The night at sea resolved into the usual challenges. Christine was the first to wake, and took the early shift. Slaton relieved her at 3:00 A.M. in a rising sea. An hour before sunrise, he was still at the helm.
He’d seen only two freighters, both distant. Windsom was battering through steady swells, her twin hulls plowing obediently northward. Explosions of spray flew over the rails, more from the windward starboard side, and water slapped over the cockpit in rhythmic sheets. From the protection of a dodger, Slaton programmed a course ten degrees east of what he wanted—given the conditions, he felt it wise to keep the boat angled into the seas.
He trimmed out the jib, confident things wouldn’t get worse. After cruising for almost a year now, he was beginning to understand that every sea had its habits—some pleasant, others annoying, a few outright dangerous. Just like people, he mused.
He saw a dim light flicker below, and a few minutes later Christine appeared.
“Coffee is brewing,” she said. She looked over the seas and the rigging. “A little tight on the main, but not bad.”
“I’m trainable.”
“Why don’t you come below. We should talk before Davy wakes up.”
“Right.”
* * *
Coffee was brewing but not yet in hand. Christine slid into the settee, and Slaton took the seat across from her, still moving gingerly from the wound on his thigh. He pushed the plastic drive across the table. It seemed small and inanimate, which only made it that much more ominous. Slaton watched his wife closely and saw her spirits sink. Whatever comfort they’d stolen last night was lost in an instant.
She picked up the drive as though it were some kind of talisman. “You didn’t take a look while I was sleeping?” she asked.
“No. If you want, I can throw it overboard right now.” He said nothing more, only waited.
Christine sighed and pulled the family laptop onto the table. As soon as it was up and running, she plugged in the stick. Their first finding was obvious, and not insignificant.
“No access codes or encryption schemes,” he said.
“No.”
He let her do the navigating, which turned out to be minimal.
“I see only one folder,” she said. “Three images.” She looked up at him, and Slaton nodded. She double-clicked.
The first image filled the screen, and Slaton saw a copy of a news article. It appeared to be a screenshot of an online news piece. There was a photo of two men and a caption underneath.
Slaton studied the faces intently. One man was grinning as he received an award, the classic right-hand handshake and coat-hanger smile, the award held jointly by the presenter and awardee. The man receiving the award looked vaguely familiar, but Slaton swept his first impulse aside. That would be impossible. He shifted to the man issuing the honor, whom he recognized instantly. It was the president of France. Slaton went back to the other man, and his discomforting thought recurred. The caption at the bottom explained that the award was being issued for meritorious service to the republic. A time and date at the head of the article suggested the picture had been taken three weeks ago. Which made no sense whatsoever.
His concern must have been evident, because Christine asked, “What’s wrong, David?”
He met his wife’s eyes, but wasn’t sure how to answer. “Call up the others.”
The next photo came into view—the same man in a policeman’s uniform, taken last year if the date could be believed. The photo looked like it might have been sourced from a gendarmerie personnel file. The caption at the bottom introduced him as a newly appointed conseiller to the director of DGSI. Christine navigated to the last image, and a fourteen-year-old news article was presented, the same man again, noticeably younger. This time he was lauded as being the top graduate in the Paris prefecture’s spring training class. Slaton couldn’t take his eyes from the half-smiling face. He rubbed his chin with a cupped hand, and a coarse grating noise reminded him he hadn’t shaved in two days.
“Who is … Zavier Baland?” she asked, referencing the name linking all three pictures.
“According to this, he’s a fast-rising officer at DGSI. That’s France’s internal security service.”
“Like the FBI?”
“You could think of it like that. They’re responsible for counterterrorism.”
“Okay,” she said cautiously, “but why is this on a memory stick in a killer’s pocket … with your name on it?”
He let out a long, steady breath, not sure how to answer.
She said, “You told me this was going to be some kind of mission briefing used by the men who came after you.”
“That’s what I thought it would be. But now I’m seeing another possibility.”
Christine waited.
“This was insurance.”
“Insurance?”
“Whoever sent these men didn’t have a lot of confidence in them. They thought I might survive. So the lead man was given orders to carry this file. If the attack failed, I would find it.”
“But a few pictures of a policeman in France? Does that mean anything to you?”
“Actually, yeah, it does. There is something special about this guy—something that ties him to me.”
“What?”
“I killed him fifteen years ago.”