4. Dagger
DAGGER
Iwatched as she scrolled through image after image. In each of them, Givre’s father was with Géraud.
The current set of photos she was viewing showed the men on the terrace of what could be a hotel or high-end apartment building. They were seated close enough to talk without being overheard.
The man she’d said was her father was impeccably dressed, and his hair appeared to be graying at the temples. I glanced at the metadata below the photo, which confirmed it was from nine years ago.
It was hard to tell with the graininess, but if I had to guess, I’d say Givre resembled her mother more than her father.
She scrolled to another image and grimaced. I followed her line of sight to the photo of her dad with a woman.
“Is that your mother?” I asked.
“No.” She answered me, but her gaze remained riveted to the screen. While every intelligence operative was trained to give no visible reaction, she was so still it was unnerving.
Except this was different. Her own father was in surveillance footage with the man we now believed Vasiliev had answered to. Vasiliev’s bombs had destroyed Minerva Protocol’s headquarters and almost killed her. Not to mention the thirteen who did die.
I watched as she continued scrolling through the images. Every so often, she’d zoom in on one before moving on.
Would I have reacted in a similar way if it were my father rather than hers?
I couldn’t fathom it. Not that it was possible anyway.
He and my mother had passed away years ago.
My sister, Alena, code name Verity, was the only person left in my immediate family, but since she was also an intelligence agent, currently working for the United Nations Coalition Against Human Trafficking, I would have assumed she was undercover.
“Forgive me, but are you certain?”
Her head snapped when she turned to face me. “Am I certain? Are you suggesting I don’t know my own father?”
“Right. Apologies. That was daft,” I muttered.
When she huffed and looked away from me, I felt relief. At least she’d had a reaction. Truth be told, I normally loved the tone of voice she used when she was annoyed with me. Now, I couldn’t allow myself to goad or tease her into continuing.
I racked my brain, trying to recall what I’d learned about her family from her dossier.
Her father, Bertrand, was younger than my own father had been.
He’d inherited a centuries-old domaine in France’s Burgundian region.
It was called Domaine Valais and was known, like most in the appellation were, for its Pinot Noir and Chardonnay.
They also grew and produced award-winning Gamay and Pinot Blanc varietals.
Her mother, Chantal, was from a wealthy French family, not in the wine trade. By all accounts, she was elegant and gracious—like her daughter.
“Does your father do much business in Geneva?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t know if he did. My father doesn’t discuss such things with me.”
That surprised me. She was an only child. Wouldn’t she be expected to take over once he passed away?
“Givre…” I waited until she looked at me before continuing.
“Yes?”
“Would you like me to see what more we can learn?”
She rested against her chair and stared at the blank wall in front of her. “What are you suggesting?”
“We look into your father ourselves—his accounts, his travel, his business dealings. Quietly, without your family knowing.”
I understood her hesitation in answering. I had no idea how I would respond if someone asked about gathering dirt on someone I was close to.
“How about this? Let’s sleep on it and decide in the morning.”
She closed her laptop, pushed away from the table, and was headed for the door before I’d gotten up from my seat.
“I guess that’s an affirmative,” I said when I caught up to her. That earned me another glare. “Do you want to stay in Ahnósta tonight?”
Her head cocked. “Where else would I stay?”
“Fair enough.”
We walked the rest of the way in silence. When we arrived at her door, I waited while she took the key from her pocket and unlocked it.
“Will you be all right?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
I’d had enough of her unwillingness to give an inch, particularly given the circumstances of our investigation. “I don’t know, perhaps seeing your father in those photographs might rattle you a bit.”
She spun around without opening the door. “Who in the hell are you to judge me?” she snapped.
Her accent was pronounced anyway, but when angry, it became more so. Th came out sounding more like Z. I got it, though. It was easier to be angry with me than with a man on the other side of the globe.
I sighed. “If you decide you need anything, I’m right next door.”
She put her hand on her hip. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt any dalliances you might intend to have.”
Rather than walk away, I reached around her and pushed the door open. “Go inside. Now.”
“You are not the boss of me—” When she tried to go in the opposite direction, I grabbed her wrist.
“That is enough, Maelle.” I pushed past her before she could stop me. “I know this is disconcerting, but I am not the bad guy.” I lowered my voice before continuing but kept my hold on her wrist. “I’m on your side.”
“You need to leave.”
“No. I won’t until we talk this out. We’re partners on an investigation that should mean as much to you as it does to everyone else at this camp. I understand you being unwilling to share your personal feelings, but I insist we discuss this on a professional level.”
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, wrapping both arms around her waist when I released her. It was a tell she had no idea she had, and the last thing I’d do would be to make her aware of it. When Givre was in pain, whether physical or emotional, she hugged herself. It was simple, natural, and instinctual.
“Come here,” I said, grabbing her upper arms and pulling her against me. Rather than fight against my embrace, she leaned in and rested her head on my chest.
I wrapped one arm around her to keep her close, and stroked her hair with my opposite hand. “We’ll figure this out. You and me. Together.”
Since she made no attempt to step away, I didn’t either. Eventually, she raised her head and looked up at me.
“I should have thought to have whiskey.”
I chuckled, remembering hearing that, while most people assumed the French drank mostly wine or cognac, they actually consumed more whiskey per capita than any other country.
Unable to stop myself, I cupped her cheek. “I know where we can get some.”
“Let me guess. Your—”
I slid my hand from her cheek to her mouth. “Be nice, or I won’t tell you.”
“Dagger, please do not do this. Not now.”
“I’m unsure what you think I’m doing, but I’m happy to spell it out for you.
We’ll go next door, I’ll pour you a whiskey, and we’ll talk.
I’ll even give you the bottle to bring over here with you if you’d like.
” I put my hands on her shoulders. “I have no other agenda or ulterior motive. Is that clear?”
I anticipated another disparaging comment, but it didn’t come. Instead, when I held my hand out, she took it.
Inside my camp, I poured two glasses, set the bottle on the table between us, and waited for her to sit before I took the chair across from her.
She downed the first shot in one swallow and slid the empty glass over to me. I poured a second without comment.
“My father and I are not close,” she said.
I waited for her to continue. A minute passed, then another.
“What else, Maelle?” I asked.
She drank the second whiskey the same way she had the first and pushed the glass toward me again. I poured. She turned her face to the window and said something in French that was too fast and too quiet for me to follow. The only word I caught was batard—bastard.
When she finally looked at me, the steel I’d watched her hold in place since she’d discovered the photos had slipped. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed.
I wished we weren’t sitting at the table. Were we anywhere else, I’d have taken her into my arms like I had a few minutes earlier. It was the first time since I’d known her that she’d let her guard down enough to be vulnerable, and I didn’t want to do anything that might make her regret doing so.
“What would you do if you were me?”
That she asked stunned me. I thought about it for a moment before I answered, because she deserved better than something off the cuff. “I’d take a deeper look.”
She flinched and shuddered, but she nodded.
“Until we know what the relationship is, or was, between your father and Géraud, we’ll need to tread carefully,” I said.
“I agree.”
Two simple words said so much more. I’d come to realize that the less Givre said, the more authentic she was allowing herself to be.
When she stood, picked up her glass and the bottle, and carried them over to the sofa. I followed and sat beside her.
I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. “The most logical solution is—”
“I need to go there.” She stared into the whiskey rather than at me. “I need to go home.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go alone.”
Her eyes flared, and she studied me for several seconds, as though she were anticipating a catch. When I didn’t list parameters, she nodded again. “Oui.”
“I have to ask you something, Maelle.” I waited until she looked at me. “You mentioned you and your father aren’t close. How would you define your relationship with him?”
She shifted her body deeper into the sofa and rested her head on the cushion. “I left home at eighteen. I’ve had little contact with him since.”
“And your mother?”
“We speak regularly.” There was something in the way she said it that led me to believe there was more to the story.
“But?” I asked.
“My father…” She didn’t finish.
“What about him, Maelle?” I kept my voice steady.
“He has little regard for my gender.” Her tone hardened. “My mother. Me. All women.”
“Can you explain what you mean?”
She looked me dead in the eye. “For me, it meant that even as his only child, it never once occurred to him that I might one day run the estate.”
“Would you want to?”