along with a few of his colleagues to help smooth things over. The U.S. had enough problems brewing and didn’t want things heating up globally.
“I’ve missed you, buddy. How’ve you been?” Mark said, flashing his brilliant white smile. “Let’s sit down and have a talk.” Mark strode in and sat in the chair facing Gérard’s desk. There wasn’t a single piece of paper or file in view. It made Mark chuckle thinking Gérard was as guarded as ever. They caught up on their health, Gérard’s past couple of articles, and the lack of a steady girlfriend for Mark.
After the appropriate amount of time passed, Mark got down to business. “Listen, I need your help on something. I need you to tell me what’s going on with this Iranian, this Moreau fella, and anything not right with Chevalier-Fort Chemicals.”
“I’ll tell you what little I know and give you a little advice but only because it’s you asking.” Gérard lit a cigarette and continued, “This is one of those situations when the information is so controlled that I’m positive someone important is involved. I’ve learned to trust my instinct to avoid this kind of trouble, and I suggest you do the same.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette.
“That’s not happening.” Mark stared his friend down.
Gérard sighed and told him the official version of what had transpired so far.
“Ah, come on now. I already know that stuff.”
“Je suis désolé. I’m staying away from it. Things about this do not feel good to me. My gut tells me my country wants to distance itself from anything to do with an illegal sale of chemicals.”
“I understand completely.” Mark leaned forward before saying, “But sorry ain’t gonna cut it. I need you to get closer for me and dig in a little. You see, my country doesn’t feel good about this one
either. This isn’t over, so unless France wants it to become a problem they can’t get away from, you need to help me. There’s too much at risk to do nothing.” The veteran reporter got the message. “You can’t sit on the sidelines for this one.” Mark’s appearance made him seem innocent and friendly. It was what made him so scary and deadly when he needed to be.
“I’ll talk to my sources. But I, uh, can’t promise anything.” Gérard got up and put out his cigarette in a glass of water on his kitchen counter. Mark followed, gave the reporter a pat on his back and handed him a card.
“Call me at this number. I’ll expect to hear from you by tonight.” Mark headed for the door. He looked back as Gérard was lighting up another cigarette. It was the man’s tell. He always chained smoked when he was nervous. “Be careful, buddy.”
35
AFTER AN HOUR OF HARD WORK in the hotel gym, Jessica was spent. She was starving and couldn’t wait to eat. She and Joe were going to have a late lunch at the café where the meet had taken place. She threw her towel in the bin before grabbing a couple of bottles of the complimentary water.
When she got back to the suite, she heard Joe talking on the phone. “Sir, I know the French government is more than capable of handling any situation. I would never suggest otherwise. I’d like to send someone from my team to interview Monsieur Moreau simply to provide a new face and to try a new tactic. With a different approach—and let me be clear, I’m saying different, not better—we may get something more out of the prisoner. Surely you see that the situation is critical.
“Yes, I agree, but I—” Joe stopped mid-sentence. “Sir, if I—” He must have been getting cut-off. His voice had grown a little louder, but impressively, he continued to sound diplomatic. “Well, if that’s your final decision, we’ll respect it. We would hope you’d keep us completely informed, and Monsieur, if circumstances change, please call me at any time. You have my number, yes?” Jessica came around the corner to see Joe sitting at the antique desk, phone in hand. “Merci. Goodbye.”