Chapter 14

Silence echoed in the Bibliothéque nationale de Paris, France’s national library. I’d decided some research on General Hollister was needed. What was he into that was worth killing for? Callie had been no help, knowing little about his duties in the armed forces.

So here we were, sitting side by side at microfilm machines scrolling through newspapers for any mention of her father. It was tedious and boring, but an Internet search had revealed surprisingly few details of his career.

Tension from hunching over built in my shoulders. General Hollister had risen through the ranks in the regular army, posted to countries all over the world. None of it helped. He’d had a spotless career.

“This is useless,” Callie announced, pushing back from the machine. “I’m seeing double now.”

“Let’s break for lunch,” I suggested.

We strolled along Quai François Mauriac, the slow-moving Seine on one side, tourist boats passing with tinny loudspeakers providing commentary on the sights.

At a riverside café we stopped for sandwiches, sitting outside under a shaded umbrella. Swallowing a bite of her croque-monsieur, a baked ham and cheese sandwich, Callie asked, “What’s with those machines? Haven’t they heard of digital records?”

“The microfilms?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It was the latest technology way back when. In fact, it was the technology adapted for spies. British MI6 and the OSS - now the CIA - used the technology to...”

I stopped. A sudden thought occurred to me.

“To what?”

“Give me your locket.”

“Why?” Callie asked suspiciously, her hand closing around it possessively.

“The microfilm technology, or more specifically, the microfiche technology was used to pass secret information between agents.”

“So?”

“Give me the locket.”

As she removed it, I continued. “Spy agencies adapted it to produce microdots; tiny specks that carried information.” I took the locket and opened it, inspecting the pictures. “They were so small they could be hidden as a full stop on a letter, yet contain large amounts of information. Did your mother have a beauty mark on the right side of her mouth?”

“No. Why?”

“She does here.” Wiping my mouth, I threw down the serviette and stood. “Come on. I need to make a call.”

“Give me my locket back,” Callie insisted.

Reluctantly, I handed it back. It was probably safer around her neck, anyway.

Three hours later, after making some discrete inquiries, we were in an old photography shop surrounded by an eclectic mix of single lens reflex and digital cameras, lights, shades, tripods, and other odds and ends.

Charles LeBlanc, a surprisingly young man, was studying the locket with an eye loupe, Callie frowning watchfully.

“Don’t damage the photo!” she exclaimed when Charles pulled out a pointed paper knife.

“Ne vous inquiétez pas. Don’t worry,” he added in English. Concentrating, he eased the tip of the knife against the photo. “Bon. See? No damage.”

To me, he said, “You were right. It’s a microdot. Vien. I have a microscope in the back.”

We followed him into an even more cluttered work area. When he bent to look at it through the microscope, I stopped him. “You don’t need to see what it contains.”

He nodded and stepped away.

I glanced through the eyepiece, adjusted the focus, and straightened. “Is there a way to transfer this? Print it or copy it to a memory stick?”

“Oui. Bien sur. We can make images of it and enlarge it.”

Watching him like a hawk, fifteen minutes passed before he handed me a USB memory stick and the microdot in an envelope. His fee was quite reasonable.

On the way back to the hotel, we stopped so I could purchase a cheap laptop. In the room, with Callie showering, I opened the files on the memory stick.

The information absorbed me, so much so I didn’t notice Callie when she emerged from the bathroom.

“What does it contain?” she asked.

I glanced up. She had a white towel wrapped around her, another being used to rub her damp, burgundy hair, her head tilted to the side.

“I need more time.”

“Kay.”

Turning back to reading, I heard the sound of the mini fridge opening. “No wine,” I warned, not looking up.

The information was astonishing. Even scarier was that some very powerful people would kill to keep it secret. A shiver of fear hit me when I understood Callie’s life was in serious danger, more so than mine.

Half an hour later I switched to Google and, using the hotel WiFi, searched travel sites. Satisfied, I closed the laptop and removed the USB.

“So?” Callie asked, sipping a glass of white wine.

“I said no wine.”

“Live with it. What was in the files?”

Callie seemed relaxed, leaning back against the headboard. She was wearing a pastel-red, ribbed cotton tank top, and tight, multi-colored stretch pants. I noticed how the tight tank top emphasized her small bust and shook my head. How could I think about that right now?

The mini fridge yielded a cold Evian. The first sip partially settled my churning mind and gave me focus.

“We’re leaving France tomorrow,” I informed her.

“Why?”

Sitting on the bed next to her, I rubbed her leg, firm, toned, slender. “We have a long trip tomorrow. If I ask nicely, would you hold off your inquisition until then? I’ll tell you everything on the way.” I needed time to process the enormity of what I’d just read.