Free Paris Match by Stuart Woods

it,” she said. “Only about three percent of the population has that gift.” She tapped some more and came up with another photograph, this one in the uniform of a United States Marine, with a file attached.
    “Name, John Simpson, no middle initial. White-bread all the way through. English descent, born in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, thirty-nine years ago. Attended the local schools, got his high school diploma, joined the Marines on graduation at seventeen, with parental permission, rose to master sergeant, two tours each in Iraq and Afghanistan— Uh-oh. Detached for special service four years ago—that means Special Forces or Navy SEALs…”
    “Or CIA,” Stone pointed out.
    “Oh, Jesus,” Holly said.

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    T he two of them sat in bed and stared at the file of John, no middle initial, Simpson. “Is that all there is?” Stone asked.
    “In this particular file, yes,” Holly replied. “His service record ended when he was transferred to Special Operations, and a new record was started. That file is heavily encrypted, and only the director of Central Intelligence—and others at his level in the various services—can retrieve it. That explains why his fingerprints and DNA didn’t produce a match.”
    “Wouldn’t his whole service record be sequestered, then?”
    “Yes, but we didn’t request his record—we made him with the facial recognition program, and I guess that was a backdoor to his original service record. Watch.” She started over on the mainframe and requested the army service record of John, no middle initial, Simpson. Immediately, she got a response: NO RECORD EXISTS .
    “So, call Lance and ask him to retrieve the file.”
    “Can’t you think of a reason why we shouldn’t do that?” Holly asked.
    Stone thought that over. “Because there’s a chance that Simpson could be CIA?”
    “Right, and if that’s the case, Lance might know what Simpson was doing at your friend’s house. And I don’t think I want to ask Lance about that.”
    “I see. Suppose Simpson had retired from whatever special service he had been transferred to. Would that make his record more easily retrievable?”
    “No, it would be permanently sequestered. I think you’re thinking…”
    “Suppose he left the service and became a freelancer?”
    “Right.”
    “The question remains, a freelance what? I figured him for a pro when I looked him over, but I still don’t know a pro what.”
    “Suppose he didn’t leave his new service?” Holly said.
    “Well, I don’t think Army Special Forces or Navy SEALs would be conducting operations in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen,” Stone said. “Or committing burglary and grand theft auto in Paris.”
    “Good point,” Holly said. “So where do we go from here?”
    “How about to Rick LaRose?” Stone suggested.
    “Rick is a station chief, like me. He wouldn’t have access to a sequestered service record any more than I do.”
    “Maybe not, but he was at the scene. That gives him a good excuse to ask Lance to retrieve the file.”
    “That raises another thorny point,” Holly said.
    “What’s that?”
    “If Simpson was working for the Agency in Paris, Rick, as the local station chief, would be aware of it, and he would know why. And if he doesn’t know, it might be very embarrassing for him.”
    “And yet he seems as baffled as we are by the dead guy in Mirabelle Chance’s kitchen.”
    “If I were in Rick’s shoes, and I knew about an operation, it would be in my interests to seem to be baffled, too,” Holly pointed out.
    “God, I’m glad I’m only a simple, barefoot New York lawyer and not an intelligence agent. It’s too complicated.”
    “Now you know why I work all the time,” Holly said. “I have to figure out stuff like this.”
    “What the hell,” Stone said. “I’m going to do what an amateur like me would do.” He picked up his phone, dialed Rick’s number, and put the phone on speaker.
    One ring. “Rick LaRose.”
    “Rick,