The Machiavelli Covenant by Allan Folsom Page A

whole thing dicey, and even now he wasn't sure what to do about it.

    "God's love pours out among us. As it pours out for Caroline, and for her husband, Michael, and their son, Charlie," Reverend Beck's voice filtered through the church.
    "In the words of the poet Laurence Binyon—
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We will remember them.
    "Let us pray."
    As Reverend Beck's prayer resonated through the church, Marten felt someone slide into the pew beside him. He turned to see a very attractive young woman with short dark hair, dressed respectfully in a black suit. A large digital camera hung from one shoulder, and around her neck was an international press pass with her photograph, her name, and her media affiliation, Agence France-Presse. Marten recognized her as the woman who had accompanied Reverend Beck when he'd visited Caroline in the hospital. He wondered what she was doing there, why she had come to the service. And why she had seated herself next to him.
    Then Beck's prayer ended, organ music swelled, and the service was over. Marten saw Beck step down from the pulpit and go over to Caroline's sister and her husband in the front row. Around him people stirred andbegan to stand. As they did the young woman turned toward him.
    "You are Mister Nicholas Marten?" she said with a French accent.
    "Yes. Why?" he asked cautiously.
    "My name is Demi Picard. I don't mean to intrude, especially under these circumstances, but I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time? It's about Mrs. Parsons."
    Marten was puzzled. "What about her?"
    "Perhaps we could talk where it is less crowded." She looked toward the large open doors behind them, where people were filing out of the chapel.
    Marten studied her carefully. She was tense with anticipation. Her eyes, wide and deep brown, never left his. There was intrigue here—maybe she knew something about Caroline he didn't, or at least something that could help.
    "Alright," he said. "Let's go."

20

    Marten let her lead the way through the crowd as they walked from the dark of the church into bright afternoon light. Outside, police provided a tight web of security as a long string of cars pulled up one by one to collect the VIP mourners. Behind them and to one side was a gaggle of media satellite trucks. Closer in, television cameras taped the activity while stand-up correspondents reported the event. Clips for the early and late news, Marten thought. And then that would be the end of it, the last public interest in the life of Caroline Parsons.

    Demi led them away from the church toward a parking area on the church grounds near Nebraska Avenue. As they went, he caught sight of two familiar figures standing back watching as people left: Metropolitan Police detectives Herbert and Monroe, the man-and-woman team who had questioned him about the "murder" of Lorraine Stephenson. He wondered if by now they too had learned of the white-haired South African scientist Merriman Foxx and were there hoping, as he was, that he might show up at Caroline's service.
    "Hey, Marten!" A voice cried out from behind. He turned to see Peter Fadden coming quickly toward them. A moment later he caught up.
    "Sorry, I'm running late." He glanced at Demi, then handed Marten a letter-size envelope. "My cell phone number's in there along with some other material you might find interesting. Call me when you get back to your hotel." With that he turned and left, disappearing into the throng still lingering outside the church.
    Marten stuck the envelope in his jacket and looked to Demi. "You wanted to talk about Caroline Parsons. What about?"
    "I believe you were with her in the last days and hours before she died."
    "So were a lot of other people. You included—you came in with Reverend Beck."
    "True," she said with a nod, "but most of the time you were alone with her."
    "How do you know that?