Read Online Let Slip the Dogs of War: A Bard's Bed & Breakfast Mystery #1 by Sara M. Barton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sara M. Barton
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were
hiking in the area.”
“Sensors?” That sounded serious.
“The FBI counterintelligence people found
them and figured out that this was a really big meeting, Bea.
That’s really all I can tell you. We don’t know what the endgame
is. We don’t know why Grapon is involved, or whether the French
have sanctioned it. It could be a French effort to throttle a
Russian effort to assist the Syrians.”
“Everything is so complicated. How do you
manage to keep it all straight?”
“Sometimes we can’t. But we do our best.
That’s really all we can do. We need to know who the bad guys are
and we need to neutralize them. Murder is always a last
resort.”
“Like that poor girl.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It’s quite possible that
Grapon gave her too much of a drug while he was trying to question
her or even just knock her out for a bit. He could have even
suffocated her accidentally when he thought she might give him
away. Then again, he may have killed her as part of a plot to set
us up, ‘Mr. Williams’, or even the CIA response to the crisis in
Syria. It’s hard to say without more intelligence in the form of
evidence and information.”
“And ‘Mr. Williams’ is a woman, not a
man.”
“We’ll pick her up and see what Grapon does
next. My best guess is we have eyes on us at all times. This is too
important to national security to leave it alone. If Grapon doesn’t
know people are onto him yet, he thinks he’s just going up against
me, and he probably assumes he can fool me. Hence, he posed as a
potential witness to the cabana fire.”
“Wouldn’t that suggest the girl was
deliberately murdered to set you up?” I wondered.
“Or that she died when he screwed up and
didn’t want to get caught at it. If he tried to debrief her, to
interrogate her, Bea, and she didn’t have any answers for her, he
might have killed her to thwart ‘Mr. Williams’ from uncovering the
clues to the coded message she carried in the form of tattoos. If
so, he’s likely to be waiting at the airport for her plane. Then
again, maybe he tried to seduce her just for the fun of it and she
changed her mind. Or she took something chemical to enhance her own
sexual pleasure. Or Philippe slipped her a date rape drug. We just
don’t know.”
“Never a dull moment,” I muttered, turning
back to the scenery. My mind was growing numb with all of the
shenanigans. How did one keep it all straight? It was rather like a
Shakespearean plot, with treachery and deception abounding.
Probably why Uncle Edward was such a fan of the Bard. He lived the
life centuries after Shakespeare told his tales.
Ten minutes outside of Burlington, Ben’s
smartphone buzzed and pulled over to the side of the road. I sat,
waiting, as he stepped outside and out of earshot. That’s the thing
about spies and former spies. Old habits die hard. Watching the
traffic whiz by, I wondered what we would find when we got to the
airport. Would “Mr. Williams” turn out to be a diversion, a red
herring of some kind? Someone was going to a lot of effort. That’s
really all we knew for sure. Someone was working this game hard,
but what was the name of the game? And who was sponsoring it? If
the meeting in Damascus, Virginia involved the Russians and the
Syrians, and if Philippe had gone over to the dark side, he was
working for the bad guys. If he was trying to penetrate for the
DGSE, technically Philippe was a good guy, even though his morals
and personal conduct left a lot to be desired. But what if he was
just out for himself? What if he was collecting a paycheck from
everyone?
My thoughts were interrupted when the car
door opened, Ben climbed back in beside me, and handed me his
smartphone.
“This should make you feel better, Bea.” I
looked down at the photo identification that was splashed across
the screen. There was a cheerful young woman staring boldly back at
me.
“Celia Dusquesne. Oh, she was only
twenty-four. How sad. This says she was a
hiking in the area.”
“Sensors?” That sounded serious.
“The FBI counterintelligence people found
them and figured out that this was a really big meeting, Bea.
That’s really all I can tell you. We don’t know what the endgame
is. We don’t know why Grapon is involved, or whether the French
have sanctioned it. It could be a French effort to throttle a
Russian effort to assist the Syrians.”
“Everything is so complicated. How do you
manage to keep it all straight?”
“Sometimes we can’t. But we do our best.
That’s really all we can do. We need to know who the bad guys are
and we need to neutralize them. Murder is always a last
resort.”
“Like that poor girl.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It’s quite possible that
Grapon gave her too much of a drug while he was trying to question
her or even just knock her out for a bit. He could have even
suffocated her accidentally when he thought she might give him
away. Then again, he may have killed her as part of a plot to set
us up, ‘Mr. Williams’, or even the CIA response to the crisis in
Syria. It’s hard to say without more intelligence in the form of
evidence and information.”
“And ‘Mr. Williams’ is a woman, not a
man.”
“We’ll pick her up and see what Grapon does
next. My best guess is we have eyes on us at all times. This is too
important to national security to leave it alone. If Grapon doesn’t
know people are onto him yet, he thinks he’s just going up against
me, and he probably assumes he can fool me. Hence, he posed as a
potential witness to the cabana fire.”
“Wouldn’t that suggest the girl was
deliberately murdered to set you up?” I wondered.
“Or that she died when he screwed up and
didn’t want to get caught at it. If he tried to debrief her, to
interrogate her, Bea, and she didn’t have any answers for her, he
might have killed her to thwart ‘Mr. Williams’ from uncovering the
clues to the coded message she carried in the form of tattoos. If
so, he’s likely to be waiting at the airport for her plane. Then
again, maybe he tried to seduce her just for the fun of it and she
changed her mind. Or she took something chemical to enhance her own
sexual pleasure. Or Philippe slipped her a date rape drug. We just
don’t know.”
“Never a dull moment,” I muttered, turning
back to the scenery. My mind was growing numb with all of the
shenanigans. How did one keep it all straight? It was rather like a
Shakespearean plot, with treachery and deception abounding.
Probably why Uncle Edward was such a fan of the Bard. He lived the
life centuries after Shakespeare told his tales.
Ten minutes outside of Burlington, Ben’s
smartphone buzzed and pulled over to the side of the road. I sat,
waiting, as he stepped outside and out of earshot. That’s the thing
about spies and former spies. Old habits die hard. Watching the
traffic whiz by, I wondered what we would find when we got to the
airport. Would “Mr. Williams” turn out to be a diversion, a red
herring of some kind? Someone was going to a lot of effort. That’s
really all we knew for sure. Someone was working this game hard,
but what was the name of the game? And who was sponsoring it? If
the meeting in Damascus, Virginia involved the Russians and the
Syrians, and if Philippe had gone over to the dark side, he was
working for the bad guys. If he was trying to penetrate for the
DGSE, technically Philippe was a good guy, even though his morals
and personal conduct left a lot to be desired. But what if he was
just out for himself? What if he was collecting a paycheck from
everyone?
My thoughts were interrupted when the car
door opened, Ben climbed back in beside me, and handed me his
smartphone.
“This should make you feel better, Bea.” I
looked down at the photo identification that was splashed across
the screen. There was a cheerful young woman staring boldly back at
me.
“Celia Dusquesne. Oh, she was only
twenty-four. How sad. This says she was a
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