The Spy from Lyon: Marisol Novels, #2

By Lawrence Rose

"THE SPY FROM LYON", a world in CHAOS.

A European Chasestyle SPY THRILLER... and a breathtaking love story.WORLD CONSPIRACY! Do YOU LIKE PAGE TURNING GEOPOLITICAL THRILLERS??? ANCIENT MYSTERIES? Fatal TWISTS? Female Protagonists...BAD women and NOT SO GOOD women too...

Assassins at every turn!

Terror across the capitals of Europe, Warfare in the deserts of Africa!

IN THE NEWS!! "China colonizing Africa. Linguistic enclaves in Europe plotting rebellion! A DEADLY CHASE ACROSS EUROPE AND THE UNITED STATES AS MARISOL AND STEVEN ARE SENT BY THE AGENCY, "The Company", TO CLEAN IT UP!" Can they find and decipher the clues?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawrence Rose
• Release date: Oct 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393379980

Lawrence Rose

Lawrence Rose's papers say advanced degrees in Geochemistry and advanced degrees in Music Performance.  He weaves these together in most of his works. From New York to Oklahoma to San Francisco, he has lived an adventurous life in research and in concerts! Later, he is settled into Paris and Toulouse, and now in Medellin, Colombia! 

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 The Storm

November 18, 2024

Miserable. The storm and the cold tore Lyon apart, the storm and the ice along the banks of the Saône threatening the life of the city. Steven, I have to get to La Perrache! I must!

Marisol! Please! It’s too dangerous! He couldn’t stop her. They dressed against the cold and freezing rain and went off into the torment.

...

Ice moving down a fast river makes booming and shrieking sounds in agony, cracking, grinding. Squeezed, constricted, strangled by artificial embankments, the booming and shrieking from the tormented ice was made worse, and the ice piling up into a dam could be heard everywhere over Lyon.

The air wedged its way from the North Sea across central France. It was stunningly cold. Few remembered anything like it, the worst November on record. The overflowing river, frozen, pushed ice in slabs half a meter thick and as long and wide as twenty meters over the roads and paths by the river, crushing through beautiful and expensive homes built on the banks. The ice shattered neighborhoods, families, lives.

Cars, houses, schools turned to rubble in the wintery flood, the ice storm, and the attacking ice.

The Saône, as it entered the Rhône, crashed against its embankments. The large tributary entered with its acute angle downstream, an angle created by engineers hundreds of years before. Now, at the Point du Confluence, in the tight ice-dammed junction, the Saône climbed over its banks and cut across a swath of lower Lyon via an old channel across the point, the old natural shallower angle.

The recovered bodies of twenty-eight included two soldiers assigned to a team to detonate high explosives in the ice jam. Another ten souls went missing and were presumed dead.

Most of the casualties of the flood, recent immigrants from northwest Africa living in the low swale of the former stream bed which was now filled by torrents of water and ice, floated downstream. All were poor. The worst part of town, despised, always in turmoil was washed away.

Marisol de Froissart and Steven Dunning went as fast as they could to the wreckage at La Perrache. He kept warning her it was too dangerous. Anxiously breathing, she panted, I have to get there!

She owed it to Lyon. She felt in debt to Lyon and its people, trying to make up for events in the past. Important members of her family including her father, and especially her grandfather, were infamous.

Her car would crash to the bottom of the hill if she tried to drive. Several cars slid on the centimeter-thick ice crust that covered everything and, with no way to stop, some drivers and passengers were injured down below, sliding in their cars to join the crushed pile of vehicles.

Telephone poles were down. Ancient trees lost limbs. Older roofs collapsed. The poor lit fires against the cold. Some fires escaped and houses caught fire in many quarters of the city. Nothing could move. The fire services, the EMT and police services could not respond. Mains fractured. Eighty percent of the city had no water.

Both the Rhône and the Saône flooded wildly. And the freezing rains kept coming. The temperature inversion afflicting much of central France turned the rainwater into ice as it hit the surface.

Holding on to rails, trees, gates, to whatever they could, slipping, falling twice, Marisol bruised and scraped her knee until it bled. Steven cursed the bitter icy wind. It took them an hour to make the ordinarily short twenty-minute downhill walk to La Perrache.

Refugees from the flood, slowly moving up the valley-side, carried nothing, leading their children. They shivered and slipped and fell dangerously. Their breath froze and breathing was hard.

She helped many in the freezing rain working with other volunteers and with the police. Evacuating the people, getting them to shelter by any sort of vehicle, couldn’t be done. The victims would have to make it through the night.

She whispered a prayer to the Virgin.

Marisol and Steven directed the refugees to the Mairie, the City Hall, or to the churches and mosques, to nearby undamaged schools. You must get indoors as soon as you can! Keep moving! It’s not far!

Marisol’s large home sat high above the terror of the lower town, well-stocked and safe and warm. She had the best emergency equipment, emergency generators, food. Instead of staying in her sanctuary against the storm, she went as fast as she could, boldly, to the Mairie, dragging her lover with her. The police, EMT services, the Croix Rouge, the Croissant Rouge and soon the army, would co-ordinate from there. Steven slowed. She raced ahead.

Martin Herriot smiled at her, looking relieved, as she came through the glass doors to his mayor’s office complex and he took her immediately into his comfortable study for coffee and to rest. He helped her with her coat and looked affectionately into her eyes. Thank-you, Marisol! Thank-you for coming.

He held her too close. Awkwardly she pulled away. From his grimace Marisol saw he didn’t like that. It was just another of what he thought of as Marisol’s insults.

May I Martin? She sat down at his desk. He nodded sullenly. Without being asked, she made out a check to Services Urgences de Lyon for fifty thousand euros. More when you need it, Martin! Use it as you see fit. She asked it be anonymous. Herriot told everyone she asked it be anonymous. Isn’t she wonderful! He was not a friend.

Marisol greeted the victims as they entered the large salons in the ground level of the Mairie. She helped in the makeshift kitchens and helped to set up safe warm spaces to sleep for the dispossessed for the days to come. Herriot rolled up his sleeves and worked alongside her as camera lights flashed. He disappeared as soon as the photographers did. He had important things to do.

The government in Paris operated quickly and much was put in order in two weeks. The crisis slowly passed with the dead buried and the missing searched for... and then mourned.

Over the next weeks Steven witnessed her tireless rescue efforts for the many homeless, available and volunteering for whatever needed to be done. Steven volunteered to help as well helping her in serving food and setting up sleeping areas. She sped up the process of recovery by using her influence with the banks. She had them simplify their paperwork and many received desperately needed low interest loans quickly.

...

A month after the tragedy, a week before Christmas, Steven proudly stood behind her as she received the Ordre des Chévaliers de Lyon from the Mayor and the Minister of the Interior come down from Paris to honor her. Kept private, secret, the news of the ceremony never did reach the papers.

CHAPTER 2 The Reception

December 18, 2024, Lyon, France

A few reporters mixed themselves amongst the small number of dignitaries celebrating her heroism during the flood. But Marisol had spoken with their editors. The story of the award wasn’t to be run. She felt she needed to be quiet so she could continue to live and do her work with her foundations and her corporations... and for the La Sûrété, now attached to the US Central Intelligence Agency.  

Certain things were to be kept as quiet as possible, just quiet. Other secrets, if they were known, could cost the lives of Marisol and many others. She worked at being in control of everything around her. And at keeping any attention she would receive as a well-known wine maker and philanthropist as low key as possible. Of course, that was not easy.

Many gave her the power to control willingly because of her great beauty and elegant demeanor. Others were given incentives in the form of promises, spoken or implied, financial and social. Some would respond to threats, veiled or open.

The business leaders and politicians, and the chairs of several charities, had an emotional need to honor her. She understood, so she agreed to the ceremony. They enthusiastically joined in the telling of her selfless and generous actions during Les Inondations des Glâces, the Lyon ice flood. Marisol humbly accepted the gold chain and medallion of the Ordre des Chévaliers de Lyon.

In the ceremonial chambers of the Mairie de Lyon, the champagne from Taittinger poured, and with the platters from Chez Bocuse rich with the finest hors d’oeuvres served, the day became a memorable event for the few fortunate enough to have been invited. The mayor, Martin Herriot, led the toast. Raise your glasses to the Daughter of Lyon. I give you, to the newest member of the Ordre, Merci, Merci, Merci. Nôtre Marisol Pilar de Froissart!

The small group responded, Merci, Merci, Merci! Marisol. Vive nôtre Marisol!

Herriot said, The citizens of Lyon owe you so very much. Dear Marisol! We will not forget. He looked hard into her eyes. No, we will never forget!

Marisol looked back at him staring at her with his little smirking rat eyes. Steven thought he saw a dark cloud cross her face. It passed in an instant. Then she did what she does best, what Steven had often seen her do... she lit up the room with her grace and her beauty.

The gathered dignitaries scattered into small groups. Marisol went from one to the next seeing everyone got their fair share of her. In each group her eyes went to each person, and each felt her looking only at him or at her. She enthralled them all.

Steven watched her with her medallion of the Lion Rampant, the symbol of the city, on its chain hanging from her shoulders. Next to it was pinned her corsage of fleur-de-lys and petites roses against her French blue business suit. It was the same suit she wore that day last summer in Paris, at Le Jardin de Luxembourg. Just as then, her hair was in a French curl, pulled off her face. It was meant to please him, a present to Steven to dress that way, how she was dressed the day they met.

The mayor came up to Steven and the two men watched her together. So, Mister Dunning, Steven, what do you think of our Marisol? Splendide, non?

Oui, Splendide!, Steven answered, his face beaming with love and admiration.

You are to be envied. It is safe to say there is not a man in all Lyon who does not envy you. But some of us, I hope you are not offended, are surprised she has chosen to be a close friend to an American. His tone was accusative, accusing her of some sort of malfeasance. A poor alliance. A shallow relationship.

Her politics reject some of the unpleasant things of your history, and of course of ours as well. Colonialisme. Empire. Nationalisme, hein? You have of course discussed it?

It never came up, Steven joked.

Herriot lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. No, our Marisol is strong in her beliefs, and she finds it impossible to believe a great power like your country could, could countenance... He saw Steven becoming uncomfortable, shifting his gaze and losing his pleasant smile. Herriot changed the subject.

The mayor’s voice still dripped with accusation. Have you talked to her about her family? No? I am not surprised. De Froissart was her mother’s name, you know? He stopped, and then whispered, Her father went by a different name. And her uncle? Marcel? There’s a strange one. Bad history there.

Herriot not too subtly tried to drive a wedge between Steven and Marisol. He tried to uncover some details of their relationship. He wanted to know why they were together. Lovers! His tone, syrupy and politically sweet, the nastiness still came through. He was almost sneering! Envy, yes? Social conscience perhaps, but Steven didn’t think so. Something else caused this.

No, we haven’t talked about her family. You will excuse me? Steven turned and joined another group.

...

Back in her home high on the eastern hills overlooking Lyon, Marisol looked Steven in the eye. What did he say? Herriot, what did he say?

Nothing worth mentioning. Politics, some anti-American stuff, as if it were news to me, and something about your father, and your uncle? I know he was being a bastard.

Steven, he’s been coming on to me since I have known him. In his office during the flood he held me and was angry when I pulled away. She made a face. I will tell you about my family. In fact, you will meet Uncle Marcel. He lives in Spain. For now, just forget it. Herriot is not worth worrying about. And about the rest of my family? I think Herriot is mixed up with them somehow. No one outside of the family knows much about Tio Marcel.

Marisol’s uncle, Marcel de Froissart, formerly Marcel Carraud, was the last of the old generation. And to meet him one would have to go to the family estates in Aranda del Duero in northern Spain. Marcel feared setting foot in France. As a member of the de Froissart board, Marisol had to deal with him. but did all she could to avoid him otherwise.

Marisol wondered, How did Herriot know about Marcel? And what does he know?

CHAPTER 3 Bistrot Palais-Royale

Six months earlier , June 2024, Paris

Marisol followed her assignment to recruit the American friend of her bureau chief. She knew why he was in Paris, and where to find him. She began to follow him when he arrived at Charles deGaulle four days before.

...

Steven’s meetings with the tour directors dragged on. They would only meet in the mornings, these self-important, self-indulgent, so-called impresarios. They were not-too-important bus tour arrangers but had put on the most obnoxious haughty airs. Steven mumbled under his breath something nasty about the French that he knew to be untrue, but these guys??? Nothing would interfere with their three-hour lunch and Armagnac sipping until nightfall. Four mornings shot, and nothing. Are you interested in a tour of South America? Bogotá?

Steven, a former exploration geologist for Paragon Oil in San Francisco, had been fired by them for his stances on social issues and especially things he said about the role of the company in the Ethiopian Civil War. No oil? Paragon pulled out. The CIA pulled out. The puppet regime soon found