CHAPTER 72
CSTC Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility
Meg was planning the next phase of the Palm Beach operation. I wanted to get an update on our recon plan, so I headed over to the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF).
I tapped out my code on the keyboard, waved my badge in front of the sensor, gazed into the retina-scanning device, and heard the door unlock.
I was certain the day would come when I’d open that and find gold coins and bars stacked to the ceiling.
Not today, but I did see Meg’s smiling face—and that was A-OK.
We spent some time discussing a couple of key points to cover with the team during the daily intel brief. Meg was on top of it as usual, and I could sense that the plan was gaining steam.
As I turned to leave, she said something that didn’t quite register, so I asked her to repeat it: “What did you say?”
“Your girlfriend—she’s all over the news today.”
“Say again?”
“Rowan, Nat—Rowan Anderson. The French newspapers have made her a hero.” She pulled up the websites of Le Monde, La Croix, and Le Figaro. All of them showed images of Rowan’s government ID photo beneath bold headlines I couldn’t read.
“Check it out,” Meg invited me.
Where the fuck had this come from—and why now?
Meg was fluent in French, so she translated as I tried to catch up.
I hadn’t put two and two together that Senator Harrison’s widow, Elise Courville, was the daughter of the French ambassador—likely the reason the French papers ran some completely bullshit and totally inaccurate variation of Secret Service Agent Rescues Ambassador’s Daughter.
The French president praised the United States and our dedicated professionals for keeping Courville safe from terrorists.
His sympathies for her husband, the late Senator Coleman Harrison, were of course extended as well.
The glowing coverage was such an unexpected turn of events that I didn’t know how to feel. Clearly, I recognized this as a positive development for Rowan. And I was relieved that not one of the news reports mentioned CSTC or any of us.
“Are you going to call her?”
“I’ve tried a dozen times since we got back. She doesn’t answer—won’t return calls or messages. I can take a hint.”
Meg laughed. “Nat, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say your feelings are hurt.”
“That was a weak showing, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“You don’t have to listen to me, but if you want my two pennies, I’d bet that after this breaking news, she might answer her phone. Just a hunch.” She gave me a half smile as I stared dumbly, then mouthed, Trust me—call her.