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“Désolé,” Rapp said. “You remind me of someone.”

“I’m sure I do,” she said, laughing. “You Frenchmen are all the same. And before you ask, yes, I’m married. My husband is just down there.”

Rapp looked to where the woman was pointing and saw a tall, brown-haired man poking about by one of the fortress’s World War I–era cannons. “He likes guns?”

The woman shrugged. “He’s a writer. Always doing research. I should probably join him. It’s been nice speaking with you, monsieur…”

“Gervais,” Rapp said. “Simon Gervais.”

“Great to meet you, Simon. I’m Lysa.Au revoir.”

After gracing him with a parting smile, Lysa followed the path toward her writer husband. Rapp watched her for a minute, wondering if he and Greta would someday traipse through the ruins of ancient castles together.

He hoped so.

Putting Lysa out of his mind, Rapp lifted the pair of touristbinoculars hanging from a leather strap around his neck to his eyes. Panning across the promenade below and to his left, he focused on an ordinary-looking bench a little over a half mile distant.

His earlier hunch had been correct.

Someone was nibbling at his bait.

CHAPTER 20

WASHINGTON, DC

WHYdoes your organization still exist?”

Thomas Stansfield gazed up at the speaker, wrestling with a question of his own.

Why did the nation I love entrust its leadership to such idiots?

He resisted the urge to give voice to his inner monologue. As his first-grade teacher had drilled into his head in the single-room schoolhouse of his youth, one did not show disrespect to those in authority no matter how much they might deserve it. The man who’d just spoken might be an imbecile, but he was also a member of the greatest deliberative body in the world.

The room in which they were meeting reflected this stature.

As was the case with anyone who testified before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, Stansfield was seated at a small, unadorned table facing the elevated row of seats reserved for his questioners. The room’s royal-blue carpeting seemed at odds with the rich nutmeg paneling framing the dais, as did the white, marbled wall that served as the chamber’s backdrop. Stansfield took comfort in the sparse and perhapsunconventional furnishings. This was a solemn place populated by serious men and women who discussed weighty topics.

Or at least it was supposed to be.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Stansfield said.

“Maybe some context will help—the Soviet Union crumbled almost two years ago. The Cold War is over. We won. They lost. So why does this Congress still need to spend almost ten percent of the national budget on an intelligence entity dedicated to stealing the secrets of a nation that has already been relegated to the ash heap of history?”

The question was delivered in a thunderous oration that suggested rehearsal. Extensive rehearsal. The image of the ranking member of the opposition party practicing his questions in front of his bathroom mirror almost brought a smile to Stansfield’s face.

Almost.

Fifty years ago, Stansfield had been barely into adulthood and surrounded by partisans who were even younger. In the early days of the OSS, no one questioned the need for an intelligence organization dedicated to stealing the secrets of America’s enemies. At least no one on the front lines of the fight. Had such an organization been in existence in the 1930s, perhaps a second world war might not have enveloped the globe in death and destruction.

Or perhaps not.

Senator Jefferson Rutledge was not an anomaly. Self-serving blowhards had sought political power since antiquity. Stupidity was hardly a problem unique to the twentieth century, but the fact that this particular useful idiot had amassed so much power might be. The television camera mounted along the far wall telescoped, no doubt zooming in on Stansfield’s face. Whether Senator Rutledge really believed what he was spouting, or if this was all fodder for a future reelection commercial, Stansfield couldn’t say. He did know that his answer would likely lead the evening news programs, since many of the television anchors shared Rutledge’s sentiment.

Stupidity was contagious.

“I appreciate you getting to the heart of the matter so quickly, Senator,” Stansfield began. “Your question has been asked with increasing regularity, and I welcome the opportunity to address it in these hearings. As you’ve elected to make my testimony open to the public, I will have to refrain from providing specifics in order to protect sources and methods.”

Rutledge’s mic picked up a sudden indrawn breath, and Stansfield paused in expectation of another fiery diatribe.