more powerful and better suited to the brain in particular. It took some work, but Grace adapted it through some sort of chemical process that nobody we know understands. Instead of just temporarily suppressing the immune system, it seemingly reprograms it entirely. Nobody who's talking has any idea how that works."
Sam smiled. "And Northern Lights is fresh out of the Chaperone molecule, right?"
"Grace bought it all for a tremendous amount of cash. Bowden must know where to get more. His kind would never take all of a species. Presumably, Gaudet realizes this. So now it's an old-fashioned footrace to the Amazon. The French are willing to let you contact Bowden if you'll sign me up for your little program."
"It's a free country. I can contact Bowden anytime I wish."
"Look, Sam, the CIA owes us and they promised us we're in. And you need Benoit Moreau."
"Figgy, I know the French have influence on this, but I don't know why. Maybe they saved some poor soul that the U.S. government thought needed saving. And I see who pays my bills, so I do listen with at least one ear. But it wouldn't be the first time that I've said no to our beloved government."
"Do we have a deal, Sam?"
"Only for old times' sake, Figgy. But I'll need full cooperation and full disclosure."
"Good." Figgy held out his hand and Sam shook it. "Full cooperation guaranteed. I've gotta get on a conference call, but could I first use the latrine?"
"Sure. But to make this deal, I need to ask you one thing: when you talk to your client, ask if they'll arrange for me to talk with Benoit."
"You sure you want to meet the dominatrix herself?"
Sam's expression provided his answer.
"Sure. You bet. I'll ask," Figgy responded.
"Okay. To get to the restroom you go out of here, past Big Brain through the door, and down the hall to the right. If you find the dorm rooms, you've gone too far."
"Don't do anything exciting until I get back." The big man took a last look at the food spread, chose a soda, and walked out.
""You didn't mention anything about this Georges Raval," Jill said after Figgy was out of earshot.
Sam smiled at her, his usual way of saying there would be no discussion. "Let's talk about Michael Bowden." He turned to Grady. "What did you find?"
"Didn't you want me to brief Figgy at the same time?"
Sam gave her that smile again.
"You don't trust him, do you?" she asked.
"I trust him fine," Sam said. "But there's no sense in testing human nature when there's this much at stake."
Chapter 3
Bad spirits bring their own kind.
—Tilok proverb
Jean-Baptiste Sourriaux, occasionally called by his childhood nickname of le souris, "the mouse," listened to the tick of the gold clock that sat on his mahogany side table. The clock had been a gift from his wife, subtly intended to get him home on time. On this night, as most, it did no good.
Baptiste was a tall man and thin, in fairly decent shape. He had no striking features, only a high forehead leading to a nose that slanted downward so that the tip hung a little below the nostrils. He spoke crisply, more in the fashion of an Englishman than a Frenchman. His colleagues claimed he had no sense of humor, but he knew he had humor, he just kept it to himself. Besides, France was going to hell and no one was doing anything about it. It was all liberal these days and no one cared that the ghetto people were becoming lawless and propagating like rats and had nothing but contempt for their adopted country and her ways. His offices were on the Boulevard Mortier in the 20th Arrondissement in the Caserne des Tourelles; that meant that anybody who knew anything knew he was an intelligence officer (known collectively as honorables correspondents) when he walked in the building every morning.
His office was small, despite the fact that he reported directly to Admiral Larive, the head of the
Sam smiled. "And Northern Lights is fresh out of the Chaperone molecule, right?"
"Grace bought it all for a tremendous amount of cash. Bowden must know where to get more. His kind would never take all of a species. Presumably, Gaudet realizes this. So now it's an old-fashioned footrace to the Amazon. The French are willing to let you contact Bowden if you'll sign me up for your little program."
"It's a free country. I can contact Bowden anytime I wish."
"Look, Sam, the CIA owes us and they promised us we're in. And you need Benoit Moreau."
"Figgy, I know the French have influence on this, but I don't know why. Maybe they saved some poor soul that the U.S. government thought needed saving. And I see who pays my bills, so I do listen with at least one ear. But it wouldn't be the first time that I've said no to our beloved government."
"Do we have a deal, Sam?"
"Only for old times' sake, Figgy. But I'll need full cooperation and full disclosure."
"Good." Figgy held out his hand and Sam shook it. "Full cooperation guaranteed. I've gotta get on a conference call, but could I first use the latrine?"
"Sure. But to make this deal, I need to ask you one thing: when you talk to your client, ask if they'll arrange for me to talk with Benoit."
"You sure you want to meet the dominatrix herself?"
Sam's expression provided his answer.
"Sure. You bet. I'll ask," Figgy responded.
"Okay. To get to the restroom you go out of here, past Big Brain through the door, and down the hall to the right. If you find the dorm rooms, you've gone too far."
"Don't do anything exciting until I get back." The big man took a last look at the food spread, chose a soda, and walked out.
""You didn't mention anything about this Georges Raval," Jill said after Figgy was out of earshot.
Sam smiled at her, his usual way of saying there would be no discussion. "Let's talk about Michael Bowden." He turned to Grady. "What did you find?"
"Didn't you want me to brief Figgy at the same time?"
Sam gave her that smile again.
"You don't trust him, do you?" she asked.
"I trust him fine," Sam said. "But there's no sense in testing human nature when there's this much at stake."
Chapter 3
Bad spirits bring their own kind.
—Tilok proverb
Jean-Baptiste Sourriaux, occasionally called by his childhood nickname of le souris, "the mouse," listened to the tick of the gold clock that sat on his mahogany side table. The clock had been a gift from his wife, subtly intended to get him home on time. On this night, as most, it did no good.
Baptiste was a tall man and thin, in fairly decent shape. He had no striking features, only a high forehead leading to a nose that slanted downward so that the tip hung a little below the nostrils. He spoke crisply, more in the fashion of an Englishman than a Frenchman. His colleagues claimed he had no sense of humor, but he knew he had humor, he just kept it to himself. Besides, France was going to hell and no one was doing anything about it. It was all liberal these days and no one cared that the ghetto people were becoming lawless and propagating like rats and had nothing but contempt for their adopted country and her ways. His offices were on the Boulevard Mortier in the 20th Arrondissement in the Caserne des Tourelles; that meant that anybody who knew anything knew he was an intelligence officer (known collectively as honorables correspondents) when he walked in the building every morning.
His office was small, despite the fact that he reported directly to Admiral Larive, the head of the
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